Seven #2
‘Yes. I found them useful when I was the vicar ... references for sermons.’ Ivy replied, then hesitated.
‘A lifetime ago. You’re welcome to borrow them.
’ Remembering his frequent poetry quotations, she crossed the room, easing out her battered copy of Amy Levy, a bold and pioneering poet from the Victorian era.
After her death, Oscar Wilde praised Levy’s work in Women’s World magazine, calling her poetry deeply moving and full of ‘keen emotion’.
She pushed the book back, thinking Levy might be a touch obscure for Omar, selecting instead a copy of Tennyson.
‘You might like to read this.’ she said.
‘I love Victorian poetry. I find it soothes me.’
‘From what?’ he asked.
She sighed.
Omar nodded, his eyes full of understanding despite her lack of explanation. ‘Why are you looking at these jobs?’
Ivy blushed and turned to pour boiling water over Omar’s tea, pushing the pot and a mug his way. Today he seemed talkative. Less reserved.
She changed the subject. ‘Was it you who tided the next door garden?’
‘I had some spare time.’
‘That was kind of you.’
He shrugged, then gestured again towards the computer. ‘Cleaning houses?’ His voice was gentle, not judgemental. He looked pointedly at the bookshelves before picking up his mug. ‘In my country, clerics do not clean houses. I don’t think it’s different here. Why are you ... ?’
‘It’s honest work.’
‘But not your work.’ Omar sipped his tea. ‘You say there is a new teacher. Why didn’t you apply for that position?’
Even to her own ears, Ivy’s laugh sounded strained.
‘If you regret retiring as a vicar, why don’t you go back to it? According to the news, there is a national shortage.’
Ivy paused. ‘They wouldn’t consider me. Not after what I said.’
‘Ah. Because you upset someone powerful and they decided your time was finished?’
The directness startled her. Fred should never have shared her history without asking Ivy’s permission first. ‘Something like that.’
‘In my country, my position became problematic.’ He carefully set down his mug. ‘But here, just because you upset someone, that doesn’t have to be the end of your life.’
She gasped. He made it sound so dramatic.
‘You have choices still.’
‘Do I? The Bishop made it quite clear ...’
‘One man’s opinion. Not all doors close at once.’
Ivy studied him, this quiet man so far from his home country. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Yes.’ Omar nodded. ‘But helping parishioners, it’s in the blood, no? Like a calling.’
‘Until I questioned their methods,’ Ivy murmured.
‘The authorities here,’ Omar said suddenly, staring into his cup, ‘they are no different to those back home. Both have too much power. They can turn on people who trust them.’
Ivy thought comparing the Taliban to the Church of England was a little harsh but, recalling her own experience, the pushing aside when she’d needed support most, maybe there were similarities. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘they can.’
The back door opened with its familiar creak, and Fred bustled in, bringing with him a current of cold air and a few fallen leaves.
‘It’s freezing out there, and not that much warmer in here,’ he announced, immediately moving to check the radiator nearest Ivy.
‘Is this on properly? You need to bleed these old things regularly.’
She caught Omar’s eye and knew he had guessed she’d only put the heating on because people were coming for tea, and the room hadn’t had a chance to heat up yet.
‘I’m fine, Fred,’ Ivy said, touched but exasperated by his fussing. She caught the hint of a smile on Omar’s face; he’d noticed that dynamic too.
‘Cold snap forecast,’ Fred continued, crouching to greet an excitable Jez. ‘You can’t stay in that shed, Omar. I’ve got a spare room – proper heating, proper bathroom. Hot water.’
Ivy interjected, ‘ I’ve got a spare room.’
‘Better if he stays at mine.’
Ivy watched Omar’s face carefully, asking herself why Fred was so protective lately. Did he not trust Omar around her?
‘Helen, the new teacher, starts work tomorrow,’ Ivy said, watching both men’s reactions. ‘At the primary school. She’s taking Year 4.’
‘Year 4?’ Omar asked. ‘That’s a nice age. They’re old enough for independent work but still curious about everything.’ Ivy rubbed her chin, wondering how Omar knew so much about the English education system. She was about to ask, but he seemed to catch himself and took a hasty sip of tea.
The doorbell chime sliced through the moment. ‘That’ll be Helen,’ Ivy said, standing. ‘You might have seen her arriving earlier, Omar.’
Before she turned to answer the door, Ivy caught a flash of fear on Omar’s face, like the one she’d seen that morning. Poor Omar , she thought. What had happened to make him so wary of strangers? She often noticed him averting his eyes when villagers looked his way.
Helen had changed for tea and was now wearing a fawn-coloured sweater which matched her loose hair, a colourful rope of beads and wide legged trousers in a shade of caramel.
Ivy hoped that Jez didn’t lunge for any part of the expensive looking outfit.
Helen’s voice filled the hallway as they walked back, thanking Ivy for her generous welcome basket.
When they entered the living room, Omar was gone.
Ivy stared at his abandoned mug, the smell of the cardamon like his ghost watching proceedings.
‘Where did he go?’ Ivy asked Fred.
‘Hmm?’ he said, looking up from fussing Jez. ‘Oh, didn’t notice. Probably went to pack for the move.’ But Fred didn’t meet her eyes and Ivy felt that familiar sense that everyone knew something she didn’t.
Unperturbed, Helen chatted about her teaching plans.
Ivy nibbled at a scone, wondering if she’d missed something obvious.
The warmth in Omar’s voice when, unguarded, he had talked knowledgably about teaching, his reaction to Helen’s arrival this morning, now his sudden disappearance .
.. She couldn’t weave the threads together, but she was sure they were linked.
Once, she would’ve trusted that instinct without hesitation. It had been second nature, reading people, noticing what others overlooked, so that she could help them – both as individuals, and as part of the community. She’d built a career on it.
But since stepping away, that part of her had learned to doubt itself, like a muscle left unused.
Now, it was flexing again. Not boldly. Just enough for her to feel its shape returning.
She sat back in her chair, the half-eaten scone forgotten, and let the thought mellow:
Maybe I’m not done. Not yet.
The stockroom of the café smelled of damp cardboard and something vaguely reminiscent of old potatoes, though Ivy had yet to find the source.
Flour-dusted shelves loomed around her, stacked high with jars of chutney, catering-sized bags of sugar and enough tinned tomatoes to see out a siege. Somewhere behind her, she could hear the soft rustle of paws scuffing along the floor, followed by an ominous scrape . Jez was up to no good.
‘Jez,’ she warned, turning just in time to see him, tongue lolling, gleefully dragging a bag of dried pasta across the tiles. How? It must be almost his body weight.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ She lunged, but he dodged, scattering fusilli in his wake like some chaotic Hansel leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.
‘That’s it! Prison for you.’ She picked him up, carried him to his travel crate, wrestled him inside – he went boneless in protest – and latched the door firmly shut.
A muffled whimper came from within.
‘Yes, well, you should have thought about that before raiding the pasta.’
Outside, through the half-open door, she could hear the café’s usual hum of chatter. But the words ... the words made her stop, a bottle of Prosecco in each hand.
‘Him!’ squeaked Margaret. ‘You know, the one lurking about—’
Then Mabel’s voice. ‘Oh, I know who you mean. Yes, I saw him, standing near the village green. I tell you, I hurried past, didn’t like the look of him at all. That long straggly beard.’
‘It’s a disgrace. Why’sshekeeping a refugee in her garden shed, of all places?’
She stacked the bottles on a shelf, gritting her teeth. Mabel and Margaret. Stalwarts of the Church Council, forever discussing roof repairs and hymn choices, yet utterly lacking in Christian charity when it mattered.
‘He should go back to where he came from, that’s what I say,’ Margaret huffed. ‘Can’t have these sorts turning up uninvited.’
Jez let out a little whine from the crate, as if even he disapproved.
Ivy was already moving before she’d decided what to do, out into the café, sleeves rolled up, jaw set.
‘ These sorts?’ Her voice carried across the room, making both women start. ‘Do you mean a man who fled a war-torn region? A man who’s only asked for shelter and yet you talk as if he’s rifled through your biscuit tins and made off with the church silver?’
Mabel pursed her lips. ‘Well, I was only saying—’
‘No, I’ll tell you . With his gardening skills and carpentry, he’s more use to this community than half the people in it. And unless you’ve both decided to rewrite the Gospel according to St Mabel and St Margaret, I suggest yourememberwhat the Bible actually teaches.’
The hush was as sharp as shattered glass. Someone coughed.
Mabel looked indignant. ‘No need to be testy,’ she huffed. ‘We were merelydiscussing ...’
‘Discuss the weather instead.’ Ivy folded her arms, feeling her heart hammering beneath them. ‘Less chance of you embarrassing yourselves.’
As her heart rate subsided, Ivy felt a familiar heat in her chest that had once preceded every bold decision she’d taken.
For a fleeting moment she stood taller, shoulders squared, before doubt crept back in like an old friend.
She ran a hand through her hair, tucked a loose strand behind her ear and dropped her gaze to the worn floor tiles.
‘Well,’ Margaret said, studying Ivy with narrowed eyes, ‘that was certainly ... illuminating.’ She exchanged a meaningful glance with Mabel, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘I ... I couldn’t let you talk about Omar that way,’ Ivy murmured, her momentary confidence already fading like the morning mist.
At a corner table, old Mrs Winters gathered her things. She walked to the counter, patted Ivy’s arm and whispered, ‘It’s good to have you back in the village, dear,’ before shuffling away, leaving Ivy bewildered. Back? She’d never left – at least, not in any way that mattered.
Ivy cleared Mrs Winters’ table, carrying the dirty crockery to the counter, where a man, still in his grubby green fishing oilskins, stood, a book in his hands.
When he spoke, his accent was so strong, Ivy doubted anyone not brought up in North Devon would understand him.
‘This book, it’s for t’missus,’ he said waving his purchase at her.
Ivy rang the book up, listening to the man speak.
‘I heard what you said, Margaret, but there’s no refugeeees,’ he said, elongating the word, ‘not in Brambleton. That dinghy they found. The painter broke loose from some fancy yacht down at Appledore. Probably belongs to one of those London types who can’t tie a proper knot. ’
The café fell so quiet that Ivy could hear the wind slapping against the windows.
‘Well, don’t we all feel foolish?’ someone muttered.
Ivy recognized him as one of the vigilantes who had insisted on checking her shed.
She felt heat creep up her neck and ran a hand furtively through her hair.
No one had been on that boat. She, like the rest of Brambleton, had seen a bedraggled man in worn boots and filled in the blanks.
She glanced outside toward the water, the sea flat and bright now in the morning sun.
She felt a prickle of guilt. Although relieved Omar was telling the truth, she had a new mystery to solve.
Omar had said he was from Afghanistan, so if he wasn’t on that dinghy, how had he arrived in Brambleton, and why had he chosen the remote village in North Devon?