Page 14 of A Very Irish Christmas
I recognise the song from Nanna Nora’s house – ‘The Wild Rover’. She had a recorded version by a band called The Dubliners, even though she told us it was an old folk tune. As kids, Suzie and I would spin around to it like tops, and Nanna would let us stand on her green velvet couch and jump off into the air as we sang the ‘no, nay, never’ chorus.
It makes me smile to remember her, and for the first time since she died, I find that the happy childhood memories are starting to balance out the pain of losing her. She, I decide, looking around at the crowded pub, would love it here. It’s a place full of people who seem to share her zest for life.
The little band is hammering away at the rousing end of the song, and Orla and Cormac are dancing an enthusiastic jig behind the bar. There’s not a lot of space, and their spins end up knocking over a stack of menus and sending a wicker basket full of peanuts flying into the air.
Several people are standing up, either dancing or singing along. One of them, I notice, is Ryan. He has a powerful voice, as you’d expect from a man of his size, but he can hold a tune as well. He raises his glass at me, our eyes meeting once more,and I feel a hint of a blush creep over my cheeks. I nod at him in acknowledgement and sing along quietly myself.
Orla jigs towards me and tops up my glass again, and I don’t stop her. If I end up freezing to death in Whimsy, at least I’ll die happy.
The band are given a hearty round of applause, then start something much slower and sweeter – it sounds like a sea shanty, with its haunting tones and mellow pace.
I am so lost in the sailor’s song of love and loss that at first, I don’t notice when someone sits next to me on one of the tall chairs that line the bar. In fact, it’s the smell that first alerts me – a delicious cologne that makes my nostrils twitch in delight with its bewitching mix of wood and spice. It’s subtle and sophisticated, but still utterly male – the kind of scent June would call a ‘panty-dropper’, because she’s classy like that.
I turn around, and see the profile of an absolutely stunning man. His features are aquiline, with a strong nose, high cheekbones and a wide mouth. As he turns to face me, I’m floored by the combination of his golden blond hair and deep green eyes. He looks every bit as good as his cologne smells, and I fear for a moment that I might actually fall off my chair. What is it with this place and the hot men?
He’s dressed in a stylish charcoal-grey tweed suit that has clearly been tailored to his lean body, and a crisp white shirt that is open at the top few buttons, displaying a hint of sun-kissed flesh. The kind that comes from winter trips to the Caribbean, or skiing in exotic places.
I see his gaze flicker over me in exactly the same way mine flickered over him, and he gives me a full-wattage smile that could power the whole of Manhattan.
‘Hello,’ he says, offering his hand in such a formal gesture that I’m momentarily unsure how to respond. ‘I’m Charles.’
He’s the first non-Irish person I’ve met since I arrived here, but his accent is pure cut-glass English, and easy to follow. I place my hand in his, and the shake goes on for a few seconds too long.
‘Hi, I’m Cassie. Cassie O’Hara.’
He frowns slightly, and asks: ‘American? Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing in our little village, Cassie O’Hara?’
‘Ah. Well. That’s a long story – and I’ve no idea if I’m even staying. I might not even make it through tonight.’
‘Really? That would be a terrible pity. What could possibly tempt you to change your mind about that?’
He says this completely deadpan, but there is a little upward quirk of one side of those lips, and a sparkle of mischief in those green eyes that tells me he is flirting with me. He’s just doing it in a very English way. In fact, I realise, biting back laughter – he’s flirting with me in a very Hugh-Grant-in-the-90s kind of way. I can’t wait to tell June about this encounter.
‘Well, a good start would be accommodation that isn’t covered in mould, freezing cold, and as welcoming as a root canal without the anaesthetic. I checked in to my alleged vacation home this afternoon, and honestly? It’s like the place that Christmas dreams go to die.’
It’s a slightly longer rant than I intended, but his eyes crinkle in amusement, and the laughter lines around them make him look older but no less delectable.
‘Oh no! That bad, really?’
‘Yup. That bad. It looked so nice online, but in reality, it’s not fit for a dog to live in. Even Eejit – he’s a homeless stray – would probably give it a one-star review on Tripadvisor. I’m not picky, and I didn’t expect luxury, but basic cleanliness isn’t too much to ask, is it?’
‘Certainly not. Sounds dreadful. I assume this was in Marshington Grange, the next village over? I hope you’ve complained to the owners?’
‘I tried, but I only got an answering machine, and nobody’s called me back. I’m not quite sure which clowns they’ve got running the circus at the Bancroft Estate, but I’m not impressed.’
He stares at me for a moment, his face suddenly still. I wonder what I’ve said wrong, and am about to ask when Cormac delivers him a glass of brandy. Charles nods his thanks, and turns his attention back to me.
‘You booked a holiday cottage with the Bancroft Estate?’ he says. ‘And it wasn’t… habitable? No fire lit, no welcome package? No wine or chocolates, no Christmas decorations? And it was cold and dirty, you say?’
‘Very cold, and very dirty. And the only welcome package was an exploding lightbulb and a lungful of dust. Why? Do you know them?’
His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment he looks almost intimidating – or at the very least, very authoritative. Like a man who is used to getting his own way. Then he runs his hands through his slightly floppy hair, sighs, and says: ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself in full. My name is Charles Alexander Bancroft.’
‘Oh! Um…thatBancroft?’
‘Yes. One of the clowns, at your service.’
I feel embarrassed and awkward, but also slightly defiant – which might, of course, be because of the wine. The old me – the stay-at-home me – might have spluttered an apology and shuffled off into the shadows, but I am determined to not behave like that.
