Twenty-nine
The scent of roasting meat and freshly baked flatbreadsfilled Ivy’s cottage, interlaced with the spice of the mulled wine that Fred had insisted on making. Ivy was certain he’d overdone the cloves.
‘Are you sure you measured everything properly?’ she asked, peering at her glass with suspicion.
Fred huffed, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Of course I measured properly.’
‘You eyeballed it.’
‘I estimated.’
‘You guessed,’ Ivy corrected, taking a cautious sip. It burned slightly , but in a festive way.
Fred smirked, victorious.
Ivy bustled over to check the makeshift table, and that Fred had laid enough places. Last night they had manhandled Fred’s table into her cottage, pushing it against her own, and Ivy had covered the two with a clean white tablecloth.
She felt the weight of his arm around her waist and leaned back into his embrace. ‘I’m an accountant. I can count.’
‘Just checking.’
There was a playful yap from Jez, followed by the excited squeals of two young children.
Ivy tracked the noises, allowing a smile to spread across her face.
Over by the Christmas tree, Sami and Yasmin were playing with Jez, while their parents watched on, looking exhausted from their journey.
Laila and her family had arrived last night, on Christmas Eve, escorted to Ivy’s cottage by Robby, who had hassled his contacts to speed up their approval under the relocation scheme for interpreters.
Robby had also paid for their flights, picked them up from London and drove them to Brambleton himself.
Across the room, Omar and Helen exchanged a glance and grinned .
They had claimed the seats nearest the fireplace, the heat making their faces shine.
Helen had a soft, contented look about her.
Omar stood, inviting everyone to take a seat at the table.
‘I guess even though we outnumber you, it’s traditional to eat at a table today,’ he said, excusing himself.
He returned, beaming as he set a steaming dish in the centre of the table.
‘This,’ he announced proudly, ‘is Qabuli Palaw, the national dish of Afghanistan. A celebration meal.’
Laila clapped her hands, and the children banged their spoons on the table. Their father leaned over, chastising them gently.
The dish was a masterpiece – succulent lamb buried beneath long grains of rice glinting with saffron , studded with jewel-like pomegranate seeds , and slivers of almonds. It smelled rich, spicy, utterly delicious .
Trish, perched on Ivy’s other side, rubbed her hands together . ‘Omar, that looks incredible.’
Omar grinned . ‘I had some help from Helen. She’s a natural.’
Helen nudged him playfully . ‘And from Ivy – she made the star anise carrots’
Ivy watched them fondly . The turkey was in the freezer.
She was planning to turn it into curry for a Twelfth Night party.
She wanted this year’s Christmas celebrations to go out with a bang, especially with their long-haul visitors experiencing their first Brambleton Christmas.
A week ago, this kind of scene had felt impossible – too much loss. But here they were. A little family.
Fred reached for the serving spoon. ‘Right, let’s start before Ivy starts making notes on whether I’m eating too much.’
Ivy swatted at his hand . ‘I wouldn’t dare.’
Helen snorted into her wine glass .
The food was as delicious as it looked – fragrant, tender, perfectly spiced . Omar smiled at every compliment, while Helen r olled her eyes with affection .
Even Jez, curled up, exhausted by the fire, was on his best behaviour , a minor Christmas miracle in itself.
Ivy found herself leaning against Fred without thinking , his shoulder warm against hers . They weren’t the kind of couple who needed grand gestures. This – the teasing, the easy bickering, the way he always made sure her wine glass was topped up – this was them.
Together, their little band had won, freeing Omar to carve out a decent life for himself, but in the process, Ivy had found something she hadn’t even known she was looking for.
‘So,’ Trish said, propping her chin in her hand . ‘I hear we have two new permanent teachers in the village?’
Helen smiled. ‘It’s official. Omar starts at the school in January, and I’m staying on.’
Omar nodded. ‘Figured it was time to put my brain to good use.’
‘You’ll be brilliant,’ Ivy said sincerely.
Omar chuckled.
‘I hope you know how to deal with Pritt Sticks,’ Fred put in. ‘Those things are the real enemy.’
Helen raised an eyebrow . ‘Speaking from experience, are you?’
‘Decades in the trenches,’ Fred said solemnly, ‘until my hearing went, and I started agreeing with everything, whether I heard it or not. Of course, now I hear everything, always prefixed by “Have you got your hearing aids in?”’
Ivy chuckled. ‘I never say that.’
Fred took a slow sip of his wine, while Helen laughed into her napkin . ‘You two are honestly worse than some married couples I know.’
Ivy felt herself flush , but Fred just grinned .
The meal stretched on, cheerful and relaxed, plates emptied, glasses refilled. The afternoon light dipped into gold outside , catching the Christmas lights twinkling in the windows .
Eventually, Trish sat back with a satisfied sigh . ‘I think I might explode.’
Omar grinned. ‘Dessert?’
Trish looked at him, horrified . ‘You’re joking.’
Fred perked up . ‘What kind of dessert?’
Ivy groaned . ‘Fred, you can’t possibly have room.’
‘I have a separate stomach for dessert.’
Helen giggled . ‘Is that a fact?’
Fred nodded sagely . ‘Absolutely.’
Ivy shook her head, but she was smiling .
Outside, the Christmas lights sparkled against the frost , while inside the room was filled with laughter, warmth and everything that mattered.