Chapter 4 #2
Everyone else, I think. Apart from Liam. Please don’t tell me about him, I think. I’m just not ready.
‘Well now,’ he replies, leading me back inside the inn, carrying my case over the steps for me. ‘That would take a while, and I have spuds to be peeling. Maybe we could meet up for a drink later. Your daddy didn’t mention he was expecting you.’
The trace of an Irish accent is still there, lurking around beneath the surface, even though Sean was born in Cornwall.
His home was a little patch of Ireland though, transplanted when Brian and Bernadette moved here for Brian’s job, and they all picked some of it up.
These days there are probably Byrne grandchildren running around confusing tourists by speaking with an Irish accent.
‘My daddy doesn’t know!’ I tell him, whispering it and looking around.
We’re in the back rooms of the building, and very little has changed.
There’s been a lick of paint, and as I look through into the kitchens I see some new appliances, but the smell and the feel of the place is exactly the same.
It’s so odd. It’s almost like I never left.
‘I know he’s not been well, so I thought I’d come home and, uh, you know, surprise him. ’
‘Aye. You mean, you knew if you told him, the stubborn old arse would come up with an excuse to stop you?’
‘Exactly that. Sean, gosh, it’s so nice to see you… I can’t believe how much time has passed. How can you be a grown man when you were only four a few months ago?’
He flexes his arms to make his biceps pop, and grins.
‘As you can see, very much a grown man! Let me know if you fancy that drink now, won’t you?
I’ll be here this evening, or if not then pop in to see us all.
Mam and Dad will be tickled to see you again.
Your dad always tells us what you’re up to, and shows us photos and the like, but they’d love to have you round for a cuppa. ’
I nod, feeling a combination of pleasure and worry at the idea.
So much of my past is tied up with this place, and the concept of just popping in to see the Byrne clan is both wonderful and overwhelming.
Then again, it was always overwhelming. I always left their home like I was on a sugar rush, completely over-stimulated, and only part of that was due to the never-ending supply of boiled sweets that the kids always seemed to have.
Chocolate limes and cola cubes were basic food groups there.
‘Are you still at the same house?’ I ask.
They lived in a three-bedroomed terraced house that was a very cramped home to Bernadette and Brian, and their many children.
It always smelled of food and the coal fire and unwashed boys.
Only one of their children, Cara, was a girl, and she pretty much pretended she was a boy to make life easier for everyone.
I smile at the memory, of the noise and the constant fighting and the even more constant laughter.
‘Oh no, we’re all in a new one up the hill… our Liam had it built for us. You’ll have heard he moved to Australia?’
I nod, because I had heard – but I have no clue what happened to him after that, or to any of them.
I blanked out everything from that part of my life because I missed it too much.
I remember being about nineteen and in college, and hearing tales of Liam leaving for Sydney on some kind of tech scholarship.
Even years after I left, it still hurt to hear about what I’d lost. I told my dad I didn’t want to hear any more village news and issued a similar ban to my mum.
If I couldn’t be there, I wanted to put it all behind me.
Especially Liam. It wasn’t mature, but I felt like it was the only way to survive the hurt of it all – and part of me still feels like that.
Now, standing here with Sean so genuinely pleased to see me, I also feel a bit ashamed of myself.
I pretended they didn’t exist, and even thinking about Liam still makes me feel embarrassed and uncomfortable.
We haven’t spoken since we were sixteen, and frankly I’m glad that he lives on the other side of the world, childish as that might seem.
I have questions, of course – like how and why he bought them a new house – but all that can wait.
For now, I need to see my dad. One step at a time.
‘Right. Well, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, Sean, but we’ll definitely have that catch-up.’
‘I hope so. You’re looking beautiful, by the way, Ellie – American life has suited you, I’d say!’
He kisses me on the cheek and walks back into the kitchens. Is he flirting with me? Is Sean Byrne flirting with me? I’m old enough to be… no, actually, I am not anywhere near old enough to be his mother. It just feels like it because he’s still an irritating child in my mind.
I leave my case in the back rooms and walk through into the public part of the building.
My dad might be behind the bar, or on reception, or nowhere here at all.
He always used to love the part of his job that involved talking to people, but he has just had a stroke.
That might not be something he has rushed back into doing.
This is always a quiet time of day here.
There are only four bedrooms for people to stay in, and check-in is usually done by three.
There are two parts to the inn, one slightly posher and smaller, where we served up breakfast. I wander inside, my fingers tracing the dark wood panelling on the walls, inhaling the still-familiar scents.
Breakfast was hours ago, but I swear I can still smell the bacon, the toast, the coffee.
The carpet is new, I notice, and all of the light fittings have been changed.
The furniture is the same though – quality lasts, I suppose, and these tables and chairs have been around for a lot longer than I have.
The whole room has been festooned with fairy lights, twinkling silver and gold in the dimness, making it feel magical.
I walk through to the bigger side of the bar, the one that is simply a village pub.
It is dressed for Christmas, the little window ledges decorated with boughs of holly, the long wooden bar draped with a beautiful garland.
It’s quiet right now, but most nights it always ended up packed.
Locals and tourists all settled into this warm and cosy space with its beamed ceiling and slightly sloping floors.
The age of the inn shows in here, accentuated with old-fashioned décor that makes it seem timeless.
It feels exactly what it is – a room where folk have been gathering for hundreds of years to share shelter, food, drink, companionship.
A place where people come together, where friendships are made, where bonds are formed.
Where fights are settled, where romance blossoms, where gossip is to be had. The very best of a British pub.
Again, there are new carpets, and some new fabrics in the little tucked-away booths, but basically it is still the same.
The aromas are slightly different in here – beer, whisky, wine.
A delicious undercurrent of fresh pine from the enormous Christmas tree.
Just under two weeks to go until the Big Day.
I grin when I see that the same battered fairy with one wing left is still perched on top of it.
A few of my younger efforts are still visible on the branches – a penguin made from the inside of a toilet paper roll, a polar bear created with cotton wool and cardboard that now looks a bit the worse for wear.
I nod at the one person in here, sitting with a pint at a small table, his back to the crowded bookshelves in the corner.
They’re draped with red and gold tinsel but still crammed.
The little lending library always had a life of its own, stacked with dog-eared paperbacks that people swapped out, along with maps and guides.
A pile of board games sits on the shelf below, showing their age now – the boxes and the lettering telling me that at least some of them are the same ones that I grew up with.
Chess and draughts and an old peg board for scoring card games.
I vividly recall the intense matches that used to go on, collections of men and women huddled around the tables, the ale flowing, the laughter and chat as they faced each other in endless rounds of gin rummy and cribbage.
I pick up the cast-iron poker from the fireplace and give the fire a prod.
A wooden Nativity scene is playing out on the huge mantelpiece, and I almost fear for their little wooden bodies as the logs crackle and spark.
That gorgeous smell, and the little wisps of smoke that escape the chimney, make me smile.
It was always freezing in here first thing in the morning at this time of year, and so toasty-warm by the evening.
I’m now used to American architecture, buildings that are air conditioned and heated to perfection, and the quirks of a place like this make it feel like a different world.
I approach the bar, noticing that sprigs of mistletoe are hanging at strategic points. That could lead to what the Byrne family would call ‘shenanigans’.
I ring the little brass bell that has stood on the smooth wooden counter for as long as I remember, noticing that it has had a Christmas make-over – a little red and green tartan bow added to the handle. Within seconds, Sean appears from the kitchens.
‘Good day to you, miss!’ he says cheekily. ‘And what can I be getting you? I’ll have to see some ID if it’s alcohol, mind! We don’t tolerate under-age drinking in the St Tilda Inn.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. I was drinking in the St Tilda Inn when I was fourteen…’