Page 39 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘I’m off to Cork for Christmas,’ Ryan adds. ‘For my annual pilgrimage to the rural hovel.’
‘Hovel my arse!’ interjects Eileen. ‘Your sisters are all very respectable married women, and you’ll be staying at Sinead’s place – it has five en-suite bedrooms and a hot tub!’
He laughs, thoroughly caught out, and says: ‘All right, it’s not so bad, I’ll admit it. Plus I get pampered, like the family prince come home from his travels. I’ll be fat as Santa by the time they’re finished with me.’
He rubs his perfectly flat stomach, and I can see how fond he is of them. I wonder why he’s here, across the sea, when he could be at home with people he loves.
‘See how you go, Cassie,’ he says. ‘If you fancy it, you could come over. It’s a short plane ride away, and it seems a shame to have come all the way from New York and not see something of the place now, doesn’t it?’
‘I’ll think about it. And I’ll talk to my dad, see what else I can find out about her.’
He’s right, though. It does seem like a waste not to take a quick detour to Ireland, because I’m not likely to be so close again. Before long, I’ll be home, back in New York, back in my real life. Living in my little apartment, going to work, trying tofind a place for myself in a world that seems entirely made up of couples. I fight back a sigh, because the thought does not fill me with joy.
I don’t have time to go down that melancholy rabbit hole, because Cormac decides that it’s time for some dancing. He announces this after he rings a bell that’s placed over the bar, and everyone whoops and claps as the room fills with what Nora always used to call ‘fiddle-di-dee’ music – the kind of fast-paced tunes that have your feet tapping and your heart rate pumping. It blasts out of speakers until the whole room is shaking with it.
Everyone gets up and starts doing what I can only describe as a lively and totally chaotic jig. I look on as people of all ages descend on the centre of the room, which Orla has cleared of chairs, and start to dance. There are children and teens and parents, all the way through to one man who looks so old I fear for his life as he swirls and hops.
Ryan grabs hold of my hands, and tugs me towards the madness. Eileen is with us, her earlier fatigue forgotten as we all join in.
I don’t know if it lasts for ten minutes or an hour, because there isn’t any way to keep track of time – all I can try and do is keep up. We whirl around, linking arms, clapping our hands, swapping partners, all the time to the frenzied beat of the music. Everyone is laughing, a few people spin off into chairs and the walls, and it is absolutely insane – a primeval celebration of simply being alive.
We end up slumped back in our original seats, glugging our drinks and laughing. I wipe sweat from my eyes, and know that my hair is now just a big, messy tangle of red around my over-heated face. I suck in air, laugh as Eileen fans herself with a beer mat, and glance over at Ryan. He was already watching me, and he raises his pint glass in my direction. I lift mine, clink it against his, and we both say ‘Slainte!’
I am both exhausted and exhilarated, and can’t stop laughing at what just happened. It’s a far cry from my romantic waltz in the ballroom, but in its own way, just as perfect.
FIFTEEN
My first night in Whimsy cottage is also perfect. I am blissfully happy as I lie in bed, stretching and luxuriating in the space. Before I came up I ate soda bread slathered in butter – because some kind soul had also stocked the fridge with basics – and poured myself a glass of wine.
I did a quick video call with June, where she laughed at me for most of it, especially when I told her I might be a bit ‘ossified’. I messaged my dad asking for some info on Nanna Nora, and when I finally made my way upstairs, I knew I was going to sleep well – my insomnia seems to be a thing of the past, and I was filled with a deep sense of everything being right in the world.
That lasted until about two a.m., when I was woken up by a noise outside. I’m from New York, and usually go to sleep to the urban lullaby of sirens and breaking glass, but here in the English countryside it’s usually quiet and peaceful – apart from the occasional hoots of owls or the rain pelting against your windows. I sit upright and rub my eyes, not at all sure what woke me until I hear it again.
It’s a bark, I realise, and the sound of furious scratching against my front door. I drag myself out of the warmth, and pullthe drape back. Sure enough, outlined in moonlight, I see Eejit in my snow-covered front yard.
I make my way downstairs, and as soon as I open the door he slinks past my legs. He’s coated in snow, and when I touch his fur he is icy beneath my fingers. I grab the dish towel and give him a quick rub dry, which he endures stoically, his pale blue eyes seeming to say: okay, I’ll let you do this, crazy human, but I am descended from wolves, and this is an affront to my dignity.
‘You okay, boy?’ I ask afterwards, scratching his ears the way he likes. ‘You want a snack?’
I pour him a bowl of water, and come up with a pack of chicken slices from the fridge. He devours it all, and I wonder if he’ll leave again now. I’ve been told that he never spends the night in anybody’s house, despite multiple offers, so I expect he’ll turn tail and run. Instead, he simply gallops up the stairs, leaving me with an empty packet of cooked meat and cold feet.
I shrug and follow him, and smile when I see him curled up in a ball on my bed. I end up crawling in around him, not caring one jot that he’ll be making the sheets damp. I climb under the comforter, and feel the solid lump of his body pressed against my legs.
‘Goodnight, Eejit,’ I say, flicking off the bedside lamp. ‘Sweet dreams, pal.’
I’m out like a light, and when I wake up, he’s licking my face, his tail wagging furiously as I finally start to move. He yips at me, clearly wanting me to get up, and I find myself staring into a pair of insistent blue eyes.
‘Okay, okay, I get the message,’ I say, pushing him gently aside as I extricate myself from the comforter. I have a moment of confusion where I reacquaint myself with the room, looking behind me and smiling again at the beautiful arch of painted flowers over the bed.
We make our way downstairs, and he heads into the kitchen, sniffing hopefully at the fridge.
‘Right. Breakfast. You may be out of luck.’
I rummage around in my supplies, and find nothing especially dog-like to give him. He ends up with a small chunk of cheese and a piece of soda bread, which might not be recommended by vets but seems to keep him happy. After that, he goes to the door and scratches it.
‘You’re off then, are you? Typical. Worm your way into my bed, then leave without a word the next morning… you’ll probably ghost me now, won’t you?’
He shoots away, off to who knows where. I look out at the peaceful village square, and a quick sniff of the air tells me Eileen is already up and about next door, baking bread even though it’s a Sunday, and I wonder where Ryan is. Maybe he’s in his room upstairs – maybe his room even adjoins mine. I could knock on it in code, like I do with June.
