19

I’m barely in the door when Mammy comes flying into the kitchen, the cordless phone in her hand. ‘Paul was saying he was talking to you. Ah, Aisling, my heart is broken for him. The craythur.’

‘Do you not think he’s being a bit dramatic, Mammy? He’s talking about coming home and everything,’ I say, parking my wheelie bag and lifting up the kettle and then flicking it on. My white wine hangover is starting to make itself known. I nearly had to drop poor Majella at the County General on the way home – she asked for a pen and paper to write her will when we were passing the Red Cow.

‘Oh, his flights are booked,’ she says, going for the mugs. ‘He’ll be home in time for Christmas.’

‘But what about the rental deposit on the house? His job?’

‘Philser Cuddihy said they’ll have no problem renting out his room so he gave him the deposit back. It nearly covered the flights.’

‘Nearly?’

‘Well, it’s two weeks to Christmas. He was lucky to get a seat at all, Aisling, with the amount of Irish in Australia. I just gave him a few bob to make up the difference. I couldn’t have him halfway across the world with not even a Terry’s Chocolate Orange in the state he’s in.’

Mammy’s always been like this with Paul – nothing is ever too much trouble for her golden boy. I could be on fire in the middle of the calving shed and she’d step over me to bring him a ham and cheese sandwich with the crusts cut off.

‘Well, I suppose he could give you a hand with the farm. Any new bookings since your media blitz?’ I feel bad that I even have to ask that. I should be helping out more but I just don’t have the headspace to take on anything else at the minute.

‘Oh, did I not tell you? We’re booked out for February! Constance sent John a picture of a pet lamb sucking milk from a bottle, and as soon as it went up on the website we got a school tour, two hens and a corporate retreat. Air traffic controllers from Shannon, I believe.’

‘That’s deadly, Mammy.’

‘How’s Sadhbh and himself, the rock star? Still singing about Liam Neeson, is he?’

‘Well, it’s Pierce Brosnan, but yeah. The place in Ranelagh is lovely. Two ovens, if you don’t mind.’

‘Ah, isn’t that great. God, you’re all so grown up now, settling down and getting married. It’s starting to make me feel a bit old.’ Then off she goes, humming ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, to return the phone to its cradle – God forbid the battery gets used.

It’s pitch dark at 6 a.m. when I pull up the shutters and open the back door to BallyGoBrunch. But the Christmas trade waits for no woman. As well as her signature mince pies and spicy gingerbread women, Carol’s new limited-edition Santy Sandwich has been flying out the door. It’s great for business, but it also means someone has to get in early to fire up the oven for Billy Foran’s organic turkey breasts. I’m rostered on today, but I’m tired after tossing and turning all night, dreaming of monster kangaroos and oven timers that can’t be turned off. I pride myself on being no slave to the demon coffee, but I whip myself up a little cup of Nescafé to keep me going – which seems criminal given the freshly ground beans not five metres away from me, but if my hand was forced I’d have to say I couldn’t be bothered with all the fluthering.

Half an hour later I’m in the office making a small dent in the paperwork that’s been piling up when I hear a key in the back door.

‘Well, Carol,’ I call out. ‘Ready for another day of it?’

‘Are you alright, Aisling?’ she says, appearing in the doorway after a minute, a concerned look on her face.

‘Why?’ I ask, swinging around in my ergonomic office chair.

‘It’s just the trays of turkey are on the counter.’

I jump up, scooch past her and fly out into the kitchen. But she’s right, of course: her carefully seasoned turkey breasts, scattered with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, are indeed sitting out catching salmonella instead of roasting in the oven, which is going full blast. I distinctly remember turning it on but I could have sworn I’d put the turkey in too.

‘I … I’m sorry, Carol. I thought I’d done it,’ I stammer, mortified.

‘Not to worry, love. I’ll pop them in now. They’ll still be done in time,’ she glances at her watch, ‘more or less.’

‘Would it help if I cranked up the temperature?’

‘And serve dry turkey in my Santy Sandwich? Over my dead body. Now go on, back to your desk. I’ve some party bits to assemble and the sausage rolls to put on.’

I’m on my way back to the office – it’s very hard to say no to Carol when she’s being uncharacteristically stern – when there’s a knock on the front door. Mother of God, it’s like Heuston Station here today. We’re not due to open for another twenty minutes but I go out to answer it anyway in case it’s a lunch order from the crew at Garbally. They’ve been sausage-bap stalwarts since they arrived, thanks in no small part to James’s encouragement, I’m sure.

I’m expecting to see some lad in a high-vis but instead there’s an immaculately turned-out woman smiling through the glass at me. She’s dressed head to toe in black and has two phones in one hand and a BallyGoBrunch catering leaflet in the other.

‘Hi!’ she trills. ‘Mandy Blumenthal. Can I come in?’ She waves the leaflet at me. ‘My apologies, I thought you’d be open at 6.40, but I guess things are pretty laid-back around here, huh.’

An American. Americans outside America make me nervous. They seem louder than usual and make ordering chips unnecessarily complicated and have much better raincoats than us. Although this woman isn’t wearing a raincoat. It’s probably in her car.

‘We don’t normally open till seven,’ I say apologetically, opening the door and flipping the sign around. In for a penny and all that. ‘I’m Aisling, the owner. What can I do for you?’

‘This is your place, then? Honey, it’s super-cute. I love it.’

‘Thanks a million.’

We worked hard to make the place ‘Instagram friendly’ on Sadhbh and Elaine’s advice and they were right. People are flat out posting photos of their #kale and #sausagemeat salads, although a fierce number of them seem to think there’s aubergine in it if their emojis are anything to go by.

Mandy looks down at the leaflet and follows me across to the counter where Carol is walking past with a tray of sausage rolls ready for the oven. My stomach growls at the sight of them, even in their raw state.

‘And this is Carol, who runs the kitchen,’ I say, as Carol sort of genuflects and backs into a massive bag of spuds.

‘Carol, hello!’ Mandy says cheerfully. I bet she starts the day power-walking in heels on a treadmill while barking into a headset. ‘Your food comes highly recommended,’ she continues. ‘I know I should have called ahead but I was passing and was wondering if there might be any samples available to try for an event I’m putting together?’

‘Carol, the canapés,’ I mutter out of the side of my mouth, and Carol immediately goes scurrying off to the back larder where there are evening platters waiting for tonight’s Knock Retired Undertakers/Bowls Club joint Christmas dinner-dance. They didn’t have enough people for their own individual events so they teamed up, and there are actually a few retired undertakers on the bowls team anyway. ‘Where is the event on?’

‘I can only give details upon signature of contracts, I’m afraid,’ she says with a huge American smile. ‘There is a degree of confidentiality involved.’ My mind immediately goes to Garbally and the birthday party. Surely not. Although, why else would an American be in here asking about food? We get the very odd USA road tripper passing through, asking about shillelaghs and Barack Obama’s cousins, but BGB’s most famous ancestor is the great-great-great-grandfather of the lad who invented Skips. We’re very proud but he’s no Obama.

Carol re-emerges with some tiny bits and pieces that I was initially worried might be too small for the large paws of either the undertakers or the bowlers, but she assures me they’re packed with flavour and don’t need to be any bigger. Mini parmesan tarts, the freshly baked sausage rolls in thyme pastry, ham and Cheddar croquettes – people go wild for them. I scoot out from behind the counter and direct Mandy to the closest table while Carol places the plate and a stack of napkins in front of her. We both stand there like spares, and it’s only when she politely asks for some water that I realise we’re gawping at her and we retreat behind the counter and pretend to be busy.

I hold my breath as Mandy picks up a meatball-and-relish stacker and sniffs it before taking a tiny bird-like bite and sitting there for a second with her eyes closed, seemingly having a religious experience. Then she pulls a small notebook out of her bag and starts scribbling. I steal a look at Carol, who gives me a wink. She’s right to be confident – it looks simple but the marinade is absolute dynamite and she knows it. There’s Guinness of all things in it.

As soon as she tastes the sausage roll, Mandy takes out one of her phones and punches in a number. ‘Honey!’ she chirps. ‘You were right – it’s absolutely darling. The Instagram photos almost don’t do it justice. And the food is delicious. A contender for sure. I can just imagine the trays circling the orchard.’