Page 51 of A Very Irish Christmas
I spot Mary Catherine’s grandchildren making their way to the front of the line for Santa, and hear the boys both ask for bikes. I hold my breath as Molly, their ring-leader, takes her turn. She refuses to sit on his lap, and glares at him with narrowed eyes. She clearly knows it’s Martin, as do all of the older children, but wants her chance at a dip in the present bag.
‘What’s your name, little one?’ Martin asks as she glowers at him.
‘It’s Molly, as you well know, Martin. And I’m not little, I’m ten!’
‘Fair play. So, have you an idea what you want for Christmas, then, Molly?’
She stares him down, hands on skinny hips, and announces: ‘World peace!’
Everyone in the vicinity bites back laughter, and Martin replies: ‘Sure, Molly, I’m only Santa Claus – not God almighty!’
She takes her gift and moves on, leaving me with a sense of relief. I’d thought for sure he’d at least lose his fake beard in that little exchange. Possibly his life.
‘This is great, isn’t it?’ asks Charles, sidling up to me. He’s wearing an especially nice pale grey cashmere scarf, and the subtle scent of his cologne is as delicious as ever.
‘It really is. So much energy!’
‘I know. I’m going to do more stuff like this. We’ve been linked with these people for generations, but it’s always felt like there was a divide, you know? Village down the hill, big house on top. We go into the pub and socialise, but there’s never been anything this communal. They’re as much part of the history of the place now as the Bancrofts are, and I’m determined to break down those barriers. I’m going to make sure that we invite everyone up on a regular basis, maybe hold summer garden parties, events for the children, that kind of thing.’
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ I say, smiling up at him. ‘Better be careful though – you might end up drinking Guinness and saying “top of the mornin’ to you”!’
‘None of them actually do say that, I’ve noticed, unless they’re playing up for an audience. We had a coach load of Canadian tourists in over the summer, and they practically all turned into leprechauns for the day! Even the ones who were born here suddenly spoke like they’d kissed the Blarney stone.’
I laugh, because I can imagine it – a harmless bit of fun, acting the comedy Irish, and something that probably delighted the visitors.
We catch up on a few things, and we both eat a mince pie – strange but delicious – as we watch the children trooping through the grotto. I see Sarah with Connor in his papoose, a Santa hat on his little head, and resist the urge to run over and slobber all over him. Jasper appears with one of the decorative elves in his mouth, which Charles leans down to retrieve. The dog looks momentarily crestfallen, then cheers himself up by bounding over to Martin and peeing on Santa’s boots.
We’re still laughing when Ryan joins us. He’s wearing a navy blue beanie hat, his wild dark hair peeking out in curling strands, and the plastic sword is casually slung over his shoulder.
‘You look like a pirate!’ I say.
‘Shiver me timbers, lassie – just be careful I don’t make you walk the plank!’
He aims his sword at me, and I hold up my hands in surrender. Charles remains silent, pointedly looking everywhere apart from at Ryan.
‘Cassie, I was wondering if you’d show me this folly you’ve been talking about,’ Ryan says. ‘The one with the bird’s eye view? It’s a fine clear day, and I’ve brought my camera bag with me. Thought maybe I’d make a start. If that’s all right with you, Your Lordship?’
Charles nods. ‘Fine by me. Cassie, would you like me to accompany you?’
‘Worried I’m going to ravish her and sweep her away to a life of crime on the high seas?’
I feel annoyed with both of them, quite suddenly. I’m not a maiden who needs to be protected – and Ryan is not a slavering monster. Just an irritating one.
‘We’ll be absolutely fine, Charles,’ I say firmly. It’s always uncomfortable being around them when they’re together, and I don’t want the fun of the day to be spoiled. ‘It’s a good idea to get some shots while the sun is shining and the snow looks so pretty. And don’t worry, I remember the way.’
He nods, and I follow Ryan away from the crowds. He hoists a big bag onto his shoulder, handing his toy sword to a passing boy, and I lead him off in the direction of the tower.
I wasn’t being entirely truthful when I said I remembered the way, but after a few false starts I see it in the distance, its stone turret piercing the horizon. It’s a beautiful walk, and Ryan takespictures as we go. We pause when we see a sweet little robin redbreast perched on a tree branch, its shining eyes darting around and its head swivelling.
I smile as I look at it, the red of its feathers vivid against the snow, and hear the quiet clicking sound of Ryan’s camera at work. Eventually, it flutters off into the distance.
When we arrive at the folly, Ryan takes some shots from the outside, and says: ‘Why have I never seen this before? I didn’t even know it was here!’
‘Wait ’til you get up the stairs,’ I reply, leading him inside.
Up at the top, the air is freezing cold, but the little stone bench is free of snow. I sit and watch as Ryan circles the small space, taking in the stunning view and the different angles. He opens one of the windows, leans out so far I have the urge to grab his feet, and clicks away. He repeats the process at each little porthole.
While he works, he tells me that as well as each frame working by itself, he could also use them to make a moving panorama. That, I know, will look spectacular – and it’s exactly the kind of extra special trick that works so well for marketing.
