Chapter EIGHT
Ben
As I drive away from Lou I make a promise to myself I’ll never venture back into Buds and Beans, no matter how many times I need to come back to Ballyheaney House to help get this stupid party ready.
And I will never give in to the urge to look her business up online, because that would lead me down a path I never want to be on again. Our brief conversation was enough to rip open old wounds, so why would I want to put myself, or Lou, through that all over again?
Roly barks in recognition when I follow the tarmacked driveway and turn off on to the gravelled private lane that leads to the bright white front of Ballyheaney House. It’s a sight which never fails to take my breath away, under the lighting that makes it visible right across Lough Beg and the famous Church Island. Long Georgian windows line each of its three storeys, and the steps that lead up to its huge pale grey wooden door are almost regal in their welcome.
‘Yippee, we’re here,’
says Ava, already scrambling to get out of the car.
I knowing I’m breaking the house rules already by parking by the front door.
‘Yes, yes, before you say it, I’ll move the car when I get my breath back,’
I call out when Mum reaches the top of the steps beneath the huge stone pillars that frame the entrance to our family home.
‘It’s been quite a day already. It’s good to see you, Mum.’
She looks tired and frail in her pale pink pullover and grey slacks, but she still radiates beauty in every way. I fear sometimes for her loneliness, far removed from village life and friendship when she still has so much more to give.
What does she do all day except argue over politics or what’s going on in world news with Uncle Eric? Do they keep to their own private quarters these days? Maybe this party is what she needs after all. Maybe it’s what they both need.
‘Grandma!’
Ava calls, bounding ahead of me with Roly on her trail.
‘Oh, I forgot your presents in the car. And I forgot my hot chocolate.’
‘Come in out of that sleety drizzle, both of you. We can get all that in a minute,’
she says, kissing Ava’s forehead when my daughter wraps her arms around her waist in a tight squeeze, but her eyes are on mine.
‘Never mind where you parked, my love. I’m so glad you got here safely in this weather.’
We shuffle into the huge square hallway, one after the other, and I feel a welcome blast of warmth in an instant. One of my father’s greatest legacies is how he kitted the whole house out with a heating system that always makes every room cosy, no matter how high the ceilings are and no matter what time of year, though I know Uncle Eric turns it off in the bigger rooms that aren’t used any more to cut back on costs.
It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since we left Lou and her grandmother only a few minutes ago, so I let out a deep sigh, which of course doesn’t go unnoticed by Mum, who is taking in my every movement with concern like she’s always done since Stephanie died.
‘What are you thinking, dear mother?’
I ask, doing my best to tease her rather than worry her.
‘Too fat? Too thin? Not enough vegetables? Or is it protein? Do I need to exercise more? Or less? Go for it.’
She stands on her tiptoes and playfully pinches my cheek.
‘Nothing wrong with your tongue, Ben Heaney, you handsome devil, she jokes.
‘Save all that craic for your Uncle Eric. You know, if he asks if I can find the horse racing again on the TV today, I swear I might be done for murder in the first degree.’
‘I bet Ava could find it for him in approximately twenty seconds.’
‘I’ve no doubt she could,’
Mum says, holding Ava close by her side.
‘But Ava and I have many other fish to fry while you two get busy.’
‘Two?’
‘You and your uncle, if you can drag him off that armchair,’
she tells me. She has got to be kidding. Uncle Eric is good at many things, but at eighty-two his DIY days are limited, or so he says.
‘We are going to have the best evening reading books in the library room or baking in the kitchen, far away from his ranting and raving in front of the TV, aren’t we, darling? When it comes to Uncle Eric, I’m having a break. It’s all over to you.’
I hold my hands up.
‘No way, José,’
I tell her.
‘I’ve far too much to be doing around here to have him holding me back, so he’s going to have to entertain himself for another while on his comfy old armchair.’
‘Is Uncle Eric’s armchair as old as he is?’
asks Ava, giggling behind her hand. She knows my uncle and his humour far too well.
‘I’m not deaf, you know,’
calls Uncle Eric, which makes us all try and stifle our laughter even more.
‘No need to gang up on me, young Ava. I’ll be quiet as a mouse if you just find my feckin’ channel.’
‘We’ll be with you soon,’
I shout back to him.
‘Whatever you do, don’t come out here to greet us. No, no, don’t budge. We’ll come to you. As usual, Your Highness.’
I wink at my mum, who tilts her head.
‘It’s so good to have you both here,’
she says, her smile contradicting the sadness in her eyes.
‘Are you OK, Mum?’
‘Of course I am, now you’re here. Do I tell you enough how fine you are to me, Ben?’
she asks me.
‘You’re so like your father, but nowhere near as moody, thank the Lord. I hope he doesn’t haunt me for saying that.’
I nod towards a family portrait that hangs on the wall. It’s from the late nineties, our whole attire is abysmal, but I love it because every one of us has laughter and boldness in our eyes. It took ages for my dad to stop blinking every time the photographer took a shot, which led to his frustration, which ultimately made the rest of laugh before he joined in with the giggles too.
‘He’s never too far away, is he?’
I say with a smile.
‘Which is both comforting and frightening at the same time. What do you think he’d say about us bringing back the party on Christmas Eve?’
My mother’s eyes widen. She takes a deep breath.
‘Funnily, I think he’d rather be where he is now than face all that again,’
she says.
‘If there’s such a thing as turning in his grave, he’ll be spinning.’
‘I have a feeling you could be right,’
I say, following her into the kitchen.
‘What about you?’
she asks.
‘Do you think this is a good idea, or are you still on the proverbial fence? That local committee was very persuasive, Ben. I’m sorry if it’s putting you under pressure. Two weeks isn’t a long time to organise a party.’
‘I just hope and pray that the committee has plenty of members who are as keen on the day itself, when we need all hands on deck,’
I tell her.
‘Ah, I’ve mixed feelings about it all, Mum, but we’ve made our call now, so I guess we run with it and pray it’s not a big fat disaster like the last one.’
Mum closes her eyes and shudders.
‘Let’s not even go there,’
she whispers.
‘I could have a heart attack just thinking of it, but these rooms have been too still for too long. Ballyheaney House wasn’t built for that.’
She looks away. I couldn’t agree more. It’s exceptionally beautiful but it has been so quiet here in recent years, it’s almost ghostly.
‘This Mrs Quinn lady who wrote to you,’
I say to her.
‘Perhaps we could meet with her to see if her people can help us in advance with the planning since it was their grand idea?’
‘No,’
Mum replies, then a little more softly.
‘No, Ben. I don’t think that will be necessary. I don’t want anyone involved who wasn’t involved before. Let’s keep our circle small and surprise them all with a wonderful day at the most wonderful time of the year.’
‘Point noted and taken, loud and clear,’ I reply.
‘Do you have a Christmas tree up yet, Grandma?’
Ava asks, wandering around and looking for even the slightest sign that Christmas might be a stone’s throw away. There’s nothing as far as I can see.
‘I don’t yet, but that’s a job for your dad this weekend,’
she replies.
‘I don’t fancy going into the dusty attic and there’s no way Uncle Eric will be of any help, so it’s over to Ben, I’m afraid. Oops, I don’t think he knew about that!’
‘But we’re only here for one night,’
I remind her.
‘That can wait until next weekend, surely. One step at a time, ladies. I’m only one person.’
‘You’re our real-life hero,’
says Mum, while Ava nods in agreement. I’ve a feeling there could be a lot of jobs ahead I didn’t know about.
‘Any chance of some help with the horse racing at Sandown, Ben, before it’s bloody bedtime?’
Uncle Eric comes waddling into the kitchen, speaking at the top of his voice.
‘I’ve been flicking through all afternoon, and I simply cannot find it. There’s nothing smart about this TV. Codswallop, that’s what it is. Bring back analogue, for crying out loud!’
‘Come on, let me figure it out,’
I reply, as my mother goes to lead Ava off in the opposite direction.
‘But I told you on the phone last week. You need to be smart to use a smart TV.’
‘Ha, flaming ha!’
he chuckles in return.
‘Well then, we’re all feckin’
goosed, aren’t we!’
‘Welcome home,’
whispers Mum over her shoulder. Her eyes meet mine, and I feel my heart soar.
I say this every time I come here, but I should really do this more often.
With my uncle tucked up in the sitting room watching his beloved sport at last, and Roly at his feet by the fire, and with Ava happy and content with her grandma in the kitchen, I leave them all to it as I carry in our overnight bags from the car, followed by the bunch of flowers and holly wreath, and finally the two hot chocolate drinks which will need a blast in the microwave by now.
‘Why don’t you give mine to Uncle Eric for his sweet tooth,’
I say with a wink to Ava.
‘Between that, the horse racing and the holly wreath, we should be off to a very positive start.’
Uncle Eric’s mood changes remarkably when we show him the holly wreath. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I can almost say he gets emotional.
‘Ah, I’ve always said it never feels like Christmas until I see the holly,’
he says, his aged voice cracking.
‘Now, that brings me back. I’ll hang this on the front door, and we’ll all have a prosperous season. In fact, Ben, you can do that now that you’re here. I can keep my feet up and pretend I’m a man of leisure for a little longer.’
The amaryllis are a similar hit with my mother. She takes her time to admire the flowers in the kitchen, then catches my eye with what I believe to be a knowing smile as she slowly smells them.
‘This is all very cute,’
she says, peeling off the small sticker on the wrapping paper that bears the Buds and Beans logo.
‘Isn’t that the new place in the village? I keep meaning to do so, but I haven’t managed to pop by just yet.’
But she doesn’t fool me.
‘Oh, and while we’re on the subject, thanks for the heads-up about you know who. That was a bit of a shock, to say the least,’
I say to her.
‘Why didn’t you tell me she was back here? I could have been more prepared, and don’t say you didn’t know. You may be tucked away in this big house, but news travels very fast around here.’
Mum pops her flowers into a tall vase.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ben,’
she says, then turns her attention back to Ava, who already has her apron on in preparation for their baking session.
‘But the flowers have brightened up this place no end. Thank you both.’
I carry our bags up the heavy red carpeted stairs, past tapestries on the walls that date from different centuries and magnificent oil paintings depicting generations of Heaney men and women from days gone by. As I do so, I already notice some parts of the house that are going to need a freshening up over the coming weeks. Despite my mother’s best efforts to keep on top of it all, there are cobwebs in high corners, chips of paint on woodwork here and there, and the blue room, fondly known as the ballroom even though its nowhere near as big as it sounds, smells musty and damp. Uncle Eric has dabbled with the heating system in there for certain, so my first job will be to make sure it stays on as much as possible between now and Christmas Eve.
I find my bedroom for the night, where I drop my overnight bag and fall on to the bed to gather my thoughts for a moment, even though it isn’t even teatime yet. I put my hands behind my head as a million things run through my mind. There’s simply so much to do, I feel suffocated already. Are we crazy to think we can coordinate all this in just two weeks?
What if no one shows up? Now, that would be a disaster. We haven’t even asked if it’s what the public wants. As far as we know, it’s just one tiny committee who wants it, so I hope it’s got a big voice.
Maybe we need a proper guest list so that we can invite people personally to bring the public in, rather than depend on posters. I’m thinking social media types, community representatives and local businesses who aren’t afraid to show up to support charitable events, especially at this time of year.
I can feel your panic all the way from here, my sister texts me, just as I was about to secretly curse her up and down for getting me into this in the first place. Remember, you don’t have to do it all by yourself, brother. Mum has the contact details for Mrs Quinn and her posse, so we need to use them if only from afar. Then you can make one of your famous lists and delegate.
I raise an eyebrow. Knowing Cordelia, she is no doubt texting me from a fancy wine bar or restaurant in southern Spain, where she is being treated like a queen by God knows who. I always said if she fell in manure, she’d get up smelling of roses.
Mum says this is entirely a family affair, sis, I reply. She’s happy for the committee to help on the day, but she doesn’t want a group of strangers traipsing round Ballyheaney House like they own the place before that. Only those involved in the olden days need apply.
Where’s Lou Doherty with her creative genius when we need her? Cordelia texts back immediately.
I choose not to even go there.
Did it really happen? I need a bit of time to process it all, so I go back to when I first saw her reflection in the florist’s window and replay it all in my mind.
My heart beats faster when I think of the utter surprise I felt, and smile when I think of her hiding away from me at first. I have goosebumps when I hear her voice in my head, saying my name, telling me she’d thought about a day when we’d meet again just like I had so many times.
Most of all, I feel a deep sense of pride for her ballsy return here, for building her business in a short space of time and for all she has already brought back to our community from what I can see so far. Her shop front is stunning, and her taste is as impeccable as it always was.
Right now, she is within walking distance from where I lie here this evening. Right now, she is at home in this very same village.
The distance and its layer of protection no longer exist, so as if I’ve already lost all sense of self-control when it comes to Lou Doherty, I do what I promised I wouldn’t do.
I lift my phone from where it lies on top of the bed, and I search for Buds and Beans on Google. Within a millisecond I have her business social media page and her picture on my screen, which makes me short of breath but also full of adrenaline.
I almost wish this wasn’t so easy. I could send a message to her page, but instead I tap her number into my phone and save it, then I send a text as quickly as possible before I change my mind.
Despite my earlier bravado, I know there’s simply no way I can drive back to Dublin without doing something.