Nineteen
When Ivy took Jez out for his evening walk on Monday after a busy day at the café, the village slept under a pearl white moon, frost already crystallizing on its hedgerows.
Jez’s paws crunched softly on the frozen ground.
Ivy drew a breath that carved ice into her lungs, savouring the scent of winter wood smoke from chimneys.
A few houses away, someone was playing ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ on a piano, the notes drifting through the evening stillness, pulling Ivy back to her decades of choir practice.
Jez tugged at his lead, straining to investigate the nocturnal smells, but gently, as if sensing her need for peace. The patches of white on his fur gleamed in the moonlight as Ivy matched his peaceful pace, letting the stress of her day slowly unwind.
Then she saw them: Helen’s distinctive fur-trimmed coat, Fred’s porch light creating a little halo around them both.
The light caught the teacher’s smile as she spoke ‘Hi, is Omar still up?’
Ivy hardly heard the words. The Christmas lights strung along the eaves of Fred’s cottage blurred slightly and she blinked hard, annoyed at the sting in her eyes. What a ridiculous fantasy she’d been nurturing, that Fred’s recent attentiveness meant something more than friendship.
Of course he’d be drawn to Helen – confident, professional Helen with her glossy blonde hair and easy laugh.
She was a teacher like he used to be, not unemployed like Ivy, with her badly behaved dog and her demanding projects, who couldn’t remember when she last wore make-up.
Fred’s recent warning about her friendship with Omar – ‘Be careful about younger men’ – rang hollow as she watched him lean closer to Helen.
She must be at least twenty years his junior.
Helen touched Fred’s arm, uninhibited, as if she’d known him for decades.
Ivy picked up Jez, cradling him to her chest, but the comforting warmth did little to thaw the cold knot forming inside her, an emotion she didn’t want to identify.
On Tuesday afternoon, Ivy stood in the nave of the church, watching the chaos unfold inside St Peter’s.
The interior was a magnificent blend of age and devotion, its ancient stone walls bearing the marks of centuries of worship.
The vaulted ceiling arched high above, ribbed with time-darkened beams. Slender stained glass windows lined the nave, their colourful panes casting a mosaic of light onto the worn flagstone floor and illuminating the creamy stone columns that stood like monks in silent vigil.
At the heart of the church, separating the nave from the chancel, stood the remains of the rood screen, a striking, ornate structure made from dark wood.
Elaborately carved with intricate patterns of twisting vines, angels and saints, the screen was a testament to the skill of medieval craftsmen.
Originally rising from the screen’s top beam would have been the ‘rood’, a large wooden cross bearing the figure of Christ, flanked by statues of Mary and John the Evangelist. Ivy had always assumed it had been torn down, like so many other Catholic decorations during Edward VI’s reign, by Protestant reformers who viewed such elaborate decoration as idolatrous.
Ivy put her hands on her hips, chuckling. These ancient stone walls had witnessed centuries of Christmas preparations, but never quite like this.
Victor, a six foot seven tangle of gangly limbs and enthusiasm, ducked under a wreath and flung open the crate of decorations that Fred had been storing in his shed. ‘Good news, ladies! Here are the compostable fairy lights!’
‘They look like damp spaghetti,’ Margaret muttered.
‘They are damp spaghetti,’ Victor beamed. ‘Boiled and dyed with beetroot. Sustainable!’
He hurled a coil upward. It hit one of the overhead beams and fell back, landing with a splat on a wooden pew.
Margaret froze. ‘Victor.’
‘Yes, Margaret?’
‘If youcompostone more piece of Christmas, I shall recycle you .’
‘Now, now,’ Victor chirped, balancing precariously on a pew to hang a garland made of pinecones. ‘Jesus was born in amanger, not a non-biodegradable plastic grotto,’ Margaret snipped.
Mabel picked a bauble from the box. ‘Is this made of lentils?’
‘No,’ Victor said proudly, climbing back down off the pew. ‘Chickpeas.’
The bauble disintegrated in Mabel’s hand.
Ivy tore her eyes away from the chest, fearing what else it might contain, then sniffed, trying to decide what was marring the familiar mustiness of the medieval building.
Victor stood before her, an earnest expression wracking his face. ‘I don’t understand what went wrong,’ he mumbled, staring forlornly at a tray of blackened orange slices. ‘The YouTube video made it look so simple.’
Ah, thought Ivy, identifying the peculiar smell at last: singed orange peel. She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile. ‘Perhaps the Aga was too hot?’ she offered kindly.
‘They’re supposed to be dried, not cremated.’ Margaret sniffed, poking a charred disc with her manicured fingernail. Her tweed skirt and pearl necklace seemed to radiate disapproval. ‘In all my years in Brambleton, we have never served the Lord with burned fruit.’
‘Actually, the carbon represents our environmental sins,’ Mabel interjected. ‘I think it’s quite profound, vicar.’
Ivy caught Fred’s eye across the church. He winked at her, and she felt that familiar, unwelcome warmth coursing through her body.
Stop it , she scolded herself. He’s just being kind .
‘The popcorn garlands are going well,’ called Helen from the altar. She was guiding Omar’s hands, threading a needle through a kernel.
Omar nodded, his usually serious face breaking into a genuine smile as his fingers brushed against Helen’s. Ivy watched them for a moment: how relaxed he seemed with her, how their heads bent close together over their task. It was good to see him connecting with someone closer to his age.
‘Helen has everyone wrapped around her little finger,’ Fred said, appearing at Ivy’s elbow with a box of baubles in his hands. ‘Even our quiet friend.’
And you too , thought Ivy.
From across the church, Helen’s bright laugh rang out. Ivy turned to see the young teacher helping Omar drape a popcorn strand around his neck like a feather boa. He was performing an exaggerated catwalk strut that had Helen clutching her sides with laughter.
Fred followed Ivy’s gaze. ‘She’s good for him,’ he observed. ‘Brings him out of his shell.’
‘Just being friendly,’ Ivy replied, though she couldn’t help noticing how Omar’s hand lingered on Helen’s shoulder, how Helen’s eyes followed him as he walked away. But Helen was like that with everyone.
‘Some people just click,’ Fred said, raising his eyebrows at Ivy.
Ivy felt warmth creep up her neck. How did he make everything so confusing? ‘Helen’s quite taken with you’ she said lightly.
Fred looked embarrassed. ‘Is she? I hadn’t noticed.’
Although disappointed he wasn’t being honest with her, Ivy wouldn’t be negative about Helen.
‘She’s lovely,’ she swallowed. ‘I hope she stays.’ Ivy added, trying to keep her voice light.
‘Intelligent, passionate about her work. Just what this village needs – fresh energy.’ All the things Ivy used to be.
Fred’s voice was soft. ‘Ivy—’
‘Teaching suits her,’ Ivy said, reaching for the box of baubles. ‘She’s good with people.’
Fred’s fingers brushed against hers as she relieved him of the box. ‘People skills. Not everyone has that gift. You do though.’
Ivy laughed. ‘I’m retired for a reason, Fred. My sermons were putting people to sleep.’
‘I never fell asleep,’ he said.
Before she could respond, a thunderous crash echoed through the church, followed by Margaret’s cry of outrage.
Victor stood frozen beside an overturned ladder, surrounded by a heap of dusty green garlands.
‘I was trying to wind this through the rood screen,’ he explained.
Mabel folded her arms and smiled at Victor. ‘That garland needed replacing anyway. The synthetic fibres are probably full of microplastics.’
‘That garland,’ Margaret hissed, ‘was donated by my late husband’s mother.’
Ivy squeezed Fred’s arm. ‘I’d better intervene before Margaret excommunicates everyone.’
She strode across the flagstone floor, recalling the countless crises she had defused in here – marriage counselling after Sunday service, mediating disputes over flower arrangements, consoling the bereaved in hushed corners. Her step was sure as she walked forward.
That evening Prosecco & Prose throbbed with energy.
Twenty women celebrating a hen party, their laughter spilling through the doorway accompanied by jazzy Christmas music.
In the stockroom, surrounded by shelves overflowing with books, spare till rolls, boxes of groceries, three women were having a very different night.
Helen pulled out a notebook, its pages filled with scribbled notes and figures. Her voice trembled with excitement as she pounded her fist on a box. ‘Careful,’ shouted Trish, ‘that’s bottles of Prosecco. Don’t want them exploding on us.’
‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve had a breakthrough.
Ivy, you won’t believe what I found. I think some of the charity’s UK-based suppliers are being paid twice.
’ Helen gave a loud tut. ‘The annoying thing is I can’t get to the bottom of it.
My accounting skills aren’t good enough.
I may be wrong about this. Ivy, could you have a go? ’
Ivy thought back to grappling with the church accounts. There was usually a local accountant who acted as the treasurer, but she understood the basics of a cash book. ‘I’ll try,’ she offered.