Page 60 of A Very Irish Christmas
ONE WEEK UNTIL CHRISTMAS
‘May love and laughter light your days and warm your heart and home.
May good and faithful friends be yours wherever you may roam.’
Irish blessing
TWENTY-FOUR
OXFORD
Georgie is indeed home the next day, slightly bruised but none the worse for wear. Jasper goes incandescent with joy when he sees her, and I suspect there’s a bond been made for life right there.
When I ask her how she is, she replies: ‘I’m fine! I’m kind of hoping one of these scratches on my face might leave a scar, then I can make up stories about a shark attack…’
I laugh. Yeah, I think, she is definitely feeling fine.
On the less dramatic work front, Charles has found a copywriter and designer, and I’ve curated Ryan’s shots. They’re magnificent, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that Bancroft Manor was already fully operational.
I’m heading for Cork the day after tomorrow, and have had exciting news. Sadly, the street that Nora grew up on has been demolished, but Moira has found a relative still living in the city, a distant cousin, on a DNA ancestry site. She’s called Deirdre, and we’ve arranged to meet up during my visit. Dad is fizzing at the news – it’s made his Christmas. After our chat he was heading straight off to set up an account himself, ordering testing kits and getting lost in his enthusiasm.
Today, though, I am being treated to a day out by Charles. Georgie is safely at home with Allegra and Roberts, and he says it’s only fair that he shows me some sights, because he’s monopolised my time with work since I’ve been here. He’s right – I’ve been so busy with Bancroft that I’ve not had time to do anything else.
We started with a drive-past of the famous Stonehenge, but we don’t stop there. Charles wants to take me to see a different stone circle, and tells me that Wiltshire is ‘jam-packed with Neolithic treasures’. He looked so excited when he announced this that I couldn’t help but be infected by his enthusiasm.
Even the gloomy, grey day couldn’t spoil it – in fact, as we strolled from rugged stone to rugged stone at Avebury, the black clouds only added to the mood. Charles gave me some background, clearly filled with a sense of joy, his hands stroking the scarred pillars as though he was somehow trying to connect with the men who erected them thousands of years ago.
He showed me the curved profile of Silbury Hill, and we walked up through snow-logged fields to a place called West Kennet Long Barrow. It’s an ancient burial chamber that you can go inside, cavernous and eerie in the falling light. Charles looked around in wonder, and I caught a glimpse of the other Charles – the one that became an archaeologist in a parallel universe.
‘You’re good at this,’ I said as we drive towards Oxford. ‘Explaining it all. It’s a shame you had to give it up.’
‘Well, I’m not going to bleat about it – my life is hardly awful, is it? Besides, I do have a cunning plan. If things pan out the way we hope and we can put Bancroft back on a solid footing, I’m considering a little archaeological dig of my own.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘On the estate itself. There have always been stories, folk rumours – a spot tucked away near the woodlands that is supposed to be magical. The kind of place villagers used to gowhen they wanted a baby, that sort of thing. Sometimes these tales, passed down the generations, have some substance – I think it might be worth exploring. It would make me very happy to actually find out.’
I love this side of him – boyish, charming, full of energy. He never seems to feel the need to hold himself in check when he’s talking about these things, and the formal edge slips away in front of my eyes.
By the time we arrive in Oxford, the bleakness of the skies is being overtaken by darkness, and we walk around the city beneath the light of the emerging stars. It is absolutely stunning, the sense of history dripping from every cobbled alleyway, every ivy-covered college, every dreaming spire.
He shows me his college, St John’s, which is vast and beautiful, laid out in quadrangles and exquisite gardens. It’s quiet, most of the students now at home for Christmas, but there are still earnest academic types shuffling around the snow-covered lawns, still golden light shining from libraries and rooms, still the sound of chatter and laughter and music escaping into the evening.
We grab some dinner at a pub called the Eagle and Child – or the ‘Bird and Baby’, as he tells me it’s known by students – and make our way back to the car. He takes me via a place called Radcliffe Square, which is a little slice of perfection.
The square is lined by old college buildings and the Bodleian Library, and in the centre is a grand circular structure called the Radcliffe Camera. I stand and look up, as I’m told to, and the landscape piercing the starlit sky is breath-taking – crenulations that make the colleges look like castles, gargoyles and ornate water spouts, the magnificent round dome of the Camera, the slender spire of St Mary’s church soaring pale and proud into the air.
As I gaze around me, it starts to rain – but I find that I simply don’t care. In fact, I welcome every drop that spatters against my upturned face. Everything about this place is miraculous, and I feel so alive I’m convinced I could almost flap my arms and fly up into the constellations.
Charles laughs at me as I do a little jig of happiness, but it is not a mocking laugh – it is one that says he understands. He gets it.
When I finally slow down, dizzy and full of joy, I say: ‘I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe I’m here.’
I pause, and feel an emotional shadow creep over me.
‘I can’t believe I have to leave.’
Charles reaches out, takes my hands in his. He pulls me close, his handsome face slick with rain, blond hair shining in the moonlight, and says: ‘Do you, though? Cassie, why don’t you just… stay? You could keep Whimsy. Or move in to the manor. Whatever you like – but you don’t have to leave. I don’t want you to leave. I can’t imagine Bancroft or the village without you in it.’
