A Very Irish Christmas

Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

The next afternoon, Roberts gives me a lift down to the village with my luggage. The snow is still falling, thick and heavy, and every country lane we drive through is a picture of rural winter charm. Bright-eyed birds perch on thick white boughs, the fields spread out around us, and the village itself is transformed.

It was rain and mud and grey skies the night I arrived, and it still looked gorgeous. Now, it is like something from a Christmas card. The tree sparkles snow, and the warm glow coming from the windows casts a golden shimmer over the central square. Everywhere I look I see tiny touches of beauty – the strings of lights bright against the darkening sky, the mellow stone of the buildings dusted with white, the cobbled streets coated with fresh snow. It is perfect, and I sigh out loud. Roberts quirks one amused eyebrow as he parks outside the inn.

‘It is rather pretty, isn’t it?’ he asks.

‘Beyond pretty,’ I reply, smiling. ‘Thank you – for the lift, for the hospitality, for the baking. I’ve had a wonderful time.’

‘The pleasure was all ours, Cassie. It’s been a delight having someone new in the old place. Allegra seemed much better for it, too – it gave her the incentive to strive.’

‘How was the hospital appointment?’

‘As well as can be expected. Unfortunately it’s a one-way street, and there will be many bumps in the road ahead for her.’

‘I know, and I’m so sorry. But at least she has you, Roberts.’

‘This is true,’ he says, climbing out of the Land Rover in a sprightly way that belies his obvious age. ‘She will always have me.’

There is nothing inappropriate in his tone, nothing scandalous, but I do wonder about his feelings towards the lady of the house. Theirs is much more than a mistress and servant relationship, and he seems totally devoted to her. It might never develop into romance – that is not the way people like these behave – but it is very clearly, in its own way, love.

He hauls my bags out of the car, waves to a few passing villagers, and toots his horn as he leaves. I roll my cases across the square, struggling to fight my way through the inches of snow, relieved when Ryan appears to help me.

‘Thank you!’ I say, as he hoists the biggest one up effortlessly.

‘You’re welcome. I could never resist a damsel in distress.’

I snort with laughter, and together we make our way down the terrace to Whimsy. Smoke is curling up out of her chimney – I have decided that Whimsy is very much a ‘her’ – and the little front yard is blanketed in snow. I pause outside, and smile. She looks absolutely perfect.

Eejit emerges from the bottom of the path, the one that leads to the little flowing river and its golden stone bridge, and licks my fingers. I scratch his ears and say: ‘Hey there, boy. Want to come into the warm?’

I fit the key in the lock, and we step inside. I have now seen this place in three separate incarnations – the dank and miserable first night, then the midway part of the process when I helped Ryan with his work. Now, she looks different again.

The fire is roaring behind its guard, and the heat it throws off is a delight. The new couch is in place, a simple shade of very pale blue, resting against the newly painted white walls. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the mantelpiece, and on either side is a gorgeous scarlet poinsettia in a pot that gives the place a Christmassy feel. Everything is fresh and cosy, exactly how I’d imagined it would be when I first arrived.

The tiny kitchen is gleaming, and a gorgeous looking layer cake has been left out for me. I smell coffee, and see walnuts, and know that it will taste as good as it looks. Next to it, beneath a dish towel, I see a loaf of soda bread – my absolute favourite.

‘I assume this is from Eileen?’ I say, taking in the bottle of Merlot next to it, and wondering if it would be anti-social to simply spend my first night here in glorious solitude.

‘The cake and bread, yes; the wine is from Cormac and Orla, though they’re hoping to see you in person. Orla says she has your stir-fried octopus in raspberry sauce ready to go, whatever that means. Do you want to see upstairs?’

I nod eagerly, and we leave Eejit lounging in front of the fire, looking like he’s always been there. The bathroom has been fitted out with a new shower curtain and towels in matching shades of pale yellow, and the tub now comes complete with a giant bottle of rose and geranium scented bubbles I cannot wait to soak in.

Ryan leads me across the landing towards the bedroom, and I freeze on the spot when I see what he’s done with it. He lurks behind me as I gaze around, speechless at the sight. The entire room has been painted in the most gorgeous shade of pale green, and the big bed with its brass frame is coated in comforters and blankets and cushions, all in other shades of green. I feel like I’m inside a fairy tale forest – and the absolute best part is the flowers.

The wall the bed rests against is covered in an exquisite painted garland of flowers – lilies and roses, I see, as I move closer. Their leaves and stems and petals intertwine, an endless flow of beauty. Reds and pinks have been used to pick out spots of colour, and the whole thing creates a floral arch that soars over the bed.

I reach out and touch them, my fingers tracing the fine lines and perfect petals, not quite believing what I’m seeing. It’s like one of the frescos you see in old Italian buildings, but made entirely of blooms.

‘Ryan, this is amazing!’ I say, turning around to find him watching me. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful! Who did this?’

He shrugs, but looks pleased – almost embarrassed at being caught out in such an act of kindness.

‘I did,’ he replies simply. ‘You said your favourite colour was green, and these were your favourite flowers. So, I just thought…’

It is such a nice thing to have done that I can’t help myself – I throw my arms around him and hug him. His hands go to my waist, and he lifts me off my feet for a second. I look up into his eyes and say: ‘That is possibly the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.’

‘Well, you’ve led an altogether sad life if that’s the case, Cassie, but I’m glad you like it.’

‘I don’t just like it – I love it!’

I realise that I am still in his arms, and he grins at me playfully. He pushes a stray lock of hair back from my face and says: ‘You’d better be moving on, darlin’, or I’ll start to think I’m irresistible…’

There is a moment – a split second – where I wonder what would happen if I didn’t move. Would we make love beneath the flowers?

The thought of it is enough to make me blush, and I quickly disentangle myself from him. I stick my hands into my pockets to make them behave, and say: ‘It’s truly beautiful, Ryan. You’re very talented. Are you an artist as well as the village’s Mr Fixit?’

‘I am many things, Cassie, and had a whole different life before this one.’

There’s a story there, but the closed down look on his face tells me it’s not one he’s eager to share. In fact the mood darkens slightly, and I decide to lighten it back up.

‘But what will happen when the next people come to stay? What if they have really serious hay fever, or they hate roses and lilies?’

‘I suppose I could paint it again. Or maybe I’ll have a word with His Lordship, ask him to make it part of the booking process to ask what their favourite flowers are! Now, will you be coming to the pub with me for a quick celebratory pint or seven?’

‘Maybe a pint or two,’ I say firmly. ‘I know I don’t have far to walk home, but the roads are slippery, and I have a bad track record for staying on my feet in this place. Just give me a minute.’

He nods and disappears off downstairs. I go into the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face – because I most definitely need it. I run my fingers through my hair to smooth it down, and smile at myself in the mirror. I look dishevelled but happy, and decide that’s a good look on me.

Within minutes we are tucked away in the pub, with a big corner table, pints of Guinness, and packets of potato chips called Taytos laid before us. The sides of the packs have been ripped open and spread out to create little foil plates, so everyone can help themselves.

The musicians aren’t here tonight, but the place is still busy, bustling with happy energy as people eat and drink and chat. I hear a mix of accents – some thicker than Nanna Nora’s, some just a subtle twang, and it all makes a lot more sense now Ryan has explained the history of Campton St George and the generations-old links between the Bancrofts and Ireland.

Various people come over and introduce themselves, including Connor’s super-pretty mother, Sarah, and I soon realise that everybody here already knows who I am.

Eventually Eileen joins us, smelling of sugar and vanilla, which is the very best perfume a woman can wear. Her grey hair is clouding around her face, and her sparkling blue eyes are merry as she sits.

‘Be a good boyo and get me a pint,’ she says to Ryan, who quickly obliges. ‘I’m terrible parched. Started on my Christmas orders today and I’m ragged with it all.’

‘I could always help,’ I offer. ‘I’m good in the kitchen.’

She pats my hand and says: ‘Sure, and that is kind of you. I might take you up on it. So. How was your stay at the big house?’

‘It was interesting, and fun, and like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.’

‘Well now, that’s good news. Bit of come down, being in Whimsy, is it?’

‘Gosh no! It’s gorgeous and I already feel at home. Ryan did such a wonderful job, and he even painted my favourite flowers on the bedroom wall. Tonight I’ll be sleeping beneath roses and lilies!’

‘Did he now? Your favourite flowers?’ she says, her eyes narrowing a little. ‘That’s new behaviour, there!’

‘Should I be worried?’

‘No, no. Ryan has his rules, and I should imagine you’re covered by them.’

The man himself returns laden down with more drinks, and more bags of Taytos gripped in his teeth. He settles back in, and Eileen nudges him.

‘I was just telling Cassie here about yer rules, Ryan. The ones about the women.’

He pauses, drinks the creamy head of his pint, and sighs in pleasure. There’s a wisp of cream left on his top lip, and my cheeks flame as I imagine kissing it off. What is wrong with me? I’m turning into some kind of sex demon. I imagine what June would say to that – she’d say that I’ve gone without for so long that I have a lot of that energy stored up, desperate to escape.

‘Ah. My rules. Well, there’d be three main ones, Cassie. The first,’ he says, counting them off on his fingers, ‘is no married women. Too complicated, and too wrong on all levels. Two, nobody from the village, because that could get messy. Three, nobody I suspect I could fall in love with.’

‘What?’ I repeat, frowning. ‘But why not? Isn’t that kind of the point of dating? To find someone special?’

Eileen snorts, and says: ‘In Ryan’s case, he finds someone special every weekend! They stay special right up until Sunday!’

She pauses, and adds: ‘Sure I’ve just realised, Ryan, it’s actually a Saturday – why are you even here? Don’t you have hearts to be breaking?’

‘Even a feckless playboy needs the occasional night off, so he does,’ he replies, laying the accent on thick and winking at me. ‘And besides, I wanted to make sure Cassie got settled.’

Eileen looks at him suspiciously, and he throws a crisp at her face. I giggle out loud, because they are quite the double act.

‘Thank you for the cake, and the bread,’ I tell her. ‘Soda bread is the stuff of dreams for me. I used to make it with my Nanna Nora, which was almost as much fun as eating it!’

‘No problems, Cassie, you’re very welcome. So, your Nanna Nora then – she was from Cork, you say?’

‘Yes. As far as I know. She’d never really talk about it though, and didn’t seem to stay in touch with family either.’

She thinks it over, and replies: ‘You should talk to my cousin Moira. She’s one of them yokes, what do you call them? Gynaecologists?’

I can tell from her barely repressed grin that she’s joking with me, but I still say: ‘Genealogist?’

‘The very fella! Traces family trees for people all over the world, she does. Makes a good living from it too, what with all the Americans keen to connect with their roots. Maybe if you could get me some basics, like her birthday, she could find out a bit more for you?’

I nod, turning it over in my mind. I loved Nora so much, and missing her has been a constant dull pain ever since she passed. Maybe this could be a way of feeling closer to her, and I know my dad would probably be interested.

‘I’m off to Cork for Christmas,’ Ryan adds. ‘For my annual pilgrimage to the rural hovel.’

‘Hovel my arse!’ interjects Eileen. ‘Your sisters are all very respectable married women, and you’ll be staying at Sinead’s place – it has five en-suite bedrooms and a hot tub!’

He laughs, thoroughly caught out, and says: ‘All right, it’s not so bad, I’ll admit it. Plus I get pampered, like the family prince come home from his travels. I’ll be fat as Santa by the time they’re finished with me.’

He rubs his perfectly flat stomach, and I can see how fond he is of them. I wonder why he’s here, across the sea, when he could be at home with people he loves.

‘See how you go, Cassie,’ he says. ‘If you fancy it, you could come over. It’s a short plane ride away, and it seems a shame to have come all the way from New York and not see something of the place now, doesn’t it?’

‘I’ll think about it. And I’ll talk to my dad, see what else I can find out about her.’

He’s right, though. It does seem like a waste not to take a quick detour to Ireland, because I’m not likely to be so close again. Before long, I’ll be home, back in New York, back in my real life. Living in my little apartment, going to work, trying to find a place for myself in a world that seems entirely made up of couples. I fight back a sigh, because the thought does not fill me with joy.

I don’t have time to go down that melancholy rabbit hole, because Cormac decides that it’s time for some dancing. He announces this after he rings a bell that’s placed over the bar, and everyone whoops and claps as the room fills with what Nora always used to call ‘fiddle-di-dee’ music – the kind of fast-paced tunes that have your feet tapping and your heart rate pumping. It blasts out of speakers until the whole room is shaking with it.

Everyone gets up and starts doing what I can only describe as a lively and totally chaotic jig. I look on as people of all ages descend on the centre of the room, which Orla has cleared of chairs, and start to dance. There are children and teens and parents, all the way through to one man who looks so old I fear for his life as he swirls and hops.

Ryan grabs hold of my hands, and tugs me towards the madness. Eileen is with us, her earlier fatigue forgotten as we all join in.

I don’t know if it lasts for ten minutes or an hour, because there isn’t any way to keep track of time – all I can try and do is keep up. We whirl around, linking arms, clapping our hands, swapping partners, all the time to the frenzied beat of the music. Everyone is laughing, a few people spin off into chairs and the walls, and it is absolutely insane – a primeval celebration of simply being alive.

We end up slumped back in our original seats, glugging our drinks and laughing. I wipe sweat from my eyes, and know that my hair is now just a big, messy tangle of red around my over-heated face. I suck in air, laugh as Eileen fans herself with a beer mat, and glance over at Ryan. He was already watching me, and he raises his pint glass in my direction. I lift mine, clink it against his, and we both say ‘Slainte!’

I am both exhausted and exhilarated, and can’t stop laughing at what just happened. It’s a far cry from my romantic waltz in the ballroom, but in its own way, just as perfect.