Читать книгу Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 2: The House on Willow Street, The Honey Queen, Christmas Magic, plus bonus short story: The Perfect Holiday - Cathy Kelly - Страница 27

The days following Kevin’s revelation, outwardly Tess continued to drive Zach to the bus, take Kitty to school, and carry on with her daily business. Inside, Tess wondered was the whole separation disaster all her fault and thought that if only she could have kept her mouth shut, if only she’d been happy with I love him most of the time love, then she, Kitty, Kevin and Zach would still be a family. Then Zach wouldn’t have to put out the bins in an attempt to be the man of the family, Kevin wouldn’t have fallen for Claire, and she wouldn’t be consumed by the most unbelievable rage she’d ever experienced.

Despite her best intentions, a great vat of anger was boiling inside her over Kevin and Claire.

‘I’m so furious with him for doing this to the kids and to me,’ she said to Vivienne. ‘How could he?’ Tess paused because the last bit was the hardest: ‘And I’m angry with myself for almost pushing them together! I made this happen. Me!’

Zach wasn’t talking to her at all, as if it was all her fault.

I didn’t tell Kitty. We need her to get used to the idea of Claire first, Kevin texted.

Wonderful, thought Tess. Now he turns into the concerned parent.

Then she felt guilty – Kevin had always been a good parent. And he loved Zach and Kitty. He probably was doing his best under difficult circumstances. She needed to meet him to discuss what they did next.

The problem was that Kitty was desperately keen to meet Claire.

‘She had to go away,’ fibbed Tess, which earned her a furious glare from Zach.

‘It’s not my fault, Zach,’ Tess said to her son later.

Only to have him hiss: ‘Isn’t it?’

‘If Gerard did that to me,’ Vivienne said, ‘I’d take him to the cleaners in the divorce courts. I’d be more than bitter, I’d be furious.’

Under the circumstances, Tess felt that bitterness was allowed, except that, having met a few bitter divorced women, she wasn’t in any hurry to join their ranks.

They were the women who divided life into two chunks: Before the divorce and After the divorce. Everything in the After category, be it global warming or a stock exchange crash, could be blamed on the departed husband.

We had no holes in the ozone layer until he left me!

Much of the stock in her shop had come from these perpetually enraged women. It was astonishing how many of the husbands had failed to collect their belongings after they left.

‘This was his mother’s,’ one ex-wife said furiously, holding up a particularly fine piece of Chinese pottery.

In the interests of legality, Tess enquired whether the woman was entitled to sell the pottery. It was a valuable piece. Perhaps her ex-husband’s lawyers would need to be contacted …

‘I got the house and everything in it!’ hissed the woman, making Tess think, not for the first time, that the antique business was not your average job.

It was almost easier dealing with bankruptcy sales, much as Tess hated those. Having been through it herself, she found it unbearable trying to make a profit from people who were forced to sell everything they owned.

‘No, Vivienne, I’m going to concentrate on the business,’ Tess said. ‘I need it now that we’re not getting back together. I’ll have to hire someone to work here occasionally so I can attend more auctions and go off round the country to executors’ sales.’

‘You should find a new man. That would show bloody Kevin what a mistake he’s making,’ Vivienne said. ‘There’s that lovely Cashel Reilly, he’s not married. A nice millionaire – or is it billionaire? Either way, you could do worse.’

‘I told you, we dated years ago and it ended horribly,’ said Tess miserably.

‘Oh, that was years ago. People move on. He’s been married since, he’s got over you. And besides,’ Vivienne said, returning to a well-worn theme, ‘if you made even the slightest effort, Tess, you’d look fabulous. I’ve never seen a woman less interested in her appearance.’

Tess wasn’t even mildly insulted by these words because Vivienne had been saying them for years. Ever since they’d been shop neighbours, she’d been pushing Tess to have her hair cut properly, wear make-up and, obviously – befitting advice from a woman who owned a clothes shop – to dress beautifully.

‘I could do so much with you, Tess,’ Vivienne would say regretfully. ‘Look at you, you’re slim and tall. Most women would kill for long legs like yours, and such a narrow waist. And heavens, Tess, your hair! You’ve got to stop going to Eileen’s to get your hair cut. Eileen can only do blue-rinse shampoos and sets. Her version of the pixie cut makes you look like someone went at your hair with sheep shears.’

‘Stop with the compliments,’ said Tess drily. ‘I don’t think I can take any more of it.’

‘I’ve only got your best interests at heart,’ said Vivienne. ‘Now that you’re a single woman, you have to make more of an effort. At least go to the beauty salon and get your eyelashes tinted, seeing as you won’t wear any eyeliner or mascara or anything. You’re like my sister-in-law, Gladys, determined to live her life without a bit of lipstick passing her lips.’

‘You hate her! You always say she’s a complete cow,’ said Tess, finally insulted.

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ sighed Vivienne. ‘You’re anything but a cow. You’re one of my best friends and I love you dearly, but I don’t know why you persist with this sheep farmer from the back of beyond look. You’re beautiful; you could be so stunning if you made even the slightest effort. It’s as if you want to look like some old boot so that no man will ever look at you again.’

And there it was finally, the thing that really hurt Tess.

She quickly moved the conversation on to something else because Vivienne had touched a nerve. Kevin had never said anything to her in all the years of their marriage about dressing up or wearing eye make-up, and that had suited Tess. Suited her too much, she realized now.

‘Of course, hunky Cashel is going to be around much more now that he’s bought the house.’

‘What house?’

Vivienne paused. ‘Avalon House,’ she said reluctantly.

Tess nearly dropped her cup of tea.

‘You hadn’t heard? Oh hell, I’m sorry, Tess …’ Vivienne flailed around, trying to find the right words. ‘I honestly thought you’d know, that someone would tell you …’

‘Why would anyone tell me?’ Tess said. ‘It hasn’t been my home for years. It’s nothing to me now.’ She put down her cup and gave Vivienne a brief hug. ‘Sorry, love, I’m going next door to shut up shop. It’s been a tough few days.’

She almost ran out of the shop and into her own. Silkie, who’d followed her into Vivienne’s, ran after her and looked up in alarm.

‘Come on, darling,’ said Tess, getting to her knees and burying her head in the dog’s silken coat the way she had with her animals as a child, ‘let’s go home.’

She’d had enough.

But the wheels of business move on and the next day, Tess knew she couldn’t miss the year’s biggest antiques auction. She had to find some fresh stock – as cheaply as possible.

In the past few years, Tess had got used to closing early when she needed to go out to an auction because she could no longer afford to hire anyone. But with Christmas only a month away and the books looking so bad, she was nervous of losing a day’s trading. Danae’s gorgeous niece, Mara, whom she’d loved on their night out, seemed like the perfect stopgap: she was looking for work, and she was happy to fill in for one day.

Mara said she had worked in property, and Tess prayed she’d be OK holding the fort for a small, unusual antique business. Though it helped enormously if the person had even a vague knowledge of antiques, Tess had descriptions of everything in the shop on the tiny luggage labels she used for the prices.

She was due at nine. Bang on time, there was a knock on the door.

Tess looked up to find a vision in the shop doorway.

For the occasion, Mara had dressed in an exquisite arrangement of vintage, figuring that this was one job where old clothes would be an advantage. She wore a 1950s butter yellow dress with a Peter Pan collar, a tiny waist and whirling skirts. She had a fluffy white mohair cardigan draped over her shoulders and carried a white hard-frame handbag.

‘Mara, you look wonderful!’ she said.

‘Thank you, Tess,’ said Mara, and stepped into Something Old.

That night in the restaurant, Tess had decided that Mara had a glow about her, like she was lit up inside. Tess couldn’t quite put her finger on the exact cause, whether it was Mara’s rippling mane of auburn hair or the huge green eyes that looked at everything with such interest. Today, she was the same: glowing and smiling, looking as delighted at the possibility of a day’s work as she might have been over being head-hunted for some glamorous corporation.

‘You’re wildly over-qualified for the job,’ Tess said. She knew of Mara’s career history but looking over her CV now, she could see that was definitely the case.

‘Oh, you must read my reference,’ Mara said cheerfully. ‘The ex-boyfriend I was telling you about: he wrote it. They were all terrified I’d sue them or him, so from the reference, you’d think I’d personally run the entire office single-handedly for three years.’

She paused thoughtfully. ‘I could have too – run the office, that is. But property is not the job to be in right now. Too many people selling their beloved homes in misery for half of what they’d bought the place for, and you still have to demand commission. Horrible. I’d probably have been made redundant soon anyhow.’

‘I’m not sure the antique business is much better,’ Tess said. ‘A lot of my current stock is from people who’ve been forced to part with pieces they’ve had in their families for decades and they’ve looked as if they wanted to cry as it went out the door.’

‘So kindness is a necessity if anyone comes in with something to sell,’ Mara said quickly. ‘Trust me, I can do kind.’ A wistfulness crept into her voice. ‘I’d have gone mad if not for other people’s kindness over the past couple of months. Henry James said kindness was the most important word in the English language. He was right.’

‘Do you know anything about antiques?’ asked Tess briskly. She didn’t want to talk about people’s kindness or how she melted into a puddle of tears when she experienced it. It was easy being strong as long as nobody said anything gentle to you: that was when the floodgates opened. There was definitely something magical about Mara: she made people open up. Tess hadn’t been crying much at all these past few days: she’d trained herself not to.

‘Oh look!’ in an instant, Mara had swooped on one of the rosewood jewellery cabinets (a stunning piece for displaying jewellery, but for sale if the correct price was reached), and pointed to a dainty Art Nouveau brooch displayed on a velvet choker on an old gold papier-mâché bust.

The brooch was so tiny that it would get lost worn any other way, but the sinuous silver lines made a perfect adornment to a choker, exactly like the one in the old oil painting of Great-great-great- (Tess forgot how many greats were involved) aunt Tatiana from Avalon House, although in the painting, Tatiana was wearing a vast diamond choker which had come from the Tsar’s court in the 1800s. Pity they’d never been able to find that necklace in Avalon House when they had to sell everything, Tess thought wistfully. It was one of those priceless pieces, with a maharajah’s diamond in the centre of it and a whole history surrounding the necklace. It would be worth hundreds of thousands. But even though she and Suki had searched for it, they’d never found it or Great-great-great…aunt Tatiana’s alleged hiding place for her gems.

As soon as she’d seen the lovely brooch, part of a job lot, Tess had known how beautiful it would look worn as a choker and set against black velvet.

‘That is so beautiful,’ Mara breathed. ‘And where you have it is perfect. I feel like it’s on a lady’s dressing table and she’s about to cast off a silky robe so she can dress for a fabulous party, cover herself in Chanel No. 5 and … oh, I don’t know – what would she be wearing for something of this period?’

Tess grinned. ‘I take it all back,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to know anything about antiques if you can make them come alive like that.’

‘It’s not me!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘It’s you, the way you display everything. It all looks like a room in a beautiful house where you want to wander into each corner and discover …’

Seeing it through someone else’s eyes, Tess looked around at her little kingdom.

Without her realizing it, she had created a microcosm of Avalon House in the two rooms of Something Old. There was the gentleman’s library section where the hunting prints, the wine-drinking paraphernalia and the old leather-bound books lay, the way they had in her father’s library, even though the valuable books had all been sold. There was the ladies’ boudoir area where silver-backed brushes and jewellery sat alongside glass bottles from every perfume era, and where beautifully speckled foxed antique mirrors made everyone’s reflection look hazily lovely. Even Tess, who didn’t have much time for admiring herself in mirrors, looked twice when she caught sight of her reflection in them.

And the larger pieces of furniture at the back of the shop: the bookcases, portraits, giant Victorian vases, old travelling steam trunks, ornate chairs. Every piece could have fitted into her old home and looked as though it belonged.

Tess felt her eyes brim. She thought she’d left Avalon House and all its memories behind, when what she’d done was recreate it in her shop.

She shook herself and got on with explaining the till to Mara.

The next day, Mara walked up the last bit of Willow Street and in through the rusting but imposing gates till she was on the avenue leading to Avalon House. Danae had said it was like walking under a canopy of shimmering greens in the summer, as the branches from each side met in the middle. In winter, the bare branches reached out to their friends, as if waiting patiently for the first acid-green bud to appear. Mara knew nothing about gardening apart from admiring whatever it was that Danae did with her garden, but even she could see that the vast acres Avalon House sat on hadn’t seen a lawnmower or a leaf blower for many years. It was a wild place, with tangled bushes and great clumps of ivy climbing the trees, strangling them.

What would it be like to live here? Would life be infinitely better if you were born master or mistress of this place instead of being the ordinary girl from Furlong Hill? A girl who lived here probably wouldn’t have to try too hard to forge a life. Someone like that would have instantly divined that Jack wasn’t serious. And then again, she knew Tess, knew a little of her history. It seemed as if being born into such a noble family with noble bricks and battlements around you meant nothing. People were still people, whatever their birthright.

Cashel Reilly stood by the entrance wearing a cashmere navy coat. He was very tall and good looking, if you liked that dark, brooding type of thing. Mara once had, but she was over it. Besides, he was too old.

‘Hello, I’m Mara Wilson, I’m here for the interview,’ she said.

‘You walked?’ said Cashel in surprise.

Mara’s very-professional-person-looking-for-a-job look was immediately replaced by a wry smile.

‘My aunt lives outside your gate,’ she said. ‘Hers is the last house on Willow Street. This is the country, not LA: people walk here.’

‘True,’ said Cashel, recovering. ‘In fact, that’s what we’re going to do now: walk round the place.’

He set off at a brisk pace, despite the wellington boots he was wearing. Mara, who was wearing flat boots herself, struggled to keep up.

‘I liked your CV and your application letter,’ he said.

There hadn’t been many suitable applications. If he’d chosen a big city firm to find someone for him, he’d have been inundated, but he wanted to keep this local. It felt right doing it that way, and Mara Wilson had been the only local applicant.

‘Can you take decent notes?’ he asked, beginning to speed up, opening the door into the house.

‘Yes, if I’m not running like a hare after you,’ Mara said. ‘Would I have to follow you around?’

‘I usually pace in an office,’ Cashel admitted. ‘We’d need to find an office in town.’

‘We’d need an office full stop,’ Mara said. ‘I can’t operate out of here.’

They’d reached the old hall, which Cashel scanned rapidly. He couldn’t imagine that broadband had ever been installed in Avalon House.

‘Good point. Look into it. Something in town, big enough for both of us. I won’t be there much, but I’ll need my own office.’

‘Any special chair or desk requirements?’ Mara asked. ‘Does your chair have to be some wildly expensive leather gizmo in the ten grand range?’

Cashel looked at her suspiciously. Was she being funny?

‘People can be very specific about what they like,’ Mara said, as if she had read his thoughts.

‘Surprise me,’ Cashel said – a statement that surprised him. Normally, he assumed total control. Most of the staff in his various offices had been with him long enough to develop a sense of his preferences and knew better than to bother him with the details, but he hated it when they got it wrong.

‘Does that mean I’ve got the job?’

Cashel looked at his new executive assistant in charge of Avalon House. She looked smart, streetwise, and she said what she thought, a quality he liked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Don’t disappoint me. I like you on instinct, and I’m rarely wrong. See that I’m not.’

‘Okey doke,’ said Mara cheerfully. ‘I’ll get working on an office, architects – unless you have someone in mind – and builders. The best, I’m guessing?’

He nodded. ‘I don’t like being ripped off, though,’ Cashel said grimly.

‘Understood, loud and clear,’ said Mara.

They walked around the ground floor and Cashel found himself speaking slowly so Mara could take notes, rather than rattling off instructions in his normal shotgun manner. He didn’t know if it was this spiky, unusual girl who was having that effect on him or the fact that he was in Avalon House – the house he now owned.

Here, in the town where he’d grown up, he felt different, less like the captain of industry who expected minions to jump when he said so. If he sent Mara off scared, doubtless he’d get a reputation in the town for being a rich bastard, one of those people who’d let wealth change them beyond recognition. And he didn’t want anyone to think that, because it wasn’t true.

Money had changed him, to a degree. The absence of it was a nightmare, and he knew that, because he’d grown up that way. But having money didn’t necessarily change the person you had been from the start.

A billionaire Swiss friend had put it wonderfully when he said that having money merely emphasized what you were all along. If you were a poor son of a bitch, you’d turn into an even worse son of a bitch with money. But if you were fundamentally decent, then you’d stay that way – simply with a nicer bank balance.

‘One question,’ Mara asked, when they’d spent an hour walking around the house, talking, with her taking copious notes all the while. ‘Is this to be your home, or are you doing it up to sell?’

Cashel didn’t look at her.

He seemed a million miles away, in fact. It was as if he had to drag himself back to the present when he finally answered her: ‘I don’t know. Yet.’

When Mara had left, Cashel walked around the house and looked at it. It didn’t matter how much money you had if you weren’t happy, he knew that all too well.

And he knew that the Power family had loved each other, even though there wasn’t any money to go round. They were never too proud to be friends with the locals. Well, maybe Suki wasn’t friends with all and sundry, but that was because Suki had always been wild. Even so, the wildness didn’t come from her thinking she was a cut above anyone else. If anything, it was a fierce desire to do better that made her wild. To get herself out of Avalon. To be rich and famous.

But old Mr Power and Tess – even thinking of her name upset him – those two never thought they were better than anyone else. Maybe their ancestors would have thought so. It would have been bred into the De Paors: You are better than all the townsfolk. They are there to do your bidding. But old Mr Power and Tess weren’t like that.

He remembered Tess, years ago, getting angry with him as they passed through the gallery where all the portraits were. She had noticed that he was walking cautiously, as though he might get into trouble for being in this part of the house.

‘Would you stop comparing our backgrounds, Cashel, please,’ she’d said. ‘You know, your mother knows, we have nothing. We’ve barely been able to pay for electricity for the past three years. There’s no money in this house. Stop looking at it like it’s something different. It’s a big house, nothing more. So what if my father can trace his ancestors back for decades? What does that mean in real terms, exactly? You’re the one who’s making it different.’

These days he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her – not surprising, given that he was buying the house she used to live in. The house she’d lived in when he first kissed her. The house she’d lived in when she betrayed him.

He made a note to himself to talk to Mara in the morning. Not a penny was to be spared when it came to Avalon House. It was to be the best of everything. The very best.

Within weeks, Cashel found a strange peace in walking around the grounds of Avalon House. Mara had sourced a company of local tree surgeons, who were diligently examining the trees in the avenue. Some of the beautiful magnolias would have to come down, they’d told Cashel, because they were diseased.

Mara had also found a landscape gardener who specialized in the restoration of old gardens, and even though Cashel had meant to be in a meeting in London the morning she arrived, he’d found himself cancelling so he could join in on the walk around the grounds.

The gardener, a formidable lady named Judy, was in her sixties and wore sensible tweeds and a waxed jacket that looked at least as old as the house. She had a brusque manner and a small dog snapping at her heels, and Cashel found he was delighted to lope along behind her and Mara, wearing wellington boots and a heavy coat.

‘There’s a lot of work to be done here,’ Judy said. ‘Really serious work. It looks as though none of this has been touched for nigh on thirty years.’ Her tone conveyed the disgust she felt for those responsible.

‘It’s true that the place has been neglected,’ said Mara, who’d begun to research the history of the estate diligently and had learned how, thanks to her feckless ancestors, Tess had lost her home. And now the poor woman was struggling to hang on to her shop, as well as having to cope with her husband leaving. Though Judy was clearly the sort of woman who brooked no opposition to her views, Mara felt she owed it to her new friend to provide a more sympathetic account of Avalon House’s recent history:

‘For the past eighteen years, the house has been empty. The previous owners – the Powers, who’d owned Avalon House since its inception – lost all their money, so they hadn’t the resources to do anything to stop it becoming more and more decrepit.’

Cashel found himself compelled to intervene, although he didn’t know why he was sticking up for Tess’s family. ‘These huge houses are a nightmare to run,’ he said. ‘It’s the same story all over the country: grand old houses that were once the envy of everyone, handed down the generations until there wasn’t a ha’penny left to maintain them, for all that they could trace their ancestors back to the year dot and had the portraits in the hall to prove it. Not that it matters who your ancestors are, or anything,’ he trailed off.

‘Yes,’ said Judy, maintaining her brisk pace. ‘I can see that. I’ve come across many similar cases in my work. I take it you want to make sure this garden is restored in keeping with the property?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Cashel, and he found himself wondering why he’d said anything positive at all about landowners in trouble.

It was as if he was standing up for Tess, Suki and their father, and the fact that they hadn’t a ha’penny. Bizarre. He kept pace with Mara and Judy, shortening his long strides so the other pair could keep up. Mara shot him a couple of interesting glances but he ignored them. There could be something on her mind, he decided. Mara was not like any other assistant he’d ever had before. In fact, he’d probably have fired any assistant who behaved as Mara did toward him. Not for any insubordination or lack of ability – far from it, she was marvellously efficient, clever, capable of thinking on her feet and coming up with fantastic ideas – but she didn’t kowtow to him at all. Of late, however, Cashel had changed; he found Mara’s attitude refreshing. It was as if she was saying, You may have lots of money and be my boss, but you’re no better than me, sweetie.

Cashel Reilly, who’d grown up feeling exactly the same way, admired that sort of spirit.

While he found Judy a joy, he couldn’t cope with being present for too many of the architectural meetings. The architect, a slender, respectable young man named Lorcan Reed, had been highly recommended, having been involved in the restoration of many such period houses. But after hearing him expound at length on the need to ensure that all renovations and improvements remained absolutely in keeping with the various periods of the building, Cashel had decided that Lorcan Reed was an almighty bore. The architect was also intent on getting his own way, which immediately put Cashel’s back up as he was accustomed to people deferring to his preferences, especially when it was his money they were spending.

Whether it was a question of choosing a particular flooring, a certain type of wood or stone, Cashel’s choice would invariably be rubbished by Lorcan as historically inaccurate:

‘With all due respect, in this part of the house it simply has to be parquet flooring,’ he would splutter, becoming even more earnest when he was trying to make a point. ‘I mean, there can be no other choice.’

Mara looked at Cashel, one eyebrow raised and the slightest hint of a smile playing around her lips, which were some wild, red colour today. He wondered where she got those mad lipsticks. They never seemed to fade. It was as if Mara decided Today I shall be wearing bright red and it shall be bright red from morning ’til night.’

‘Will you bail me out when I kill that bloody Lorcan?’ Cashel asked her when the architect was gone. ‘He is so determined to have his own way.’

‘I know somebody else like that, but I can’t think who …’ said Mara.

Cashel swotted at her with his giant pile of papers ‘Make me a coffee, madam, and stop teasing. After a couple of hours listening to him drone, I think I need a kick-boxing session.’

‘Kick boxing?’ she’d asked. ‘I’d no idea you were interested in that. I saw you as more of a weights man. Or a marathon man. Yes, I can see you doing marathons, never giving up. Oooh, the iron man – have you ever done one of those?’

He grinned at her properly this time. ‘You really are a minx,’ he said.

‘Have I overstepped the mark?’ Mara enquired. She did sometimes wonder whether she overstepped professional boundaries in her dealings with Cashel, but they got on so well that this wasn’t an issue. Leaving Kearney Property Partners after what had happened with Jack had changed her. The part of Mara that was always irreverent and determined to be her own person had come fully to the surface. No matter what job she was in, she was going to be herself, her ordinary self. She was not going to reinvent herself in order to conform to other people’s notions of what she should be, what she should wear, how she should behave, not worry over whether her boyfriend approved of her mad clothes, for example. She shook her head as if to dislodge the thoughts. No, let’s not go there.

‘Are you going to join the land of the living any time soon?’ Cashel enquired. ‘My espresso is ready.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘My mind was elsewhere. I was picturing you doing the marathon after a very long bike ride.’ Her eyes twinkled at him. ‘Worn out, begging for mercy.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I really believe that.’

Restored after his espresso, Cashel set off to find Freddie, the master builder.

Striding round the house in his wellies and hard hat, eyeing things up and pulling a pencil from behind his ear to adjust his calculations on a scrap of paper, Freddie was a delight to deal with. He had lived in Avalon his entire life. Though younger than Cashel, he knew Riach and pronounced him ‘sound’, which appeared to be the highest praise there was in Freddie’s estimation.

He was less enthusiastic when it came to Lorcan.

‘He’d drive a sober man to drink,’ Freddie had been heard to say on a few occasions, according to Mara. He never said it in Cashel’s hearing though. No, Freddie wasn’t that stupid. It would be an awful mistake to insult the client by letting on you thought the architect should be locked up somewhere. Preferably with padded walls and something to draw on.

‘It’s a fine house,’ Freddie would say wistfully when they were standing outside looking at the sweep of Avalon House in front of them. Then they’d turn and look at the avenue of trees, where the tree surgeons were busy at work, and over to the gleaming sweep of Avalon Bay. Because it was winter, the hard landscaping Judy was overseeing had to end early, but Cashel and Freddie would often linger after the workforce had gone home just to appreciate a spectacular sunset or the beauty of the view from Avalon House.

For all that Cashel was a very wealthy man and the new owner of Avalon House, because he was Avalon born and bred, Freddie looked upon him as an equal.

‘Sure they were different times then,’ Freddie might say, ‘times when the landed gentry had land and money and the rest of us, ah sure, we had nothing. My father used to get fierce angry over the injustice of it all,’ Freddie went on, ‘the haves and the have nots made him a bitter man. A bitter man,’ he repeated. ‘He was always thinking of what we down there in the town had and what the rich people up on the hill had. And sure, for all I hear, near the end, they didn’t have two pennies to rub together.’

‘True,’ said Cashel, ‘true.’

‘And it doesn’t matter whether you live in a castle or a hovel. What matters is that you have a bite to eat, a fire to warm yourself at and a bit of love. What was that old saying from the bible …?’ Freddie could talk for hours in this manner, and Cashel found he liked to listen to him. ‘“Better a dinner of herbs and love than a stalled ox and hatred within.” I think that was it, anyway,’ said Freddie. ‘For all the teachers who tried to get it into my thick skull, I can’t remember much of the aul catechism, but it was something like that.’

Cashel grinned. ‘I know what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘My own family didn’t have much, either.’

He was waiting to see what Freddie knew about his humble upbringing – but then, Freddie must have known, given that he knew Riach. Whatever he knew, however, Freddie was too wise to mention it.

‘Ah, we were all the same back then,’ was all Freddie said. ‘No arse in our trousers.’ He laughed. ‘Look at us now, two fine men with jobs – aren’t we doing great?’

Yes, we are, thought Cashel to himself. And on the surface, it all looked great. So why didn’t he feel great?