Page 22 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘We watched black and white movies and went to tea dances,’ Charles replies. ‘And Cassie isn’t old, so don’t be rude!’
‘Soz – a thousand apologies, Cassie! I meant my dad – he’s forty-four, so definitely old. He was probably around when they built Stonehenge. Have you been to Stonehenge? Shall I take you?’
‘No I haven’t, and maybe. I’ll go for a shorter drive with you today, and see how terrifying it is first.’
The big table has been cleared of its newspapers and magazines, all of which are now in an untidy heap on one of the chairs. In their place is a gorgeous spread of breakfast food – flaky croissants, delicious-looking pastries, home-made bread, a thick slab of butter, jams and marmalades of every kind. I pour coffee and snag a cinnamon roll.
I perch in one of the window seats that line the room, and gaze outside as I eat. I’m met with a view of the gardens and the terrace at the back of the mansion. It stretches for miles, so much further than I could make out last night – a glorious landscape as far as the eye can see.
I am yet again completely awed by how beautiful it all is. Blue skies, no rain, and vivid yellow sunlight bringing the whole world to life. Everything looks so bright, so perfect. The grass is a vibrant shade of green, the terrace is perfect golden stone, the scattered statues almost seem to glitter.
I sigh out loud, and ask: ‘Who does all of this? Who takes care of it? It’s so gorgeous!’
‘It’s all me,’ announces Georgie, feigning sadness. ‘Child labour! He sends me up chimneys as well!’
‘I’m often tempted to send you up a chimney,’ says Charles, ‘when the fire’s already lit.’
He’s sitting next to his daughter, her legs now across his lap, reading a huge newspaper. I love the fact that they have actual printed newspapers.
‘But to answer your question, Cassie,’ he continues, ‘it’s a joint effort. Georgie is a talented gardener, and does indeed help. My mother, Roberts, myself, we all chip in, and a couple of men from the village come up and help out too. It’s quite an effort, but it’s important – once you start letting grounds like this go wild, you’re in trouble. We keep parts of it as natural as possible– there’s a wildflower meadow, whole sections we let go to grass. It’s better for the environment, and better for us – less time on the mower!’
It is, I can see, a mammoth job – and my mind briefly wonders if Ryan is one of the men from the village, or if the two of them avoid each other at all costs. Then I wonder what happened to make them dislike each other so much, because from what I’ve seen, neither of them is especially difficult to get along with. A mystery for another time, I guess.
‘Well, maybe the gardening classes are the way to go, Charles – you’d get free labour as well as paying guests!’ I say.
‘Indeed. I rather suspect I’ve accidentally invited a business genius into my home.’
‘Ha! Believe me, you haven’t,’ I reply. I turn to Georgie, and say: ‘Right. I’m caffeinated and now capable of functioning. Should we start our magical mystery tour? Assuming that’s all right with your father?’
‘Please, take her,’ he says, ‘for as long as you want, I beg you.’
He clearly doesn’t mean a word of it, but she playfully punches in the back of his newspaper anyway.
‘Don’t forget you have an appointment at two, though, Georgie!’ he shouts as we leave.
‘Iknow, Dad!’ she yells back. She leads me around the side of the house, and towards a garage. Inside I see Charles’s Jag, an ancient mud-spattered Land Rover, and a small electric Fiat 500 that is plugged in and charging.
‘I’ll give you a quick spin around the estate,’ she tells me, ‘and then we’ll take the scenic route to the village.’
‘As opposed to the ugly route?’ I say, gazing at the picture-perfect countryside around me.
As we drive she provides a commentary, telling me that as well as the house and grounds, the Bancrofts also own the village of Campton St George. There used to be farms, too, she explains,but they were sold off because the family was ‘land rich, cash poor’. It’s interesting to imagine people like these struggling for money – they seem to be so golden.
None of this seems to bother Georgie, because she is seventeen, and boring things like finances and stability rarely concern seventeen-year-olds. There’s clearly more to her than meets the eye though, and as we pass a large set of buildings all based around a yard, she goes uncharacteristically quiet.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing across her.
‘Oh. That’s the stables.’
‘Right. Do you have horses?’
Maybe it’s a stereotype, but I imagine they must. Georgina is the type of girl who should definitely have a pony.
‘We used to, but not anymore. Do you fancy going for a pint?’
It’s a very polite shutdown, but a shutdown nonetheless. I accept it, and say: ‘Well, it’s not even noon, and you’re definitely not twenty-one, so I’m going to say no.’
‘Twenty-one?’ she says, sounding shocked. ‘Do Americans have to be twenty-one before they can drink?’
