Chapter 2
Present
Already, the apple trees were abundant, the branches pulled low to the ground with heavy cookers nesting between the leaves.
Blythe knew, even from the look of the first buds at the start of the season, it was going to be a bumper crop.
It helped that the trees had shelter at the front of the house from the strong winds and sea spray from the Atlantic that roared in winter at the back of Still Water House.
Last year was disappointing, so the trees had rested and this year, with a little extra care, they were coming up trumps.
Blythe took great satisfaction in the thought that her hard work, pruning and fertilising, had paid off.
Today, she would make apple crumble. It was early, yes, but there was no point leaving fruit on the trees for the crows to come along and peck at them.
She was looking forward to packing up the old Aga with her mother’s trays and filling the house with the aroma of cooked apples and baked crusty sugar.
Her home cooking was part of the reason Still Water House had maintained a high four-star rating on all the best accommodation sites.
Of course, the house itself was charming, a vast white Georgian, sitting on its own mature grounds with twelve bedrooms currently to let out and original features she’d been careful to retain and restore.
It wasn’t just the house that people loved.
They had, she knew, the perfect location, a sweeping drive at the front and to the rear, a still water pool fed from the dramatic Atlantic Ocean beyond.
She had invested a lot of time and energy over the years in making it into something very special.
She had a feeling that this year, after twenty years in business, was going to be its crowning glory.
This year was going to be her year. The Still Water’s year.
She was sorry that Marcus Johnson had not lived to see it.
And Pappy, too. She had a feeling that Pappy would have been happy and proud, despite everything that had happened.
And Marcus? Marcus would have hated it; the idea that she somehow passed him out – the Hope Square Hotel would never be a White Diary property.
She was certain, that this year Still Water House would finally take its place among the cream of Ireland’s country house crop.
Obviously, she had applied before; every year for the past five years in fact, to be included in the Irish Country House White Diary.
It was the most prestigious listing in the country; inclusion was reserved for only a very select number of properties.
It had been Blythe’s dream to see the house feature in it since she had set out on the path of opening the house to guests.
Until this year, there had always been some impediment to her acceptance.
She suspected the biggest obstacle was that they were stuck out here on an island.
The house had to be reviewed by an undercover inspector and from what she could make out, that evaluation was carried out by a woman in her late seventies with severe gout and mobility issues.
Late yesterday evening, she received a booking online with queries around dietary options and accessibility for an elderly female guest, who hoped to come and stay in a few weeks’ time.
There was a series of questions around travel and most importantly, amenities available to a single, immobile woman of a certain age.
The potential guest called herself Morwenna Whythe.
Blythe had known instantly, it had to be Maura Whither, the publisher of the White Diary.
She knew she shouldn’t count her chickens before they’d even become eggs, but she had a good feeling about this. She would wow Morwenna Whythe, with Siggy at her side and even Kip. All the little old ladies adored her husband, Kip.
Blythe smiled now thinking of the apples, full and ripe in the garden.
Siggy loved apple tart too, like mother like daughter.
They could have some later, and the rest she would allow to cool before storing them in the trunk freezer at the back of the pantry.
She looked at her watch, it was almost eleven.
No point hanging about. She used the long bread knife to ease out, dislodge and then pull down an old shopping basket from its resting place at the top of the kitchen dresser.
Blythe knew she was the only one of her friends who still enjoyed nothing more than settling down to a morning of baking.
Most of the other women she knew had proper jobs.
They did things like nursing or teaching or project management.
Blythe had no idea what project management was – she’d left college before she’d finished her degree.
It had all happened so quickly, Pappy calling her home because her parents had been in the most awful accident.
At the time, it hadn’t felt like a sacrifice at all.
That had been her life, she’d never worked outside the family home and business.
There had been no need. Their family owned a huge hotel.
They were known as the Hope Square Sisters, it meant something then, she and Rae, young, pretty, their futures mapped out before them – or so they thought.
Funny how things turn out, no one would ever have imagined she’d end up with Kip Carney.
Least of all, Blythe or Kip, probably. Although, she’d fancied him like mad when she was at school, but Kip was one of those guys – everyone fancied him.
Of course, he was older than Blythe, back then, he hardly knew she existed, probably.
He was that rare blend of being as good natured as he was good looking.
He was far too busy playing rugby and keeping up various part-time jobs around the village to have much time for anything else.
Pappy had set his heart on Robbie Hall for her.
Robbie’s family owned a huge hotel on the mainland.
Water under the bridge now, all that felt like a million years ago.
She still thanked her lucky stars – or maybe her mother, for steering her in the right direction all those years earlier.
Even now, seventeen years after they got married, it still pulled her up short, this love she felt for him.
He was her rock, even if it sounded too hackneyed to say aloud.
Kip wouldn’t believe it anyway, because he absolutely believed it was the other way round.
And he certainly didn’t mind if it was too corny to admit it.
They’d been together through thick and thin.
She’d never have made it without him. While the general population thought it was a cosseted life, living in the big house, being from the hotel people on Hope Square; the truth was, from an early age, it was hard work.
Blythe had been turning out apple crumbles and sherry trifles with ease since she was twelve.
As the years passed by, she found the whole process of baking and cooking for her family and the guests they kept all year round had developed into an almost meditative practice. Nothing could possibly go wrong in the world when you were elbow deep in a doughy mixture.
She set her basket on the ground beneath the first apple tree and reached up, taking a moment to admire the firm cooking apple in her hand.
The birds had not yet begun to wreak their worst upon them.
Hah! She smiled; glad to have beaten them to it.
In her pocket, she heard her phone beep, that annoying sound that was always followed by six more alerts.
WhatsApp. She was in so many groups at this point; the damn thing drove her bonkers sometimes.
Between her charity work, the school governing committee, the grower’s market of which she was a founding member and the various groups her friends had set up for book club and general gossip, very often Blythe found herself wishing technology had never progressed beyond the landline.
She slipped her hand into her pocket, pressed the little button at the side of her phone.
That would either switch it off or silence it for a while.
Later. She would sit down, when the Aga was full, have a cup of tea and check her messages.
The morning flew by; it always did when she was busy.
Kip had managed to get a few days’ work, repairing some garden furniture at a retirement village on the other side of town.
Her daughter, Siggy, was at school, she’d be home just in time to dig into warm apple crumble.
Blythe sighed contentedly, there was no great hurry with having lunch or indeed doing much more than pottering about for the day.
Her work in the guest house was mostly done for the day, the rooms were made up and ready, the garden looked splendid, and the pantry was full.
She’d learned from a young age, that the secret to running a successful business was being prepared, and there was no better feeling than knowing every job on her checklist was ticked off.
By the time she’d finished clearing up, the kitchen began to sweat with the warm heat of the Aga and the aroma of stewing apples, spicy cloves and fresh baked pastry.
‘Something smells good.’ Siggy slipped around the door, sniffing the air appreciatively.