22

Christmas Day passes in a blur of post-mass visitors and little drops of Baileys and just the one alpaca escape. I nearly choked when James texted me from the Pig and Poddle to say he missed me and was looking forward to my visit. Imagine going to the pub on Christmas Day? The English really are a law on to themselves. After dinner I fell asleep in front of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Mammy admitted she put a spoon under my nose twice to make sure I hadn’t died of a Quality Street overdose.

After all the weeks of stress and worry, I’m actually feeling more like my old self when I find Paul sitting at the kitchen table staring into space on Stephenses morning. Maybe all I needed was a good rest?

‘Hellooo? Anyone home?’ I say, waving him out of his trance and moving some files over to the counter. The table has been doubling as Mammy’s office and there are letters and sheaves of paper everywhere. ‘Where’s Mammy?’

‘Out in the farm shop. She said something about marking down chestnuts.’

Bloody Constance Swinford and her notions. She had Mammy convinced BGB was ready for them. ‘Marian, chestnuts are simply diviiine in stuffing!’ she had brayed, insisting she put in a big order from my Brussels sprouts contact. ‘We won’t be able to keep them on the shelves.’

Well, Constance was wrong. People around here don’t stray far from sausagemeat or the classic sage and onion, unless under strict instructions from Neven Maguire. And Neven hasn’t okayed chestnuts in stuffing yet. I wonder could Carol do something with them for the Garbally canapés? Would they keep that long? And then I stop myself. No, Aisling. You’re not to panic about work stuff until you get back after New Year’s Eve. January is for panicking – it’s still party season. Xposé says so.

As such, I’m considering adding a few Roses to my Special K when Mammy appears in the kitchen, shaking raindrops off her anorak.

‘Alexa, you rip, I thought you said it was going to stay dry for the day!’ she shouts. There wasn’t a teapot to be bought in the entire county when I eventually found the time to go looking for one so I had a brainwave and got Mammy a fancy talking speaker instead. She had no problem setting it up on Christmas morning but learning how to work it has been another story.

‘I don’t understand,’ Alexa calls back. I can see Mammy take another sharp breath so I decide to intercede. If not, they’ll be here arguing all morning.

‘Jet lag still bad, is it?’ I say, sitting down opposite Paul.

‘Something like that,’ he replies quietly. He’s barely said two words since he got home. All he does is check his phone and sigh periodically. He even turned down a slice of Mammy’s Christmas cake, which I know she made and iced with a little snowman in a little snowscape especially for him. She’s putting his Quiksilver and Rip Curl T-shirts to air on the Aga but I can tell she has one ear on us. She’s barely left Paul’s side since he arrived in with a face like a slapped arse and not a single Christmas present for anyone.

‘Have you heard anything from her?’ I half-whisper.

‘No.’

‘Did you text her?’

‘Yeah.’

Another sigh.

‘Do you fancy some fresh air? I’m not opening the café till twelve.’

We’re standing under my Totes umbrella in the lashing rain looking at Daddy’s grave. There’s a fresh holly wreath with a big red bow on the headstone with a handwritten ShayMar Farm label hanging off it.

‘You have it looking well,’ Paul notes. ‘Although you missed a bit of bird shite there.’

‘We do our best.’ I give him a little dig. ‘The tree is the problem.’

‘You must be here all the time, are you?’

‘A good bit. I come and talk to him.’ I’ve never told anyone else that, not even Mammy. But it’s true. I fill him in on my bits of news, keep him up to date with what’s happening in Home and Away, the score of the last match. That kind of thing. ‘It actually helps, I think.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have gone back to Oz. Maybe I should have stayed.’

‘Not at all, he wouldn’t have wanted that.’

‘I suppose.’

‘What do you think he’d have made of the eco farm?’ I say.

‘I’m not sure. He’d miss the livestock, but I think he’d like dealing with the customers. He loved the chats, didn’t he?’

‘He did.’

‘I can’t believe how well Mammy’s looking. It’s really given her a new lease of life.’ There’s just the hint of a smile on his lips, but it’s definitely there. ‘All he ever wanted was to make her happy.’

‘That’s true. Do you remember the time he wrapped up the deep freeze and tried to get it under the tree?’

‘Jesus, I thought she was going to go for him.’ He does his Mammy impression: ‘“Seamus, there’d better be a necklace or a bracelet inside that freezer or That Bloody Cat’ll be getting your turkey dinner.”’

I laugh at the memory of it. ‘She was delighted with the frozen side of beef, all the same.’ I clear my throat. ‘You have to snap out of it, Paul. She’s fretting about you.’

‘Me and Hannah have only been broken up a few weeks.’ He sounds annoyed but I keep going anyway.

‘I know it’s tough. Sure, I was in bits after John. But it won’t last forever.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Mammy is flat out now between the farm shop and the yurts. She doesn’t need to be waiting on you hand and foot on top of it too.’

‘I’ve only been home three days. Will you get off my case, Ais?’

‘Only if you promise to cheer up a bit for us.’

‘I promise I’ll cheer up a bit.’

‘But you have to mean it.’

He sighs and digs at a weed with the toe of his runner.

‘There’ll be other girls. You should see the style around these days. The new beauty salon has done wonders for the village.’

‘I’m not interested in meeting someone new.’

‘Well, neither was I, and then James came along.’

‘And let me guess, this is the happiest you’ve ever been?’ His tone is bitter and accusatory. I can’t tell if he thinks I’m smug or full of it.

‘Something like that.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Can we go home, Ais? My feet are getting soaked.’

I’m flying on the thirtieth and Majella and Sharon come over the night before to ‘help me pack’, which is a thinly veiled excuse to finish off the last of the Christmas chocolates.

‘Was that John I just heard coming in the back door?’ Majella enquires on her way back from the bathroom. I heard him coming in too and had to stop myself from getting annoyed. He and Paul are pals, but it’s still deeply awkward to have my ex-boyfriend walking around the house.

‘Yeah. I think Paul mentioned going for a pint.’

‘Any luck with the dress yet, Majella?’ Sharon asks.

‘Oh yeah, I found the perfect one but it costs about the same as second-hand car,’ Majella wails. ‘I’m so sickened.’

‘Remember what Sadhbh said?’ I say. Then I turn to Sharon. ‘The designer does great reductions but you have to jump on them.’

‘Your mother actually showed me how to set up Google Alerts, Ais,’ Maj says. ‘So say a prayer.’

Just then there’s a blast of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ from downstairs so loud that Sharon falls off the bed and knocks several of my carefully rolled pairs of knickers onto the floor. Rolling is the only way to go when you’re packing. Sadhbh sent me a YouTube video about it and the girl in it was like Mary Poppins the amount she got into the case. My heart was broken earlier trying to roll up my footies. They can be very fiddly.

There’s a roar from Mammy. ‘Alexa! Stop playing!’

The music stops abruptly.

‘Jesus, that thing is very sensitive,’ Majella whispers. ‘Do you think it can hear us from up here?’

There’s another roar from Mammy. ‘Alexa! What are the opening times for Mc. Daids. Hard. Ware?’

Without missing a beat, Alexa blasts out ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ again. Poor Mammy. The music stops again and I hear John laughing, that deep belly laugh of his I haven’t heard in so long. Mammy must have him cornered about putting goalposts in the Far Field. She wants them there for when school tours come and said John would be just the man to help her source them. I really wish she’d come to James for things, but I suppose in this instance John is something of an expert, what with his GAA connections.

‘I got Mammy and Daddy one of those speaker yokes for Christmas as well,’ says Majella as she paws absentmindedly through my wardrobe. ‘They’ve been shouting at it and getting disappointed at everything it can’t do for days. Feels like my teenage years all over again. And Shane came in steaming the other night barefoot and kept swearing blind at the top of his voice that he’d left the house with “two shoes” on and, well, long story short, there’s a year’s supply of tissues arriving on New Year’s Day.’

‘They’ll be handy for Pablo come wedding time, to be fair.’

Majella bites into a Coffee Escape. ‘True that, Ais. True that.’

‘Okay, how many nights are you staying, hun?’ Sharon says, gently pushing Majella out of the way and standing in front of my wardrobe.

‘Only two. But I feel like I need “outfits”. I want to be prepared.’

Sharon sifts through the rail – my purple Savida dress, my good interview suit, my fleecy dressing gown. It doesn’t look like much, I have to admit. I feel a stab of anxiety in my belly. I’ve nothing at all that’s suitable. Downstairs John laughs again and for a split second I feel something close to jealousy and wish that I was downstairs laughing with them, nothing to worry about except Alexa and goalposts.

‘You need something savage for New Year’s Eve anyway – who cares if the party’s in the house,’ Majella says, swishing her not-quite-there-yet Rosie Huntington-Whiteley highlights over her shoulder.

‘I don’t have anything savage,’ I reply, my voice going up an octave. Maybe I could buy something in the airport in the morning? I rack my brains trying to remember what shops are in Terminal One. House of Ireland? Could I dress up an Aran jumper? Fashion some kind of toga out of a Foxford wool blanket and a belt? I’m sure I’ve seen Sadhbh do it.

‘Oh my god, you have to wear the suit – it’s perfect,’ Sharon says, taking it out and hanging it on the door.

‘But it’s only for interviews. Would the dress not be better?’

‘The suit is lucky, though, Ais. It got me my job, remember?’ Majella says, digging through the Roses looking for a Caramel Barrel. On 29 December? Good luck.

‘But it’s a party. I can’t wear a suit to a party. I want to look glam, not like a receptionist!’

‘Oh, you will look glam, hun,’ Sharon says confidently. ‘Suits are very hot right now. Did you not see Emilia Coburn in the pink one at the BAFTAs? And I’ll loan you these to finish it off.’ She holds up one of her sparkly gold sandals. I balk at the height of them. Why she continues to shun kitten heels is beyond me. So much easier to walk in and there was definitely something in Grazia about them being ‘back’. Were they ever gone?

‘And what’ll I wear under it?’ I ask, coming around to the idea. ‘I’ve a few decent shirts in the drawer there or I’ve my red vest top but that’s at James’s.’

‘Oh, hun, you don’t wear anything under it except a bra, and you could definitely pull it off,’ Sharon says enviously.

Majella takes another look at the suit and starts nodding emphatically. ‘Yes!’ she goes. ‘Classy but sexy too.’

‘Ah, girls,’ I say. ‘I’m not Emilia Coburn. She’s tiny for starters. I heard she lives on lemon juice and maple syrup. I ate a block of cheese last night. I’m still trying to lose that stone from 2012, you know.’

Sharon rolls her eyes and folds her arms. ‘Would you ever give over. You’ll be stunning.’

‘I don’t know about this. I can’t meet James’s parents with no top on, can I?’

But Majella is already rummaging in her handbag for tit tape.

It’s decided that the suit, the purple dress, my good jeans, my red shumper and the pair of fancy yoga leggings Elaine and Ruby got me for Christmas will cover all bases. Elaine spent an hour talking to Constance at my thirtieth about plans to do yoga classes at the farm, and she’s convinced I’m going to be converted. After my Pilates hell? I don’t think so. But the leggings and my good fleece will be a decent outfit if they spring any country walks on me. I’m only raging I won’t be able to fit the Hunter wellies I won three years ago at the Ploughing in my carry-on suitcase. I feel like they’d be very Buckleton.

‘Aisling. Will you tell Paul John’s here?’

Mammy’s stage whisper up the stairs interrupts a debate about shoes and how many pairs is acceptable for two and a half days away. Two (me). Four (Sharon). Just book another bag (Majella). I step out onto the landing and peer down the stairs, relieved to see he’s not in the hall with her.

‘What are you doing, Mammy? Why are you whispering?’ I feel a bit annoyed with her now and her buddy-buddy carry-on with John. But I know she’s worried about Paul and desperate to get him out of the house to see if it will help with his mood.

‘I don’t want Alexa to hear me. God only knows what she’ll be at next. Will you give his door a knock there? I think he’s listening to music.’

I thud on Paul’s door. No response. I bang harder and hear his bed squeak and the door opens. His eyes are red.

‘John’s here for you.’

‘Okay, I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m grand.’

‘He’ll be down in a minute,’ I call dutifully to Mammy, who’s still posted at the bottom of the stairs. Paul emerges from his room with his coat on and gives me a gruff ‘Bye’, jogging down the stairs as John emerges from the kitchen, shrugging his own coat up onto his shoulders.

‘Hiya.’

‘Hi.’

Is this us? Destined to awkward greetings for the rest of our lives?

What tiny moment of silence that follows is broken by Majella. ‘Found the tit tape!’