Page 35 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘You okay?’ Ryan asks, and I assume some sign of these sad thoughts has shown on my face. He is, after all, a man with six sisters.
‘Sure. Just tired.’
‘Let me help there,’ he replies. ‘I’ll take Connor while you get a coffee. Weighs a ton for his age, doesn’t he? Going to be a rugby player, this one!’
He plucks the baby from my arms, spinning him around until he laughs. Coffee is probably a very good idea. Ryan joins me and takes a pastry, effortlessly juggling the child – he is anatural, it seems. Connor keeps making grabs for the food, and Ryan says: ‘Are ye hungry, fella? Will I find you a snack?’
‘Is that okay?’ I ask, suddenly aware of my responsibilities. I told Mary Catherine I’d look after him. ‘Can babies eat at this age? I… well, I don’t know much about babies, really.’
‘They usually go onto solids at about six months, but this monster started earlier. He’s a big fan of the bananas.’
He finds one in the fruit bowl, and peels it halfway down. Connor grabs hold of the bit with the peel still on it like it’s a handle, and immediately begins to smash his mouth on the top. It’s a very messy and curiously fascinating process, and I laugh as he starts to slam it against Ryan’s chest, covering his top in yellow blobs.
Ryan just laughs, not at all bothered, and says: ‘Comes with the territory, doesn’t it? Spend enough time around one of these wee creatures and you soon find yourself covered in all kinds of stuff. Some of it a lot less appealing than banana.’
I assume, from his easy familiarity, that those six sisters of his have maybe produced a lot of ‘these wee creatures’, and he is an experienced uncle.
‘Are they all back in Ireland?’ I ask. ‘Your sisters?’
‘They are. Some in County Cork, some in the city – Eileen mentioned that’s where your nanny was from.’
‘Yes. We’re probably related, Ryan.’
‘Sweet Jesus, I hope not!’ he replies, winking at me. The man is a flirt machine, even when he’s covered in squashed fruit and baby slobber.
‘What’s the deal with this place,’ I ask. ‘With the Irish? When I was at the train station Linda behind the ticket counter called it Little Ireland, and apart from the Bancrofts, everyone I’ve encountered has been Irish – some more than others. The kids – Mary Catherine’s grandchildren – not so much.’
‘Ah, you met the terrible trio, did you? You seem to still have all your body parts and nobody’s drawn a fake moustache on your face, so they clearly liked you. Well, they were born here – but their whole family is Irish, as you’ve gathered. Everybody in the village is – it’s a historic thing.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, frowning in confusion as I sip my blessed coffee.
‘It dates back a few hundred years or so. Lots of poor Irish came over to England to find work at harvest time. Most of them just went back afterwards; it was a cycle. But here, a few of the single lads stayed – they had little to go back to, and from what I know, the people who lived in the big house back then were decent sorts who treated them well. So it started like that, but for some reason it grew. Brothers joined them, and sometimes brought wives, and babies were born, and over the generations more and more came over.’
‘And that still happens now? With people like you? Why would people come now – Ireland isn’t so poor anymore, there must be opportunities to keep younger ones there?’
He takes the now-destroyed banana from Connor’s hand, and throws it into the bin. He takes a paper towel, damps it with water from the jug, and wipes his squirming little face clean. All done in a matter of seconds, with utter ease.
‘Yeah, sure – in many ways it’s a thriving place now. But the tradition was already set, you see. The links have got stronger over the decades. Everyone here has family back there, and sometimes they leave here and go back home, and sometimes family leaves home and comes here. Some of the young ones just come for a little while, for the experience. Some, like Eileen, came later in life. The reasons are different for everyone, but it shows no sign of slowing down – this is a good place to live. His Lordship and I might not see eye to eye, but he’s fair with therents, and always finds a spot for people, a job, something to make them feel part of the community, you know?’
I nod, and start to understand even more about the pressures that Charles is facing. He’d mentioned having to increase rents, and how much he didn’t want to do that.
‘And what about you?’ I ask, feeling curious. ‘Why are you here? You’re not at the start of your life looking for an experience, and you’re not at the other end either – how old are you anyway?’
‘That’s terrible rude of you, Cassie. In our culture you don’t go around asking men their age!’
‘That’s a lie isn’t it?’
‘It is. And I’m thirty-nine if you must know. As to why, well, that’s a story for another day – I wouldn’t want to spoil my man-of-mystery image now, would I?’
I screw my eyes up at him, and say: ‘Are you on the lam? Are you wanted by Interpol for a daring art heist, and hiding out in the English countryside?’
‘Maybe I am, darlin’ – all part of the mystery!’
At that exact moment, Connor belches loudly, and spits up a chunk of banana onto Ryan’s smirking face. Instant karma, right there. He remains stoical while he wipes it off, but I find the whole thing deeply amusing, and laugh for a very long time.
‘Ha! Not so much a man of mystery now, are you, Ryan Connolly?’
‘If that’s even my real name…’
