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

Chapter 38

38

For the best part of the morning, Hannah had been hiding in her room, having cadged needles and wool off Nan to keep herself busy until Mam and Judy headed off to Galway. She’d had it with everybody’s cheeriness as the countdown to Christmas began, only days away now. All the festive goodwill and peace on earth circulating about the place was making her feel worse, and when, at last, she’d heard the two women clattering out the door, she’d rolled off her bed to peer out the window.

Mam and her newfound relation had grown close over the last week in the way you do when you sit up night after night chatting. They were mummified by hats, scarves, gloves, coats and boots, their arms linked as they headed to Nora’s car, laughing about something. Hannah watched until the car puttered off, assured she would have the kitchen to herself at long last, with Nan at her craft group and Dad busy in the pub.

She padded downstairs feeling like a shell of the person who’d come home full of vim and vigour for stopping the sale of the famine cottage land. The fire she’d burned with had been stamped out by despondency because a whole week had passed in radio silence from Tom. She didn’t have him down for a coward, unable to tell her to her face what was going on. Or without the common decency to at least reach out and let her know he wouldn’t be here for Christmas. But then cowards came in all shapes and forms – look at her late great-grandfather.

Judy had remained silent about the land deal, if indeed she was fronting it, and Hannah, thus far, was keeping her promise to her sisters and leaving it alone. For now, at least. It wasn’t easy, though, which was why she was tucking herself away in her room. This, along with no word from the Department of Agriculture, had seen the fight seep out of her. She’d told Nan there was nothing more they could do regarding the famine-cottage land except wait.

If Nan sensed she was keeping something from her, she didn’t press her about it. Hannah didn’t intend to confide what her gut told her about Judy’s other motivation for being in Emerald Bay or that Tom might have had a clue all along of her connection to the Kelly family. Nan was as caught up in getting to know Nora’s long-lost relative as the rest of the family, and Hannah didn’t trust her not to let slip to Nora if she came clean with her thoughts on Judy’s business intentions for Emerald Bay. The fallout would almost certainly spoil Christmas. Not that Hannah was looking forward to Christmas anyhow. Not now.

Then there was Dylan. Her feelings for him might be dead in the water, but the thought of returning to work at Feed the World with Bees in the new year left her cold, too. She didn’t have the energy to do anything about that, though. It would wait.

Hannah stopped in the doorway because she’d expected to have the kitchen to herself, but Nan had her back to her up at the worktop, sleeves rolled up and a pinny knotted about her waist. She hung back, debating a retreat upstairs.

‘Hannah Kelly, would you stop loitering and decide whether you’ll come in and keep me company or go back to whatever you’ve been up to all morning locked away in your room?’

Kitty had obviously used those special eyes in the back of her head.

Hannah decided it was safe to hang out with her; with everyone else otherwise engaged, it was unlikely she’d be subjected to an overdose of Christmas spirit.

‘I thought you were going to your craft group,’ she said, crossing the kitchen and hoisting herself onto the free patch of worktop.

‘There’s only so much origami one woman can do in a year, and this cake won’t ice itself.’ Kitty was slathering the enormous slab of fruit cake in apricot jam. Kitty’s Christmas cake was legendary, at least within the Kelly family, and she was a stickler for tradition, too, baking it on Stir-up Sunday, the week before Advent. She would have lovingly fed the cake each Sunday since by spooning whiskey over the top, and now, with only days until Christmas, it was time to ice it. The decorating would be done once the icing had set.

Hannah’s eyes had begun to sting, and she blinked rapidly. ‘Jaysus, Nan, how much whiskey’s in that thing?’

Kitty ignored her and didn’t pause in her task. ‘Now listen to me, Hannah. I know you’re enjoying the knitting, and you’ve always tended to throw yourself wholeheartedly into whatever you’ve set your mind to doing, but holing up in your room like you’ve been doing these last few days isn’t healthy. Are you planning on going into the woollens business and competing with Eileen? Is that it?’

Nan had a point. She’d moved on to cosy coffee cup warmers with a different coloured rosette for each of her sisters’ stockings, having finished knitting the glasses case she had earmarked for Nan. ‘It’s the knitting keeping me sane, Nan.’

‘And a tendency to be dramatic as well as throw yourself into things,’ Kitty added to the list.

‘No. That’s Imo.’

‘Is that right?’ Kitty shot her granddaughter a look that said she wasn’t convinced by her passing the buck. ‘So come on then. What’s got you so your chin’s scraping the ground your face is so long.’

Hannah hefted a huge sigh. ‘I’m a terrible judge of character.’

‘Why do you say that? And don’t be sticking your finger in the jam like so.’

She was too late. Hannah popped her finger in her mouth, enjoying the fruity sweetness, then said, ‘Tom kept saying I was. I didn’t believe him, but now… I read him totally wrong. I believed him when he said he’d help us and let him string me along by telling me what I wanted to hear. He hasn’t even bothered to phone me to say he’s not coming for Christmas.’

‘I didn’t know you’d invited him, love.’

‘I wish I hadn’t now.’

‘Hannah, I once heard a wise old saying that goes like this: time and patience bring a snail to Cork.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Hannah’s hand was inching toward the marzipan, intent on tearing a sliver of the almond-flavoured icing off, but was thwarted by a tap on her knuckles with the back of the jammy spoon. Nan was a fast mover, so she was.

Now Kitty was piously saying, ‘I take it to serve as a reminder that the journey toward achieving a goal isn’t always smooth, or fast for that matter, and that sometimes a little time and patience is required.’

‘Patience, as you know, Nan, is a foreign word to me, and it’s not one of your strengths either.’

‘Have a little faith. Things will work out in the end. Why don’t you go for a walk? You could wander around to the abandoned farm. Just to keep an eye on things like. Some fresh air will do you good, and Princess Leia is due for an outing. James is after letting us know she’ll be going home to her mammy tomorrow, so it’ll be your last chance.’

Maybe Nan was right. It might make her feel better. She could head to the famine cottage and lay her own ghosts to rest. The sight of Princess Leia’s beseeching gaze sealed it. She’d venture out.

‘I’ll just nip upstairs and throw on a heavier jumper.’

Hannah’s phone began ringing. It was a number she didn’t recognise. Tom? Her heart leaped. She ran halfway up the stairs, not wanting to be in Nan’s earshot when she answered with a breathy, ‘Hello.’

‘Hannah Kelly?’

It wasn’t him, and her shoulders slumped, but she recognised the voice from somewhere. She scrunched her nose, trying to picture the face behind it, and dawdled up the remaining stairs. ‘Yes, that’s right. Erm, who’s this, please?’

‘It’s Jeremy Jones.’ He swiftly followed this with, ‘Don’t cut me off!’

Of course it was! She slapped her forehead, regretting having answered, but didn’t disconnect the call because she was curious why he would be calling her.

‘All I’m after is a short quote from you or your nan.’

‘About what?’ Hannah demanded with no hint of politeness.

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘Jeremy, I will hang up if you don’t get straight to the point of this call.’

The reporter sounded gleeful as he said, ‘I’m ringing for your response to the news an agreement for the sale of the famine-cottage land has been reached. Did you hear what I said? A one-line quote will do.’

‘I’ve got one for you, Jeremy. Feck off.’