Chapter 3
CUPPING THE MUG OF HOT WATER THAT SHE BEGAN every day with, she stood in her dressing gown at the kitchen window as morning crept slowly into the sky and thought, This is my wedding day.
She recalled her friends’ big weddings, all along the same lines as Brona’s. Every bride in a designer dress with all the trimmings, vintage cars ferrying them to the church, masses of guests, receptions in hotels with at least four stars, honeymoons somewhere exotic, like Antigua or Bali.
Lydia loved that she was being different.
She was a trendsetter – not that any of her Dublin gang would have wanted to set this particular trend.
Exciting, they’d said when she’d told them of her and Damien’s plan.
Adventurous, they’d said. Daring, they’d said – but she knew none of them would have dreamt of doing the same.
I wish I could invite you all, she’d told them, and they’d assured her they were happy to wait for the big summer party. Brona was here now of course, and three other friends, along with partners. They would be enough today.
As the light grew brighter she turned her attention to the view beyond the kitchen windows.
Lots still to do out there, but thanks largely to Gareth the bulk of the vegetation was gone, leaving in its wake yellowed clumps of grass pockmarked with the stumpy remains of hacked-away briars, and many stones.
Lydia and Damien were pitching in when they could, filling wheelbarrows and trundling them around to a trailer at the front, their wellingtons pressed into service again, gloves from Gareth protecting hands from blisters.
She imagined how it would look in another few months, when the earth would be smooth and free of debris, and the camomile lawn they’d decided on would be growing in, beyond the reclaimed slab patio that was also planned.
Don’t make your planting too tame, Gareth had advised.
A bit of unruliness is good, so after much online trawling for ideas they were going to sow lots of bee-friendly wildflowers in places where they could spread in years to come, and swathes of coastal grasses, and climbers for some unruly rambling: roses, sweet peas and honeysuckle.
They were planting lupins and lavender and anemones, and a herb garden would be positioned outside the restaurant kitchen.
A greenhouse or polytunnel would follow later, so Damien could grow his own vegetables and salads.
The rusted railing at the end of the garden would be replaced with a low hedge, and Brendan was going to install new wooden steps to the beach in place of the old rickety ones.
They already had a shed, sort of. Roughly a third of the way down the garden, Gareth had unearthed the remains of an old stone one, and they’d asked a local mason to restore it in the new year.
Starting at the patio, a slate walkway would wind its slow way down to the sea, branching off to access all the different areas, and widening out to form seating places here and there.
Lydia sighed happily, looking forward to seeing it all unfold in the months that followed. In the meantime, she had a wedding to prepare for, starting with morning yoga to centre her.
She slipped into leggings and T-shirt, unrolled her mat in the sitting room and went through her forty-minute routine. She hadn’t missed a morning since moving here, couldn’t imagine starting her day without it.
As she rolled up her mat afterwards she wondered how her various guests were faring in their accommodation.
The family members – parents, two aunts and their husbands, one uncle and his wife, a grandmother from each side and one grandfather – were staying in a hotel in the town, and her Dublin friends had been booked into an Airbnb house on the edge of the village that Marian had recommended.
Last evening, the parents of the bride and groom had finally met, at a dinner Marian and Tom had hosted.
Lydia had been a little apprehensive in advance of the meal, unsure of how the older couples would get along with so little in common, but to her relief the meal had passed off fairly smoothly – mainly, and surprisingly, thanks to Brendan.
At the start he’d been his usual quiet self, content to leave the conversation to others – but once the talk turned to the renovations he’d become almost animated, describing the challenges of marrying period features with modern conveniences, and the satisfaction of seeing the old house coming back to life.
Lydia could see his genuine passion as he spoke, and she was glad the house was in the hands of someone who really cared about it.
Did you know the previous owner? Lydia’s father had enquired, and Brendan had spoken of Lawrence Chance, the last direct descendant of the family who had inhabited the house for six generations.
He was a walker, out every day, rain or shine, but never in the direction of the village. Had a little dog that was always with him, but then it disappeared. Must have died. Remember the little dog, Kathleen?
I do.
He had an arrangement with Paudie O’Connor in the supermarket – a grandfather of the man who owns it now – to have his groceries delivered every week.
This would have been before the vans that deliver now.
And a rector, or a vicar, I don’t know which, would drop in on him every couple of weeks from the Church of Ireland in the town.
That was about it, wasn’t it, Kathleen? He wasn’t one for visitors.
No, he was not.
She hadn’t spoken much throughout the evening.
She’d been perfectly civil to Lydia’s parents but she’d asked them no questions, none at all.
When Lydia’s mother had said brightly that tomorrow would be a big day – in fairness, both her parents were rising to the occasion – Kathleen had agreed, civilly, that it would, but her face had taken on an expression that was halfway between a smile and a grimace.
After dinner, Lydia had said goodnight to Damien. He was spending his last night as a single man at his parents’ house, keeping with tradition, and Lydia was being ferried back to Chance House by her parents.
Next time we meet, he’d said, I’ll be at the altar trying not to have a heart attack, and you’ll be walking up the aisle looking beautiful.
He’d kissed the ends of her fingers in turn. Thank you for choosing me. Love you for always, Lydia Foley.
Love you, Damien Cotter. Sleep tight.
How do you get on with Kathleen? Lydia’s mother had asked her in the car.
We don’t have much to do with one another, Lydia had answered truthfully. I think it’s a case of her not wanting to let Damien go to any other woman.
Oh dear – but I’m sure she’ll change her tune once children come along.
Lydia wished she could be as sure.
The doorbell rang, startling her out of her reverie. She pulled on her dressing gown over her yoga clothes, and the cold air hit her as soon as she opened the door.
‘Morning,’ the man said. ‘I’m Susan’s brother. She asked me to drop in some furniture. Hope I didn’t come too early.’
‘No, you’re fine, thank you.’ His eyes were what she noticed, a black rim surrounding the blue irises. Striking. His dark hair had the same messy quality as his sister’s. Maybe they were non-identical twins. He wore a warm-looking black jacket. ‘I’m Lydia.’
‘Andrew.’ He put out a hand. ‘Congratulations, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’ She was conscious of her appearance: tousled hair, morning face, tatty dressing gown, ancient slippers. Far cry from a bride. ‘I’ll open the main door for you.’
His white van had no lettering on it to give her a clue as to what he did. He slid back its side door, and she glimpsed the folded tables and stacked chairs within. ‘Let me help,’ she said, feeling obliged to offer, but to her relief he told her no need, he’d manage.
She brought him through and thanked him again.
The workmen had cleared the hall of clutter and swept the floor.
It made little difference: it was still a bare, unpainted space, but she was grateful they’d made the effort.
Hopefully her guests wouldn’t take too much notice as they made their way into the dining room, which should look halfway decent once Susan and Marian had dressed it up.
They arrived shortly after he’d left, carrying large boxes that Lydia was forbidden to look into. They refused the offer of coffee – ‘We’ll have something stronger later’ – and vanished into the main house just as the door of the spare bedroom opened.
‘I can’t believe I slept through half your wedding morning,’ Brona said, smothering a yawn. They’d picked her up at the Airbnb on the way back to Chance House the previous evening. ‘You should have woken me. Who was that just now?’
Lydia told her. ‘You’ll meet them when they’ve finished.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Of course I am, full of butterflies.’
‘What time is the hairdresser coming?’
‘Around one. We’ve piles of time.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Not yet. I waited for you.’
‘Good. I’ll fix us something. You go and get started.’
After a shower, Lydia placed the shoes she planned to wear on the floor by the bed.
She opened the wardrobe and lifted out the lilac dress and hung it on the back of the door.
She eased up the stockings she’d bought online, splashing out a little on them since she’d saved on the dress.
She took the blue garter Brona had given her last night and slid it up her right leg.
Shoes, stockings, dress, garter. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
‘Breakfast!’ Brona called, and Lydia got back into her dressing gown and slippers, and found a poached egg waiting on a toasted slice of Damien’s sourdough.
‘This is it,’ Brona said. ‘No more single life for you after today.’
‘Single life’s overrated.’ Lydia poked at her egg with a fork, letting the yolk ooze onto the toast. ‘I can’t wait to be married.’
‘Can I have a sneak peek at the mansion before the wedding?’