Chapter 8
The library in the tower is the most spectacular room I’ve ever been in.
If every bookworm in the world had got together and imagined the perfect reading room, between all of us, we couldn’t have come up with something as gorgeous as this.
A circular stone staircase leads to a circular room, filled with light that bursts in through the arched windows that circle all around it.
The sun is shining on the Mull of Kintyre today.
There’s a chilly wind but it’s impossible not to open one of the windows and lean out.
From here, I can see the sea that I often hear, gulls swooping and waves that build across the water’s choppy surface and crash against rocky cliffs below, out of sight from so far up.
Across the water, there’s a mass of land – the coastline of Northern Ireland, according to the atlas left on the windowseat, surely for exactly this purpose.
It’s a wild and unfiltered view. So inspirational that it makes me feel like I should be running across untamed moorland like one of the Bronte sisters or writing epic love stories about a Mr Darcy-esque hero.
As hard as it is to turn away from the view, the rest of the room is spectacular too.
The circular walls are lined by fitted circular bookshelves made of the darkest wood, and the whole room smells of aged paper and vintage varnished wood.
Tiny gold plaques name the categories on each shelf, and every shelf is neatly filled with the red, green, and dark blue leather-bound covers of classic literature, and I wander the room, letting my fingers trail across the spines of books I should have read but have probably seen the TV adaptations of instead.
There’s a telescope at one window, and there’s even a grandfather clock that ticks a deep and reverberating tick, an ornate corniced ceiling that’s an artwork in itself, and in the centre of the room is a heavy wooden desk that matches the shelves.
I can imagine a Charles Dickens type, sitting here in a cap and nightgown, writing about Scrooge and his three ghosts with a quill and inkwell.
There are mismatched cosy chairs in nooks between bookshelves.
A well-worn leather armchair, a huge beanbag, a modern-day cup chair.
Whoever designed this room clearly put all their love into it, and it feels older than Ollie, and yet, despite barely knowing him, I know this is one of his favourite places in the house.
By nightfall, it’s approximately the fourth time I’ve been up here today.
Now it’s dark outside, the light from the delicate chandelier creates sparkling reflections in the windowpanes, but blocks out the breathtaking view, which might be the only thing that allows me to focus on what I came up here for in the first place.
I know Ollie’s home because he shouted hello and I’d heard the water clanging through the pipes as he showered, and now I hear the sound of his slippers on the stone stairs.
‘Thought I might find you in here.’ He appears in the doorway wearing jogging bottoms shoved into his slipper boots, and the same oversized blue hoodie he was wearing last night.
‘Are you kidding?’ I throw my arms outwards and spin around in the space in front of the desk.
‘If I didn’t have a job to do, I’d never leave!
Booklovers would pay to read in here! And can you imagine being a writer and looking out across that view as a storm raged outside and you typed your latest dark and brooding tale of murder and deception?
Or lying on that windowseat on a dark night and listening to the rain patter on the roof?
People would kill for a room like this!’
I’m dizzy by the time I stop spinning and it’s partially to do with all the ideas spinning in my head too.
‘It’s going to look amazing for Christmas.
It deserves the finest of decorations because, believe me, your guests are going to want to come here.
I’m picturing flickering tealights along the bookshelves – LED ones because real flames and old paper don’t mix – and garlands above the windows with oversized bows, the curtains held back with festive curtain ties, garlands draped along the shelves with red velvet bows at every anchor point.
The arch of each window outlined by fairy lights.
Fluffy blankets and Christmas cushions on the chairs.
I found a festive rug in storage that’ll do nicely for right here in front of the desk, and we’ll need a Christmas tree over there, beside the bookshelves. ’
I scribble it down in my notepad as I say it because inspiration is coming so fast that I can’t keep up, and there are so many things I need to order that I’ll never remember them all without a list.
‘Good evening to you too,’ he says jokingly, because I’ve barely stopped for breath since he came in.
I stop my scribbling and look up, and he’s looking at me like he’s just walked in on a rabid hyena ransacking his library, and I have to remind myself yet again that he lives here, he knows how incredible this room is, and he’s being graciously indulgent of my enthusiasm. ‘Hi. How was your day?’
‘It was…’ He seems surprised by the question and searches for an answer. ‘…a day. By the smile on your face, I can guess how yours has been.’
‘What, this? It’s just a bog-standard room.
If you’ve seen one castle library in a real-life tower, you’ve seen them all.
’ I wave a nonchalant hand, but he’s right, I can’t hide my excitement, even though I should be far more professional.
It’s impossible to retain that aloofness in a room like this.
I certainly can’t ever remember a day at Calloways that inspired me so much.
His warm rumble of a laugh fills the room and I get that sense of not needing to hide myself again. With Ollie looking at me, I feel like the one thing he deserves is to see exactly how special this place is.
‘I actually came to look for those photos you mentioned. I’m putting together a list of things to order and thought they might provide some inspiration from how it used to be decorated.’
I nod towards the photos I’ve found in the desk drawer.
Some are in black and white, and some are coloured but old, from the days before cameras became digital.
One of Ollie when he was probably around ten years old, ripping into presents under a huge Christmas tree.
One of a young Ollie in a child-sized tuxedo standing next to his father in an identical adult-sized tuxedo.
One of him older, teenage years, standing in the middle of both his parents in front of the kitchen fire, Christmas lights twinkling from the mantelpiece behind them.
He crosses the room and comes to stand next to me and his fingers trace over the photos I’ve got scattered across the desk in front of us, and I glance up at his face, aware I might be evoking unwanted memories.
‘Good jumper choice.’ He nudges his arm against mine, meaning the black cable-knit jumper I’ve borrowed out of his wardrobe today, having decided my beloved cream cardigan couldn’t go another day without a wash.
‘It’s so warm. Thank you for being so generous.
’ I get the feeling he’s trying to distract himself from the faces in the photos, so instead of focusing on the ones with his parents in, I pick up a photo that shows part of the entrance hall decorated for Christmas.
‘Well, we’re definitely doing that.’ I point towards the garlands running down the banister and the tinsel wrapped around every baluster post. ‘Maybe with ribbon rather than tinsel though, tinsel’s passé now. ’
He laughs and his arm brushes against mine as he takes the photo from me. ‘Do you not use tinsel in window dressing?’
‘Sometimes, but in a more subtle way, like to fill vases of artificial festive foliage, or as a cushion to display baubles in bowls. It’s a bit too eighties to use it so overtly nowadays.’
He puts the photo back on the desk and picks up another one. ‘Whoever would’ve thought that tinsel could go out of fashion? Without you, Lu, this house would be an unforgivable mess of retro faux pas that would surely get me sacked on the spot.’
‘Not on my watch. This castle is going to be the most Christmassed it’s ever been, and yes, that is a verb.’
He’s still laughing as he puts down the photo and chooses another one, and the atmosphere in the room has lightened, like he’s remembering the good times behind these photos rather than the sadness.
We look through more photos, and they provide inspiration for things I can do in the other castle rooms, beyond what I’ve already sketched out on my walkarounds, and how I can bring a modern twist to the vintage styles in these photos.
I spot something in a photo Ollie’s looking at. ‘Oh, I found that in storage! It’s the sweetest little Christmas village, and it was so lovingly packed in its own tote bag with every piece individually boxed. It was clearly loved once.’
‘It was my mum’s project.’ His smile is sad and his eyes go distant as he points out the different things in the photo.
‘It went on the sideboard in the entrance hallway, and she used to take the greatest pride in setting it out every December. It started off with only a few buildings, and she added to it every year, and it became a thing between them. Dad said she didn’t need any more pieces, then she bought more and put them in when he was at work, and every time he came back, he noticed instantly and pretended not to so she’d think she’d got away with it.
Every so often, he’d buy a piece and secretly add it as well, and then she’d pretend not to notice that.
She knew and he knew and they both went along with it as one of those weird things couples do for no reason but it makes sense to them. ’
I reach up and rub his shoulder as he speaks and he moves imperceptibly closer to the touch. ‘Do you want me to put it out this year?’