Six
Early on Monday morning, Ivy was sitting with Jez on her lap, struggling to reach her computer’s keypad around the wriggling puppy.
Helping at Prosecco
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near”;
And the white rose weeps, “She is late”;
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear”;
And the lily whispers, “I wait.”
Ivy wiped a tear from her eye. The words were so poignant, and she shuddered with the ache of longing for a love she’d not enjoyed for decades. Instead, she had dedicated her life to divine love.
Through the kitchen window, she could see Omar pacing the garden.
A bright pink beanie hat covered his hair, making his beard look friendlier, but it didn’t disguise the worry etched on his youthful face.
Ivy thought pink was an odd colour and made a mental note to look for a more masculine shade.
Then she caught herself and tutted. What was she doing?
Omar wasn’t a child. He could find his own clothes.
She must stop trying to mother him. He’d chosen that hat.
Maybe he liked the cheerfulness of pink.
Ivy was certain that Omar was guarding a secret.
He’d been living in her shed for over two weeks, but she barely knew anything about him.
Omar had waxed lyrical about his homeland, but about himself he had reluctantly shared just three things: his name, age and nationality.
A bit like her grandfather, a prisoner in the Second World War, bound to reveal only his name, rank and serial number.
Each day, Ivy woke half expecting her guest to have disappeared in the night.
Ivy was beginning to wonder if Omar was hiding from someone.
He seemed cultured, intelligent and well spoken – the kind of person who would be able to navigate the asylum system with ease, even if he had arrived as an illegal immigrant via a perilous boat journey.
What if the villagers were right, and he was dangerous?
Suppose he was a criminal on the run? Or a drug addict who was skilfully concealing the evidence?
Ivy stepped outside. The morning was peacefully quiet, save for the wind whistling through the branches, dislodging the last shrivelled leaves, and the distant cry of a pheasant.
She tugged her hat down, feeling the cool air chilling her ears.
Her focus was on Omar now at the far end of the garden, hunched over her vegetable patch.
Fred had helped her prepare the beds, sieving the soil for stones, then forking in bags of compost.
She watched Omar raking away the thick mulch of autumn leaves.
He paused, gazing out over the fields, as though searching for something beyond the barren trees.
His coat looked too thin for winter, and she wondered if she should offer to drive him into Barnstaple to a charity shop.
He claimed he had money, but she suspected it wasn’t a lot.
Would he accept a gift of a second-hand coat, or would he feel insulted?
‘Morning,’ she said, her voice softer than she intended.
Omar turned but didn’t smile. Lines etched his face, making him look older than thirty. But perhaps his age was as fictional as his claim not to have been on that boat. He pulled something out of his pocket. ‘Here. This is for the puppy.’
She reached out. It was a wooden chew toy, shaped like a bone. Ivy ran her fingers over the shiny surface. ‘Did you make this?’
‘I am a handyman,’ he replied, and she thought she saw the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘Thank you.’ She folded her arms, watching the way his fingers pressed against each other. A nervous habit, perhaps. ‘Are you sleeping alright?’
He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Better than some nights.’ He gestured vaguely to the trees. ‘It is peaceful here.’
Ivy exhaled, stepping closer but careful to leave a space between them.
The musty sweetness of fallen leaves filled the air, mixing with the sharp tang of rotting apples from the recently pruned tree in the corner.
She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
‘I loved my previous garden, at the vicarage. I spent years making it what it was.’ She gestured at the tangled remains of her tomato plants and the ragged stalks of sunflowers bowed with decay.
‘I don’t know ... I lost the heart for it when I moved, I suppose. It’s difficult starting somewhere new.’
For a long moment, Omar studied the patch. ‘It still has life,’ he said finally. ‘It’s just resting , like you.’
Ivy ran a hand through her silver hair and snorted, but not unkindly. ‘Is that what I’m doing? Resting?’
He glanced at her, eyes dark and unreadable. ‘You are searching.’
Without warning, her eyes pricked with tears.
She didn’t want to be resting or searching.
Retirement should have been a reward. A chance to exhale after decades of giving and doing.
But instead, it felt like being gently edged out of the room while no one was looking.
She gazed around at the wreckage of her garden – so different from the riot of colour and scents she had carefully cultivated at the vicarage. Had her sacrifice really been worth it?
She blinked to hide the tears and looked down at the ground. ‘And what about you? Are you resting?’
He exhaled, rubbing his hands together. ‘In a way, yes. But at the same time, I am trying to remember who I was. Before.’
‘Before?’ she prompted.
‘Nothing,’ he said, attacking the vegetable patch with renewed vigour. His words pressed against her conscience. She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not a refugee, not a stranger in her garden, but another lost soul, set adrift by unknown forces beyond his control.
She huffed a laugh. ‘Well, it seems we have that in common, at least.’
Then Omar did something Ivy hadn’t seen him do before – he smiled, just a small, tired crinkle on his cheeks.
‘I could run you into Barnstaple if you want some winter clothes?’ she offered.
He shook his head. ‘Being busy keeps me warm.’
‘Well, you’re getting this garden under control.’
‘Not yet, but I was thinking I might trim the hedge bordering the churchyard.’
‘How kind.’
A sudden rustling at the fence made them both pause. Ivy twisted her head slightly, peering over at the sound. There, just visible through the gaps in the wooden slats, was Fred. Or rather, Fred’s forehead, and a very conspicuous tuft of white hair.
She tried to picture her neighbour’s garden. Was there a shrub that needed pruning in that spot? No, it was the pathway to his shed. There weren’t even any pots. Rolling her eyes, she continued her conversation, pretending not to see him ‘Omar, can you hear something?’
Omar, catching on, nodded solemnly. ‘Reckon it’s just the wind.’
The ‘wind’ rustled again, followed by clang ! A loud metallic crash. A muffled curse followed. Then silence.
Ivy raised an eyebrow. ‘You alright over there, Fred?’
Nothing.
Omar folded his arms. ‘Pretty sure your fence just whispered, “Oh, bugger”.’
Ivy grinned. ‘Fred, if you’re going to eavesdrop, at least bring a chair. You’re not as sneaky as you think.’
Slowly, Fred’s head popped up, cheeks red. ‘I’m checking the structural integrity of my fence,’ he muttered. ‘I reckon it could use a coat of paint.’
Ivy chuckled. ‘Ah. Try not to knock yourself out when you do that job.’
Fred sniffed, straightened his jacket, and, with great dignity, walked off.
By noon, Ivy had been helping in the café for two hours and was beginning to feel like a clumsy understudy in a play she hadn’t rehearsed for.
The mid-morning coffee crowd had departed, and while it was quiet, Trish had allowed Ivy to take Jez off the lead where he’d been tied up near the counter.
He’d quickly become an agent of chaos, nose twitching at crumbs she swore she’d swept up earlier, leaving a trail of discarded toys, including his new shiny wooden bone.
The bell above the door jangled, and Mabel’s voice, as jagged as a lightning strike, cut through the air. ‘Who’s that man I saw in your garden yesterday?’
Ivy glanced up from the till, a smile frozen in place. Mabel, wrapped in layers of knitted scarves despite the café’s warmth, leaned against the counter with all the glee of someone who’d sensed scandal.
‘Oh, that was Fred,’ she said, forcing a lightness she absolutely did not feel.
Mabel snorted. ‘No, it wasn’t. Too tall. Have you got a gentleman caller?’ She pointed to a slice of cake. ‘I’ll have that piece, please. Who is he then?’
‘That’ll be ￡3.50, please, Mabel. Cash or card?’ She all but danced on the spot, turning for the cake stand, reaching for a cloth, pretending the teapot needed rearranging. Anything to redirect Mabel’s attention.
‘Don’t you try and wriggle off the hook,’ Mabel cackled, clutching her handbag. ‘I know what I saw.’