Page 9 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘Suppose. Wish it’d stop pissing it down though.’
I assume this is a reference to the rain, and if I lived here all year round, I’d probably feel the same. For now, though, it’s just an inconvenience, and a temporary one. The lady at the train station promised me clear skies ahead.
We drive into the village of Campton St George itself at dusk, and it looks magical – lit up and glowing in a way that makes it seem otherworldly. Long strings of multi-coloured lights drape from cottage to cottage, from the pub to the bakery, from the tea rooms to the antiques store. They pierce the murky sky, shining optimistically in the ever-present rain, as though they’re inviting me to a carnival. Golden light spills out from the pub and from the windows of the houses, chasing away the mounting darkness in a flurry of homely radiance.
The streets are cobbled, and one corner holds an ancient-looking stone cross and a trough that I guess used to be for horses but is now full of evergreens. At the far end is a small, humped bridge in the same golden stone, a little river gurgling along beneath it.
In the centre of it all is a cobbled square, dominated by an enormous pine tree almost as big as the one in London. It’s dressed to kill, and even the gloomy weather can’t stop it from looking gorgeous, shining like a beacon of hope before me.
I close my eyes and imagine all of this in the summer, and then I imagine it in snow, and then in spring when the flowers are coming into bloom and the cherry trees are heavy with blossom. I can’t picture anywhere cosier, or more welcoming and charming.
Bob deposits me outside Whimsy Cottage, and wishes me luck before he drives off. I can’t wait to be tucked up on the couch with a glass of wine, warm from the old coal fire. Cosy and safe and happy – so far away from my real life that it won’t be able to reach out and hurt me anymore.
‘Ted Marshall,’ I say out loud as I pick my way past some muddy puddles, ‘you are not welcome here.’ I channel my inner Nora, and add a hearty: ‘Away with ye, now!’
I stand at the waist-high front gate and gaze at the cottage for a few moments. It’s at the end of a cute terrace of houses, attached to the bakery – I’ll wake up to the aroma of freshly baked bread every morning. Suzie’s idea of hell, my idea of heaven. The tiny front yard is wet and downtrodden, but I can see the outlines of the clinging ivy and the wisteria around the door, smiling as I make my way up the crooked little path.
I’d received an automated response to my booking telling me I’d find the key underneath a potted plant, which at the time had seemed a lot more quaint than a plain old lockbox. It seems slightly less fun now, as I stand here in the semi-darkness, realising that there isn’t just one potted plant, there are about a dozen.
I wipe the rain from my eyes, and take it in turns lifting them all. I find some dirt, some slugs, and eventually, an old-fashioned copper-coloured key. I fumble it into the lock, thenbefore I turn it I pause, and take a deep breath. This feels like a significant moment. It feels like I am about to carry myself over the threshold. I push open the door, and step inside.
The first thing that hits me is the smell – mouldy and musty – and the second thing is the cold. That doesn’t so much hit me as sucker-punch me in the gut. I flick on the light switch, and the bulb hanging from the ceiling immediately explodes with a loud pop, a bright flash and a scattering of glass. I shriek in shock, and grab hold of the nearest piece of furniture to steady myself – a couch, it feels like, although it’s covered in a white sheet that is damp to the touch.
Huh. That’s strange – but maybe it’s just one of those things they do here, cover up the furniture? I am, after all – like my dad warned me – in a foreign land.
I find my way into the next room, and brace myself as I press the light switch. Nothing explodes, but as I glance around the tiny kitchen, I realise I can barely move in here. If I stand in the middle and turn in a circle, I can reach everything – the ancient-looking oven, the steadily humming fridge, the sink made of solid white ceramic. Now I know why there were no pictures of this room on the website.
I find a cabinet that contains an Aladdin’s cave of useful items, including cleaning products and a dustpan and brush. I make my way back into the living room, and carefully clean up the shards of glass from the shattered bulb. Okay, so this hasn’t been the ideal start to my Whimsy Cottage idyll, but I’m here for a month – things will get better.
I creep around the living room, which would probably be cosy if not for the freezing temperatures and the all-pervading smell of old laundry left out too long. This place doesn’t feel like it’s been lived in for a while, and as I find a table lamp and turn it on, it gets even worse.
All of the furniture is covered in sheets, and the air is a dust storm. The coal fire in the hearth, the one that looked so inviting on the pictures, is dead and cold, long-burned-out ashes lying grey in the grate. The beamed ceiling is so low that I feel the need to duck, and the mullioned windows are coated in grime.
I’d hoped for more. I’d hoped for the fire to be roaring, the couches to come with soft cosy blankets. For a welcome package that included wine, maybe some home-baked cake. Maybe I’d even hoped it would be dressed for Christmas. Instead, I am standing here in the cottage that time forgot, shivering and wondering how I’m going to survive this.
Am I being a pampered American brat?I ask myself. Was I expecting too much? Is this just how things are here?No, I decide, as my breath clouds in the frigid air. Something has gone very wrong.
I call the number that came with the booking confirmation, and my heart sinks as I get a recorded message – a cheerful sounding woman telling me with great glee that nobody is available. If I was paranoid, I would imagine she was sitting there laughing at me while it played.
I leave my name and number, and a mumbled complaint, and try and figure out what to do next.I am not a damsel in distress, I tell myself, as I feel the familiar sense of anxiety start to creep into my mind. This will not kill me – it will make me stronger. Of course, by that reckoning, I should be the strongest woman on earth by now.
I am suddenly swamped with regret, with home-sickness, with the need for comfort that I know will not be coming. I am thousands of miles away from everything I have ever known. I can’t just invite June over. I can’t head over to my parents’ house and raid their fridge. I can’t even call Suzie, because I’d rather die than give her the satisfaction of knowing she was right – thatmaybe I should be at home, chewing down antidepressants and arranging appointments with a shrink, just like she suggested.
No, I tell myself,I will not be defeated so easily. Nothing is ever perfect, I should know that better than most. I look around at the grim cottage, and ask myself what Nanna Nora would do. The answer comes to me very quickly, and makes me smile for the first time since I walked into this place.
Nanna Nora, I think, would shrug her tiny shoulders, say something both rude and wise, and go straight to the pub. I will do the same.
I grab hold of my purse, nod determinedly, and head outside. The rain is even heavier, coming down in thick, cold drops, all of which seem to find their way inside the collar of my jacket. It’s like heat-seeking rain, ruthlessly finding any part of your body that might still be warm and dousing it with liquid ice.
I walk along my crooked path, already anticipating a nice glass of red or maybe even a shot of good whiskey, hoping for a log fire and friendly locals and a bag of potato chips –crisps, I remind myself,crisps.Chips are fries.
Thinking about all of it – chips, fries, crisps – makes my stomach rumble, and I realise I haven’t eaten for way too long. Maybe they do food at the pub? It’s a cute building with a thatched roof, a wooden sign outside telling me it’s called The Red Lion. There is light spilling out from its windows, and it looks warm and welcoming – the kind of place a lost girl could find a steak and kidney pie.
I’m about to stride towards it when I hear a low, vaguely menacing yip. It’s not quite a bark, not quite a growl, but somewhere in between. I narrow my eyes in the gloomy light, look down, and see a dog crouched in front of me. He’s soaking wet, black and white fur plastered to an athletic body, his ears up and alert. He stares at me in exactly the same way I stare at him, then lets out another one of his yips.
I jump a little, and move to the side to get past him. He immediately scoots over and crouches in front of me again, flat on his belly, paws before him. He has striking pale blue eyes, and I swear to God he is staring me down, daring me to take him on. I move along, and he does exactly the same. I try it faster, and in different directions, but every single time, I end up looking into those piercing eyes. The damn thing is so nimble. He yips at me, and I see that although he isn’t a massive dog, he has some wicked-looking teeth.
I like dogs, but I’ve never actually had one – Suzie’s allergies again. I’m not entirely sure what to do here. He doesn’t seem aggressive or threatening, but he’s also not letting me past. I murmur what I hope are comforting words, along the ‘good dog, nice dog, please let me get out of the rain’ line, and decide that this is stupid. He’s just a dog, and I really want that whiskey and steak and kidney pie.
