Nine
Brambleton’s Christmas market was the official kick-off to the seasonal celebrations.
As always, it hummed with chaotic festive energy.
The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted across the village green, mingling with the salt-ladened breeze from the sea.
A weather-beaten tractor draped in gaudy tinsel and flashing fairy lights puttered around the stalls, towing an ancient hay wagon reimagined as Santa’s sleigh.
Ivy barely recognized Sam from Brambleton Hall, hidden beneath a synthetic beard.
Squashed into a Santa suit far too small for him, Sam bellowed ‘Ho ho ho!’ over the rumbling engine, as behind him, excited children shrieked with delight.
Arriving at eight, to no sign of Victor, Ivy had spent an enjoyable hour arranging the wreaths according to ribbon colour, listening to jolly Christmas tunes, and bidding good morning to people setting up the other booths before the festivities kicked off.
Near the church stall was the Women’s Institute booth – staffed by Mabel and Margaret – serving mince pies and, despite the early hour, potent mulled cider that left unsuspecting tourists walking sideways.
On the green itself a troupe of Morris dancers performed, their jingling bells and clashing sticks creating a joyful percussive backdrop as they danced through puddles, splashing onlookers who didn’t dodge quickly enough.
The Salvation Army’s brass band played carols that competed with children’s excited shrieks, the shouts of tourists and the constant jingle of a mechanical Santa which Ivy had yet to track down.
It wasn’t until ten o’clock, when Ivy was desperately trying to serve the long queue that snaked away from the wreath table, that Victor turned up.
He didn’t come to help but dawdled over to the WI stall and launched into a pitch for the candlelit carol service, which this year he wanted to hold outside, on the green, despite the long-range forecast of heavy snow.
Omar was hovering at the edge of the green, scowling, hands thrust in pockets, but when Ivy caught his eye and gestured, annoyed, towards Victor, he smiled, and Ivy felt the warmth of connection flare in her chest.
‘Excuse me,’ a harassed woman with a toddler in her arms called, ‘how much is the silver-ribboned one?’
‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ Ivy promised, trying to calculate change for a customer while fending off the flailing arms of the toddler, who was threatening to topple the carefully arranged wreaths.
Suddenly, Omar was beside her. ‘The silver-ribboned wreaths are ￡28,’ he said smoothly. ‘Do you need a bag to carry it in, to keep it away from little hands?’
The woman smiled gratefully. Something in Omar’s manner – professional, courteous, oddly familiar with the challenges toddlers presented – seemed to calm her. ‘Yes, please.’
As she turned to deal with someone else, Ivy watched Omar handle customer after customer, his gruff manner transformed into something graceful. He knew exactly how to achieve the delicate balance of being helpful without appearing pushy.
During a quiet moment, touching his arm gently, she asked. ‘Where did you learn to do this?’
He stiffened. ‘Around.’
‘You’re very good with people, when you allow yourself to be.’
‘People are easy,’ he muttered. ‘They just want to be listened to.’ Something in his tone made Ivy’s heart twist with the same maternal protectiveness she showered on her niece, Fiona, who was about Omar’s age.
By four o’clock the queue had thinned and Ivy insisted that Omar took a break and wander around the market.
She tracked his progress to the WI stall, where steam rose from the copper pot of mulled cider like dragon’s breath.
Helen was standing nearby, and she waved at Omar, beckoning him over.
It looked like she had been waiting for him.
The brass band launched into ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, the trumpets and trombones nearly drowning out Helen’s sharp tone as she cornered Omar.
‘You need to tell her,’ Helen insisted, her teacher-voice cutting through the festive music. ‘She deserves to know she’s letting a jackdaw into her nest.’
Ivy tucked her hands into her coat pockets and turned toward the commotion. The coloured lights strung overhead cast alternating shadows of red and green across Helen’s severe expression. Poor Omar stood with his back against the wooden stall, clutching his paper cup of coffee like a shield.
What on earth is she saying to him? Ivy thought irritably, watching Helen’s finger wagging in time with her words.She’d been here less than two weeks, and she was already scolding him like one of her pupils.
‘Helen,’ she called out, striding across and deliberately injecting warmth into her voice.
The scent of cinnamon and cloves grew stronger as she approached, reminding her this was a Christmas market.
No one should get cross with anyone here.
‘Could you help Victor? He’s got himself tangled in the tinsel again. ’
As Helen hesitated, torn between finishing her lecture and responding to the request, Ivy caught Omar’s eye and gave him the smallest of winks.
The younger woman glared at Ivy and snapped in a sharp voice, ‘You barely know him. Why are you protecting him?’ Ivy felt the words echo through her, raw and wounding. What on earth had the pair been discussing?
Helen stalked off, but not before throwing a scowl at Omar, which sent Ivy’s protective shield into overdrive.
‘Omar,’ Ivy said, perhaps too loudly, ‘come over for dinner tonight?’
‘I’ll come too,’ Fred said quickly, appearing at her elbow as if conjured.
‘I will come,’ Omar said slowly, ‘if Fred does.’ His dark eyes moved between her and Fred.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, pushing away her sorrow that Omar obviously didn’t want to be with her without the jolly presence of Fred, ‘that’s settled. Dinner for three at mine, at seven.’
She turned back to the stall, but not before she caught the look Omar gave Fred – understanding, almost sympathetic. How embarrassing that the two them pity me for my loneliness.
A flush warmed her cheeks despite the November chill, but beneath the embarrassment, something steadied within her.
She had just stood up to Helen, refusing to let her scold Omar.
But what were they talking about? The question threaded through her thoughts like a challenge. Who is Omar?Andwhy does Helen think I should be afraid of the answer?
The evening was drawing in, the Christmas lights winking against a darkening sky.
Turning to leave, Ivy felt someone clutch her sleeve. Victor’s eyes were alight with mild panic. ‘You’re not going, are you?’
‘Yes. I must,’ she said, extracting her sleeve from his grip.
Forgetting the height of the stall, Victor stood fully upright, banging his head against the awning. ‘Ow! Already? I wanted to ask you about the pudding race.’
‘Can it keep, Victor? It’s not until next Saturday.’
‘But you can’t go yet. What if ... ?’ His voice tailed off, as he rubbed the sore spot on his head.
‘You’ll handle it beautifully,’ Ivy assured him, as she passed over the money belt and the price list. ‘I must get home. I’m cooking for friends tonight.’
The word had slipped out so naturally – friends. She smiled to herself.
On the way out, Ivy paused at a craft stall, captivated by the intricate handmade decorations.
Delicate paper snowflakes, suspended from silver threads, twirled lazily in the breeze, while hand-painted wooden ornaments gleamed under pulsing lights, their polished surfaces refracting the glow.
She reached for a ribboned pendant: a red and green bow securing a shimmering glass drop liked a mini chandelier.
Lulled by the spiced scent of cinnamon and orange from the pomander balls, she pulled out her last ￡10 note and splurged on two of the ribboned decorations – they would make charming Christmas presents.
Tucking her purchases under an arm, Ivy noticed Helen standing in the shadows of another stall with a stranger.
The man was dressed with regimental precision in an elegant coat, leather gloves and polished city shoes.
Not the typical tourist drawn to their Christmas market and he clearly wasn’t local – a Devonian would have worn practical boots and a waterproof jacket.
‘I’ve told you all there is,’ Helen’s voice carried on the still air. ‘Now stop hassling me.’
The man’s voice was harsh. ‘Well, what are you going to do to find out more?’
Ivy slowed her steps. Something in the man’s tone set off alarm bells. She watched him grab Helen’s arm, his fingers digging into the wool of her jacket.
Should I intervene? The thought spun through Ivy’s mind. The man’s posture radiated control, like a bowstring drawn taut. The brass band’s rendition of ‘Silent Night’ provided an incongruously peaceful backdrop to the tension.
Ivy stepped forward, and she dug deep for the voice of authority she’d developed over years of dealing with difficult parishioners. It wavered slightly as she spoke. ‘Is everything alright, Helen?’
The man’s head snapped around. Up close, she could smell expensive aftershave and see the quality of his wool coat. His eyes were cold as the December wind.
‘This is a private conversation,’ he said curtly. ‘Move along.’
‘Helen?’ said Ivy, her eyes searching the younger woman’s face for clues.
Helen’s voice was oddly strained. ‘It’s fine. Really. We were just discussing ... a school matter.’
But her smile was too bright, too forced.
Ivy remembered similar smiles on the faces of women who’d come to her for help, women whom when she’d seen them later with their husbands had insisted everything was fine while their eyes screamed otherwise.
Ivy felt as if a weight was crushing her.
How had she ever managed to help those women?
She took a step forward, then doubt crept in.
‘Well, if you’re sure ...’ Ivy let her voice trail off uncertainly. ‘I’m headed home if you’d like to walk with me. Finish off your work conversation on Monday?’
‘She said she’s fine,’ snapped the man, but Helen was already backing away from her companion, smoothing her jacket with trembling hands.
‘I’ll see you later, Robby,’ she said firmly. ‘I have some marking to do.’
The man released the teacher’s arm slowly. ‘We’ll continue this discussion another time.’
Ivy waited until he turned and walked away, his expensive shoes clicking against the pavement. Only then did she notice she’d been gripping her house keys so tightly they’d left indentations in her palm.
‘Helen . . .’ she began.
‘I said I’m fine.’ Helen’s voice sounded cold, clipped at the edges like she was holding something back. ‘Please, just leave it.’
Ivy watched the teacher hurry away, swallowed up by the bustle of the market crowd. The cheerful Christmas music jarred now, too bright, too false. The twinkling lights only deepened the sense of unease settling around her.
What kind of school matter , she wondered, required a man like that .