Chapter 1 #2
And now, at last, their adventure was beginning properly. What was that expression? Today was the first day of the rest of her life, and she was going to share it with Damien, and she couldn’t have been happier.
The apartment finished, their wedding in the summer, as soon as the rest of the house was done. They were on the home stretch.
All would be well.
It was almost three by the time her train pulled into the station, the sky as leaden as it had been in Dublin.
She gathered her things and searched the faces on the platform, like she always did when she landed – and there he was, holding up a small sign reading Welcome home above a line drawing of a house that made her laugh.
‘The yoga teacher has arrived,’ he said, wrapping arms around her, pressing cold lips briefly on hers. ‘Are you ready for this?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Right then – let’s go.’ He handed her the sign, gathered up her luggage and led the way to his car.
‘How’s everyone?’ she asked.
‘Grand. Mam’s making the Christmas cakes today, so the house smells like a distillery.’
‘Cakes? More than one?’
‘Two – one for themselves and one for Tom’s house. Marian makes the puddings. Shame you won’t be here on Christmas Day.’
‘I know.’ She told him of her idea to host future Christmas dinners at Chance House. ‘You think your mother would like to have the day off?’
‘We could certainly run it by her,’ but she saw the doubt in his face, and understood it.
Kathleen wouldn’t relinquish the reins easily, particularly to Lydia.
If she refused to travel for her turkey dinner, Lydia would just have to grin and bear her way through the meal at the senior Cotters’ house – or maybe she and Damien could start a different tradition, and take themselves off to the sun every Christmas instead. Definitely worth considering.
They got to the car and climbed in. ‘I’m dying to see the apartment,’ she said, turning up the heat as he reversed from his space, ‘and the rest of the house. Are we allowed upstairs yet?’
‘We are. I’ll show you around tomorrow. The outside is still a mess: don’t expect it to look good. They’re leaving that till last.’
The roads were quiet, most people still at work.
By the time they reached the village the light was beginning to fade from the sky.
She saw coloured lights strung along the main street, and a tall fir tree already erected in the church grounds.
They probably had a switching-on ceremony like in Dublin: she and her friends used to go every year, not so much to see the ceremony as to soak up the Christmas spirit in their favourite pub afterwards.
The hedgerows on the cusp of December were twiggy and bare.
When they took the coast road at the fork she felt a dart of déjà vu.
I’ve got something to show you, he’d said.
The novelty of owning the house and all that went with it was still fresh, probably because they hadn’t lived in it yet, but she suspected she’d never stop delighting in the fact that Chance House was their home.
‘Nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘I have someone taming the jungle out the back. He started a few days ago, so we’re on the way to a proper garden. You’ll meet him tomorrow if the day is dry. Get ready,’ he said, turning down the lane, and she felt a sudden rush of excitement at what might await her.
The rusted gates were gone, allowing Damien to drive straight in. The car lurched and bumped over the short curve of driveway. ‘The vans and lorries have churned it up,’ he said. ‘They’ll level it off before they leave, but in the meantime you’ll have to watch your step coming and going.’
He cut the engine and they sat in the quiet half-light. No other vehicles, workmen obviously having downed tools for the day and gone home. It must be freezing for them, working in an unheated house. Thank goodness the apartment had heat.
The place looked bigger than she remembered. The ivy was gone from the walls, leaving them patchy and bare.
‘Great that they’ve got that ivy off,’ Damien remarked. ‘Can’t wait to see the walls painted.’
With Marian’s help they’d chosen a beautiful soft grey-green shade for the outside. ‘It’ll be fab,’ Lydia agreed.
‘And the new windows have started going in at the back. They’ll make a big difference too.’
She smiled. It was obvious he was looking forward to showing her the apartment: he was giving off the same anticipation she’d seen on the day he’d proposed.
They got out and made their way around to the side, where she saw a brand new door between two sash windows in what had been a solid wall last time she’d looked.
Door and window frames were black, to match what was planned for the rest of the house.
‘This is us,’ he said. ‘Our apartment.’
She gave the brass knocker a tap. ‘Anyone home?’ she called.
‘Better not be. Hang on.’ He dropped her bags and opened the door, then turned and scooped her without warning into his arms. ‘Over the threshold with you, missus,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘I think that’s for newlyweds, darling.’
‘Shush. I need the practice.’
He set her down in a space that was pleasantly warm, and smelt of fresh paint.
While he retrieved her bags she took in the little entrance hall – yes, she remembered it from the plans – with its row of hooks on one wall, a black umbrella and Damien’s raincoat the only things hanging there right now.
She spotted a light switch and flicked it on – and nothing happened. Her heart sank. ‘Don’t we have electricity?’
‘We do – they must have forgotten the bulb in that one.’ He dropped her bags and closed the door and took her hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’
The kitchen – with a light that worked – was a decent size, with black and white floor tiles, and white units that wrapped around two of the pale grey walls, and big windows for lots of daylight.
At one end of the room his round table was set for dinner, along with an opened bottle of their favourite Malbec.
His slow cooker sat on the worktop, the savoury aroma of its contents wafting in the air.
He led her into the sitting room, slightly smaller but delightfully cosy, with an open fireplace, again in keeping with the style of the big house, and a lovely floor of wide wooden boards. She’d forgotten about the floorboards Brendan had offered them, salvaged from old houses.
Easy to clean them up, he’d said, and he had.
Their beautiful mellow glow lent character and warmth to the room, and Lydia’s big orange rug was the perfect finishing touch.
Damien took away the fireguard and poked the reddened coals back to life, and added more.
‘We can have our coffees in here,’ he said, replacing the guard, and again she was touched by his eagerness to please her, his delight at showing off their first home.
The rest of the apartment comprised two bedrooms, one double, one single, and a bathroom with the bath and separate shower Lydia had insisted on.
Wall colours throughout were pale, and furniture was a mix of his and hers: his kitchen appliances, her crockery and glassware, his chef’s knives, his couch, her bookshelves, her bed, dressing table and wardrobe.
His television in the sitting room, her smaller one in their bedroom.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you think of our home sweet home?’
‘I love it. It’s wonderful.’ It was compact, but for now it had everything they needed. ‘And that must lead to the rest of the house,’ she said, indicating the door at the end of the short corridor.
‘That’s right.’
‘Could I see it?’
‘Now? It’s not hooked up with electricity or heat yet. You’d see nothing in the dark.’ By now the sky had lost the last of its light, winter daylight hours firmly established.
‘We could bring a torch, and wrap up.’ After waiting for so long she was suddenly impatient to see what lay beyond the door. ‘Just a quick look.’
‘Go on then.’ They got back into jackets they’d shrugged off and he found a torch, and they opened the connecting door.
Immediately she felt a blast of frigid air.
The floor was bare concrete, the walls unpainted.
The ceiling here was considerably higher than in the apartment, giving her the sense that they were entering a bigger world.
The hall as she remembered it had been reduced in size, but was still plenty big enough to accommodate the reception desk it would need. Set into its back wall were two doors.
She pointed to one. ‘The office?’
‘Correct.’
‘And . . .’ she approached the other, the one closer to the apartment ‘. . . what could be behind here, I wonder?’
He shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’
She turned the handle and pushed in the door – and there it was.
It had the same high ceiling as the hall.
She swept the torch beam around and saw three tall windows on one side, and another at the end that took up nearly the entire wall.
There was no flooring, no paint, no fittings or furnishings.
The air was so bitingly cold they might as well have been outdoors, but in her mind’s eye she saw the sprung floor of pale wood, the creamy yellow walls that would make the room sunshiny even on a cloudy day, and the built-in storage unit to hold mats and blocks and the rest of her paraphernalia.
She saw the ceiling spotlights in place – dimmable so she could offer a restorative class with subdued lighting – the slimline radiators that were going in vertically between the tall windows, the framed mantras she’d chosen for the walls, duplicates of the ones in her old workplace, and the mirror that would run the length of the room, across from the three windows.
Her very own studio, something she’d never in a million years have afforded in Dublin. She’d use it every single day when it was finished, even if hers was the only mat in the room. She’d teach their children, if nobody else came.
‘You like it?’