Page 38 of A Very Irish Christmas
He nods and disappears off downstairs. I go into the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face – because I most definitely need it. I run my fingers through my hair to smooth it down, and smile at myself in the mirror. I look dishevelled but happy, and decide that’s a good look on me.
Within minutes we are tucked away in the pub, with a big corner table, pints of Guinness, and packets of potato chips called Taytos laid before us. The sides of the packs have been ripped open and spread out to create little foil plates, so everyone can help themselves.
The musicians aren’t here tonight, but the place is still busy, bustling with happy energy as people eat and drink and chat. I hear a mix of accents – some thicker than Nanna Nora’s, some just a subtle twang, and it all makes a lot more sense nowRyan has explained the history of Campton St George and the generations-old links between the Bancrofts and Ireland.
Various people come over and introduce themselves, including Connor’s super-pretty mother, Sarah, and I soon realise that everybody here already knows who I am.
Eventually Eileen joins us, smelling of sugar and vanilla, which is the very best perfume a woman can wear. Her grey hair is clouding around her face, and her sparkling blue eyes are merry as she sits.
‘Be a good boyo and get me a pint,’ she says to Ryan, who quickly obliges. ‘I’m terrible parched. Started on my Christmas orders today and I’m ragged with it all.’
‘I could always help,’ I offer. ‘I’m good in the kitchen.’
She pats my hand and says: ‘Sure, and that is kind of you. I might take you up on it. So. How was your stay at the big house?’
‘It was interesting, and fun, and like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.’
‘Well now, that’s good news. Bit of come down, being in Whimsy, is it?’
‘Gosh no! It’s gorgeous and I already feel at home. Ryan did such a wonderful job, and he even painted my favourite flowers on the bedroom wall. Tonight I’ll be sleeping beneath roses and lilies!’
‘Did he now? Your favourite flowers?’ she says, her eyes narrowing a little. ‘That’s new behaviour, there!’
‘Should I be worried?’
‘No, no. Ryan has his rules, and I should imagine you’re covered by them.’
The man himself returns laden down with more drinks, and more bags of Taytos gripped in his teeth. He settles back in, and Eileen nudges him.
‘I was just telling Cassie here about yer rules, Ryan. The ones about the women.’
He pauses, drinks the creamy head of his pint, and sighs in pleasure. There’s a wisp of cream left on his top lip, and my cheeks flame as I imagine kissing it off. What is wrong with me? I’m turning into some kind of sex demon. I imagine what June would say to that – she’d say that I’ve gone without for so long that I have a lot of that energy stored up, desperate to escape.
‘Ah. My rules. Well, there’d be three main ones, Cassie. The first,’ he says, counting them off on his fingers, ‘is no married women. Too complicated, and too wrong on all levels. Two, nobody from the village, because that could get messy. Three, nobody I suspect I could fall in love with.’
‘What?’ I repeat, frowning. ‘But why not? Isn’t that kind of the point of dating? To find someone special?’
Eileen snorts, and says: ‘In Ryan’s case, he finds someone special every weekend! They stay special right up until Sunday!’
She pauses, and adds: ‘Sure I’ve just realised, Ryan, it’s actually a Saturday – why are you even here? Don’t you have hearts to be breaking?’
‘Even a feckless playboy needs the occasional night off, so he does,’ he replies, laying the accent on thick and winking at me. ‘And besides, I wanted to make sure Cassie got settled.’
Eileen looks at him suspiciously, and he throws a crisp at her face. I giggle out loud, because they are quite the double act.
‘Thank you for the cake, and the bread,’ I tell her. ‘Soda bread is the stuff of dreams for me. I used to make it with my Nanna Nora, which was almost as much fun as eating it!’
‘No problems, Cassie, you’re very welcome. So, your Nanna Nora then – she was from Cork, you say?’
‘Yes. As far as I know. She’d never really talk about it though, and didn’t seem to stay in touch with family either.’
She thinks it over, and replies: ‘You should talk to my cousin Moira. She’s one of them yokes, what do you call them? Gynaecologists?’
I can tell from her barely repressed grin that she’s joking with me, but I still say: ‘Genealogist?’
‘The very fella! Traces family trees for people all over the world, she does. Makes a good living from it too, what with all the Americans keen to connect with their roots. Maybe if you could get me some basics, like her birthday, she could find out a bit more for you?’
I nod, turning it over in my mind. I loved Nora so much, and missing her has been a constant dull pain ever since she passed. Maybe this could be a way of feeling closer to her, and I know my dad would probably be interested.
