Page 13 of A Very Irish Christmas
There’s a roaring fire in a hearth so big you can imagine a hog roasting there, and the place is filled with a dazzling array of what my mother would call ‘tat’, and I call ‘character’. There are flags and brass horseshoes, stacks of books and board games. It’s the kind of place where you could sit out the zombie apocalypse and never get bored.
The walls are decorated with stunning framed photographs of the coast and countryside of Ireland. Moody and magnificent,they draw the eye in so deeply that you almost feel like you’re there, standing on the Cliffs of Moher. They’re so good they could be in a gallery.
Hanging above us, dangling from the ceiling, are criss-crossed glittery Christmas decorations, and way too many bunches of mistletoe. The long wooden bar is decorated with string lights, and a small tree twinkles away in one corner.
The bar is lined with tall chairs and stools, along with more types of ‘stout’ than I’ve ever seen in one place before – not just the familiar black and gold of the Guinness harp, but pumps that offer Beamish and Murphy’s and what appears to be the pub’s own brew, Cormac’s Porter.
I get a few curious looks, a couple of hand waves, and a raised bow from one of the fiddle players. Ryan, tucked into a window seat, meets my eyes and gives me a wide grin. He looks so devilish with his wild hair and his sparkling eyes that my stomach takes a little leap, and I remind myself that I am not the same Cassie as I was a few weeks ago. I am not panic-attack-in-Macy’s-Cassie; I am international-jet-setter-Cassie. I surprise myself by maintaining eye contact and grinning right back at him. He looks a little taken aback, and I find that I like it.
Behind the bar is a glamorous blonde with huge hair that wouldn’t look out of place on an old-school Charlie’s Angel. She’s currently managing about five different pints of black ale, scooting along pulling the pumps, letting creamy heads settle and topping up, all in a perfectly synchronised rhythm. She chats to each customer as she works, and has several older men gazing at her in adoration.
‘You must be Cassie!’ she exclaims as I approach, her Irish accent not quite as pronounced as Eileen’s, but very much still there. ‘What’s your poison?’
‘Umm… what do you recommend?’
‘Well now, that depends, doesn’t it? Are you looking to get ossified?’
‘I don’t know. What does that mean?’
‘It means so drunk you forget your own name.’
‘Ah. Well, in that case, no thank you – not tonight at least. Maybe a glass of red wine? A Merlot if you have one?’
Her pretty face creases in sadness, and she replies: ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. We only sell stout and whiskey. Anything else is a bit too fancy for the likes of us.’
Before I get the chance to respond, she bursts out laughing and waves a dishtowel at me, clutched between impeccably manicured nails.
‘I’m just acting the maggot!’ she exclaims. I’ve not heard that one before, even from Nanna Nora, but I can figure it out from the context. ‘A nice glass of Merlot, coming right up! I believe someone booked you into Whimsy by mistake?’
‘By mistake?’ I echo, as she pours my drink. This is the first I’ve heard of it, and it sets alarm bells ringing in my head. I only booked it a week ago, paid in full, and flew thousands of miles to spend the next month here – all on the basis of a mistake?
It does explain why the cottage was so cold, so unwelcoming, so dirty. Why the place felt abandoned. I gulp down half my wine in two mouthfuls, and she says: ‘Oh, don’t be listening to me – I never know what I’m talking about! It’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I’m Orla, by the way. I run this place with my fella, Cormac. He’s just sorting your food for you, Cassie. It was stir-fried octopus with raspberry sauce you were looking for, wasn’t it?’
She says this perfectly seriously, with one arched eyebrow quirked upwards. If I hadn’t just been caught out by her, I might have fallen for it.
‘You’re acting the maggot again, Orla, aren’t you?’ I say, narrowing my eyes. She laughs out loud and nods, clearly delighted with having a new playmate.
Just then Cormac himself emerges from the back room with a plate. He’s an enormous man in every way, tall, with an impressive beer belly nestled beneath his green Ireland rugby shirt. His brown eyes are kind and his smile is welcoming.
‘The woman of the hour!’ he says, laying the plate down in front of me. ‘I’m just after getting this for you – pie, peas, and our finest colcannon.’
I suck in a breath, and can hardly contain my delight. Nanna Nora used to make colcannon for me, and I haven’t had it since she died. She called it ‘proper Irish comfort food’, made of buttery, creamy mashed potato with cabbage. It tastes much better than it sounds, and she used to serve it up with bacon chops. The rigours of the day seem to drop away from me – my usual response to butter and carbs.
‘Are you okay there, Cassie, or do you want me to chase off some of the hooligans so you can have a proper table?’
I assure him I am fine where I am, mainly because I can’t bear the thought of waiting even a moment longer. I go into some kind of trance-like state as soon as the first taste of colcannon hits my tongue, and follow it up with a mouthful of pie that is, as Eileen promised, one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.
I realise, after a few minutes of deeply concentrated enjoyment, that Orla and Cormac are staring at me in amusement. I’d completely blanked them – and the rest of the world – out while I started my meal.
‘What?’ I ask, smiling and refusing to feel embarrassed. ‘Can’t a woman enjoy her food?’
‘She can, sure,’ Orla says, laughing. ‘But you’re enjoying your food an awful lot, there, what with the sound effects. Feels a bitlike the priest should be reading the marriage banns for you and that pie.’
‘It’s like that scene inWhen Harry Met Sally,’ adds Cormac. He raises his voice to sound like a woman, and pronounces: ‘I’ll have what she’s having!’
‘Well you’re out of luck, big fella,’ replies Orla. ‘Because that was the last pie standing! Will you have another glass, Cassie?’
I nod eagerly. It really has been a day of contrasts, I think, as I sip my refreshed Merlot. I’ve gone from the depths of despair to being warm, welcome and well fed. I know I have to deal with my accommodation, but right now this is enough. The music in the background is buoying my mood almost as much as the meal, and I find myself tapping my toes and clapping along.
