A Perfect Devon Christmas
One
Ivy tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve.
It kept pulling, kept fraying. Just like her life, coming apart, stitch by stitch.
Strange how the world she’d carefully knitted together – first around him, then deliberately without him – could unravel so quickly.
Twice she’d woven her future with conviction, and twice reality had sliced through it, leaving her with nothing but threads slipping through her fingers.
The familiar scent of beeswax and old books wrapped around her like a well-worn cardigan, stirring memories of when this comfortable sitting room had belonged to her.
She had moved out nearly two years ago, and she missed it.
Not just its handsome proportions and cosy nooks and crannies, but the memories it held of a happy life, full of purpose.
Still, this would have been a difficult place to train a wilful dog.
She pictured her rented cottage, where her ten-week-old puppy was loose, no doubt scampering through her open-plan reception area, creating as much damage and destruction as Storm Edna had done in her garden.
What if he found the magazine rack? Or the bin – oh lord, the food caddy.
Could he open that? Could he reach the sofa?
Puppies didn’t eat cushions, did they? The article she skimmed didn’t mention that.
A man’s voice, clear and bright, cut through her musings. There was an energetic quality to the timbre, with a crispness in pronunciation; it sounded absurdly young for a vicar. ‘Ivy, do you agree?’
She blinked and switched her attention to the speaker, perched awkwardly on the edge of her old fireside chair.
The room’s Victorian proportions seemed to emphasise Victor’s tall skeletal body.
The seat used to be a snug fit for Ivy’s five-foot stout frame, but Victor’s long limbs jutted out, making him look like a crane attempting to nest in a teacup.
Why hadn’t he rearranged the furniture, chosen a more suitable chair for himself, like the one Ivy was sitting in?
Her feet dangled childlike a few inches off the floor.
‘Oh! Yes, of course,’ she said.
What was she agreeing to? Who cared? She gripped her notebook.
She shouldn’t have released the puppy. But he’d looked so happy running free.
Probably still running. She peeked at her watch.
If she was lucky, she’d be home before the afternoon post arrived, sparing any letters from his curious investigations.
She swallowed hard, trying to recall if she’d put her slippers away.
It didn’t matter; she had nothing planned for the rest of the day. Plenty of time to clear up any mess.
Drizzle spattered against the tall sash windows, and the weak November light did little to warm the space. Ivy’s fingers itched to reach for the poker and shift the fire six inches to the right, where the draw was better.
‘I really must insist,’ Margaret Pembroke’s shrill voice cut through Ivy’s thoughts, ‘that we use the traditional red and gold baubles. Vicar, this suggestion of ... of ... sustainable decorations made from foodstuffs is not very Brambleton!’
‘Well now, Margaret, we must move with the times,’ huffed Mabel Cartwright, folding her stout arms over her thick practical jumper. ‘A new Vicar brings new ideas. Sustainability is very fashionable these days. Dried oranges and cinnamon sticks would be charming!’
‘I simply won’t stand for it!’ Margaret’s voice was sharp enough to pierce through the thickest holly wreath. ‘Brambleton’s Christmas tradition is red and gold. It always has been. It always will be!’
Victor’s Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘I thought we could ... modernise?’ he ventured weakly, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose.
With the speed of a seasoned hawk, Margaret turned on him. ‘Modernise? Young man, Brambleton does not modernise Christmas! First, it’s dried oranges, next thing you know, we’ll be lighting the Advent candles with solar power!’
‘And why not?’ Mabel shot back, now sitting bolt upright in her chair. ‘We should be leading by example! This is God’s creation, and we must protect it. You, of all people, should understand that, Vicar.’
Ivy stifled a chuckle. Victor’s mouth was flapping like a fish gasping for air. He had been in Brambleton for four months and still believed logic could win out over tradition. That might be true of the inner-city parish he’d come from, but not rural North Devon.
As if sensing weakness, Margaret pressed on. ‘Brambleton’s Christmas has been red and gold since my grandmother’s day, and I’ll not have it ruined by ... by fruit! ’
‘Fruit is a gift from God, Margaret,’ Mabel countered primly. ‘Unlike that ghastly tinsel you insist on draping over every available surface.’
Ivy shifted in her seat, the words of diplomatic intervention rising automatically before she swallowed them back.
She used to chair these meetings – but she bit her tongue.
The church’s guidelines prevented any official involvement for two years.
It was kind of Victor to invite her at all.
Perhaps someone suggested including her.
She ran a hand through her silver hair, a habit she’d developed since .
.. well, since everything had happened.
Across the room, her neighbour Fred gave her the ghost of a wink.
It seemed he, too, was enjoying watching the sparks fly between Mabel and Margaret.
Fred was in his early sixties, of medium height and with a surprisingly trim frame given his age – the result of countless hours tending to his beloved garden.
Today, like every day, he wore a well-tailored suit with a white shirt which Ivy knew would be meticulously ironed – not just the front, but the sleeves and back too – complemented by a pristine navy-blue tie.
As a friend and her neighbour for nearly two years now, Fred had been a steadfast support, never pushing when she deflected questions about her early retirement with jokes that sounded like she was trying too hard.
Encouraged by his presence, Ivy straightened in her chair, letting her feet drop until her toes touched the floor.
The solid contact grounded her, giving her a small surge of confidence as she prepared to speak.
‘Maybe,’ Ivy ventured cautiously, ‘we could use both? The traditional baubles on the main tree, and Margaret, I think your grandchildren might enjoy helping Mabel and Victor make the orange decorations for the side altar?’
Victor seized on this suggestion like a vulture diving toward the last scrap in the desert. ‘Yes! Excellent! Very ... um, inclusive.’
Fred shot her an amused smile, before rising, reaching for the poker and shunting the fire to precisely the right spot in the grate, ‘Vicar, it’s a bit chilly, mind if I load some more wood on here?’
‘Chilly,’ trilled Margret, shivering theatrically, ‘it’s positively glacial.’
Victor flapped a hand at the wood basket. ‘haven’t got the knack of that fire yet.’
‘Let me help,’ suggested Fred, removing his suit jacket and confirming Ivy’s thoughts about his ironing.
He moved the fire six inches to the right, then sat down next to Ivy, muttering, ‘well done, if we’d waited for Victor to resolve that spat it might have ended in knitting needles at dawn on the village green. ’
Ivy smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes.
At least she was still good at something.
She’d been fighting off despondency all day after receiving three rejection emails this morning.
That made ten jobs this week alone. She squared her shoulders, refusing to let them slump.
She wouldn’t let this defeat her. God would guide her to the right employer – in His time not hers.
‘You look troubled, Ivy,’ murmured Fred. ‘What’s bothering you? Want me to raise it if you think it’s too sensitive?’
What have I done? And where do I go from here?
The questions gnawed at her. She plastered on a smile that used to come naturally.
‘Oh, nothing a cup of tea won’t fix,’ she said, but the quaver in her voice betrayed her.
She hated feeling so adrift. This wasn’t the Ivy who could fix failing marriages; persuade recalcitrant teens to spend more time with their family; cheer up poorly grandfathers.
The Ivy who was the centre of the village and had been at the forefront of last year’s crucial planning battle.
The Ivy who was famed for her relaxed attitude and easy smile.
She hesitated, feeling she must say something, or Fred would think she’d gone dotty, leaned in and whispered, ‘I’m a bit worried about people nicking from the collection box. ’
Fred’s eyes widened. He stood up abruptly, steepling his hands.
‘My friends,’ he announced gravely, ‘we must pause to pray for feeble victims of the erection pox.’
The room fell silent. Margaret Pembroke clutched her pearls. Victor’s mouth opened and closed like a baby bird waiting for food.
Despite clamping her lips together, Ivy’s natural jolly disposition bubbled up and a snort of laughter escaped.
Fred insisted he didn’t need hearing aids – Ivy begged to differ.
Somehow, she found her voice. ‘I think Fred means to say we should remember those in need,’ she said, glancing at Fred’s bewildered expression with the fond exasperation people reserve for old friends.
Ivy pushed herself off the chair. ‘Vicar, perhaps this would be a suitable moment for refreshments?’