Page 21 of Every Christmas Eve
I nod my head and shiver as I figure out that I haven’t visited here in eight months. How can time pass so quickly? How could I have let it go this long?
‘He was a lucky boy,’ I recall, remembering how I had to almost bribe my dear uncle to have his shoulder X-rayed when he slipped on some moss. ‘I hired in some groundsmenafter that to give the courtyard a good blasting, but it should have been done earlier.’
I let out a sigh, much louder than I intended to. Cordelia and I really do need to talk about Ballyheaney House and its future before the place crumbles around Mum and Uncle Eric.
We drive into the village and pass the Seamus Heaney HomePlace, a proud homage to our Nobel Prize-winning poet. Then comes The Taphouse Bar, where I once sneaked out to meet Lou for an afternoon pint when I was supposed to be mucking out the stable; Doc’s Bar, where Lou and I would put party plans in place by the fire over Guinness, red wine and salted peanuts; and the aptly named Poet’s Corner café, which I remember doing a mean cappuccino.
‘You’re not superhuman, Dad,’ Ava tells me.
‘What?’ I reply. ‘Well, I know I’m not superhuman, but what do you mean?’
‘I mean, you can’t be there for everyone all the time,’ she says. ‘Oh, look! Can you please slow way down, Dad? I want to see the Christmas tree up close. Isn’t it pretty? I think this is even nicer than the ones in Dublin.’
I fear my daughter may be ever so slightly exaggerating.
‘Stop, Dad,’ she says. ‘Please. I need to take a photo.’
I slow down to a stop to let Ava take some pictures of the village Christmas tree with her iPad. What a difference a few days can make in this wonderful world of lone-parenting a bereaved child.
‘Freya is going to be well impressed,’ she says as she clicks and zooms with expertise. ‘Maybe she could come here withus sometime. Could she? I’d love for her to see the cows, and the swans on the lough. I don’t think Freya has ever seen a swan.’
‘In summer, yes, of course she can,’ I say to Ava, making a promise to myself as well as to my daughter. ‘We’ll make a point of coming here more often if that’s what you’d like to do, and you can bring a friend, no problem. Now, let’s move on as Grandma will be watching out for us coming.’
Ava clambers into the front seat again and I’m just about to turn off towards Ballyheaney House when I notice a striking new shopfront on Castle Street. It saysBuds and Beanson the sign above a generous-sized window that’s dressed like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Not around here, anyhow.
A tall and tasteful old-fashioned Father Christmas stands in the middle of the window, surrounded by reindeer and tiny white lights, but what makes it burst with colour and class is the array of fresh flowers in reds, greens and golds. Whoever put this all together could give the company I paid a fortune to in Dublin a run for its money. It’s quirky, it’s clever and it adds so much warmth and character to the street.
‘Look at this cute little nook! Let’s get Grandma some flowers,’ I suggest, bringing the car to a stop at the kerbside. ‘I think that would be a nice gesture. Gosh, this place looks so pretty, doesn’t it, Ava? It’s something different, that’s for sure.’
Ava, as always, is a few steps ahead of me.
‘Yes, me and Cordelia got the best hot chocolate here in the summer,’ she says, her eyes dancing with excitement. ‘It’s a florist’sanda coffee shop, Dad. The little old lady whoworks there didn’t really know how to make hot chocolate, but I taught her how. It was so funny. She even gave me an extra flake and said I’d taught her something new, and that her granddaughter, the real owner, would be so impressed. Dad, she was like eighty or something but so cool. We had such a good laugh.’
I’m intrigued even more now. Whoever this lady is, she has more taste than I’ve seen in all my time living close to Dublin city. It’s almost giving me American vibes with its lush greenery and soft twinkling lights that make the interior glow.
‘Well, now you can test her out again,’ I say to Ava. ‘Let’s go inside and see if she remembers you. I quite fancy a hot chocolate now that you’ve mentioned it, but I’ll pass on the flake. I’ll save all that extra chocolate for Christmas Day.’
I take a moment to look more carefully at the window dressing as a light dusting of snow falls on to my shoulders. I button up my coat and pull my scarf close, glad to have put them on when I got out of the car, and admire once more the spectacular winter wonderland in front of me. Tall vases hold long-stalked trumpet-shaped flowers I don’t know the name of, but their elegance draws me in, as does the huge holly wreath decorated in silver, gold and red ribbon.
Ava is already inside, no doubt charming her old friend while reminding her of that day in the summer when she taught her everything she knows about hot chocolate.
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to get in the way,’ I mutter, when one of the staff comes outside to rearrange some pots that hold miniature Christmas trees. She hunkers down and I cansee from the side of my eye how she checks the lights on each little tree with such care and attention before switching them on.
‘No, honestly, you’re fine,’ she mumbles in a local accent which is casually transatlantic. ‘I can work around you.’
‘I can move,’ I say, stepping aside to the left. ‘But if you don’t mind me saying so, this window display is something else. If this is anything to go by, I can only imagine what’s on the other side.’
She sounds a little out of breath.
‘Oh, thank you. That’s very kind. It’s a labour of love, that’s for sure,’ she says. I hear her wipe her hands repeatedly on her apron as she stands up behind me. I can see her reflection in the window now. ‘Six months of hard graft but I’ve loved every minute of it. Well, most of it. You’re very welcome to have a look inside.’
A shiver runs through me. There are goosebumps on my neck that are the size of golf balls and it’s nothing to do with the cold and the snow. Her wavy, dark hair is slightly shorter than it used to be, and it’s partly covered with a red headscarf tied at the top. I can’t see her face clearly, but I’d recognise that voice anywhere, even if the accent has slightly changed.
No one else might notice that detail, but I do. Only because I once knew that voice so well.
‘I guess I took a little bit of a long career in New York interiors with me and used it to my advantage,’ she tells me. ‘I used to work in a—’
I can’t wait any longer. I turn around slowly to face her.
