Page 18 of A Very Irish Christmas
Much of it is dormant at this time of year, but the little hand-written tags tell me that I am walking through camellias and rhododendrons, Japanese dogwood, jasmines of every kind – trees and shrubs from every corner of the globe.
I sit on one of the tree stumps, snuggled deep in a jacket that smells like Charles, and gaze around, letting the peace and quiet settle over my mind. I feel like a zen master, perfectly at one with my surroundings, and just know that I am going to sleep well tonight. This is the most calming place I’ve ever been.
At least it is, right up until the point when a determined woman’s voice growls at me: ‘Stop right there! I have a shotgun, and I’m not afraid to use it!’
I jump up in terror, dropping my phone to the ground. The torch shines up into the face of my assailant, and it is not what I expect. She’s dressed in a large raincoat that dwarfs her petite frame, and her white-grey hair is loose and wild around a face that is a portrait of faded beauty. Even here, even with her pointing a gun at me, I can see that she is stunning – and also very, very upset.
I hold my hands up in the universal gesture of surrender, and stammer: ‘I’m s-s-sorry! I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be here! Please don’t shoot me!’
She shows no sign of relenting, and I wonder if I could make a run for it – do a duck and roll like they do in the movies, grab my phone and hide beneath the branches of the Chilean lantern tree.
‘Don’t move an inch!’ she shouts, her tone imperious. ‘I know what you’re about – poaching! Well, I’m not having it, you hear? You’re trespassing!’
‘I’m not poaching, I promise! Charles brought me here. Charles Bancroft? I was just with him and Roberts in the house, and I came for a walk, and I really, really don’t plan on stealing anything!’
I see a flicker of confusion pass over her aristocratic features, and her nostrils flare slightly.
‘Well… you would say that, wouldn’t you? Come on. Let’s be having you. We’ll soon see the truth of it. Quick march!’
She orders me in front of her, and stoops to pick up my phone, slipping it into her coat pocket. I’m terrified that she will accidentally fire, but she keeps her aim steady and gestures for me to move.
I don’t see that I have any choice, and even though my legs feel like Jell-O and my heart is racing, I stumble along in front of her. She points towards the wooden door with the barrel of the gun, and I pray that I don’t unintentionally do anything to spook her. I really don’t want to die like this – blasted to death in a foreign land by a woman who seems to think I’m here to illegally hunt game.
She mutters as we go, and yells at me when I trip, but eventually we reach the entrance to the mansion. I stand there before her, frozen on the spot, my hands still high.
‘Roberts!’ she screams at the top of her voice. ‘Phillip! Get out here now!’
Within seconds the big door swings open, and both men appear, silhouetted in the light of the lobby. I meet Charles’s eyes pleadingly, and they both leap into action. Roberts jumps straight between me and the crazy woman, blocking me physically with his body in a way that suggests her shotgun holds no fear for him.
Charles mutters a few apologetic words, and goes right to her side. I risk looking over my shoulder, and see him gently prising the gun from her clenched fingers.
‘Phillip!’ she says, gazing up at him. ‘You need to call the police – I found her in Vanessa’s secret garden, up to no good!’
‘It’s Charles, Mother. I’m Charles. And this is my guest, Cassie. She’s come to stay with us for a few days. She meant no harm, and I told her it was fine to look around. Shall we all go inside and have a warm drink?’
He has the gun in his hands now, and I see him do something with the mechanism, and then sag slightly as he says: ‘It’s not loaded.’
‘Of course it’s not bloody loaded!’ the woman snaps at him. ‘What do you think I am, a lunatic?’
Nobody answers that question, and she strides off ahead into the house. I have no idea what’s happening here, and I say quietly: ‘Who is Phillip? Is that another one of your names?’
He shakes his head sadly. ‘No. Phillip was my father. He’s been gone for six years. She’s… well, she’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. I’m so sorry that happened to you, Cassie. It’s really not been the greatest of days for you, has it?’
He sounds so shaken, so distressed, that I don’t have the heart to do anything but comfort him. I lay one hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry about it. I live in New York. I get held up at gunpoint every time I go out to buy milk.’
I’m very obviously joking, and he manages a wan smile of gratitude as we follow his mother inside. We find her in a massive kitchen at the back of the house, making a pot of tea as though nothing untoward just happened. My phone has been left out on the counter.
The huge room is dominated by a giant pine table that has been battered by generations of use, pots and pans hang from racks on the ceiling, an ancient looking Aga stove taking up most of one wall. I can imagine how busy it must have been in here in days gone by, when there was a full staff and house guests. Now, although everything is perfectly clean and tidy, it feels a little neglected. The appliances look old, the chairs are mismatched, and the dented fridge makes an alarmingly loud humming noise that seems to vibrate through the stone floor.
‘So, Cassie,’ the woman says as she prepares a full tea service – china cups and saucers, dainty squares of sugar in a bowl, tiny spoons for everyone – ‘my name is Allegra. I’m Charles’s mother.’
She sounds confident and assured, which I suspect comes from years of training in her social strata – but as she passes me my cup, her hand is trembling. Tea, as my dad had warned me, is the glue that holds the English together, and she is using this ritual as a way of calming herself down.
‘I can only apologise,’ she says, her voice straight out ofThe Crown, ‘for my uncouth behaviour. A terrible misunderstanding, and not the way I normally greet guests. So, are you one of Charles’s London friends?’
She says ‘London friends’ in a way that suggests they are an exotic species, as unexpected a sight in her kitchen as a snow leopard or a ring-tailed lemur.
‘Ah, no – in fact I only met him today, um… Lady Bancroft?’
