Chapter ELEVEN
Ben
NOW
She doesn’t respond to my text message.
It was a bit of a shot in the dark, I guess, so I do my best to shake her off my mind as the evening draws in by doing what I came to Ballyheaney House for. With notebook in hand, I take one room at a time, jotting down information not only on what we need to fix up a little but also on what improvements we can make overall. I scout around the attic, finding rather groovy decorations we still have from yesteryear to bring some festive magic and warmth back, but with every step I take around the house I’m haunted by memories of happier times.
Voices from the past echo through my mind and fill my senses as I stand in the blue ballroom. I see the string quartet in the corner on my dad’s makeshift stage, which was made from wooden pallets we’d stained a deep mahogany colour, topping it up annually for the big occasion. He was always so pleased with the result and would spend hours in the outhouses sanding and painting by himself before revealing his work of art. Then he’d stand back and admire it all in place, before lighting up like a child when he saw the stage in use on Christmas Eve.
I look up to the high ceiling, where I can see in my mind’s eye the long, heavy strings of lights draped from each corner to the grand chandelier centrepiece, carrying large yellow bulbs to give the room a warm glow, while in the fireplace a turf fire burne.
‘for smell and a cosy atmosphere’, according to Cordelia, even though year after year we’d let it smoulder away before the room became too hot.
And as I move from room to room, I repeatedly check my phone for a reply from Lou, but there’s nothing.
I repeat to myself that at least I tried.
Uncle Eric throws together a feast of home-made pepperoni and mushroom pizza decorated with rocket and olives for dinner, pouring red wine like there’s no tomorrow, while Ava laps up all the maternal love and attention my mother gives her in bucket loads.
‘A tasty margherita pizza just for you, Your Majesty,’
my uncle jokes as he sets a bubbling cheese version down in front of my daughter, who is already licking her lips. Uncle Eric has discovered cooking in his later years. I sometimes believe it’s been his saviour as he tends to his small but prosperous vegetable patch in the garden and a greenhouse that bursts with colour in summer. He’s taken great pride in sending me photos since Cordelia gave him a crash course on the iPhone last year.
While we eat, I break all our usual dining rules by having my phone within reach, which gives me both comfort and waves of anxiety as I watch and wait for some sort of message from Lou.
It was a very humble invitation, nothing suggestive or presumptuous on my part, but perhaps I should have worded it differently. Or should I have made a phone call instead of a cop-out text? It dawns on me once more that I know absolutely nothing about her life now. I don’t know where she lives, or who she lives with. I don’t know if she’s single or if she’s still with John after all this time. I don’t know how her daughter Gracie is. She must be twenty years old now. My God, there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then.
‘This is the best pizza ever,’
Ava announces, which makes Uncle Eric sit up in his chair across from me.
‘Even better than the ones from The Sphinx, and they’re our favourites, aren’t they, Dad?’
I hear her, but I’m barely listening.
‘Sorry, darling?’
I curse myself for drifting off instead of enjoying this special moment with my family.
‘This is better than The Sphinx at home?’
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’
I reply, determined to stay in the present from now on.
‘Far better. So where are you taking us next weekend, Uncle Eric? China? India? This is going to be great fun now that you’re a super-chef. I’d never have thought it in a million years, but credit where credit’s due. This is top-drawer pizza.’
Uncle Eric thinks for a moment as he chews his food.
‘India sounds like a good shout,’
he says, his eyes dancing with excitement.
‘I never did make it there in real life, despite my intentions, but now you say it, I quite fancy dabbling in a chicken tikka masala. Maybe you could help me download a recipe before you go home, Ava?’
And as they chat, I drift off once again to a place in my heart I’d hoped I’d closed the door on long ago.
‘I’m going to pop out for a while if you don’t mind, Mum,’
I say after washing up.
‘Are you OK here with Ava? I’ll be home well before her bedtime.’
If I’m not mistaken, I can see my mother fight off a smile as she dries the last few plates with a tea towel. We have an industrial-size dishwasher in the utility room at Ballyheaney House, but Mum still prefers us to wash the dishes by hand when it’s just ourselves for dinner.
‘Where are you off to?’
I do my best to sound nonchalant about my plans for the next hour. When I was thinking of coming here I’d imagined a workhorse-style trip where I’d tackle as much as possible in a very short space of time, no doubt exhausting myself and dreading the drive back to Dublin where I’d plunge myself into work once more and juggle all the plates in the air with Ava’s homework, music lessons and sporting commitments through the week.
But now my mouth is watering for a cold, creamy pint of stout down at a bar where I know I’ll always be greeted like an old friend, no matter who is there and no matter how much time passes between visits.
‘I’ll see where my thoughts take me,’
I reply.
‘I quite fancy the walk to clear my head. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
Mum raises her eyebrows and puts her hand on my upper arm.
‘Ben, of course I don’t mind. You take no time for yourself these days,’
she whispers.
‘Let me take over for as long as you’re here. Ava and I have a movie lined up and a chocolate feast to discover in the pantry, so go and chill out for as long as you need to. We won’t wait up. I only wish you could do this more often.’
I go to the sitting room where Roly is keeping company right by the fire, but that changes as soon as he senses his lead in my hands.
‘See you soon, Uncle Eric,’
I say, wondering when his days of a pint in a local bar at Christmas ended, how we never knew it would be the last, and how I didn’t savour it more.
‘We’ll have a chat about the horse racing when I get back.’
‘Go and see who you can see,’
he says without taking his eyes off the 24-hour news channel.
‘You’re still a young man, you know, Ben. This Christmas is going to be a good one for us all. And the whole world is your oyster.’
The sound of low conversations and the smell of old ale meets me the moment I step inside Doc’s Bar in my home village. It’s a tiny, one-roomed pub with TV screens on the wall, but with its square brown tables, chequered upholstery and a crackling fire in the corner, it oozes old-worldly charm. A modest Christmas tree lit up in blue sits by the end of the bar, and long icicle-style lights hang from the roof, and while I could never claim to be a regular, the atmosphere greets me like an old friend.
Doc’s Bar is full of memories of days gone by, no matter which way I look.
It reminds me of my dad sneaking in for a bet on the horses while sitting me down on a bar stool with a bag of Tayto crisps and a bottle of Coca-Cola with a straw.
It reminds me of my first proper pint of beer, still feeling like an impostor at the legal age of eighteen, a place where Lou and I downed tools from the manic party preparations and toasted our success.
It reminds me of long, fun-filled evenings with her playing cards by the fire, feeling very grown up as we shared a bottle of wine and our traditional bag of peanuts, when in reality we were only students trying to save a few bob to get us through the next semester.
‘Mr Heaney, welcome home,’
the barman says when I order a pint of Guinness. I glance at the clock on the wall behind the bar. It’s already gone five minutes after eight o’clock. She isn’t here.
Even though she didn’t reply to my text message earlier, a tiny part of me still hoped that she might show up. I’d pictured her sitting by the fire here, a glass of red for old time’s sake on the table and that wondrous smile of hers that lights me up every time.
But no. She isn’t here. And I know by now that she isn’t coming.
I make some small talk with the barman, who admires my dog then asks how I’ve been coping. He recounts where he was and what he was doing when he heard of Stephanie’s passing.
‘The whole village was in shock for you,’
he tells me, a genuine sadness in his eyes.
‘My brother lost his wife when she was far too young too, so I’ve a bit of an idea what you’ve been going through.’
He asks how expensive it is to live so close to Dublin, and if I’d ever dream of moving back up north where the cost of living is still quite high in parts but nowhere near what it is down there. Then he grabs my attention on a whole new level when he tells of how the whole village is full of craic about us bringing the big party back to Ballyheaney House.
‘My own mother has her outfit picked out already,’
says a younger man by my side.
‘She’s bought tickets for herself and her sister.’
‘We’re going as a family for the first time this year,’
his buddy tells me.
‘Our twins turned sixteen this year, so they’re of an age to join us. It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years since the last one.’
I watch the dark ruby liquid cascade from the tap, foaming up in a creamy, rich layer. I lick my lips in anticipation.
‘I think you’ve just made it feel very real,’
I tell him, doing my best to ignore the lurch in my stomach at the thought of it all.
‘I’m telling ye. There’s a real buzz, Mr Heaney,’
he says while the punters propping up the bar nod in agreement.
‘And what a great charity cause too. Fair play to you all. Will you get it ready in time, do you think? That’s what some are wondering. Ye know, short notice and all that?’
I shiver at the thought of the task that lies ahead.
We used to have a perfect team in place to get the house ready for the party, but now it’s just me, my twelve-year-old daughter and my sister who lives in a different country. There’s not much point relying on Mum and Uncle Eric, though I know they’ll do their best. Now that I’ve stepped out of our bubble, the enormity of what we’ve taken on almost overwhelms me when I hear this from the horse’s mouth.
People are excited. People are buying tickets. But people are worried we’re doing it all at very short notice.
So am I.
‘I do love a challenge,’
I reply to the barman, who nods in agreement.
‘And it’s a good excuse to get out of my own head for a while, I suppose. I’ll take my pint down by the fire if that’s OK?’
‘Best spot in the house,’
he tells me, though that I already know.
‘I’ll bring it down to you once it settles.’
He does exactly that, allowing me to zone out from the banter at the bar while Roly cosies up on the floor. My to-do list runs like a freight train through my mind, causing a tight pain across my chest. I breathe steadily, then I lift the glass to my lips, allowing the cold taste of home to soothe my busy mind.
I’m hypnotised by the smooth, familiar taste as well as the heat of the fire. Everything begins to slow down at last. My shoulders drop. Roly is already snoring by my feet.
‘I did my best to ignore your invitation, but I never could ignore you, Ben Heaney,’
an all-too-familiar voice says from my right. My heart leaps.
‘Now move over and let me in by the fire where I always sat. We’ve got a party to plan, and fast.’
I look up to see her standing there, her cheeks pink from the cold and her eyes fixed on mine with that wondrous smile that shows off her dimples. The sight of her has never failed to melt my heart.
‘I’ll get you a glass of red,’
I say, doing my best to keep my cool.
‘And a few packs of peanuts for old times’ sake?’
‘I’m looking forward to it already.’