Page 34 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘Can I hold him?’ I ask, hoping that I’m not overstepping. A few of my old school friends have kids, and some of them were quite precious with them.
‘Be my guest!’ she replies, unhooking the harness and passing over the bundle. ‘Six months old and already full of deadly charm!’
I gather him my arms, and he immediately reaches for my hair. He manages to clasp some of it in his chubby little fist, and chuckles – this is clearly the most amusing thing that has everhappened to him. I dance around with him, relishing the feel of his solid little body in my arms, lost in the simple pleasure.
‘Ah, that’s grand,’ Mary Catherine exclaims. ‘Look – he likes you. Will you keep him a while, do you think? I’m already behind… he’s fresh changed and fed.’
I glance across at her, see that she looks stressed and a little desperate, and reply: ‘Of course I will. We’ll go for a little wander together, won’t we, Connor? See what’s what in the world?’
Mary Catherine stretches her back, and then turns to the other three.
‘Now,’ she says firmly. ‘You’ll be helping me, won’t you? I’ve got three scrubbing brushes with your names on them!’
‘They don’t really have our names on them, do they, Nanny?’ asks one of the boys, looking confused.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, Daniel Kelly. Come on, now.’
I find myself alone with Connor, who doesn’t seem at all distressed by the situation. He’s clearly a confident boy who is maybe used to being handed around – I suspect the phrase ‘it takes a village’ was invented for a place like this. It’s a million miles from my own life, where I live in a crowded city but barely know a soul. Everyone here matters in a way that fills me with yearning.
I kiss Connor’s fuzzy ginger locks, and slip my feet into my sneakers. I risk a quick glance in the mirror, and see that I am a disaster zone – bed head to the max, groggy eyes, and my second-best PJs with little yellow ducks all over them.
‘Ah well,’ I say to Connor in my best Nanna Nora voice, ‘I’ll be breaking no hearts, for sure!’
He sticks his finger up my nostril, which I take as encouragement, and we make our way down the grand staircase. I can see that Mary Catherine has been at work, and the wood is shining and smells of lavender polish.
I walk carefully down the steps, showing the baby the portraits on the way. He pulls a face at the last one – miserable old Earl William – and his lips start to wobble, as though he’s considering having a cry.
‘Yeah,’ I murmur soothingly, quickly moving on, ‘that’s exactly how he makes me feel.’
I pause and admire the Christmas tree again, and have to keep a tight grip of the wriggling baby as he seems intent on grabbing handfuls of pine needles. Onwards into the Blue Room, and I find the usual assortment of breakfast delights. I grab a pastry topped with chopped apricots, and nibble it as we sway around the room – anything more complicated would be impossible. I have no idea how mothers manage this full-time.
Connor makes a bewildering range of gurgles and splutters as we move together, trying to communicate in his baby way. I realise after a few moments that we are waltzing – that I am waltzing this tiny creature around in my arms. Huh, I think, smiling at the memory of the night before. Connor is definitely someone I could love for a thousand years.
‘Should we look at some pictures?’ I ask, waltzing towards one of the walls. The pictures here cover a range of eras, the frames spanning the very old to the very new. I see a large sepia shot of days gone by, a collection of staff standing on the grand steps at the rear of the house, the presumed then-lord of the manor and his wife before them.
Everyone has that stiff and frozen look you see in old pictures. I gaze at them, laughing at some of the expressions and the formal Sunday best clothes, and wonder who they all were – not just the lord, but the staff. Cooks, maids, groundsmen – over forty of them. Each of these people were just as important in their own lives, even if they didn’t have a title. They’d have all had dreams and loves and heartbreaks as well, and now here they are, frozen in time inside a gilt-edged picture frame.
I move along, jiggling Connor as he reaches out to try and touch everything we pass, and see one that I think is Allegra as a child, holding that silly plastic cherry in the air, gaps in her front teeth. Another on her wedding day, looking stunning in white, Charles’s father handsome in a military uniform pinned with medals.
I see Charles as a little boy, with a Springer Spaniel who could be Rupert, and later a more modern picture of a dog that could be Jasper. I see the family at formal events, and yes, even one of them at a royal wedding. I’d love to snap a pic of that and send it to everyone back home, but I’d feel a bit like a snooping paparazzi.
There are some of Georgie when she was younger, but none of a woman who could be the mysterious Vanessa. There are, though, a few lighter patches on the blue-painted wall, where possibly pictures have been removed – or maybe my mind is getting carried away with itself.
Connor is starting to weigh heavily, perched in my arm, so I scoot him over to the other. He laughs delightedly, and nuzzles into my hair. We continue to wander, to look at the pictures, until a voice from behind says: ‘Good morning to you both.’
I recognise it as Ryan’s voice right away, because he sounds melodic when he’s speaking as well as singing. I wonder how long he has been standing there, and for a split second I am self-conscious, aware of my shabby hair and less-than-stylish clothes. I push that down – it is morning, I am in my temporary home, and I am caring for a baby. It is fine to look less-than-stylish, and it’s not like I normally look like a supermodel anyway.
I turn around, and see him walking towards us. He’s wearing paint-spattered jeans and a white T-shirt that sculpts the shape of his muscles, throwing a heavy fleece jacket on the back of the couch as approaches. His thick dark hair is scattered withsnowflakes, which answers at least one question about the day ahead – it is still snowing.
‘That looks good on you, Cassie,’ he says, grinning in that way he has. The way that makes me feel slightly nervous, like I’m fizzy inside.
‘What? My rubber duck PJs?’
‘No, darlin’ – the baby. You look like a matching set.’
I glance down at Connor, who is now waving his chubby arms at Ryan. They are clearly old friends. He’s right, I think – it’s the colouring. This could be my baby, in another world. But that feels like a world that is beyond my reach now. I know I’m technically not too old to become a mother, but it still feels impossible – too many hurdles in my way. Maybe that’s simply not for me, and that’s okay, I tell myself – not every woman has to have children. Many women have successful and fulfilling lives without being moms.
Even as I repeat that to myself, even though I know it’s true, I don’t feel comforted by it – because I did always want this. I always wanted to have children. Ted and I were so busy establishing our careers that we always assumed we’d be able to do it later – except that ‘later’ never happened for us, and I was left alone with that shattered dream.
