It’s nearly half eleven when we get to the house, and even though I can feel the exhaustion setting in, I’m giddy with nerves and excitement and the two and a half bottles of West Coast Cooler I managed to throw back. The lights are still on and I can just about make out the twinkling Christmas tree in the gap between the sitting-room curtains. Paul is probably watching Indiana Jones. And I’d say Mammy’s in the kitchen peeling acres of potatoes and getting her Brussels sprouts ready to bring with her tomorrow. She does a good sprout but she’d have them boiling all night if I let her. It was only a few years ago when me and Paul managed to convince her that vegetables are not really supposed to melt in the mouth.
I lead John in through the back door, but when we land into the kitchen there’s no sign of her or Paul. There’s not even a pot on the Aga. That Bloody Cat stands up when she sees me but just turns around on her chair and settles back in for another sleep. Our relationship has always been very onesided, to be fair. She only ever had eyes for Daddy.
‘Well, puss?’
Nothing.
‘They must be inside, come on,’ I whisper, abandoning my suitcase and tiptoeing into the hallway. I didn’t want to mention anything about John and me talking again until I knew we were serious, but I think it’s about time. It’s only right that he should be with me when I break the news.
I take a deep breath, push down the handle and swing in the door. Maybe I should have given Paul the heads-up and got him to record my homecoming on his phone. It’s the kind of thing that might end up in a heartwarming montage on tomorrow’s Six One.
‘Surprise!’
‘Good lord!’ It’s a man’s voice and it certainly isn’t Paul’s.
I’m as confused as Mammy is shocked. She shoots out of her seat on the couch when she sees me – us – in the doorway and gathers me into her. ‘What the blazes? Aisling!’
It’s Dr Trevor. He stands up and shuffles over to us, smoothing down his tie. What the hell is he doing in my house on Christmas Eve? It’s a sacred day, like. A pang of sadness for Daddy hits me like a slap, but I try to shake it off for the moment that’s in it.
Mammy holds me at arm’s length and looks me up and down like she hasn’t seen me in years. ‘Look at you, you look great, love!’ Then she turns to John, confused. ‘It’s nice to see you, John.’
Dr Trevor extends his hand. ‘Aisling, very nice to finally meet you in person. Sorry about my reaction just now. I was afraid we had an intruder, God forbid.’
‘Well, horse?’ Paul stands up from the armchair and pumps John’s hand. Then he pulls me in for a hug.
I shake Dr Trevor’s hand gingerly, not sure what to say, and we all stand around in an awkward little group. I can feel a tide of irritation rising in me. I can’t believe he’s here tonight of all nights in his slippers, his feet literally under the coffee table. And why is there a big tub of Quality Street on it? We’ve always been a Roses house.
‘Nice to meet you too’ is all I can muster.
John leans in past me and shakes his hand. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced. John. How’s it going? I think you know my mam, Fran? Arthritis in her left hip?’
Dr Trevor smooths his tie again. ‘Ah, I take patient confidentiality very seriously, John.’ Then he nods. ‘But you can tell your mother I hope she’s finding some relief with that new medication.’
‘John was just walking you home, was he?’ Mammy has her hands on her hips but she’s smiling.
John puts his arm around my shoulders, and when I look up at him everything else just seems to melt away. I can’t help but grin. ‘Yeah, about us …’ His eyes are searching mine for confirmation. I stand up on my tiptoes and kiss him gently on the lips. Mammy’s hand flies up to her throat in shock. ‘I think we’re back together.’
****
I’m all disoriented when I wake up the next morning. Where is the street noise? Why can’t I hear Candice’s omnipresent telly sermon through the wall? Then I remember I’m at home. It’s Christmas morning! And I can smell the unmistakable aroma of Carol Boland’s sausages drifting up the stairs.
After my surprise arrival last night, Dr Trevor offered to give John a lift home to Knocknamanagh. When Mammy was getting ready for bed I cornered Paul to get the lie of the land. He told me Dr Trevor hasn’t moved in, but he stays over a couple of nights a week to keep Mammy company. They play bridge, apparently. Then Paul admitted he sticks in earplugs on those nights, just in case. We left it there.
I pad down to the kitchen where I find Mammy and Dr Trevor at the table tucking into a fry. I wasn’t sure if he would, but no, he stayed the night. They stop talking when I push open the door, and I immediately feel self-conscious in front of him in my Forever Friends pyjamas and no bra.
Mammy hops up. ‘There you are, love. I didn’t want to wake you, what with the jet lag and everything. I have a plate for you under the grill. Sit down, good girl.’
There’s a huge turkey out on the counter but not a single pot. Not even a hint of a sprout.
‘Thanks, Mammy. Happy Christmas.’ I nod at Dr Trevor. ‘And you, Dr Trevor.’
‘Please, just Trevor is fine.’ I notice he doesn’t eat the fat of his rashers. It’s the best part.
Mammy puts the plate in front of me with a tea-towelled hand. Two sausages, two rashers, half a tomato and a runny egg. I’ve been dreaming about this.
‘Are you behind on your veg, Mammy? I can give you a hand when I’m finished.’
She’s about to say something, then hesitates, looking to Dr Trevor for reassurance. ‘Not at all, Aisling.’ She takes a breath. ‘Síomha and Cara are bringing the vegetables for today.’
‘I’m sorry, who?’ I know well who she means.
‘I’m only doing the turkey and the gravy.’ She opens the fridge and takes out a roasting tin covered in tinfoil. ‘And I have this, Carol’s famous sausagemeat stuffing.’
‘Who did you say is bringing the veg, Mammy?’
Dr Trevor dabs at his lips with a snowman napkin. ‘They’re my girls, Aisling. My daughters from my marriage to Valerie, now deceased.’
I look over to Mammy, who’s now loading the turkey into the oven, studiously avoiding my eye. ‘And they’re coming here for Christmas dinner? Today?’
The trill of the doorbell sends her scurrying to the hall before she can answer me. ‘That’ll be them now!’
Dr Trevor stands up and heads after her. Why didn’t I put on a dressing gown? The only way back up the stairs is through the front hall, but I can’t go out there now. The front door opens and I can hear Mammy putting on her phone voice and a stilted chorus of hellos and how are yous and happy Christmas, darlings.
When Dr Trevor and Mammy come back in, they’re followed by two petite girls I’m guessing to be in their early twenties. Mammy was right about the hair. Both have long, glossy, rich manes – one a shiny brown, one deep auburn – in what I recognise to be immaculate GHD curls. Sharon’s would be the same on a night out. I’ve never mastered the GHD myself. I can’t get the wrist action right.
‘I think Paul is still in the shower, but this is my Aisling, home all the way from New York,’ Mammy says proudly. She sounds like Úna Hatton, only less of a dose.
‘Síomha, hi, how are you?’ The brunette girl waves. Her make-up is flawless. She’s wearing a navy Aran jumper with navy trousers and navy Mary Jane shoes, and there’s a few delicate gold necklaces glinting on her chest.
I wave back.
‘I’m Cara,’ the red-haired one says, clearly taking in my pyjamas and the sausage dangling from my fork.
‘Er, hiya, happy Christmas.’
She doesn’t look like she’d ever let ketchup near her long cream knitted dress, which I suspect is cashmere. And, if I’m not mistaken, Mandy has the same brown crocodile-skin boots.
Síomha plops a Davenport’s of Tralee paper bag on the floor, and Cara adds another two beside it.
Dr Trevor looks thrilled with this bounty. ‘Ah, you got there in time.’
‘Only just,’ Cara says. ‘The queue was out the door and down the street.’
‘Did you get the winter root vegetables with honey and thyme?’
‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without them,’ Síomha says with a tight smile.
‘And you didn’t forget the braised red cabbage?’
‘As if we would,’ Cara says. ‘And before you ask about the heritage carrots and the redcurrant and port jelly, they’re in there too.’
‘We also got the festive stuffing. It sounds so good.’
I glance over at Mammy, who discreetly pushes the dish of Carol’s sausagemeat stuffing to the back of the counter and throws a tea towel over it.
She turns around. ‘You really went above and beyond, girls. I hope my turkey isn’t too dry now. This all sounds lovely.’
‘Yeah, lovely,’ I add. To be fair, it does sound delicious, if a little bit fancier than what we’re used to. Mammy is very suspicious of herbs.
‘Well, Davenport’s was Mum’s favourite,’ Cara says flatly.