Chapter 7
SEVEN
On the outside, The Red Lion is the very picture of a quaint English countryside inn. It looks quite prim and proper, the kind of place Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple might visit for a swift sherry on her way back from solving a murder at the vicarage.
Inside, it’s a different matter. As soon as I step through the door, my senses are assaulted – the room isn’t that big, but it is a riot of colour and sound, a melting pot of music and mirth and mouth-watering smells.
All of the scattered tables and little alcoves are filled, and in one corner a small group of people are playing lively music on a variety of different instruments. I spot a couple of energetic fiddlers, a flute, a penny whistle and a banjo, all going with great gusto, filling the room with a melodic but playful backdrop.
There’s a roaring fire in a hearth so big you can imagine a hog roasting there, and the place is filled with a dazzling array of what my mother would call ‘tat’, and I call ‘character’. There are flags and brass horseshoes, stacks of books and board games. It’s the kind of place where you could sit out the zombie apocalypse and never get bored.
The walls are decorated with stunning framed photographs of the coast and countryside of Ireland. Moody and magnificent, they draw the eye in so deeply that you almost feel like you’re there, standing on the Cliffs of Moher. They’re so good they could be in a gallery.
Hanging above us, dangling from the ceiling, are criss-crossed glittery Christmas decorations, and way too many bunches of mistletoe. The long wooden bar is decorated with string lights, and a small tree twinkles away in one corner.
The bar is lined with tall chairs and stools, along with more types of ‘stout’ than I’ve ever seen in one place before – not just the familiar black and gold of the Guinness harp, but pumps that offer Beamish and Murphy’s and what appears to be the pub’s own brew, Cormac’s Porter.
I get a few curious looks, a couple of hand waves, and a raised bow from one of the fiddle players. Ryan, tucked into a window seat, meets my eyes and gives me a wide grin. He looks so devilish with his wild hair and his sparkling eyes that my stomach takes a little leap, and I remind myself that I am not the same Cassie as I was a few weeks ago. I am not panic-attack-in-Macy’s-Cassie; I am international-jet-setter-Cassie. I surprise myself by maintaining eye contact and grinning right back at him. He looks a little taken aback, and I find that I like it.
Behind the bar is a glamorous blonde with huge hair that wouldn’t look out of place on an old-school Charlie’s Angel. She’s currently managing about five different pints of black ale, scooting along pulling the pumps, letting creamy heads settle and topping up, all in a perfectly synchronised rhythm. She chats to each customer as she works, and has several older men gazing at her in adoration.
‘You must be Cassie!’ she exclaims as I approach, her Irish accent not quite as pronounced as Eileen’s, but very much still there. ‘What’s your poison?’
‘Umm… what do you recommend?’
‘Well now, that depends, doesn’t it? Are you looking to get ossified?’
‘I don’t know. What does that mean?’
‘It means so drunk you forget your own name.’
‘Ah. Well, in that case, no thank you – not tonight at least. Maybe a glass of red wine? A Merlot if you have one?’
Her pretty face creases in sadness, and she replies: ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. We only sell stout and whiskey. Anything else is a bit too fancy for the likes of us.’
Before I get the chance to respond, she bursts out laughing and waves a dishtowel at me, clutched between impeccably manicured nails.
‘I’m just acting the maggot!’ she exclaims. I’ve not heard that one before, even from Nanna Nora, but I can figure it out from the context. ‘A nice glass of Merlot, coming right up! I believe someone booked you into Whimsy by mistake?’
‘By mistake?’ I echo, as she pours my drink. This is the first I’ve heard of it, and it sets alarm bells ringing in my head. I only booked it a week ago, paid in full, and flew thousands of miles to spend the next month here – all on the basis of a mistake?
It does explain why the cottage was so cold, so unwelcoming, so dirty. Why the place felt abandoned. I gulp down half my wine in two mouthfuls, and she says: ‘Oh, don’t be listening to me – I never know what I’m talking about! It’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I’m Orla, by the way. I run this place with my fella, Cormac. He’s just sorting your food for you, Cassie. It was stir-fried octopus with raspberry sauce you were looking for, wasn’t it?’
She says this perfectly seriously, with one arched eyebrow quirked upwards. If I hadn’t just been caught out by her, I might have fallen for it.
‘You’re acting the maggot again, Orla, aren’t you?’ I say, narrowing my eyes. She laughs out loud and nods, clearly delighted with having a new playmate.
Just then Cormac himself emerges from the back room with a plate. He’s an enormous man in every way, tall, with an impressive beer belly nestled beneath his green Ireland rugby shirt. His brown eyes are kind and his smile is welcoming.
‘The woman of the hour!’ he says, laying the plate down in front of me. ‘I’m just after getting this for you – pie, peas, and our finest colcannon.’
I suck in a breath, and can hardly contain my delight. Nanna Nora used to make colcannon for me, and I haven’t had it since she died. She called it ‘proper Irish comfort food’, made of buttery, creamy mashed potato with cabbage. It tastes much better than it sounds, and she used to serve it up with bacon chops. The rigours of the day seem to drop away from me – my usual response to butter and carbs.
‘Are you okay there, Cassie, or do you want me to chase off some of the hooligans so you can have a proper table?’
I assure him I am fine where I am, mainly because I can’t bear the thought of waiting even a moment longer. I go into some kind of trance-like state as soon as the first taste of colcannon hits my tongue, and follow it up with a mouthful of pie that is, as Eileen promised, one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.
I realise, after a few minutes of deeply concentrated enjoyment, that Orla and Cormac are staring at me in amusement. I’d completely blanked them – and the rest of the world – out while I started my meal.
‘What?’ I ask, smiling and refusing to feel embarrassed. ‘Can’t a woman enjoy her food?’
‘She can, sure,’ Orla says, laughing. ‘But you’re enjoying your food an awful lot, there, what with the sound effects. Feels a bit like the priest should be reading the marriage banns for you and that pie.’
‘It’s like that scene in When Harry Met Sally ,’ adds Cormac. He raises his voice to sound like a woman, and pronounces: ‘I’ll have what she’s having!’
‘Well you’re out of luck, big fella,’ replies Orla. ‘Because that was the last pie standing! Will you have another glass, Cassie?’
I nod eagerly. It really has been a day of contrasts, I think, as I sip my refreshed Merlot. I’ve gone from the depths of despair to being warm, welcome and well fed. I know I have to deal with my accommodation, but right now this is enough. The music in the background is buoying my mood almost as much as the meal, and I find myself tapping my toes and clapping along.
I recognise the song from Nanna Nora’s house – ‘The Wild Rover’. She had a recorded version by a band called The Dubliners, even though she told us it was an old folk tune. As kids, Suzie and I would spin around to it like tops, and Nanna would let us stand on her green velvet couch and jump off into the air as we sang the ‘no, nay, never’ chorus.
It makes me smile to remember her, and for the first time since she died, I find that the happy childhood memories are starting to balance out the pain of losing her. She, I decide, looking around at the crowded pub, would love it here. It’s a place full of people who seem to share her zest for life.
The little band is hammering away at the rousing end of the song, and Orla and Cormac are dancing an enthusiastic jig behind the bar. There’s not a lot of space, and their spins end up knocking over a stack of menus and sending a wicker basket full of peanuts flying into the air.
Several people are standing up, either dancing or singing along. One of them, I notice, is Ryan. He has a powerful voice, as you’d expect from a man of his size, but he can hold a tune as well. He raises his glass at me, our eyes meeting once more, and I feel a hint of a blush creep over my cheeks. I nod at him in acknowledgement and sing along quietly myself.
Orla jigs towards me and tops up my glass again, and I don’t stop her. If I end up freezing to death in Whimsy, at least I’ll die happy.
The band are given a hearty round of applause, then start something much slower and sweeter – it sounds like a sea shanty, with its haunting tones and mellow pace.
I am so lost in the sailor’s song of love and loss that at first, I don’t notice when someone sits next to me on one of the tall chairs that line the bar. In fact, it’s the smell that first alerts me – a delicious cologne that makes my nostrils twitch in delight with its bewitching mix of wood and spice. It’s subtle and sophisticated, but still utterly male – the kind of scent June would call a ‘panty-dropper’, because she’s classy like that.
I turn around, and see the profile of an absolutely stunning man. His features are aquiline, with a strong nose, high cheekbones and a wide mouth. As he turns to face me, I’m floored by the combination of his golden blond hair and deep green eyes. He looks every bit as good as his cologne smells, and I fear for a moment that I might actually fall off my chair. What is it with this place and the hot men?
He’s dressed in a stylish charcoal-grey tweed suit that has clearly been tailored to his lean body, and a crisp white shirt that is open at the top few buttons, displaying a hint of sun-kissed flesh. The kind that comes from winter trips to the Caribbean, or skiing in exotic places.
I see his gaze flicker over me in exactly the same way mine flickered over him, and he gives me a full-wattage smile that could power the whole of Manhattan.
‘Hello,’ he says, offering his hand in such a formal gesture that I’m momentarily unsure how to respond. ‘I’m Charles.’
He’s the first non-Irish person I’ve met since I arrived here, but his accent is pure cut-glass English, and easy to follow. I place my hand in his, and the shake goes on for a few seconds too long.
‘Hi, I’m Cassie. Cassie O’Hara.’
He frowns slightly, and asks: ‘American? Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing in our little village, Cassie O’Hara?’
‘Ah. Well. That’s a long story – and I’ve no idea if I’m even staying. I might not even make it through tonight.’
‘Really? That would be a terrible pity. What could possibly tempt you to change your mind about that?’
He says this completely deadpan, but there is a little upward quirk of one side of those lips, and a sparkle of mischief in those green eyes that tells me he is flirting with me. He’s just doing it in a very English way. In fact, I realise, biting back laughter – he’s flirting with me in a very Hugh-Grant-in-the-90s kind of way. I can’t wait to tell June about this encounter.
‘Well, a good start would be accommodation that isn’t covered in mould, freezing cold, and as welcoming as a root canal without the anaesthetic. I checked in to my alleged vacation home this afternoon, and honestly? It’s like the place that Christmas dreams go to die.’
It’s a slightly longer rant than I intended, but his eyes crinkle in amusement, and the laughter lines around them make him look older but no less delectable.
‘Oh no! That bad, really?’
‘Yup. That bad. It looked so nice online, but in reality, it’s not fit for a dog to live in. Even Eejit – he’s a homeless stray – would probably give it a one-star review on Tripadvisor. I’m not picky, and I didn’t expect luxury, but basic cleanliness isn’t too much to ask, is it?’
‘Certainly not. Sounds dreadful. I assume this was in Marshington Grange, the next village over? I hope you’ve complained to the owners?’
‘I tried, but I only got an answering machine, and nobody’s called me back. I’m not quite sure which clowns they’ve got running the circus at the Bancroft Estate, but I’m not impressed.’
He stares at me for a moment, his face suddenly still. I wonder what I’ve said wrong, and am about to ask when Cormac delivers him a glass of brandy. Charles nods his thanks, and turns his attention back to me.
‘You booked a holiday cottage with the Bancroft Estate?’ he says. ‘And it wasn’t… habitable? No fire lit, no welcome package? No wine or chocolates, no Christmas decorations? And it was cold and dirty, you say?’
‘Very cold, and very dirty. And the only welcome package was an exploding lightbulb and a lungful of dust. Why? Do you know them?’
His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment he looks almost intimidating – or at the very least, very authoritative. Like a man who is used to getting his own way. Then he runs his hands through his slightly floppy hair, sighs, and says: ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself in full. My name is Charles Alexander Bancroft.’
‘Oh! Um… that Bancroft?’
‘Yes. One of the clowns, at your service.’
I feel embarrassed and awkward, but also slightly defiant – which might, of course, be because of the wine. The old me – the stay-at-home me – might have spluttered an apology and shuffled off into the shadows, but I am determined to not behave like that.
‘Right. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr Bancroft – any chance of a refund? The place I rented really isn’t fit for habitation.’
He nods, and stands up. Wowzers, he’s tall – much taller than me, and even than my dad. I get another waft of that cologne and try not to inhale too deeply. It will definitely affect my bargaining powers if I pass out from lust.
‘Ryan!’ he shouts, gesturing from the table in the window to the bar. ‘Could I have a word with you?’
Ryan looks over from the chat he was having with an elderly man with wizard-length grey hair, and stares at us both. His usual mischievous smile is nowhere to be seen, and it takes him several moments to move. For a second, I think he’s going to simply ignore him.
The two men stand facing each other, and as I look on, I spot the unmistakable signs of tension. Ryan has his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, and Charles is frowning. I see Cormac and Orla exchange a look, and have no clue what’s going on. The whole tableau reminds of me of nature shows, when you see stags fighting with their antlers.
‘Yes, sir ?’ says Ryan, his flippant tone at odds with his tense body language. ‘Did you command my presence?’
‘Pack it in, Ryan. I’m just back from three long days in London and I’m not in the mood. This is Cassie, she booked one of our holiday cottages.’
Ryan nods in my direction, and winks at me in a way that can only be described as ‘saucy’. In other circumstances I might feel a little flutter, but right now I’m aware that I’m actually irrelevant – I just happen to be caught in the middle of a situation that existed long before I arrived.
‘We’ve met already. Old friends.’
‘Well, be that as it may, Cassie tells me her cottage was in an unacceptable condition when she arrived. Not only was there no welcome package, but it hadn’t been cleaned, and the fire wasn’t ready. Between you and Mary Catherine I expect higher standards for my guests. It’s your job to maintain Waverley and Waterfall, Ryan, you know that.’
There’s a flare of anger in Ryan’s blue eyes, but he quickly clamps it down. He nods slowly, and rubs his hand over his chin, as though he’s thinking hard.
‘I do know that, Your Lordship – but Cassie here wasn’t booked to stay in Waverley or Waterfall. She was booked to stay in Whimsy.’
‘Whimsy…?’ repeats Charles, looking confused. ‘But Whimsy isn’t available. Whimsy is being renovated. How did that happen?’
He looks at me and I simply hold my hands up in surrender.
‘Don’t ask me,’ I reply. ‘I filled out a booking form online, paid my money for a month-long trip, and flew across the Atlantic. I have a confirmation email if you don’t believe me.’
The two men look at each other again, and I can almost feel the conflict in the air. Then Ryan seems to relent, and his gaze softens as he says: ‘Charles, Eileen’s been trying to speak to Allegra since we found out, but she hasn’t called back. The other two cottages are both booked, and I don’t know what happened here – I thought you’d taken it off the booking site until the work was done?’
Again, something is going on that I don’t quite understand, because suddenly all of the machismo has drained out of both of them. Charles sighs, looks sad, and answers: ‘Well. It should have been, yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ll have to speak to her about it. I know it’s all a bit much for her to deal with, but she insists she can cope, and I don’t want to make her feel…’
‘Useless?’ Ryan supplies, his face sympathetic.
Charles nods tersely, and then turns to me.
‘Cassie, I’m so sorry. It appears there’s been an error, as you probably just gathered – Whimsy should never have been available, and I can only apologise for the inconvenience. Ryan, how long will it take for you to get Whimsy ready, if you make it your top priority?’
‘If I give up sleeping, eating and all my other bad habits, maybe five days, a week?’
He smiles at me as he speaks, making it clear that he’s not taking this too seriously. I suspect he doesn’t take much too seriously.
‘Right. Very well. If you could, I’d very much appreciate it,’ says Charles, nodding firmly. ‘And in the meantime, Cassie, I’d be honoured if you’d be my guest at Bancroft Manor. It’s the very least I can do in the circumstances.’