Chapter 2
IN THE MORNING, THEY WERE WOKEN EARLY WITH the arrival of the workmen. They start at eight, Damien had warned, and there they were at eight sharp, slamming vehicle doors, calling to one another. Was one of them whistling?
‘They’re making it beautiful for us,’ Damien murmured, his lips finding her neck, and she forgave them.
After breakfast he rang the local priest, who had space in his diary on the twenty-eighth of December, which was twenty-seven days away.
When Damien told him they’d done a pre-marriage course in Dublin, he booked them in for a three o’clock ceremony, and suggested they drop around to see him at noon for a chat.
They had a wedding date. It was getting real. Lydia thought she’d better phone her mother, who didn’t take the news well.
‘The end of this month? Lydia, that’s completely out of the question. Far too soon.’
‘Mum, we’ve been engaged for more than eighteen months.’
‘You know I don’t mean that, Lydia. I mean there’s no chance we can get anything organised in that time.’
‘You and Dad won’t have to organise a thing, Mum – it’s going to be a very simple affair.’ She crossed her fingers. ‘We’re getting married right here in the village church, and we’ll have the reception in the house.’
‘Which house?’ By now her mother sounded totally bewildered.
‘Our house, Mum. The one we bought. The one we’re living in.’
‘The big house? But you said it wouldn’t be finished until the summer.’
‘That’s right. We’ve decided to go ahead anyway.’
‘Oh Lydia, this is just nonsense. Apart from anything else, how on earth could it hold all your guests?’
‘Well, that’s the other thing.’ She tightened her crossed fingers. ‘The capacity of the dining room is forty, so it’s going to be a small wedding, just close family and friends. And I know it’s not finished, but we’ll make it as pretty as we can. We’ll manage.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to say. And I know your father is not going to be best pleased.’
‘Mum, I know it’s vastly different to the wedding you’d imagined for me, but this is about what we want. Can’t you be happy for us? Who cares about a fancy wedding? We just want to be married.’
But her parents cared, she knew that. A fancy wedding was exactly what they wanted – or at least her mother did.
She wanted to help with the preparations, and go shopping with Lydia for a dress, like mothers of the bride generally did.
She also didn’t want their friends looking down their noses, which some of them undoubtedly would.
Was it cruel to subject her to all that?
‘We’ll have a big party down the line,’ Lydia promised. ‘Once the businesses are up and running we’ll celebrate in style, but we have our hearts set on having our reception in Chance House, and we’re more than ready to be married. It’ll be different, but I think just as memorable.’
Her mother’s sigh floated down the line. ‘So your minds are made up on this?’
‘They are.’
‘In that case, we have no choice but to go along with it.’
‘And hopefully you’ll both enjoy it.’ Silence. ‘Bye, Mum. Talk soon.’ No point in saying more, not at this stage. Let the news sink in.
‘Well?’ Damien asked, when Lydia returned to the kitchen.
‘She wasn’t thrilled, but she’ll come round.’
‘We’ll make it up to her,’ he said. ‘We’ll have them down for a weekend when the work is done. We’ll give them the best room in the house, and wine and dine them, and they’ll have to forgive us.’
They would. Wouldn’t they?
At half past ten, the sound of power tools stopped.
‘They’re on a break,’ Damien said. ‘Now’s our chance.’
They found Brendan talking with one of his team in the hall. He shook hands with Lydia. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy here.’
‘Thank you. The apartment is beautiful.’
They told him of their wedding plans. He received the news more calmly than Lydia’s mother had.
‘The twenty-eighth,’ he said. ‘The twenty-eighth of this month.’ Doubt evident in every word, but no sign of any real concern. He’d stay calm in an emergency, Lydia thought.
‘We’re not expecting it to be finished,’ they assured him. ‘We’ll take it as it is – as long as you’re happy for people to be in and out.’
He nodded slowly. ‘We can tidy it up, make sure it’s safe for a bit of traffic. How many were you thinking?’
‘Forty,’ Damien said, ‘including ourselves – but we’d have more coming after the meal, the usual cake-and-dancing crowd.’
Brendan gave a small laugh. ‘You’ll have plenty of body heat so. You think you can sort everything out in a few weeks?’
‘No bother,’ Damien said.
‘Does your mother know about this?’ his father asked.
‘Not yet. I’ll call over to her later.’
Lydia tried to imagine Kathleen’s reaction, and failed. Maybe she’d be happy with a smaller celebration, and maybe the humble surroundings wouldn’t bother her – who could tell? Not Lydia, who felt she didn’t know the woman at all.
‘You’ll want to have a look around,’ Brendan said to her.
‘I’d love it.’ Better not mention their visit last night, without his permission.
‘Hang on,’ he said, and returned with two yellow hard hats for them. ‘Watch your step, especially on the stairs, no banister yet. And mind yourselves up there – it’s still very rough.’
Lydia peeked again into the yoga studio, which now had a few big bags of something – sand? cement? – propped against one of the walls, and which was every bit as bright as she’d anticipated, even on this dull day. She couldn’t wait for it to be functional.
The workmen were sitting on stools in the dining room around one of their heaters, a huddle of flasks at their feet. Damien introduced Lydia, and she shook hands with each of them.
‘I can make teas and coffees for your breaks,’ she said, but they assured her they were fine with the flasks. She saw an opened packet of Hobnobs on a stool and made a mental note to add biscuits to her shopping list. She could do that at least for them.
Behind the dining room was a large kitchen, with a larder and a cold room off it.
Still a shell, bare of appliances and sinks, no shelving yet in the larder, the cold room waiting for a power supply, but Lydia saw the look on Damien’s face as he scanned the room, and knew he was seeing it all kitted out and full of bustle, with him in the centre of it. Her in the studio, him in the kitchen.
The curved staircase, even without its banister, was graceful and lovely. ‘Navy,’ she said, looking up. ‘A navy runner is what it needs.’
He shook his head. ‘Dark red. Much more classy. Here,’ he said, drawing a coin from his pocket. ‘Toss you for it.’
‘Heads,’ she said, and tails came up.
‘I won’t gloat,’ he said.
‘Not half.’
What would happen, of course, was that Marian would be consulted and they’d abide by her decision, but let him enjoy his moment of triumph.
Making her way up, Lydia thought again of past residents, saw them sweeping down nightly in gowns and dinner jackets.
Would they approve of her and Damien’s changes now?
Notwithstanding all the alterations, they were doing their best to remain faithful to the design of the old house, retaining and restoring where possible, availing themselves of reclaimed materials whenever they could, hanging on to the character and stately beauty of the building.
Upstairs, as Brendan had warned, was still very much a work in progress.
The eight bedrooms had all been large enough to introduce ensuites, and the original bathroom was now a guest lounge, so everywhere was jutting pipework, and wheelbarrows piled with blocks, and barely-begun dividing walls – but when they negotiated their way past the jumble to one of the rear-facing windows, the view was everything Lydia had hoped for.
The wide splendour of the Atlantic was laid out before them, light playing on the water to make it dance and dazzle. ‘Clare Island,’ Damien said, indicating a landmass straight ahead. ‘We can get a ferry out in the summer – and there’s Achill to the north. I’ll take you there too.’
It was an ever-shifting, mesmerising panorama. As Lydia feasted on it, the ambient sounds – a transistor radio playing tinny music somewhere, the men’s voices below – fell away, and the same sense of peace descended that she remembered from the first day they’d seen it.
The garden was still pretty much as overgrown as she remembered, and there was no sign from where they stood of the little strip of sand that was their private beach.
Even when everything was cleared it mightn’t be visible from the house with the small drop down to it, but it was there, waiting for them.
‘There’s Gareth,’ Damien said, and below them she saw a figure in navy overalls and a grey woolly cap that she’d missed. He was slashing at the weeds, next to a piled-up mountain of them.
They had a big house and a gardener – and you could say Damien was the cook. All they needed were a butler and a few maids, and maybe a footman or two, to make Lydia the lady of the manor.
‘Hello there,’ Gareth said, setting down his scythe and pulling off a glove to shake her hand. ‘I was wondering when I’d get to meet the woman who’d put this mad idea into Damien’s head.’
Lydia laughed. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘It was.’ He cocked his head at Damien. ‘I hope you weren’t lying to me now.’
His easy manner was instantly likeable. He was good-looking, broad-shouldered, tall and green-eyed, hair hidden under the hat, dark stubble on his jaw, a mole to the left of his nose.
She asked how long he thought it would take to clear the garden, and he said it depended on the weather, and his day job.
‘Web designer,’ he said, when she asked. ‘Couldn’t be more different.’
‘A nice combination. Indoor and outdoor work.’