A Very Irish Christmas

Chapter 6

SIX

ENGLAND

My little slice of English paradise, it turns out, is very, very wet. So wet I wish I’d packed an inflatable dinghy.

I spend a few days sightseeing in London, admiring the sparkling Christmas lights in the shopping streets, taking selfies with the bright red mailboxes, double-decker buses and the chunky black cabs. I snap pictures of the huge Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square, and send all of these to my family and to June, determined to put a brave face on things.

Truthfully, I haven’t had a great time so far. Being a lone female traveller, it turns out, isn’t very glamorous at all. It’s actually just a bit lonely, and every time I see something fun or interesting, I wish I had someone to share it with.

Yesterday, I wandered the aisles of the famous London toy store, Hamleys, picking out gifts for my nephews. The place was packed with excited children and tired looking parents, a glimpse into a life that I will probably never have. I left the place feeling old and past my expiry date. Ted and I had always discussed starting a family quickly, but now it seems like an impossible dream. Deep down, I don’t want to be a glamorous lone traveller. I want to be one of the tired looking parents.

Dad had been right about a lot of it, too, and I spend way too much time standing at busy roads, wondering if it is safe to cross. I try to pay for everything with the wrong coins, the bathrooms all feel a bit weird, and everything is loud and overwhelming.

I’m from New York – it’s not like cities intimidate me – but London is a very different kind of city, and after a few days of grey skies and relentless rain I’m glad to get away. The only person I’ve really spoken to is the woman on reception, who is Scottish. I don’t understand a word she’s saying, and just try to laugh in the right places.

Today, I take my criss-cross journey by train through England to Whimsy Cottage, and it’s good to be on the move. Even in the dull weather, the countryside is picturesque, and I love looking the journey up on my phone and seeing all the place names. Berkshire, Hampshire, Oxfordshire – it’s like something out of a movie, the scenery rolling past the rain-streaked windows in a blur of green.

The little local train station I finally end up at is impossibly pretty, with white painted fences and quaint Victorian buildings. There’s a tiny plastic Christmas tree behind the ticket booth, and the elderly lady serving is wearing dangling reindeer earrings. It’s festive, and my spirits lift – right up until she tells me I’ll have to wait for ‘an hour or so’ for a taxi.

My stricken face must show my disappointment, because she smiles kindly at me before picking up the phone.

‘Bob, it’s Linda down at the station. Got a nice young lady here needing to get to Little Ireland. I know it’s your day off, but I wondered if you could drag yourself out of your pit and give her a lift?’

I’m confused by the whole conversation, partly because she has an accent so dense I feel like I’m listening to it through a bowl of soup – and partly because of what she says.

‘Why did you call it Little Ireland?’ I ask.

‘You’ll see when you get there! Now, just you have a little sit, he’ll be here soon – probably not long enough for a cup of tea, I’m afraid. Anyway. My cousin lives in America. Maybe you know her?’

‘Um. Maybe. Where does she live?’

‘Atlanta.’

‘Right. Well, no, I guess I don’t then.’

‘Probably for the best. She’s a bit of a moody cow. Rainy, isn’t it?’

I gaze outside at the torrential downpour, and nod. ‘Yeah. Does it ever, you know, not rain here?’

‘Oh yes! In a good year, we can get as many as four or five clear days in July! We all run around in our bikinis! I’m only joking, my love, don’t worry – this is supposed to clear up tomorrow. Then we’re due some blue skies, just before the snow kicks in. Hope you packed your wellies!’

I assure her I did, though in all honesty I have no idea what those are. I mean, I might have packed them, who knows?

We chat until Bob arrives, and as I leave she gives me a cheery wave, and says: ‘Say hello to Ryan for me!’

I have no idea who Ryan is, but she actually blushes and looks a little dewy-eyed as she says his name.

Bob is a taciturn man in his fifties, and he shows zero inclination to chat as we drive through narrow country lanes and pretty villages. I don’t mind; it gives me the chance to acclimatise, and to gaze out of the window with a big, stupid smile on my face.

Okay, so the weather is foul – I’m beginning to understand why they talk about it so much – but this place is gorgeous. So green and lush, the roads lined with dripping bushes and alive with twittering birds. The fields around us stretch on into infinity, neat little patchworks of emerald and brown, herds of cartoon black and white cows grazing contentedly.

As we wend our way through the countryside, I notice most of the buildings are made from the same honey-coloured stone, lots of them with thatched roofs. If you took away the lights and the road signs, you could be in a different century entirely.

We have our own history in the States, but nothing like this – you can feel the age oozing from every farm house, every little pub, every row of pretty cottages. I’m living in a fantasy world, and by the time we arrive at the Bancroft Estate, I am on a natural high.

‘It’s so beautiful!’ I can’t help saying aloud, earning myself a shrug from Bob.

‘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, then before 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 – that maybe 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.

I stride purposefully forward, but he runs ahead, whirls around to face me and lets out a loud bark. The kind that makes me feel like if I don’t do as I’m told, he might take a chunk out of me. I am trapped between Whimsy Cottage and the pub, so close I could make a sprint for it – but between us is this determined hellhound. He has frozen again, ears twitching, waiting for my next move.

I swerve to the left, waving my arms and telling him to shoo, and he immediately lands in front of me, front paws in the mud, barking loudly. Shit . I am wet, cold, and being herded by a possessed collie. Just as I don’t think it can get any worse, I hear a man’s voice shout: ‘Oi! Eejit!’

My eyes go wide, and the dog barely reacts. Eejit ? On top of all of this, someone is now hurling abuse at me? I look up, and see a tall, brawny figure heading towards us.

‘Eejit!’ he yells again, louder. I’m torn between yelling back at him, and retreating into the relative safety of the cottage.

Before I get the chance to decide, a female voice joins in, and an elderly woman stands before me, also shouting: ‘Eejit!’ at the top of her voice. Before long, a couple of kids, maybe seven or eight years old, emerge from one of the cottages and add their voices to the chorus.

I am cold, confused, and a little scared – why are they all shouting at me? What have I done wrong? What stupid unwritten English rule have I broken? I’m standing in torrential rain, hemmed in by a crazed dog, surrounded by a circle of strangers all chanting the word ‘eejit’ at me. It’s like a horror movie, but wetter.

‘I’m not an eejit!’ I cry out loud. ‘And you can all… feck off!’

‘Not you, darlin’,’ the elderly woman shouts back, her rich Irish accent so much like Nanna Nora’s that it makes me suck in a shocked breath. ‘The dog! That’s his name, so!’

‘He doesn’t eat people!’ one of the children calls out, helpfully.

‘Very often,’ the other one adds, giggling.

‘Ignore them,’ the older woman says, ‘they’re wee devils! Eejit won’t hurt you, I promise – he just thinks you might be a lost sheep. Takes his work very seriously, that one.’

Huh, I think, vaguely reassured – maybe he’s right about that. I am little bit of a lost sheep. One that very much wants to go to the pub.

‘What do I do?’ I ask, staring into Eejit’s blue eyes.

‘Don’t worry, chicken, Ryan will sort him out.’

The big man – Ryan, I guess – walks to stand beside me. He nods at me once, but I barely register him. I’m keeping my gaze on the dog.

‘Hold my hand, sweetheart,’ the man says, his voice a calm and amused whisper of Irish charm in my ear.

‘No! I don’t even know you!’

‘That’s nothing that time can’t cure – but it’s for the dog. If he sees you’re with me, he’ll stop guarding you. If he knows the alpha dog is protecting you, he can relax and everything will be grand.’

‘And you’re the alpha dog in this scenario?’

‘Sure I am,’ he says, grinning at me. I see a flash of teeth in the gloom, and for a second wonder who the predator is here.

I reluctantly let him take my hand in his, and almost sigh out loud at the warmth of his fingers around mine. He gives me a little squeeze, and says: ‘Jaysus, you’re freezing!’

‘I’m aware,’ I reply, as he turns his attention back to the still alert dog. The creature is watching everything we do very closely, his eyes moving between the two of us.

‘Rest, Eejit. Down, boy,’ Ryan says, holding my hand up in his and displaying it. The dog reacts immediately, bounding forward towards us with alarming speed. I yelp, terrified at the blur of fur, and take a big unsteady step backwards. I lose my grip on Ryan’s hand, and fall, right on my ass in a deep puddle of icy water and mud.

I’m so shocked I can’t move for a moment, and I hear the children snickering away in the background. The dog runs over and licks my face, suddenly all affection, as the water seeps through my jeans. I stare into his blue eyes and then, on auto-pilot, I scratch his ears. The poor thing is as wet as I am, and I guess he didn’t mean any harm.

‘Up you come,’ says Ryan, holding out his hands to me again. I gaze up, see his bulky outline against the night sky, and feel as lost as I ever have in my life. None of this has worked out like I expected it to.

I hear myself mutter: ‘I think I’ve made a very big mistake. I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong.’

He grabs hold of me and tugs me upright. I land in a dripping mess against him, and he smiles as he steadies me in his arms and says: ‘Give us a chance, darlin’. I’m sure it’ll all feel right again soon. We just need to get you out of your clothes, and everything will seem better.’

Is he flirting with me? I think. Is he actually flirting with me right now? Or is it just the accent? Every word that comes out of his mouth sounds like a combination of charm and challenge.

The others rush over towards us, and the dog starts playfully leaping around with the kids. One minute he’s a hellhound, the next he’s a goofball.

‘Put the wee dote down, Ryan,’ orders the older woman, ‘she’s had enough of a shock without you manhandling her!’

I realise that I am still standing way too close to him, his hands on my waist, and I shuffle away, embarrassed. My sneakers are completely water-logged, and my feet squelch as I move.

‘Come on, come on, let’s be having you,’ the woman says, putting her arms around my shoulders and guiding me firmly away. I don’t have the energy to argue, and the thought of going back into my freezing cold cottage isn’t exactly tempting. She pulls me towards the bakery next door, leads us down a small side passage and then inside.

The warmth of the place is wonderful after the day I’ve had. Travelling on trains, sitting on cold platforms, waiting at stations, falling in muddy puddles, the relentless rain – it’s all taken a toll. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be warm, and the soft kiss of heat from the log burner nearly has me in tears. I’ve avoided crying throughout this whole ordeal, but now I feel safe, the random act of kindness of the older lady is almost enough to push me over the edge.

She ushers me towards the fire, cooing gentle words, settling me on a large armchair. I sit and wait for my body to stop shaking, and within seconds she is back, with a towel and a blanket.

‘Ryan, make yourself useful. She’s brutal cold, get her some magic potion, will you? And make sure the kids go back to their mammy, all right?’

I rub my hair with the towel, and then hold my hands up to the heat. It is possibly the best feeling I have ever had in my entire life.

‘Now then,’ says the woman, settling opposite me in a matching chair, ‘I’m Eileen. And who would you be?’

‘I’d… uh… be Cassie,’ I reply, looking at her closely for the first time. ‘Cassie O’Hara.’

‘O’Hara, is it? You don’t sound Irish, but you look it for sure. And why are you here, Cassie O’Hara?’

‘That’s a long story,’ I reply, staring around me for the first time. The room is small, with the same beamed ceilings as the cottage next door, but this is clean and cosy, every surface covered in knickknacks and ornaments. A big knitting basket sits on the floor beside Eileen, and a bookcase is overflowing with paperbacks – a mix of crime and romance.

‘Well, I have the time,’ says Eileen, grinning at me. ‘And you need to dry off anyway.’

‘Oh, I know – my pants are soaking wet!’

At this exact moment Ryan reappears, and his eyebrows quirk upwards at my comment.

‘Get your mind straight, Ryan Connolly, you big lug – she’s American, isn’t she? She means her trousers.’

He laughs, and passes me a glass of what my nose soon identifies as whiskey. I look up at Ryan, really seeing him for the first time and almost wishing I hadn’t. The man is gorgeous. Over six foot, built broad and beefy, with thick, wild dark hair. His eyes are a sparkling shade of bright blue, his jaw is strong, and his mouth – good Lord, those lips are just luscious. I find myself staring at them for way too long, and blush when I realise what I’m doing. I’m a pale-skinned redhead, and I don’t blush by halves.

‘Linda at the train station says hello,’ I mumble, suddenly understanding why she’d also gone red when she mentioned his name. This is the kind of man that conjures up sinful thoughts in a woman’s mind.

‘And thank you,’ I add. ‘For the dog thing, and for this. Both of you, you’re very kind. I’ll just warm up and then I’ll… well, I don’t know. I have clean clothes next door, though.’

‘In Whimsy? You’re staying in Whimsy?’ asks Eileen, frowning. She is somewhere in her late seventies or early eighties, I’d say, with the same sprightly energy that Nanna Nora had. Her hair is grey and curly, a lion’s mane that comes to rest on her shoulders. The face itself shows its age, with wrinkles and creases and majestic laughter lines around her blue eyes, but somehow she still seems young. Maybe it’s the magic potion.

I nod, and she shares a look with Ryan. I have no idea what it means, but they’re clearly surprised.

‘Ryan, go off and fetch Cassie’s suitcase from next door, there’s a good lad.’

‘Yes, Mammy,’ he says sarcastically, giving her a salute before he leaves.

‘Is Ryan your son?’ I ask. There’s no obvious resemblance but the ages and relationship seem right.

‘Not in blood, no – he was just being a cheeky pup. I’ve known Ryan since he was a baby, and was best friends with his actual mother, may she rest in peace. She was originally from Dublin like me, moved away to a different part of Ireland when she met his dad. It’s a good job I’m here, he often needs a slap around the back of the head, that one.’

As I take all of this in, I realise that for the first time since I landed in London, I don’t feel like everyone around me is speaking a foreign language. I’ve struggled with all the regional accents, but this one – this one is like coming home for me. Against all odds, I actually smile.

‘You sound just like my Nanna Nora,’ I say, sipping my excellent whiskey.

‘Ah. A fine woman, I’m sure. Would she be the O’Hara?’

‘Kind of. She married an O’Hara. She was originally a Murphy. From County Cork, maybe? She didn’t talk about it much, which is weird, because she talked about everything else all the time. She moved to the States in the early fifties.’

‘Ah, Cork – same as Ryan, so! Well, it was tough times during the war in Ireland, and maybe she wanted a fresh start, eh, Cassie? I take it from the past tense that she’s no longer with us.’

‘No. She died earlier this year. She was… well, we were very close. I’m using the money she left me to have this adventure.’

I sound weary as I say the words, because I am – I’m exhausted, mentally and physically. Eileen leans over and pats my now-thawed hand, and says: ‘Not the best of starts, was it? You must forgive that dog Eejit, now. Nobody even knows who he belongs to. He appears and disappears at will, and Ryan is the only one he’s listening to. He must recognise a kindred spirit!’

‘Does he live with Ryan then?’

The dog has followed us in, and is curled up in a slinky ball in front of the fire. Every now and then his pale blue gaze flickers up towards me, like he’s keeping a careful eye on me.

‘No, the poor yoke doesn’t seem to live anywhere. Most of us open our doors to him, and he doesn’t go short – but so far, he keeps his distance. He belongs to everyone and no one. Much like Ryan, now I come to think of it…’

Just as she says this, the man himself reappears, wheeling my suitcase into the room. I notice that his black T-shirt is soaked through, clinging to his strong shoulders and solid torso in a way that makes me blink and look quickly away. I’m sure a man who looks and sounds like him is used to women falling at his feet, and I’m in no rush to add my name to the list.

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘that’s very kind of you.’

‘Sure, it’s not a problem – at your service, Cassie. I’ll be leaving the two of you for a while now – I have an urgent appointment to get to.’

Eileen makes a ‘tsk’ sound and flaps her hands at him as though she’s chasing him out of the place.

‘Get gone, you hallion! I don’t think it’s altogether “urgent” that you prop up the bar in the pub, now, is it? Will the sky fall in if you stay away?’

‘It won’t fall in, but maybe it’ll slip just a shade? Truth be told, Cormac had just pulled me the perfect pint of Guinness, and it’s terrible rude to leave it there all alone, pining for my lips.’

Eileen picks up a ball of wool from her basket and throws it at his head, saying: ‘Not everything is pining for your lips, Ryan Connolly!’

Ryan laughs, nimbly dodging out of the way, and disappears through the doorway. I find myself staring in that direction, blinking and slightly bewildered.

‘That man never met a living creature he wouldn’t flirt with,’ Eileen announces, the crinkled laughter lines gathering around her eyes giving away her fondness. ‘And to be fair, I reckon he’d have a go at charming the kettle if he was bored enough! Has a heart of pure gold though, he does. Anyway. How are you feeling now?’

I sip my magic potion, and realise I am very slightly tipsy, quite sleepy, and still hungry. It’s a weird combination, and I need to move away from the comfort of the fire before I drift off. I’ll just drool all over my face and wake up ravenous enough to eat my own arm.

‘Better, thank you,’ I reply, automatically relaxing at the gentle lilt of her voice. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you rescuing me. It’s freezing in Whimsy Cottage, and it doesn’t smell great, and it wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I booked it.’

‘No, I can imagine, you poor thing. I’m sure it can all be sorted – the owner is a decent sort, so don’t be worrying. Need be you can spend the night here with us.’

‘Us?’ I echo.

‘I live down here and run the bakery. Ryan has his own rooms upstairs. It suits us both – our own space, but company when we fancy it. I just pop in my wee earplugs and I’m away.’

My eyes widen slightly as I wonder what he could be getting up to that’s so loud, but decide it’s probably better not to know. Since my ill-fated wedding day and the ensuing collapse of my life, I’ve not really thought about men, and definitely not in a sexy or romantic way. It’s like that part of me just switched off – I don’t feel the urge to get out into what seems like a scary dating world, and I don’t have the self-confidence to go and meet people the old-fashioned way in bars.

If I’m being honest with myself, the little spark of interest I felt when I really noticed Ryan was the first I’d felt in a long while. I’m not quite sure whether to smother it or kindle it – my instincts say smother, but then again, aren’t I supposed to be using this trip to recreate myself?

It’s all too complicated, and I’m exhausted at the thought. Instead, I think, I will simply do what I intended to do all along – go to the pub in search of sustenance.

‘Eileen, do they have steak and kidney pie in the pub across the road?’

She grins at me, and replies: ‘Ah! A woman after me own heart, now, aren’t ye? They do a steak and Guinness pie, and I promise it’s the best you’ll ever have. I know the one who bakes the pies. She’s a rare talent.’

‘Right,’ I say, clocking her mischievous wink, ‘well, I’m starving, and if I stay here a minute longer I’ll be asleep. So I’m going to do what my Nanna Nora would do, and head to the pub. I love English pubs.’

‘I hope you like Irish pubs, too. Now, head through that wee door there, you’ll find the bathroom and my bedroom, where you can get changed. I’ll call Cormac and tell him to get your dinner in the oven!’

I nod gratefully, and drag my suitcase away with me. As I root through it for fresh clothes, I realise that the bedroom smells like Nora as well. A combination of lavender and rose – an essence of something from childhood. I sit on the pretty patchwork quilt, and gaze around at the unfamiliar room that somehow feels like a place I already know. I spot a huge ‘Happy 80 th Birthday’ card that stands in pride of place on top of a dark wooden cabinet crammed with knickknacks and pottery ornaments.

I can’t help but smile, and I feel a sense of warmth and contentment spread over me. It’s almost physical, that sensation – a sweeping presence of reassurance and wellbeing. Like my nanna really has come back to me, for this one precious moment, just to tell me: ‘Don’t worry so much, angel – everything will be as it should.’