Twelve #2
Laughter and cheers erupted. Competitors lurched forward, plates wobbling precariously in their hands.
Someone slipped, landing in a heap of laughter, while others took off in an ungainly sprint, scarves flapping wildly behind them.
Ivy dashed forward, breathless and grinning, holding her plate carefully, balancing the Christmas pudding – still warm – in one hand.
The heady scent of brandy-soaked fruit and sugar wafted from the pudding.
She smiled to herself, looking down the line of competitors dodging one another and trying to keep their precious puddings from falling.
She spotted Omar, awkward in his heavy boots but running all the same, grinning like a schoolboy.
Beside her, Fred stumbled, his plate swinging wildly, but miraculously retaining its cargo. Ivy laughed, her breath coming out in bursts. ‘Careful there, Fred! You’re supposed to run with it, not land face first in it!’
Fred scowled, but there was a smile hidden underneath it. ‘I’m trying, I’m trying,’ he muttered. ‘But unlike you, I’m a novice.’
As the competitors rounded the corner and jogged towards the village green, the sight of the cottages and the blinking lights almost distracted Ivy from the race.
A ship’s horn echoed across the harbour, low and resonant.
She smiled. The sound felt like a signal – she wasn’t just drifting anymore; she was beginning to steer her own course.
And then, beside her, Ivy sensed Fred pulling ahead. She put on a spurt, until they were neck and neck, laughing between breaths, their feet pounding the street in rhythm. Her pulse quickened, and suddenly, she felt a strange tightness, a flutter of excitement that she didn’t quite understand.
Fred’s eyes caught hers, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away.
They crossed the finish line, breathless from the race, their shoulders nearly brushing.
As they stood there, panting and grinning, still holding their plates, the air between them seemed charged with something more than just the thrill of competition.
And then, as she looked up at him, the thought struck her – she wanted him to kiss her.
The realization was as ridiculous as it was intoxicating, yet she stayed, frozen to the spot, until Victor came flying in out of nowhere, his eyes glued to his pudding, his arms flailing as he collided into Ivy, knocking her to the ground.
He let out an indignant yelp. The crowd burst into laughter; the young vicar lay sprawled out beside Ivy, blinking in confusion.
Ivy gasped for air between fits of laughter.
Tears of mirth blurred her vision as Fred reached down a hand to help her up, his own chuckles mixing with hers.
His palm was warm and slightly calloused, and when their fingers intertwined, she felt a spark that was more than static electricity.
His skin against hers sent a subtle tremor through her body, like the first whisper of an approaching storm.
Had he felt it too? Or was this a one-sided infatuation that, if she let it run, could ruin their friendship?
Her mind was whirring as she stood and let Fred pull her into an awkward side-hug.
He threw an arm around her shoulders like they were mates on a rugby team and gave her a quick squeeze.
‘See you in the pub?’ he suggested. Ivy’s heart skipped a beat, and she told herself not to be so silly.
Fred was nothing more than an old friend.
After the biting chill outside, the pub felt stifling.
Laughter and the hum of villagers reliving the race wrapped the space in a relaxed bubble.
Ivy’s jumper was still damp from the tumble, so she made her way over to the hearth where a fire roared, its orange glow licking at the mantel.
She glanced around the room. By the bar, a lone sprig of mistletoe hung unnoticed – or, more likely, deliberately ignored – by those who passed beneath it, catapulting her mind into a brief fantasy of Fred kissing her under that greenery. Then Ivy’s eyes landed on Helen.
The teacher sat at the far side of the room with the man Ivy had seen her with last Saturday at the Christmas market.
Robby, Helen had called him. On that occasion, she had seemed wary, and Ivy recalled the man’s abruptness.
Now, the stress between them was striking.
Tonight, Robby wore a crisp designer jacket and a watch that caught the light whenever he moved his arm.
She wondered why he sat with his back to the wall, and his gaze occasionally swept the room in patterns that had nothing to do with admiring the horse brasses and pictures.
Old habits from another life, she supposed.
The young teacher’s fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass, but she wasn’t drinking and the glass looked untouched.
Rose passed with a tray laden with drinks, and curious, Ivy put out a hand to stop the landlady. Gesturing at the far side of the room, she asked, ‘Who is that man with Helen?’
Rose squinted, ‘Oh, him? Think he’s from London. Not staying long. Something about visiting his sister who’s moved down ...’
Ivy shot another furtive look at Helen, noticing the teacher’s shoulders hunched up near her ears. Something wasn’t right.
The door banged open, breaking the pub’s easy rhythm.
Fred and Omar stepped inside, shrugging off their jackets.
As Ivy watched, Omar’s face turned the colour of unbaked dough.
His jaw slackened. Fred nudged him towards the fire.
Ivy’s arms started tingling and she swivelled to see what had rattled Omar.
He was staring at Helen. Suddenly, the teacher shot to her feet, her face pale beneath her make-up.
Her untouched wine glass wobbled before settling.
Helen stalked past Ivy, a sharp trail of floral perfume slicing the air.
Without a backward glance, Helen pushed through the door, the brass handle flashing like a blade in the light.
Speculation rippled through the pub.
‘What’s that about?’
‘Bit odd, wasn’t it?’
Ivy peered at the space where Helen and Robby had been sitting.
He was still there, watching the door, his jaw working as if chewing over something unpleasant.
A muscle ticked in his cheek before he swallowed the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a decisive smack.
What had he said to upset Helen? A chill crawled up Ivy’s spine. She turned back; Omar was gone.
Her pulse quickened. ‘What happened to Omar?’ she asked Fred, now beside her.
He shook his head. ‘No idea. One second, he was there, next ... poof . Just turned and legged it.’
Ivy frowned as she ran through the possibilities. Omar had been spooked. Helen had fled. Robby remained composed but taut. Something linked them, something that had sent Omar bolting and Helen running. Whatever it was, it wasn’t very cheering, nor very Christmassy.
Robby scanned the room with a soldier’s precision, then walked out, spine straight, shoes striking the floor with clipped finality. The tension dissolved like steam. Conversations resumed, shoulders dropped, and someone even laughed.
Fred insisted on buying Ivy a drink and led her to a table tucked away in the far corner, where they could be ‘more comfortable’.
They sat across from each other, neither of them touching their drinks.
His tie was still missing, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar – a rare hint of dishevelment that made him look different, less composed.
Ivy barely registered the buzz of the surrounding villagers, the crackle of the fire, the clink of glasses.
Her mind was still tangled in that breathless moment at the end of the race, when all she’d wanted was for Fred to kiss her.
Had he felt it too?
She risked a glance, but he was looking away, fingers drumming lightly against his glass. The air between them seemed to quiver, like heat rising off stone.
‘You two found a cosy spot,’ came Trish’s familiar voice. She hopped to their table and slid into the chair beside Ivy. ‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked as she stashed her crutches against the wall.
Ivy felt the telltale warmth creeping up her neck.
Would Trish notice she could barely look at Fred without blushing?
She lifted her glass – a defensive gesture – and took a measured sip.
The wine was cool and sharp, distracting her briefly from her own confusion.
Had there really been a moment when Fred had been about to kiss her?
Or had she just desperately wanted him to?
Before she could dwell on it further, the door opened, and Omar walked in, followed by Helen.
He strolled to the bar and asked for a mug of green tea with cardamom.
Ivy doubted Rose would stock that! A voice from the other side of the room cut through the murmur of conversation.
‘Still can’t get used to his strange ways,’ said one of the older villagers, eyes darting toward Omar.
The words hit Ivy like a splash of icy water.
She straightened, her voice cool but loud enough to carry – her sermon voice, honed by decades at the pulpit. She knew how to startle people, how to ensure they listened, every inflection deliberate. ‘There’s nothing strange about him.’
Helen lifted her chin. ‘Quite right.’ Her voice held a sharp authority that Ivy imagined made the children sit up straighter in the classroom. ‘You should be more welcoming to newcomers.’
The villager mumbled something into his drink, but Helen’s words had been enough to hush further comments. Omar made his way across to Ivy’s table.
Ivy, still bristling at Helen’s interjection – the teacher had only been here three weeks, Omar didn’t need her to stand up for him – couldn’t help herself. ‘He doesn’t need you to defend him,’ she muttered under her breath.
Helen’s gaze snapped toward her. ‘You think he only needs you?’
Ivy met her stare. ‘I think he needs people who actually care abouthim.’
The atmosphere crackled, but before either could say more, Victor elbowed his way over. The young vicar leaned over, concern etched on his face. ‘Omar, everything alright?’
Omar merely shrugged, his expression unreadable.
Ivy’s chest tightened. She didn’t want Victor involved either, with his well-meaning sermons and sustainable ways.
None of them understood. Neither did she .
.. yet. But she would. She had to. Because something was weighing on Omar, something he wasn’t saying.
If Omar wouldn’t volunteer an explanation, she must demand one.
‘I think we need a bigger table,’ announced Ivy. She picked up her drink and helped Trish over to a battered wooden table near the crackling fireplace.
‘My round,’ declared Fred. ‘Victor, what can I get you?’
When everyone had a fresh drink, Fred encouraged Omar to talk about Afghanistan.
His eyes sparkled with the glow of long-forgotten sunrises, and for a moment, his tales transformed the pub into a landscape of rugged mountains and endless deserts.
He explained that although Christmas was not part of Afghanistan’s traditions, winter brought its own quiet rhythms – time for reflection, prayer, and the company of loved ones.
In the chill of Kabul’s winter, steaming bowls of ash reshteh, a thick noodle soup, nurtured the soul.
As Omar spoke, the stories wrapped around his listeners like a heavy Afghan shawl. Ivy savoured each word.
The heavy oak door swung open once more, admitting a sharp draught that carried the scent of sea spray.
And silhouetted in the doorway, stood Robby.
Omar’s expression changed, his nostalgic reverie slipping away, making Ivy’s heart clench.
His cup shook, a dark tide lapping the rim.
His fingers flexed round the handle as if steadying himself.
Across the table, Helen’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze cool and unreadable as it settled on the newcomer.
Robby’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, his sharp gaze flicking over Omar and Helen.
There was no outright hostility, but something about him put Ivy on edge, a sense of history unspoken, clinging to the air like an unpleasant smell.
She told herself she was imagining it, but the way Omar and Helen both reacted made it clear – this man’s presence was not welcome.
‘What’s wrong, Omar?’ hissed Trish.
Before anyone could press Omar further, Robby strode across the room.
The sound of his shoes clicking on the wooden floor was unsettling amid the gentle background of laughter.
He approached the table with an air of grim authority, his aftershave, exotic and expensive, overpowering and intrusive.
As Robby’s eyes locked onto Omar, the air around the group seemed to thicken and Ivy felt a shiver trace her spine.
In a loud voice, the man barked, ‘I’ve been looking for you. Do you lot know who you’re sheltering?’
Omar’s jaw tightened and resignation dogged his eyes.
Instinctively, Ivy reached for his hand.
‘Omar, please ... tell us what’s going on,’ she pleaded, her voice cracking.
But his eyes remained fixed on Robby, whose presence rendered him mute.
The pub fell into an uneasy silence. Ivy spotted Mabel and Margaret, schooners of sherry in their hands, drinking in the scene.
This will soon be all around Brambleton , she thought.
Robby’s voice was steely. ‘There’s a solution to this problem, and Omar knows what it is. Go home.’
Without warning, Omar jerked upright. His chair screeched against the floor as he pushed away, his eyes wide. Ivy lunged forward in a desperate attempt to reach him, but he was already halfway out of the door. The stranger followed in hot pursuit, his steps echoing in the silent space.
Ivy took a calming breath. Pretending everything was fine wouldn’t solve this, not for him, any more than that had been a solution for her.
If she wanted answers, she’d have to ask for them.
Carefully. Thoughtfully. Like she used to.
She’d spent too long waiting, doubting, fearing the wrong step. That must end tonight.