Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
BANCROFT MANOR
I’m woken up the next morning by the not-so-subtle sound of a child, stage whispering: ‘She’s not dead, see? Her foot just moved – she’s just asleep, you eejit!’
I risk opening one eye, and see two little boys and one girl standing at the bottom of my bed. All three of them have red hair and blue eyes, and the ruddy cheeks of kids who have been out in the snow. They stare at me intently, shoving each other around, and all jump back in shock when I suddenly sit up straight. A real Frankenstein moment.
We eyeball each other for a second, and then the girl steps forward. She’s clearly the bravest of the bunch, with long, messy plaits that drape over each shoulder.
‘Sorry we woke you up,’ she announces, her Irish accent there but subtle. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Oh,’ I reply, swiping sleep from my eyes. ‘All three of you accidentally opened a closed door and came into my room, did you?’
‘We did, yeah,’ she answers, her tone defiant despite the fact that she can’t be more than ten. I try not to smile – this is the kind of girl who lives with eternally scraped knees and doesn’t take crap from anybody. ‘Kind of. We’re here with Nanny. She’s doing the cleaning, and she told us to make ourselves scarce and keep out of trouble. This room is usually empty, and we jump on the bed.’
She sounds deeply aggrieved that I have deprived them of their fun, and I say: ‘Right. Well, I’m sorry about that. Who’s your nanny?’
‘Mary Catherine, of course,’ she answers, as though I’m the stupidest person on the face of the planet. ‘Are you the American lady who fell on her arse in the puddle?’
I’m slightly taken aback at her use of the word ‘arse’, and see the boys’ eyes widen in surprise. She’s clearly out to impress. Also, exciting that my fame has spread – Cassie O’Hara, the incredible falling woman.
‘Yep, that would be me. So what’s your name?’
‘I’m Molly. These are my brothers, Daniel and Patrick. My daddy’s called Patrick too, but everyone calls him Paddy. He does the gardens, and mends the cars. Our mam is Sarah and she runs the tea rooms.’
I’m reminded again of how useful everyone here seems to be, and how busy their lives are. I wish I had a practical skill to offer, like being a high-flying nail technician or having a knack for repairing clocks.
‘Are you going to get up?’ Molly asks, frowning.
‘I am, yes. And you’re going to leave while I get dressed, and then you’re not going to come back in and jump on my bed, are you?’
I put some steel into my voice, and see her battle with the urge to argue. She’s quite a handful, this red-haired sprite, but eventually she concedes.
They’re just turning to leave when a middle-aged woman rushes into the room, a feather duster in her hand and an actual real-life baby strapped to her chest in a papoose. He’s all tufty red hair and pale skin, pudgy arms sticking out at right angles.
‘There you are!’ she says, sounding flustered. ‘You wee horrors, I’m just after telling Allegra how well-behaved you’ve been, and then you disappear off and start causing mayhem!’
Her eyes fly to me, and she says: ‘I’m so sorry – no manners, rascals all! I blame the parents!’
‘I’ll tell Mam you said that,’ Molly pipes up, earning herself a stern look.
‘You be sure and do that, so. And I’ll have plenty to tell her as well, won’t I?’
All three of them look suitably chastened by this threat, and I’m guessing that their mam is not to be messed with.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, reassuring her – she looks like she has enough to deal with. Her hair is a faded red, much like my dad’s, and she is clearly harassed. ‘Not a problem. I’m Cassie.’
‘Oh, I know that already – talk of the village, you are! I’m Mary Catherine, and this here is Connor. Another little monster to add to the clan.’
I climb out of bed, throw a robe on over my pyjamas, and go over to peer at the baby. He opens his eyes and stares at me in that unapologetic way that babies do. I smile, because he is adorable, and reach out to chuck his chin. He chortles at me, and I am smitten – totally in love. Forget Ted, forget Ryan, forget Prince Charming – Connor is surely the man for me.
‘Can I hold him?’ I ask, hoping that I’m not overstepping. A few of my old school friends have kids, and some of them were quite precious with them.
‘Be my guest!’ she replies, unhooking the harness and passing over the bundle. ‘Six months old and already full of deadly charm!’
I gather him my arms, and he immediately reaches for my hair. He manages to clasp some of it in his chubby little fist, and chuckles – this is clearly the most amusing thing that has ever happened to him. I dance around with him, relishing the feel of his solid little body in my arms, lost in the simple pleasure.
‘Ah, that’s grand,’ Mary Catherine exclaims. ‘Look – he likes you. Will you keep him a while, do you think? I’m already behind… he’s fresh changed and fed.’
I glance across at her, see that she looks stressed and a little desperate, and reply: ‘Of course I will. We’ll go for a little wander together, won’t we, Connor? See what’s what in the world?’
Mary Catherine stretches her back, and then turns to the other three.
‘Now,’ she says firmly. ‘You’ll be helping me, won’t you? I’ve got three scrubbing brushes with your names on them!’
‘They don’t really have our names on them, do they, Nanny?’ asks one of the boys, looking confused.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, Daniel Kelly. Come on, now.’
I find myself alone with Connor, who doesn’t seem at all distressed by the situation. He’s clearly a confident boy who is maybe used to being handed around – I suspect the phrase ‘it takes a village’ was invented for a place like this. It’s a million miles from my own life, where I live in a crowded city but barely know a soul. Everyone here matters in a way that fills me with yearning.
I kiss Connor’s fuzzy ginger locks, and slip my feet into my sneakers. I risk a quick glance in the mirror, and see that I am a disaster zone – bed head to the max, groggy eyes, and my second-best PJs with little yellow ducks all over them.
‘Ah well,’ I say to Connor in my best Nanna Nora voice, ‘I’ll be breaking no hearts, for sure!’
He sticks his finger up my nostril, which I take as encouragement, and we make our way down the grand staircase. I can see that Mary Catherine has been at work, and the wood is shining and smells of lavender polish.
I walk carefully down the steps, showing the baby the portraits on the way. He pulls a face at the last one – miserable old Earl William – and his lips start to wobble, as though he’s considering having a cry.
‘Yeah,’ I murmur soothingly, quickly moving on, ‘that’s exactly how he makes me feel.’
I pause and admire the Christmas tree again, and have to keep a tight grip of the wriggling baby as he seems intent on grabbing handfuls of pine needles. Onwards into the Blue Room, and I find the usual assortment of breakfast delights. I grab a pastry topped with chopped apricots, and nibble it as we sway around the room – anything more complicated would be impossible. I have no idea how mothers manage this full-time.
Connor makes a bewildering range of gurgles and splutters as we move together, trying to communicate in his baby way. I realise after a few moments that we are waltzing – that I am waltzing this tiny creature around in my arms. Huh, I think, smiling at the memory of the night before. Connor is definitely someone I could love for a thousand years.
‘Should we look at some pictures?’ I ask, waltzing towards one of the walls. The pictures here cover a range of eras, the frames spanning the very old to the very new. I see a large sepia shot of days gone by, a collection of staff standing on the grand steps at the rear of the house, the presumed then-lord of the manor and his wife before them.
Everyone has that stiff and frozen look you see in old pictures. I gaze at them, laughing at some of the expressions and the formal Sunday best clothes, and wonder who they all were – not just the lord, but the staff. Cooks, maids, groundsmen – over forty of them. Each of these people were just as important in their own lives, even if they didn’t have a title. They’d have all had dreams and loves and heartbreaks as well, and now here they are, frozen in time inside a gilt-edged picture frame.
I move along, jiggling Connor as he reaches out to try and touch everything we pass, and see one that I think is Allegra as a child, holding that silly plastic cherry in the air, gaps in her front teeth. Another on her wedding day, looking stunning in white, Charles’s father handsome in a military uniform pinned with medals.
I see Charles as a little boy, with a Springer Spaniel who could be Rupert, and later a more modern picture of a dog that could be Jasper. I see the family at formal events, and yes, even one of them at a royal wedding. I’d love to snap a pic of that and send it to everyone back home, but I’d feel a bit like a snooping paparazzi.
There are some of Georgie when she was younger, but none of a woman who could be the mysterious Vanessa. There are, though, a few lighter patches on the blue-painted wall, where possibly pictures have been removed – or maybe my mind is getting carried away with itself.
Connor is starting to weigh heavily, perched in my arm, so I scoot him over to the other. He laughs delightedly, and nuzzles into my hair. We continue to wander, to look at the pictures, until a voice from behind says: ‘Good morning to you both.’
I recognise it as Ryan’s voice right away, because he sounds melodic when he’s speaking as well as singing. I wonder how long he has been standing there, and for a split second I am self-conscious, aware of my shabby hair and less-than-stylish clothes. I push that down – it is morning, I am in my temporary home, and I am caring for a baby. It is fine to look less-than-stylish, and it’s not like I normally look like a supermodel anyway.
I turn around, and see him walking towards us. He’s wearing paint-spattered jeans and a white T-shirt that sculpts the shape of his muscles, throwing a heavy fleece jacket on the back of the couch as approaches. His thick dark hair is scattered with snowflakes, which answers at least one question about the day ahead – it is still snowing.
‘That looks good on you, Cassie,’ he says, grinning in that way he has. The way that makes me feel slightly nervous, like I’m fizzy inside.
‘What? My rubber duck PJs?’
‘No, darlin’ – the baby. You look like a matching set.’
I glance down at Connor, who is now waving his chubby arms at Ryan. They are clearly old friends. He’s right, I think – it’s the colouring. This could be my baby, in another world. But that feels like a world that is beyond my reach now. I know I’m technically not too old to become a mother, but it still feels impossible – too many hurdles in my way. Maybe that’s simply not for me, and that’s okay, I tell myself – not every woman has to have children. Many women have successful and fulfilling lives without being moms.
Even as I repeat that to myself, even though I know it’s true, I don’t feel comforted by it – because I did always want this. I always wanted to have children. Ted and I were so busy establishing our careers that we always assumed we’d be able to do it later – except that ‘later’ never happened for us, and I was left alone with that shattered dream.
‘You okay?’ Ryan asks, and I assume some sign of these sad thoughts has shown on my face. He is, after all, a man with six sisters.
‘Sure. Just tired.’
‘Let me help there,’ he replies. ‘I’ll take Connor while you get a coffee. Weighs a ton for his age, doesn’t he? Going to be a rugby player, this one!’
He plucks the baby from my arms, spinning him around until he laughs. Coffee is probably a very good idea. Ryan joins me and takes a pastry, effortlessly juggling the child – he is a natural, it seems. Connor keeps making grabs for the food, and Ryan says: ‘Are ye hungry, fella? Will I find you a snack?’
‘Is that okay?’ I ask, suddenly aware of my responsibilities. I told Mary Catherine I’d look after him. ‘Can babies eat at this age? I… well, I don’t know much about babies, really.’
‘They usually go onto solids at about six months, but this monster started earlier. He’s a big fan of the bananas.’
He finds one in the fruit bowl, and peels it halfway down. Connor grabs hold of the bit with the peel still on it like it’s a handle, and immediately begins to smash his mouth on the top. It’s a very messy and curiously fascinating process, and I laugh as he starts to slam it against Ryan’s chest, covering his top in yellow blobs.
Ryan just laughs, not at all bothered, and says: ‘Comes with the territory, doesn’t it? Spend enough time around one of these wee creatures and you soon find yourself covered in all kinds of stuff. Some of it a lot less appealing than banana.’
I assume, from his easy familiarity, that those six sisters of his have maybe produced a lot of ‘these wee creatures’, and he is an experienced uncle.
‘Are they all back in Ireland?’ I ask. ‘Your sisters?’
‘They are. Some in County Cork, some in the city – Eileen mentioned that’s where your nanny was from.’
‘Yes. We’re probably related, Ryan.’
‘Sweet Jesus, I hope not!’ he replies, winking at me. The man is a flirt machine, even when he’s covered in squashed fruit and baby slobber.
‘What’s the deal with this place,’ I ask. ‘With the Irish? When I was at the train station Linda behind the ticket counter called it Little Ireland, and apart from the Bancrofts, everyone I’ve encountered has been Irish – some more than others. The kids – Mary Catherine’s grandchildren – not so much.’
‘Ah, you met the terrible trio, did you? You seem to still have all your body parts and nobody’s drawn a fake moustache on your face, so they clearly liked you. Well, they were born here – but their whole family is Irish, as you’ve gathered. Everybody in the village is – it’s a historic thing.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, frowning in confusion as I sip my blessed coffee.
‘It dates back a few hundred years or so. Lots of poor Irish came over to England to find work at harvest time. Most of them just went back afterwards; it was a cycle. But here, a few of the single lads stayed – they had little to go back to, and from what I know, the people who lived in the big house back then were decent sorts who treated them well. So it started like that, but for some reason it grew. Brothers joined them, and sometimes brought wives, and babies were born, and over the generations more and more came over.’
‘And that still happens now? With people like you? Why would people come now – Ireland isn’t so poor anymore, there must be opportunities to keep younger ones there?’
He takes the now-destroyed banana from Connor’s hand, and throws it into the bin. He takes a paper towel, damps it with water from the jug, and wipes his squirming little face clean. All done in a matter of seconds, with utter ease.
‘Yeah, sure – in many ways it’s a thriving place now. But the tradition was already set, you see. The links have got stronger over the decades. Everyone here has family back there, and sometimes they leave here and go back home, and sometimes family leaves home and comes here. Some of the young ones just come for a little while, for the experience. Some, like Eileen, came later in life. The reasons are different for everyone, but it shows no sign of slowing down – this is a good place to live. His Lordship and I might not see eye to eye, but he’s fair with the rents, and always finds a spot for people, a job, something to make them feel part of the community, you know?’
I nod, and start to understand even more about the pressures that Charles is facing. He’d mentioned having to increase rents, and how much he didn’t want to do that.
‘And what about you?’ I ask, feeling curious. ‘Why are you here? You’re not at the start of your life looking for an experience, and you’re not at the other end either – how old are you anyway?’
‘That’s terrible rude of you, Cassie. In our culture you don’t go around asking men their age!’
‘That’s a lie isn’t it?’
‘It is. And I’m thirty-nine if you must know. As to why, well, that’s a story for another day – I wouldn’t want to spoil my man-of-mystery image now, would I?’
I screw my eyes up at him, and say: ‘Are you on the lam? Are you wanted by Interpol for a daring art heist, and hiding out in the English countryside?’
‘Maybe I am, darlin’ – all part of the mystery!’
At that exact moment, Connor belches loudly, and spits up a chunk of banana onto Ryan’s smirking face. Instant karma, right there. He remains stoical while he wipes it off, but I find the whole thing deeply amusing, and laugh for a very long time.
‘Ha! Not so much a man of mystery now, are you, Ryan Connolly?’
‘If that’s even my real name…’
We’re still laughing when Charles walks into the room, and I feel suddenly strangely guilty. Their drama is exactly that – theirs, not mine – but his presence still makes the atmosphere palpably different. It’s frostier in here than outside in the snow, and I see both men transform before my eyes. Apart, both are easy-going in their own unique way – together, they feel like a ticking time bomb of icy politeness.
Charles’s gaze takes everything in, including the jacket that Ryan had oh-so-casually flung onto the furniture – designed, I suspect, purely to annoy Charles if he happened to walk in.
‘Good morning, Cassie,’ he says, sounding deeply formal. ‘And to you, Connor,’ he adds, walking over to pat the baby’s head – Connor is, after all, irresistible.
‘Ryan. What can I do for you?’
The words are fine, but the tone implies that he has no desire to do anything for Ryan other than beat him to a pulp. These two should be fighting a duel or something – they have the setting for it, I think, gazing out at the snow-covered grounds.
‘It was actually Cassie I was wanting to see, Your Lordship. Due to my impressive skills, and the fact I had a helping hand, Whimsy is pretty much done. Still smells of paint, but looking grand.’
He digs in his pocket, balancing the baby on his hip, and passes me a set of keys.
‘Better late than never,’ he says, as I accept them. ‘Let me know when you’re moving in, and we’ll all meet you in the pub, give you a proper village welcome.’
I nod, and thank him, and he passes me Connor. He gives us both a nod, and says he has to be on his way. The temperature goes up a few notches as soon as we hear him drive away – you can almost see Charles relax.
‘So,’ he says, making himself a plate and pouring a cup of tea, ‘that’s good news, I presume?’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I reply, shrugging. Truthfully, part of me will be sad to leave this place – to leave the beautiful gardens, the historic building, and, more importantly, its eccentric residents.
‘You don’t have to go, you know,’ he adds, speaking quietly. He looks uncertain, which isn’t an expression I’ve seen on him before.
‘What do you mean? I paid to stay in Whimsy, and I’m guessing the rental fee on this place would be considerably more!’
‘I simply mean that if you’d like to, you’d be welcome to spend more time here. Georgie has enjoyed having you around, as has Allegra. And, just possibly, so have I.’
He gives me a small, sheepish grin as he adds the last part, and it’s very cute – like he’s admitted a weakness and is now concerned as to how the world will see him. I am tempted, but I also know that this trip was about me learning how to be happy alone – not about living a fairy tale fantasy in the English castle.
‘How about I stay tonight?’ I respond, untangling Connor’s vice-like grip from my hair. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I’d be more than happy to carry on discussing your projects with you, though. I know you’re looking for investors, and I have a few ideas about how to make this a more attractive proposition for them.’
There is a flicker of disappointment, but being the kind of man he is, he hides it almost immediately. I wonder how hard it must be to constantly be on alert, constantly watching what you say and how much of yourself you let creep out into the world. I guess it’s part of his upbringing, this stiff upper lip – his normal way of functioning. It must be exhausting, especially when you’d rather be knee-deep in mud on an archaeological dig.
‘That sounds marvellous, Cassie, and is very much appreciated. Now, I have to take my mother for a hospital appointment this morning, but perhaps I could ask Roberts to prepare us a celebratory dinner? A kind of last supper? What’s your favourite meal?’
I feel like I should say something location-appropriate, like pheasant or quails’ eggs or caviar, but in the end I shrug, and say: ‘I’m a sucker for a good mac and cheese.’
He laughs, and as ever the simple act of being genuinely amused transforms him.
‘Mac and cheese it is!’