Page 37 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘This is true,’ he says, climbing out of the Land Rover in a sprightly way that belies his obvious age. ‘She will always have me.’
There is nothing inappropriate in his tone, nothing scandalous, but I do wonder about his feelings towards the lady of the house. Theirs is much more than a mistress and servant relationship, and he seems totally devoted to her. It might never develop into romance – that is not the way people like these behave – but it is very clearly, in its own way, love.
He hauls my bags out of the car, waves to a few passing villagers, and toots his horn as he leaves. I roll my cases across the square, struggling to fight my way through the inches of snow, relieved when Ryan appears to help me.
‘Thank you!’ I say, as he hoists the biggest one up effortlessly.
‘You’re welcome. I could never resist a damsel in distress.’
I snort with laughter, and together we make our way down the terrace to Whimsy. Smoke is curling up out of her chimney – I have decided that Whimsy is very much a ‘her’ – and the little front yard is blanketed in snow. I pause outside, and smile. She looks absolutely perfect.
Eejit emerges from the bottom of the path, the one that leads to the little flowing river and its golden stone bridge, and licks my fingers. I scratch his ears and say: ‘Hey there, boy. Want to come into the warm?’
I fit the key in the lock, and we step inside. I have now seen this place in three separate incarnations – the dank and miserable first night, then the midway part of the process when I helped Ryan with his work. Now, she looks different again.
The fire is roaring behind its guard, and the heat it throws off is a delight. The new couch is in place, a simple shade of verypale blue, resting against the newly painted white walls. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the mantelpiece, and on either side is a gorgeous scarlet poinsettia in a pot that gives the place a Christmassy feel. Everything is fresh and cosy, exactly how I’d imagined it would be when I first arrived.
The tiny kitchen is gleaming, and a gorgeous looking layer cake has been left out for me. I smell coffee, and see walnuts, and know that it will taste as good as it looks. Next to it, beneath a dish towel, I see a loaf of soda bread – my absolute favourite.
‘I assume this is from Eileen?’ I say, taking in the bottle of Merlot next to it, and wondering if it would be anti-social to simply spend my first night here in glorious solitude.
‘The cake and bread, yes; the wine is from Cormac and Orla, though they’re hoping to see you in person. Orla says she has your stir-fried octopus in raspberry sauce ready to go, whatever that means. Do you want to see upstairs?’
I nod eagerly, and we leave Eejit lounging in front of the fire, looking like he’s always been there. The bathroom has been fitted out with a new shower curtain and towels in matching shades of pale yellow, and the tub now comes complete with a giant bottle of rose and geranium scented bubbles I cannot wait to soak in.
Ryan leads me across the landing towards the bedroom, and I freeze on the spot when I see what he’s done with it. He lurks behind me as I gaze around, speechless at the sight. The entire room has been painted in the most gorgeous shade of pale green, and the big bed with its brass frame is coated in comforters and blankets and cushions, all in other shades of green. I feel like I’m inside a fairy tale forest – and the absolute best part is the flowers.
The wall the bed rests against is covered in an exquisite painted garland of flowers – lilies and roses, I see, as I move closer. Their leaves and stems and petals intertwine, an endlessflow of beauty. Reds and pinks have been used to pick out spots of colour, and the whole thing creates a floral arch that soars over the bed.
I reach out and touch them, my fingers tracing the fine lines and perfect petals, not quite believing what I’m seeing. It’s like one of the frescos you see in old Italian buildings, but made entirely of blooms.
‘Ryan, this is amazing!’ I say, turning around to find him watching me. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful! Who did this?’
He shrugs, but looks pleased – almost embarrassed at being caught out in such an act of kindness.
‘I did,’ he replies simply. ‘You said your favourite colour was green, and these were your favourite flowers. So, I just thought…’
It is such a nice thing to have done that I can’t help myself – I throw my arms around him and hug him. His hands go to my waist, and he lifts me off my feet for a second. I look up into his eyes and say: ‘That is possibly the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.’
‘Well, you’ve led an altogether sad life if that’s the case, Cassie, but I’m glad you like it.’
‘I don’t just like it – I love it!’
I realise that I am still in his arms, and he grins at me playfully. He pushes a stray lock of hair back from my face and says: ‘You’d better be moving on, darlin’, or I’ll start to think I’m irresistible…’
There is a moment – a split second – where I wonder what would happen if I didn’t move. Would we make love beneath the flowers?
The thought of it is enough to make me blush, and I quickly disentangle myself from him. I stick my hands into my pocketsto make them behave, and say: ‘It’s truly beautiful, Ryan. You’re very talented. Are you an artist as well as the village’s Mr Fixit?’
‘I am many things, Cassie, and had a whole different life before this one.’
There’s a story there, but the closed down look on his face tells me it’s not one he’s eager to share. In fact the mood darkens slightly, and I decide to lighten it back up.
‘But what will happen when the next people come to stay? What if they have really serious hay fever, or they hate roses and lilies?’
‘I suppose I could paint it again. Or maybe I’ll have a word with His Lordship, ask him to make it part of the booking process to ask what their favourite flowers are! Now, will you be coming to the pub with me for a quick celebratory pint or seven?’
‘Maybe a pint or two,’ I say firmly. ‘I know I don’t have far to walk home, but the roads are slippery, and I have a bad track record for staying on my feet in this place. Just give me a minute.’
