Sixteen
By the time she unlatched the gate to her former home, Ivy was having second thoughts.
Victor was a good man, but he wasn’t much of a match for the Taliban.
A bit like trying to fly a paper kite in a storm.
She turned on her heel and was crunching back across the gravel when she caught the soft snick of the door opening behind her.
‘Ivy, wait,’ Victor called out. ‘I’m sorry.
The doorbell isn’t working, but I do try to keep an eye out for visitors. ’
‘Have you checked the battery?’ she asked.
His face split into a grin, ‘Ah! Good idea.’ Bless him , she thought, he had all the practicality of a chocolate frying pan. He rumbled on, insisting his door was always open anyway, just knock. Everyone was welcome, any time. ‘Please come in,’ he said, his tone calm and inviting.
She retraced her steps. Each time her foot fell, she tried to imagine Omar making that journey over the mountains. There was no harm in consulting Victor. She had Omar’s permission to share the story of his journey, just not his role with the army, nor anything about his sister.
The vicar led the way to the small study, so familiar, yet so different.
Stacks of worn books still lined the shelves, but the room smelled strongly of incense and a gentle murmur of conversation drifted from a radio playing softly in the background.
Victor sat behind a desk so cluttered that Ivy itched to stack the papers into neat piles, as they had always been in her day.
But before that she wanted to wipe it clean – she was certain a swipe of her finger across the leather top would come away thick with dust. To her, a tidy, clean desk signified an organized life.
After five months around Victor, she should have expected this chaos.
‘How can I help?’ he said, offering a gentle smile and bright eyes after she rejected the suggestion of tea. She sensed the tightness in her chest ease and sank into a chair opposite him.
As she spoke, Victor loomed above her, watching with a focused stillness that made Ivy feel like an actor under a theatre spotlight.
She noticed the way his long fingers were steepled beneath his chin, as if in prayer, while he listened to Omar’s story unfold.
Though he was young, he carried an air of someone older, someone who had already seen more than most. Maybe it was the clerical collar.
His voice held a hint of nostalgia as he remarked, ‘Remember, my last parish was inner-city Hull – quite a lot of refugees there. I’ve heard worse stories.
’ The bluntness of his tone was both refreshing and oddly soothing, and she felt her frustrations thaw.
She had done the right thing coming to see him.
‘The thing is,’ she said, her voice cracking, ‘he won’t do anything about it. He just withdraws.’
Victor’s eyes radiated genuine concern. ‘Sometimes we have to let people find their own way, even if it’s painful to watch.’ His voice was gentle, but it carried a firmness that suggested he’d seen this cycle before.
‘But what do I do?’ she pressed. ‘How do I get Omar to deal with this? How do I make him see that he shouldn’t sit back and let the world trample him?’
‘Sometimes, all you can do is trust and forgive. Not for their sake necessarily, but for your own peace. If you can let go of the frustration, maybe you’ll see the path forward more clearly.
’ His advice, tender and earnest, felt like a mist trying to smother a wildfire.
Ivy couldn’t reconcile it with the frustration burning within her.
Forgiveness? Trust? Where would that get Omar and his sister?
She let out a shaky laugh. ‘I wish it were that simple.’
He meant well, and she didn’t want to say it, but she was already regretting involving the Church. What had she expected? Divine intervention? A miracle answer? That because Victor was still a formal part of the Church, his prayers would be answered when hers weren’t?
Victor reached across the desk and gently placed a hand over hers.
‘Ivy,’ he said softly, ‘sometimes the fight isn’t just about making someone else act.
It’s about finding the strength within yourself to do what you believe is right.
If Omar won’t fight, maybe God wants you to do that for him.
But remember, forgiveness isn’t weakness – it’s the freedom to move on without the weight of anger. ’
His words echoed in her ears. She closed her eyes, her breathing shallow and uneven.
Somewhere beneath the familiar weight of doubt, she could feel it – a thin thread of possibility, fragile as spun glass.
The knowledge sat heavy in her chest: she could act.
She should act. But the thought made her hands tremble in her lap.
Slowly, reluctantly, she let her eyes flutter open.
Maybe Victor was right. If Omar wouldn’t, or couldn’t, then .
.. her throat tightened. Then she would have to.
The certainty felt both terrifying and inevitable, like standing at the edge of a cliff she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to jump from.
The rectory was only a stone’s throw from Prosecco teabags bobbing in steaming mugs thrust into waiting hands.
‘You’ve got a face like a wet weekend,’ Trish said, plonking herself down on a stool and leaning her crutches against the counter at the end of the lunchtime rush.
‘Just thinking,’ Ivy murmured. Would Trish help?
‘That’s always dangerous,’ Helen quipped, shrugging off her fur-trimmed coat. It smelled faintly of expensive perfume. Helen was becoming one of the café’s regulars. How did she find the time , wondered Ivy? ‘Haven’t you got some marking to do?’ she asked.
‘It’ll keep. I needed to get out, and I’ve a free period.’ She said, settling herself on a bar stool. ‘I assume you’re both coming to the school play next week. Theartistic masterpiecethat is A Snowman’s Christmas Wish ?’
‘What poor muppet wrote that?’ Trish asked.
‘Someone who has clearly never met an actual child.’ Helen sighed.
‘The entire second act consists of a snowman singing a heartfelt solo about how hedoesn’t want to melt.
Deeply moving. Unless you’re the five year old playing the snowman, who mostly stares into the lights like he’s receiving a message from the mothership. ’
Ivy removed her dirty apron, securing a clean one with a bow.
What could Trish do to help Omar? Trish grew up in Brambleton, and after a few years away at university had returned to run the café – she didn’t have the skills or contacts to free Omar from his past. And although a good friend, Trish steered clear of drama; when a planning battle threatened to ruin the village, Trish helped, but from the shadows. No, she wasn’t the answer.
‘What’s your role in this performance?’ asked Trish.
Helen flicked her hair back. ‘You are looking at the woman who’s been promoted to wrangling the reindeer chorus. Do you know how many small children can fit inside a single cardboard box?All of them.’
Trish snorted.
Ivy tried to focus on their chatter, but her mind wouldn’t settle. Fred wouldn’t help. Victor couldn’t. Where else could she try?
She stole a glance at Helen, watching as the younger woman fished a sugar cube from the bowl and nibbled at it absent-mindedly, like some glamorous, red lipped hamster.
Helenknew Omar’s story, and she knew Robby.
Helen had told Ivy she thought the accusations against Omar were false.
But how much did she really know? And, more importantly, could she be trusted ?
Helen was batting for Team Robby. And Ivy had promised Omar she wouldn’t even talk to Helen, so how could she involve her without breaking that promise?
‘And then he licked the Baby Jesus!’ said Helen.
Ivy snapped back. ‘Sorry, what ?’
Helen smirked. ‘One of the shepherds. Got nervous, panicked, and instead of putting the doll in the manger, he licked its head. Quite tenderly actually.’
‘That’s got to be some kind of theological crime,’ Trish said.
Helen sighed. ‘Well, at least it distracted from the angel falling off the stage. Again.’
Ivy’s lips twitched. She couldn’t involve Helen. But if Omar had any chance of setting things right, he needed allies.
Later that afternoon, Ivy was sitting in a small room lit dimly by a flickering fluorescent overhead light.
In the distant past, someone had painted the walls a dull beige, long since faded to the colour of old parchment, and in places the paint was peeling, strips curling from the walls.
A garish paper wreath hung crookedly over the doorframe, festooned with plastic holly and red glitter that clung to the edges like desperate memories.
Fake poinsettias graced the cluttered table, which was piled high with pamphlets on everything from debt management to housing rights.
Sue, the volunteer lawyer at Barnstaple Citizens Advice sat across from Ivy, her brow furrowed with the kind of professional patience Ivy knew all too well. The lawyer adjusted her glasses and looked at Ivy with disbelief.
‘So, let me get this straight,’ Sue began. ‘This man keeps losing his job because someone’s spreading rumours that he’s involved in drug smuggling, and you want to know what I can do to help?’
Ivy nodded, feeling a flush of frustration rise up her neck. ‘Exactly! It’s outrageous. Every job he gets, someone, some malicious gossip, spreads these absurd rumours. And just like that, he’s out the door. That can’t be right. There must be something you can do to protect him.’