Page 23 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘Yep. You can get married and vote at eighteen, though – and you wouldn’t want to do either of those things when you were drunk.’
‘True. But you’re in England now, and we’re allowed to drink when we’re seventeen. We’re much better at drinking than you Yanks, obviously.’
‘That might be the case,’ I reply, as my fingers fly over my phone, ‘but us Yanks are just as capable of using google, so I know you’re lying. The legal drinking age seems to be eighteen. Maybe you forgot.’
‘Well, it was worth a try!’ she says, flashing me a dazzling grin that immediately makes me forgive her.
‘Was it hard to pass your driving test, with your dyslexia?’
‘Um, yeah. A bit harder to pass certain parts of it – there’s a thing called a theory test that was tricky. But I got some support and there are different ways I can learn. Plus, I know what all the road signs mean, so don’t worry that I’ll see one that says “no entry” and do the opposite!’
‘I wasn’t worried about that, I promise. But I am a bit worried about how fast you’re taking these turns.’
‘I do it every day. I could do it with my eyes closed!’
‘Please don’t.’
She laughs again, and carries on tour guiding. She pulls over and we follow a path to a beautiful steep-sided pond where, in summer, she comes to watch dragonflies skim the water and listen to the skylarks sing as she lies in the long grass. It sounds idyllic, and I have a flash of sadness that I won’t be here by then.
She takes me to Marshington Grange, the next village over, which is a bustling metropolis compared to ours – there are two pubs, and a place for take-out. The main street is built of mellow yellow stone, and we stop for pictures. She looks amused as she perches on a garden wall and smokes. I guess I must look like a crazy American, snapping shots of a place that she sees as mundane. I always feel the same about tourists taking selfies in Times Square.
I get shown the local school – ‘to be fair, they took over a year to kick me out’ – and the church and the farm where Ollie Kerr lives. Ollie Kerr, I learn, is the coolest boy for three counties, and has mini-raves in his barn when his parents are away. Sounds like trouble.
Eventually, we arrive back in the village of Campton St George, and she parks the car outside the inn. It’s interesting to see the village in full daylight during a working day, and the atmosphere is very different. The tea rooms are busy, the windows steamed up, and I assume that the bus brought visitors. The hair salon is also open, although it looks like no salon I’veever visited – it’s basically one room inside a very old, very pretty cottage.
Inside, I see Orla wielding a dryer and chatting to an older lady in the chair.
‘Huh – does Orla run the salon as well as the pub?’
‘Ah, yeah – everyone here does a bit of everything. You never know where someone’s going to pop up next. Cormac doubles up as a community police officer, and Mary Catherine does cleaning but also works as a delivery driver. Eileen just has the bakery, but she supplies loads of places. Everyone’s always very busy here, and when they’re not busy, they’re having fun.’
‘I see. And what about Ryan? Does he have more than one job?’
She grins at me, and pokes me lightly in the ribs.
‘Do you fancy him? He’s yummy, isn’t he? I didn’t notice that until a few years ago when the hormone soup kicked in, and then I was suddenly like, who is this God-like creature? Muscles in his muscles, the twinkly eyes, that accent… obviously he’s way too old for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a fine example of manhood. He’s single, too, so you wouldn’t be treading on anybody’s toes if you made a move.’
‘I am not going to be making a move on Ryan!’ I say, maybe a little too quickly. ‘Or in fact any man.’
‘Oh. Right. Are you gay? Because if you are, I can take you to some bars in the bigger towns.’
‘No, I’m not gay. I’m just not interested in men right now.’
‘Why?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Okay,’ she says, shrugging, not at all offended. Clearly straightforward speaking is the way to proceed with Georgie. ‘Shall we go and see Eileen?’
As we cross the road, I notice that Eejit is curled up beneath the Christmas tree, where someone has placed a bowl of water.He flicks his ears backwards and forwards when he sees us approaching, then slinks to his feet, trotting over and licking my fingers. I give him a scratch behind the ears, and he follows us to the bakery.
The small storefront is laid out with baskets of bread, pies and cakes of every description – tiny cupcakes in a rainbow of colours, slabs of lemon drizzle, gooey-looking chocolate brownies, and a spectacular carrot cake that’s already down to one slice.
I love baking, and I love eating, and I love absolutely everything about this place. I must go into some kind of trance, because as I stare at the mouth-watering display before me, I hear Eileen say: ‘Earth calling Cassie – is there anybody out there?’
‘Oh! I’m so sorry! I think I temporarily slipped into an alternative universe there – 2001, a Cake Odyssey! Eileen, would it be greedy to buy one of everything?’
‘It’s been done before, so it has, but I wouldn’t recommend it! How about I put you a little taster plate together? I have spare out back – the ones that came out a wee bit wonky – so you can try a few? And your usual, Georgina?’
