Saving Christmas in the Little Irish Village (The Little Irish Village #5)

Chapter 22

22

Hannah sprinted to the wall, heart thudding, fearing what she’d find on the other side, then channelled her school gym days, vaulting over the piled-up stones before shouldering through the murmuring huddle like an American footballer desperate to get to the goalpost. The sight of Jeremy Jones with his camera pointed at Nan, lying in a heap on the grass verge, saw a red mist descend. She gave him a hard shove. ‘Go away, you ghoul. You’re like one of those car accident voyeurs!’ Then, barely registering Tom was crouched next to Kitty, she cried, ‘Nan!’

Kitty’s head snapped up at the sound of her granddaughter’s voice. ‘I’m fine, Hannah. I caught my shoe on one of those stones and took a tumble, is all.’ She beckoned her over, and Hannah squatted next to her. Kitty clutched her arm and whispered. ‘I might have had another sort of accident, though.’ Her face pinkened.

‘Mam!’ Father Christmas appeared with Nora by his side, doing her best to hold on to a yapping Princess Leia’s leash.

‘Janey Mack, there’s no show without Punch,’ Kitty grumbled. ‘I’m all right, Liam. Would you tell this lot here there’s nothing to see?’

‘Can you stand up?’ Tom held his arms out as if to support Kitty. Hannah briefly wondered if being held in his arms would be as comforting as his firm grip, and felt warmth in her cheeks.

Kitty’s stony gaze saw him withdraw his offer of help, and hardened Hannah’s own heart too.

‘You can clear off, too.’ Fear had made Hannah snap. ‘This is all your fault, Tom Flynn. My nan wouldn’t be here if not for you and whoever’s pocket you’re in.’ Her breath was coming in short angry bursts.

Tom’s glasses had misted, but she could see the confusion in his eyes as he took them off, gave them a quick rub with the edge of his coat and, taking the hint, got to his feet.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’ He moved away.

Hannah glanced over her shoulder. The curious onlookers had begun to disperse, and, most importantly, Jeremy Flynn had disappeared. She discarded her coat and tugged off the cardigan buttoned over her dungarees. ‘Here, Nan – we’ll tie this round your waist. No one will know.’

‘You’re a good girl, Hannah.’ Kitty squeezed her granddaughter’s hand.

Hannah deftly knotted the cardigan and beckoned her dad over to help her.

Liam gently pulled his mam to her feet, and Kitty shook herself off tentatively before checking herself over.

Hannah caught her mam’s eye, and they exchanged a relieved smile; nothing was broken.

‘I’m a bit bruised, is all. It’s my ego that’s taken the worst of it,’ Kitty reassured them.

‘Come on, Mam – let’s get you home.’ Liam took Kitty’s arm.

‘On one condition,’ Kitty said, an immovable rock, even though she was in no position to negotiate. ‘Hannah, you and Freya are to stand your ground here. Keep singing the song.’

She might be bruised, her pride dented, but she wasn’t beaten. ‘Of course,’ Hannah reassured her nan.

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise, Nan.’

Only then did Kitty let her son lead her towards his Hilux.

While the sky had been filled with scudding clouds earlier, the odd patch of blue had still peeked through. Now, though, it hung omnipresent over Hannah and Freya like they’d been draped in a scratchy grey army blanket.

‘It won’t be long until it starts drizzling,’ Freya announced, a prophet of doom taking a break from the song.

Hannah paused to draw breath and gulp down what was left of her third and final mulled wine, given that Carmel had packed up and left ten minutes earlier. Her throat was raw from all the singing, and the spiced wine soothed it.

‘For medicinal purposes,’ she said, winking at Freya.

She set the empty cup down and then, seeing the handful of villagers who’d stayed the course look heavenward and shake their heads at the leaden sky head off, decided Freya was right. Tom was still there, though. Hannah looked to where he was glued to his phone, nodding at whatever the person on the other end was saying. She remembered Freya’s comment about her protesting too much and was telling herself it was rubbish when his gaze suddenly swung toward her. He must have felt her watching him, she thought, realising she’d been staring.

She held her ground. His expression was unreadable, and she was struck by an overwhelmingly childish urge to stick her tongue out at him, given she wouldn’t be sitting here freezing her arse off on a gloomy Sunday afternoon if not for him.

Jeremy Jones chose that moment to pop back up again, and Hannah averted her eyes from Tom to focus on him instead. The man was like an annoying wart you couldn’t get rid of.

‘What do you want now?’ Freya asked.

Hannah did her best not to smirk at the sight of his finger wrapped in a child’s Disney-themed plaster.

‘I need a couple of photos for the road, and then I’ll be out of here. If I were you, I’d do the same now the star of the show’s gone. The weather forecast isn’t good.’ Jeremy didn’t bother looking up as he fiddled with the lens of his camera before raising it to his eye. ‘Say “Cheese”.’

It was a magic word because just like that, Hannah was transported back to sitting on the wooden pew in the front row for school photographs, hands clasped in her lap as she automatically beamed for the camera – and immediately wished she hadn’t. The protest was a serious business, not a Sunday afternoon picnic, but it was too late now. Jeremy had clicked off a round and was eagerly packing his camera away to return to his car’s warmth.

By the time the reporter had reached the stone wall, Freya’s forecasted drizzle had bypassed them in favour of steady, icy rain droplets. Tom had gone, and Hannah looked around the nearby deserted field, almost disappointed.

‘Shall we sing again?’ Freya chirped. ‘It might raise our spirits.’

‘I don’t think there’s much point now,’ Hannah said, looking around at the empty field. ‘Ah no!’ She blanched as the wind changed direction, and the rain began to drive toward them, stinging their faces. Then, squinting into the darkening vista, her brow furrowed. ‘Who’s that?’

A woman sheltering under a red umbrella wearing a matching coat stood beside her car, watching them. From this distance, Hannah could tell she wasn’t an Emerald Bay local. Another reporter maybe?

Freya was tracking her gaze, and there was urgency in her tone as she said, ‘Hannah, I think that could be her.’

‘Who?’

‘The American woman you said was freaking Nora out.’

Hannah didn’t mess about. She got to her feet and marched purposefully over the damp earth toward the woman. She would get to the bottom of this.

‘Hey!’ she called out as the woman hurried around to the driver’s door of her car. ‘Wait!’

Hannah began to run, already knowing it was too late.

Sure enough, the woman got behind the wheel and gunned the engine, and Hannah skidded to a halt, unable to do anything but watch as she drove off in a cloud of exhaust fumes.