Twenty-two
The church bustled with preparations for the Nativity play’s dress rehearsal.
The pale, late afternoon light filtered through the stained glass windows, throwing muted colours across the altar, while the nave glowed under the stark brightness of the overhead bulbs.
Victor was flitting about with a garland in one hand and a shepherd’s staff in the other, while most of the children huddled at the back of the church hunched over screens.
Surrounded by props and trying to ignore the pungent smell of incense – a scent that always made Ivy think of James; the last memory she wanted to recall after last night’s kiss – Ivy was acutely aware of Fred standing on the opposite side of the church.
They had arrived separately. Ivy at the scheduled time, despite knowing Victor would be late, but that way she would be sure of not bumping into Fred.
They had barely exchanged glances and the distance between her and Fred felt so much wider than the physical yards separating them.
That kiss had been a mistake which hovered in her memory like a half-remembered dream.
The softness of his lips, the gentle pressure of his hands at her waist, the scent of linseed oil that clung to his shirt.
Just a Christmas tradition, she reminded herself firmly.
A kiss under the mistletoe meant nothing.
People kissed under the mistletoe all the time – it was practically obligatory.
Like saying ‘bless you’ after a sneeze or complimenting a terrible haircut.
Social niceties that greased the wheels of village life.
If it had meant something to Fred, surely he would have said something after he kissed her? Or at least looked at her this afternoon, instead of becoming intensely fascinated by the cardboard star he was painting? She wouldn’t embarrass herself by reading meaning into a meaningless gesture.
But what if it wasn’t meaningless? What if he was waiting for her? A signal that would let him know she’d welcome more than friendship? But no. If he didn’t feel the same, it wouldn’t just be the end of her fantasy romance. It would be the end of their deep, true friendship. She couldn’t risk it.
Victor, oblivious to the strained atmosphere between two of his adult helpers, was enthusiastically demonstrating how he wanted the wise men to show their solemnity. But the three youngsters were looking at their phones, not him.
‘You two should work together!’ announced Victor, pointing a finger at Fred then Ivy.
His words, though filled with hope, showed a cluelessness that was both endearing and frustrating.
Ivy wanted nothing more than to untangle the mess between Fred and her, remove the awkwardness which lingered like moss on an ancient altar stone, transforming what was once crisp and defined into something unrecognizable.
She’d got carried away. Omar’s musings about Rumi and divine love not precluding earthly love had lit something inside her – hope, perhaps, or foolishness.
Emboldened, she’d let her guard down and crossed an unspoken line.
Now everything had gone pear-shaped, and the easy, dependable friendship she’d once had with Fred felt like it was slipping through her fingers. She peered at Fred, unsure of what to say, wishing things were simple again.
Victor put his hands on his hips. ‘Have you two had a quarrel?’
For a man of God , thought Ivy, Victor really was hopelessly unable to read people .
‘We haven’t spoken enough to quarrel,’ she replied, focusing intently on a shepherd’s costume she was supposed to be mending.
‘Well, something’s wrong,’ Victor persisted, looking between them with the earnest concern of a puppy faced with an inexplicable human emotion. ‘The atmosphere in here is so tense we could hang the stage curtains from it.’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Fred muttered from across the hall, still not looking up from his star.
‘Clearly not,’ Victor said, beckoning them over. ‘As your spiritual guide, I feel it’s my duty to help resolve this. Whatever it is.’
Ivy shot Fred a panicked glance, only to find him finally looking at her with an identical expression of horror. Ivy’s mouth felt dry as she struggled with the words. But Fred, so close and yet so distant, seemed to prevent them from forming. ‘Victor, there’s really nothing—’ she began.
‘No, no,’ the young vicar interrupted, holding up his hands. ‘I insist. Christmas is a time for reconciliation. And we can’t have you two at odds. What kind of example would that set for the children?’
A painful silence stretched, punctuated by a sudden shout from the back of the church – ‘Grandma, you’re on mute again!’ – followed by a roar of laughter from the group of children huddled over their screens.
‘Perhaps,’ Victor continued, lowering his voice to what he clearly thought was a confidential tone but was still perfectly audible to everyone, ‘we should pray about this together?’
Ivy stiffened. She didn’t need the vicar to teach her how to pray. She’d managed just fine on her own for the last fifty years. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze and said, ‘That’s kind of you, Vicar, but I think I can handle it myself.’
‘Come on now,’ preached Victor, ‘let’s kiss and make up, eh?’
Ouch , winced Ivy, poor choice of words Victor .
Or was it? She caught Fred’s quick smile, small but genuine, a tentative bridge across their fractured friendship.
And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Friendship.
In the months since her retirement, Fred’s dependable presence had become her anchor.
The way he helped her prepare her vegetable bed, tidied her recycling boxes, and appeared like clockwork whenever anything needed mending.
She’d lost her role, her self-confidence, her daily structure when she’d hung up her clerical collar. But she hadn’t lost Fred.
What if pursuing this – whatever it was – ruined that?
The thought of awkward greetings across the village green, of avoiding each other at events, of losing those comfortable silences they’d developed over decades and perfected in the last two years brought a sharp flutter of panic that tightened her throat.
Some risks weren’t worth taking. Some foundations shouldn’t be disturbed, no matter how tempting the renovation might seem.
Fred rose. ‘Ivy, let’s go and sort those children out, else we’ll never get this show on the road.’
Ivy and Fred marched silently side by side to the back of the church, leaving Victor wrestling to put together Jesus’s crib. ‘Why is Joseph riding a pig?’ she asked, staring at the glowing phone screens clustered behind the organ.
‘It’s not a pig,’ said a child without looking up. ‘It’s a modded camel . Very rare.’
On-screen, the Three Wise Men arrived.
‘They’ve got jetpacks,’ announced a child proudly.
‘They’re meant to be wise , not aerial stuntmen ,’ Ivy said, letting out a roar of laughter. She heard a chuckle beside her, and glanced up to see Fred clutching his sides, a broad smile creasing his face. She felt her body relax – this was going to be alright.
At seven o’clock that evening, Ivy surveyed her kitchen. She had arranged every detail meticulously, from the plate of homemade scones – perfectly crumbly, and still warm from the oven – to the carefully placed candles that flickered in the corners.
She had not invited Fred. Earlier at the rehearsal they had taken a tentative step back on the road to friendship.
She compared the task to building a church, stone by stone, with each rock carefully selected, examined and placed with reverence.
To rush would create a wall that would inevitably crumble, whereas patience ensured a boundary that could withstand centuries of wind, rain and spiritual storms. And anyway, tonight was about Omar and, despite his useful accounting skills, Fred refused to get involved in the investigation.
The kettle whistled sharply, snapping her out of her spiralling thoughts. She poured water over the freshly ground coffee beans, the steam curling upward like a soft invitation.
First to arrive was Trish, her hazel eyes flashing with excitement.
‘I can’t wait to get going,’ she said. She peeled off her jacket and scarf and hurled them at the coat rack, before hopping into the kitchen.
‘I’ve got some news that’ll knock your socks off.
’ Her eyes danced with mischief as she stacked her crutches against a chair.
Before long, Helen joined, smelling of a recent shower and looking effortlessly casual in a pair of fawn trousers and matching sweater.
Trish blurted out, ‘I can’t keep this to myself a second longer.
I’ve been going through the records and discovered something outrageous.
The Kabul Managing Director is pocketing two salaries!
’ She paused, letting her outrage settle.
Ivy’s thoughts drifted for a moment to Fred. She wanted to share this news with him.
‘Is he the only one?’ asked Helen.
‘That’s what was going through my mind,’ admitted Trish. ‘I had a look, and Robby only seems to get one, and it didn’t seem out of sync with the sector average.’
‘Why is the Kabul man getting two?’ asked Ivy.
‘Keep digging, girls,’ said Helen. ‘What we need is someone who works there, someone who worked in accounts and has access to the records Hazim’s given us a sample of.’
Ivy immediately thought of Omar’s contact – Farid. If only Omar would get involved, he could ask him to help.
‘The thing is, outrageous though this is, with people paying themselves twice,’ said Ivy, ‘it’s not what Omar discovered – he found evidence of payments to companies he didn’t think were supplying the charity. Have we uncovered something unrelated? Another problem?’