Chapter 20
TWENTY
BANCROFT MANOR
I’m amazed at the speed with which things start to happen once the whole village is on board. We decide to create one ‘luxury guest suite’, and cannibalise the best furniture and fittings from the rest of the rooms to make it look swish. When it’s done, the fire roaring, the four-poster bed draped in sumptuous fabrics, it looks fantastic.
The rest of the rooms are coming along nicely as well, with strategic use of what we already have, and everything else hired from local businesses. Mary Catherine and her team use a huge machine called a ‘buffer’ to polish up the parquet in the ballroom, and every one of the many windows and glass doors is shining.
One of the villagers’ daughters, Emily, is home from college where she’s studying fashion, and she is an absolute godsend. She buys in cheap fabric and transforms it into beautiful netting that we hang strategically – with the right gust of wind, it billows perfectly and will look amazing in the pictures. She’s also found swathes of extra material in storage – old drapes that she remakes for the other rooms. In return, she’s been given her choice of outfits from the Dressing Room. Georgie took her up there and apparently she almost swooned.
A few of the items we’ve hired are already here – easels, whiteboards, real business-style chairs. The rest will be coming soon, and in the meantime, the place has been a hive of activity – echoing to the sounds of drilling, hammering, and people singing as they work.
Charles is delighted with the response, and Allegra has definitely been enjoying herself. She doesn’t remember people’s names, and is sometimes confused by all the activity, but the lively atmosphere and the company have lifted her spirits. Maybe it’s a reminder of different times, when the house was at the centre of the social whirl.
The people of the village have been generous with their time and skills, fitting it all in around their normal jobs and responsibilities. It’s been a truly inspiring experience, seeing the whole community come together like this, and I feel quietly confident about the upcoming photoshoot.
Today, everyone is having a well-deserved afternoon off. As a thank you to the villagers, a gorgeous Christmas grotto has been arranged for all the local children to enjoy. It was Allegra’s idea, and she and Georgie bought all the gifts and wrapped them.
The grotto has been set up in the secret garden I discovered on my first night here, and it looks magical. The winding path has been dotted with little displays of elves and fairies; the trees and shrubs are decorated with dangling baubles and tinsel. The snow is still thick and dazzlingly white, and as the children and parents make their way in, the place is filled with laughter and high spirits.
At the end of the path, installed on a bench beneath one of the huge pine trees, is Martin from the village, putting his beer belly to good use. He’s dressed in full Santa gear, complete with a bushy fake beard and shiny black boots. He really does look the part, and who’s to say that Santa isn’t Irish?
Eileen is next to him, a table laid out with freshly baked treats – mince pies, I’m told they’re called – and big urns full of drinking chocolate. Each child sits on Martin’s lap, tells him what they want for Christmas, and is given a rummage in the gift sack. Then they move on to Eileen, who lets them loose with the squirty cream and marshmallows.
Someone has put carols on their phone, and an impromptu choir has sprung up, currently bellowing out ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ with great gusto. Ryan is here, chasing a bunch of already hyped-up kids around the monkey puzzle tree with a plastic sword, all of them screaming when he catches them and inflicts a thorough tickling.
I spot Mary Catherine’s grandchildren making their way to the front of the line for Santa, and hear the boys both ask for bikes. I hold my breath as Molly, their ring-leader, takes her turn. She refuses to sit on his lap, and glares at him with narrowed eyes. She clearly knows it’s Martin, as do all of the older children, but wants her chance at a dip in the present bag.
‘What’s your name, little one?’ Martin asks as she glowers at him.
‘It’s Molly, as you well know, Martin. And I’m not little, I’m ten!’
‘Fair play. So, have you an idea what you want for Christmas, then, Molly?’
She stares him down, hands on skinny hips, and announces: ‘World peace!’
Everyone in the vicinity bites back laughter, and Martin replies: ‘Sure, Molly, I’m only Santa Claus – not God almighty!’
She takes her gift and moves on, leaving me with a sense of relief. I’d thought for sure he’d at least lose his fake beard in that little exchange. Possibly his life.
‘This is great, isn’t it?’ asks Charles, sidling up to me. He’s wearing an especially nice pale grey cashmere scarf, and the subtle scent of his cologne is as delicious as ever.
‘It really is. So much energy!’
‘I know. I’m going to do more stuff like this. We’ve been linked with these people for generations, but it’s always felt like there was a divide, you know? Village down the hill, big house on top. We go into the pub and socialise, but there’s never been anything this communal. They’re as much part of the history of the place now as the Bancrofts are, and I’m determined to break down those barriers. I’m going to make sure that we invite everyone up on a regular basis, maybe hold summer garden parties, events for the children, that kind of thing.’
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ I say, smiling up at him. ‘Better be careful though – you might end up drinking Guinness and saying “top of the mornin’ to you”!’
‘None of them actually do say that, I’ve noticed, unless they’re playing up for an audience. We had a coach load of Canadian tourists in over the summer, and they practically all turned into leprechauns for the day! Even the ones who were born here suddenly spoke like they’d kissed the Blarney stone.’
I laugh, because I can imagine it – a harmless bit of fun, acting the comedy Irish, and something that probably delighted the visitors.
We catch up on a few things, and we both eat a mince pie – strange but delicious – as we watch the children trooping through the grotto. I see Sarah with Connor in his papoose, a Santa hat on his little head, and resist the urge to run over and slobber all over him. Jasper appears with one of the decorative elves in his mouth, which Charles leans down to retrieve. The dog looks momentarily crestfallen, then cheers himself up by bounding over to Martin and peeing on Santa’s boots.
We’re still laughing when Ryan joins us. He’s wearing a navy blue beanie hat, his wild dark hair peeking out in curling strands, and the plastic sword is casually slung over his shoulder.
‘You look like a pirate!’ I say.
‘Shiver me timbers, lassie – just be careful I don’t make you walk the plank!’
He aims his sword at me, and I hold up my hands in surrender. Charles remains silent, pointedly looking everywhere apart from at Ryan.
‘Cassie, I was wondering if you’d show me this folly you’ve been talking about,’ Ryan says. ‘The one with the bird’s eye view? It’s a fine clear day, and I’ve brought my camera bag with me. Thought maybe I’d make a start. If that’s all right with you, Your Lordship?’
Charles nods. ‘Fine by me. Cassie, would you like me to accompany you?’
‘Worried I’m going to ravish her and sweep her away to a life of crime on the high seas?’
I feel annoyed with both of them, quite suddenly. I’m not a maiden who needs to be protected – and Ryan is not a slavering monster. Just an irritating one.
‘We’ll be absolutely fine, Charles,’ I say firmly. It’s always uncomfortable being around them when they’re together, and I don’t want the fun of the day to be spoiled. ‘It’s a good idea to get some shots while the sun is shining and the snow looks so pretty. And don’t worry, I remember the way.’
He nods, and I follow Ryan away from the crowds. He hoists a big bag onto his shoulder, handing his toy sword to a passing boy, and I lead him off in the direction of the tower.
I wasn’t being entirely truthful when I said I remembered the way, but after a few false starts I see it in the distance, its stone turret piercing the horizon. It’s a beautiful walk, and Ryan takes pictures as we go. We pause when we see a sweet little robin redbreast perched on a tree branch, its shining eyes darting around and its head swivelling.
I smile as I look at it, the red of its feathers vivid against the snow, and hear the quiet clicking sound of Ryan’s camera at work. Eventually, it flutters off into the distance.
When we arrive at the folly, Ryan takes some shots from the outside, and says: ‘Why have I never seen this before? I didn’t even know it was here!’
‘Wait ’til you get up the stairs,’ I reply, leading him inside.
Up at the top, the air is freezing cold, but the little stone bench is free of snow. I sit and watch as Ryan circles the small space, taking in the stunning view and the different angles. He opens one of the windows, leans out so far I have the urge to grab his feet, and clicks away. He repeats the process at each little porthole.
While he works, he tells me that as well as each frame working by itself, he could also use them to make a moving panorama. That, I know, will look spectacular – and it’s exactly the kind of extra special trick that works so well for marketing.
‘Gosh,’ I say, as he checks the little screen on his camera. ‘It’s almost like you’re a professional or something!’
He makes an amused snort, and carries on with what he’s doing, lost in the process.
‘Hey, it’s just occurred to me,’ I say, getting my phone from my pocket, ‘that I could google you now! Before, you were just Ryan Connolly. Now you’re Ryan Connolly, famous Cork-born photographer – maybe I’ll find some embarrassing pictures of you!’
He sees what I’m doing, and lunges towards me, letting the camera swing from his neck by the strap. He grabs hold of my hand, not hurting me but definitely using some strength. I look up at him in shock, see him shaking his head at me, his face solemn, his blue eyes bruised.
‘Don’t,’ he says simply, slowly releasing his grip. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’ I say quietly, knowing that he’s deadly serious but not understanding why. He sighs, and sits down next to me. He takes a deep breath, then says: ‘I’m sorry I grabbed you. Did I hurt you?’
‘No, I’m fine – but you’re clearly not. What’s going on?’
He rubs his face in the palms of his hands like he’s washing it clean. ‘If you google me, you’ll find stuff. And if you find stuff, you’ll see me differently – and I don’t want you to see me differently.’
‘Okay, I won’t, I promise.’
He seems to sag a little, leaning back against the cold stone wall, his long legs stretched out before him. I’ve never known him to be silent for more than a few seconds, and I’m worried. He opens his mouth a few times as though to talk, but each time whatever he wants to say remains unspoken.
‘Last time I was up here,’ I say, keeping my tone soft, ‘Charles told me about Vanessa, and what happened with her.’
‘Yeah? That’s unusual. He doesn’t like to talk about it, which I completely understand. It was awful.’
‘It sounded it. But I think maybe he felt a bit better afterwards – for getting it off his chest, you know?’
Ryan gives me a lopsided smile, and looks around the strange little tower.
‘Not winning any subtlety points there, Cassie… but I can see this place does have a touch of the confessionals about it, doesn’t it? You’re not a priest, mind, and I don’t have any sins to confess.’
‘I can’t imagine that’s true – you must have lots! But look – all I’m saying is that you want to talk, I’m here. Whatever it is, I won’t see you any differently.’
‘And how do you see me now, Cassie?’
‘As an eejit. As a friend. As a man who seems to be in pain right now.’
I do see him as all of those things, but as I sit close to him, our bodies touching and our clouded breath mingling in the frosted air, I wonder if I’m being entirely honest with myself – I wonder whether I see him as something more.
He nods and replies: ‘Well, the eejit bit’s true, for sure. Look, it’s a long, sad tale, so I’ll give you the shortened version. I used to be married. I had a four-year-old daughter called Mia. Then six years ago, they both died in a car accident. That’s that. As they say in those press conferences, I won’t be taking questions, all right? Now you can google me. And feel sorry for me, of course – let’s not forget that. Ryan Connolly, saddest man in the world.’
He sounds understandably bitter, and although I want to reach out and hold his hand, or pull him into a comforting hug, I sense that he will not welcome it. My heart breaks a little at both what he’s told me, and the way he is reacting – I can see him shutting down, retreating, losing himself in his shell of grief and anger and self-loathing.
‘I won’t google you,’ I say firmly. ‘Your life is your own. I can’t promise not to feel sorry for you, Ryan – of course I do, that’s a terrible thing to happen to anyone. But I can promise not to pity you. There is a difference, isn’t there?’
He nods, and stares out of the little porthole window. I suspect he’s seeing something entirely different.
‘There is, yeah. Thank you. Now come on, I’m freezing my arse off here.’