Twenty-six #2
Around her, people moved with an almost choreographed joy, arms laden with brightly wrapped packages, cheeks flushed with cold, voices bubbling with laughter and the delicious anticipation of magic about to unfold.
Children skipped alongside their parents, eyes wide with the promise of the season, while elderly couples walked arm in arm, their smiles reflecting decades of cherished Christmas memories.
The street seemed to pulse with possibility, with the pure, unbridled excitement that only the approach of Christmas could bring.
Ivy smiled. It was the same every year. Initially, the Christmas countdown triggered a wave of stress and impatience.
With only a couple of weeks left, people panicked, realizing they hadn’t finished shopping, planned meals or wrapped gifts.
Just like Ivy hadn’t. As the pressure mounted, the Christmas spirit vanished.
Shoppers shoved past each other, drivers refused to give way, and everyone became a little more short-tempered.
But then, as Christmas inched closer, something changed.
And that change had happened. Last week these same people were probably honking in traffic and snatching the last turkey off the shelves.
Now these strangers let each other out at junctions and gave up parking spaces with a smile.
It was as if, at the last moment, the genuine spirit of Christmas finally settled in, reminding everyone what the season was really about.
Ivy paused in front of an outdoor activity shop. ‘Right,’ Trish said, leaning on her crutches ‘What about looking in here for something for Fred?’
Ivy sighed, glancing at the display of thick woollen socks and hats. ‘Socks?’
Trish made a face. ‘Too personal.’
‘Aftershave?’
Trish snorted. ‘Way too personal.’
Ivy huffed out a breath. ‘I’ll go to the garden centre later, see if they’ve got anything interesting. Maybe order some dahlia crowns?’
Trish gave her a quizzical look. ‘Is that forhimor for you?’
‘He likes his garden. And he loves his dahlias.’ Which meant she would probably order the wrong sort, or a variety he already had .
‘Let’s take a squint in here anyway,’ suggested Trish, hopping defiantly toward the door. A fellow shopper opened it for her and the two friends entered the fuggy warmth.
Ivy ran her fingers over a hand-knitted scarf, the wool thick and soft under her touch.
Although soothed by the ordinary bustle of Christmas shoppers around them, the festive reds and greens of the scarves, and by the fake Santa beard one of the assistants wore, her mind kept circling back to last night.
Had it really been Robby’s thugs in the graveyard?
In the cold light of day, it seemed more likely that it was just kids messing about.
Trish’s voice pulled her out of her musing. ‘One of Helen’s London contacts has given her a name,’ Trish said, lowering her voice. ‘Someone in Kabul.’
Ivy gasped. ‘That’s what we need, someone on the inside,’ she said, feeling a glimmer of hope. Even if it was tangled with nerves, it was there.
Trish held up a bright red scarf, draping it over herself like a model. ‘Do you think this is too much?’
Ivy blinked at her, then laughed. ‘For you? No such thing.’
Trish smirked, looping the scarf around her neck. ‘That’s the spirit. I want to get you something special for Christmas this year, to say thank you for helping at P he was the man who helped Omar. ‘Do you think he’s too frightened of repercussions?’
Helen nodded. ‘Looks like it.’
Ivy let out a slow breath. Not unexpected, but still disappointing. Farid might help Omar, but Ivy understood why he wouldn’t risk helping a foreign journalist.
‘Robby’s been in touch with me,’ Helen said, changing the subject.
Ivy raised an eyebrow. ‘What did he want?’
‘He asked me if Omar has turned up.’
Ivy exhaled, staring at a row of potted cyclamen, their petals like butterfly wings. ‘For once you didn’t have to lie. He’s gone, just like you told Robby.’
‘He’s gone somewhere safe.’ Said Trish.
The trowel slipped from Ivy’s fingers, clattering to the floor. ‘Where?’
Helen reached out and patted Ivy on the arm. ‘Don’t worry.’
Ivy missed him. The ache was a quiet, persistent thing now, no longer sharp, but no less real. But he was away from Robby and his demands that he return to Kabul. His sister and her family were safe. That was all that mattered.
If the only casualty was her wounded heart, that was a price worth paying.
It was only six days until Christmas, and the Smuggler’s Inn reverberated with enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, singing.
The pub was stifling. Bodies pressed tightly against one another, a dense mass of coats and scarves, with barely enough room to raise an elbow or turn without brushing against a neighbour.
In less than twenty minutes, the carol concert would start in St Peter’s, and a handful of people had formed an impromptu choir to practise, their voices rising and falling through the thick crowd, each singer tested not just by pitch but by the challenge of finding breathing space.
Shoulders touched, backs bumped, and knees inadvertently knocked as people shifted and swayed.
The crush of bodies created a living, moving organism, each person part of a collective anticipation that filled every corner of the pub.
Others hovered around the edges, laughing at the missed notes and exaggerated pitch of the singers.
People clutched crumpled carol service programmes. Rose was already taking orders as if she were preparing for a theatre interval, her movements a nimble dance through the packed room, weaving between shoulders and backs with feline precision.
‘Put me down for a large glass of Prosecco,’ Trish shouted above the din. ‘Ice cold. Don’t let me down, Rose.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Rose grinned, scribbling away.
It had been a while since Ivy felt this at ease, like she belonged. A month ago, she’d have hovered at the fringes, too anxious to speak, still weighed down by what people thought of her early retirement. Now, she was in the thick of it, laughing and chatting.
Over Trish’s shoulder, Ivy spotted Fred.
He was standing a little apart, talking to Helen.
And the teacher was listening. Properly listening, with her full attention, the way someone does when they actually care about something.
Ivy’s heart did an odd little twist, but she was determined not to allow anything to spoil her mood.
She no longer thought there was any romance there, but it was clear a close friendship had developed, probably over their shared interest in teaching.
Just like hers and Fred’s had grown over their joint mission to shelter Omar.
The pub door opened. Cold air swirled in, and the singing stopped, allowing a snatch of Fred and Helen’s conversation to drift towards Ivy.
‘Give it time. When something’s new, there can be hiccups, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work out,’ said Fred.
Helen spoke sharply. ‘I hope you’re right.’
Fred replied, soft and sure. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Yes, I do.’
The singing started up again and Ivy threw herself into it, louder than before.
‘Right,’ said Ivy firmly, checking her watch as the pub started to empty. ‘Carol service in ten minutes. We’re all walking there and back together.’
They finished their drinks quickly, huddling close as they stepped outside.
‘Have fun,’ said Fred.
‘Aren’t you joining us?’ asked Trish.
‘Not this year. Something I need to finish,’ he said and walked off, purpose in his stride.
The impromptu choir’s voices echoed down the street: ‘Sleep in heavenly peace ...’