The Summer of Serendipity: The magical feel good perfect holiday read

by Ali McNamara

  ‘I’ve come to see you, Donal. I know we had a little falling out yesterday, but I wondered if we might put all that behind us? Because I think you might just be the person to help me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m not on duty this afternoon,’ Donal says, subconsciously tugging at the neck of his T-shirt as if he wants to tighten a tie.

  ‘No, I don’t want you for hotel business. I wanted to probe your historical knowledge, if you’ll let me?’

  ‘My historical knowledge?’ Donal asks proudly. ‘On what particular subject?’

  ‘Would it be OK if I came in?’ I ask, looking past him into the house.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry – where are my manners! Yes, of course. My mother is home – I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Donal stands aside to let me pass, and I find myself in a small hallway. He closes the door behind him and leads me through to an old-fashioned sitting room. ‘Please, take a seat,’ he gestures to a comfortable-looking chintz-covered sofa.

  ‘Donal! Do we have guests?’ an elderly female voice calls from another room.

  ‘Yes, Mother, just one.’ Donal smiles apologetically at me.

  I hear the sound of a chair scraping across a lino floor and then slow steady footsteps coming down the hall.

  An elderly lady appears in the sitting room doorway. ‘Oh, Donal, do you have a lady friend at last?’

  ‘No, Mother! Miss Parker is a guest at the hotel.’

  ‘Please, call me Ren,’ I tell both of them.

  ‘Ren, what sort of name is that?’ Donal’s mother pushes past him and enters the room; she sits down slowly and with difficulty on a high armchair.

  ‘My full name is Serendipity,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ah, much prettier,’ she says agreeably. ‘You should call yourself that – its suits your pretty face much better than calling yourself after a bird!’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile, amused by her honesty.

  ‘Now, Donal, what are you doing hanging around by that door? We have a visitor, put the kettle on at once and we shall have tea.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Donal mutters as he heads down the hall towards the kitchen.

  ‘Now, my dear, what is it we can do for you today? I have to say, I didn’t really think you were one of Donal’s lady friends – you’re far too pretty. Most of them are complete dogs.’

  I laugh out loud this time.

  ‘Lovely girls, mind,’ she continues. ‘But God didn’t bless them in the looks department, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Does Donal have many lady friends then?’ I ask, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘A few. They don’t last all that long, though. My Donal is married to that hotel, and as soon as the ladies realise he’s not going to be proposing any time soon, they leave pretty quickly. Gold-diggers, the lot of them. I’m minted, you see,’ she explains. ‘My husband left me very rich when he died – insurance policy scam. He took some and gave me the rest. I was glad to see the back of him, and he . . . well, let’s just say he needed to disappear for a while.’ She raises her white eyebrows at me.

  I smile hesitantly, not knowing what to say to this.

  Donal reappears in the doorway. ‘Kettle is on. I do hope Mother isn’t telling you any of her tales?’ he asks, looking anxiously at his mother. ‘She has a tendency to get carried away.’

  ‘No, it’s all good,’ I say, smiling at him.

  ‘So what is it I can do for you, Miss— I mean, Ren?’

  I glance at Donal’s mother.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, my dear. I rarely leave the house, do I, Donal? Any secret is safe with me.’

  ‘I wanted to know if you knew anything about these?’ I take out my phone and show Donal the photos of the crosses in the cellar.

  ‘They’re Celtic crosses, aren’t they?’ Donal asks. ‘They look a lot like high crosses. How big are they?’

  I hold my hands about two feet apart.

  ‘Not likely a high cross then, but a Celtic one.’

  ‘What do you know about them, Donal?’

  ‘The Celtic cross is a symbol that combines a cross with a ring surrounding the intersection. It belongs to a wider group of crosses with a nimbus – that’s a halo,’ he explains. ‘The Celtic Christians combined the Christian cross with the nimbus to create high crosses – a free-standing cross made of stone which was often richly decorated with interlaced patterns and insular art.’

  ‘What’s insular art?’

  ‘The word insular derives from the word island. Most insular art originates from the Irish monasticism of Celtic Christianity.’

  ‘Oh, stop showing off, Donal!’ his mother interrupts. ‘The young lady isn’t interested in all your waffle.’

  ‘But I am,’ I tell her. ‘This is exactly what I wanted to hear. Please, go on, Donal.’

  Donal looks pleased. ‘The insular period began around AD 600 with the combining of Celtic styles and Anglo-Saxon. The finest period of the style was thought to have been completed here in Ireland – you’ve heard of the Book of Kells?’

  ‘I have, yes.’

  ‘No later Gospels are as heavily or finely illuminated as those created in the eighth century. It’s thought the art began to die out when the Viking raids began.’

  ‘That’s most interesting . . . ’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What about that tea, Donal?’ his mother asks. ‘It won’t make itself.’

  Donal sighs. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  ‘You’re making his day,’ the old lady says as we watch Donal leave. ‘He would talk about this stuff for hours if he could, but no one wants to listen to him.’

  ‘I do. Donal’s knowledge could come in very handy.’

  ‘Could it now? In that case I shall look forward to hearing more over my tea.’

  Donal returns shortly with a tray of tea things, by which time his mother has nodded off in her chair. I’d been chatting to her about the hotel when her head began to droop forward and the next thing I knew she was snoring loudly.

  ‘She often takes a nap about this time,’ Donal explains, pouring the tea into two of the three china cups on the tray. ‘She’ll be out for a while now. So what else was it you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘If I tell you this, Donal, you have to promise not to tell anyone else, you understand?’

  Donal looks puzzled. ‘If this is about the house, then I’m afraid I can’t help you. As I—’

  ‘No, it’s not about the house . . . well, it is, but not in the way you think – it has nothing to do with my work. You see, Father Duffy has sent me on a mission,’ I tell him, thinking the mention of the Catholic priest’s name might help things along.

  ‘Father Duffy?’ Donal looks impressed. ‘In that case, I promise I won’t say a word to anyone.’

  I tell Donal about my visit to Father Duffy’s house – leaving out the part about the red-haired woman. That still seemed too odd to pass on. Then I tell him what Mac had subsequently told me, and then finally what I’d seen in The Welcome House. He listens in silence, a stunned expression on his face.

  ‘Now I need your help to discover the rest,’ I tell him. ‘There has to be a pattern to all this somewhere – a reason for it?’

  ‘Wait here,’ he says, standing up. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  As I wait for him to return, I sit quietly sipping my tea while Donal’s mother sleeps peacefully in her chair. I’m glad I came here now. I had wondered if I was doing the right thing; after all, only yesterday I had Donal down as the most likely candidate for the caretaker of The Welcome House. But seeing Donal’s response to the stories I’d told him, and his reaction to the crosses, had been more than enough to quash that idea. He seems as excited as I am by the information. This pleases me greatly, as I need someone like Donal onside if I’m to uncover this latest mystery that The Welcome House has thrown at me.

  Donal returns to the room with his arms full of books. ‘These are all the books I have
on Celtic history,’ he says, putting them down on the table behind me. ‘They might give us some clue as to what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘Great. Thanks for this, Donal,’ I say, joining him at the table. ‘I appreciate your help. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye.’

  ‘Not at all, miss. Now that I know you want to help preserve our history rather than take it away, I’ll do everything I can to assist you.’

  Gallantly, he pulls out a chair for me, and then when I’m seated he pulls one out for himself and sits down opposite me.

  ‘Right, let’s get started!’ he says, eagerly opening the first book.

  I spend the next few hours with Donal poring over books.

  His mother wakes after about an hour, enquires what we’re doing and asks for the radio to be put on, and then pretty much leaves us alone as she listens to her favourite programmes.

  Dinnertime almost goes unnoticed, we’re both so engrossed, but at his mother’s insistence Donal goes out for fish and chips. When he returns we take a break from our research to tuck in.

  ‘I think we need to see these books of Father Duffy’s,’ Donal says, dipping a chip in some ketchup. ‘I think we’ve done everything we can here now.’

  He’s right, we’ve looked through all the books, and have moved on to using Donal’s old laptop to try and do more research in areas where the books are no help.

  ‘I’m sure I can arrange something,’ I say, putting my knife and fork down on my plate. ‘When are you free?’

  ‘I’m at work all day tomorrow. Would tomorrow evening be any good?’

  ‘Do you get a lunch break?’ I ask. Now that we’ve made a start, I can’t bear the thought of waiting until tomorrow evening to resume it. ‘It will depend on when Father Duffy is free, of course, but it would be good if we could give him options.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I could leave the hotel for a short while around lunchtime.’

  ‘Good. Oh, and you should know I’m going to be moving out of the hotel into The Welcome House for a while too.’

  Both Donal and his mother look surprised.

  ‘But I thought you and young Finn were stepping out together?’ Donal’s mother asks. ‘Why would you want to leave The Stag?’

  How did she know that? Not that we were, but still . . .

  ‘I’m not even going to ask where you heard that gossip,’ I say lightly. I glance at Donal, who doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘I can assure you both that we are definitely not stepping out. I just think it would be best if I move, that’s all.’

  ‘Shame, you’d have made a lovely couple, so you would.’

  ‘Mother,’ Donal hisses. ‘It’s none of our business. If Ren wants to move into the house, that’s up to her.’

  Donal’s mother folds her arms and purses her lips.

  ‘Perhaps I should be going,’ I say, standing up. ‘Let me help you clear up, then I’ll be off.’

  ‘Nonsense, I won’t hear of it,’ Donal says, jumping up too. ‘It’s only a few chip papers, we’ll be grand.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘Of course we are, you’re a guest.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Ahearn,’ I say, turning to the old lady. ‘It was lovely to meet you.’

  ‘And you, my dear. You’ve fair made my Donal’s day, you have. There’s not many that’s interested in listening to him spout his historical facts, is there, Donal?’

  Donal pulls a face at me and rolls his eyes.

  ‘And I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing to you about Finn,’ she continues unabashed. ‘He’s a good lad, we just want to see him happy – don’t we, Donal?’

  Donal nods in agreement.

  ‘OK . . . well, I’ll be going then.’ I edge towards the door.

  ‘Let me see you out,’ Donal insists.

  ‘Thank you for tonight,’ I tell him, pausing on the threshold. ‘I really do appreciate your help with this.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Donal waves his hand dismissively. ‘Like Mother said, it’s been my pleasure. I’ll see you tomorrow – yes?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll call in the morning to let you know what Father Duffy says. Goodnight.’

  I wave goodbye and set off along the street towards the hotel, glancing at my phone as I walk. No texts. Not even from Kiki. She must still be out with Eddie. I’ll have to tell her in the morning that I’m moving into The Welcome House – and more importantly, why.

  It isn’t a conversation I’m looking forward to one bit . . .

  Thirty-Four

  My conversation with Kiki the next morning isn’t an easy one.

  ‘But why?’ she asks in horror when I tell her I’ll be moving out after breakfast.

  ‘It’s for the best, that’s why. You don’t have to come with me – in fact, I think you should stay here.’

  ‘But what about Finn? Won’t he be upset if you move out?’

  ‘I expect he’ll be quite pleased to see the back of me.’

  I explain to Kiki what happened with Finn.

  ‘Ah, so that’s why you’re moving out – so you can see each other.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. It’s so I can distance myself from him, yet still remain here in Ballykiltara. Finn and I are over, finished – that’s if we were ever together in the first place.’

  Kiki looks genuinely upset.

  ‘Don’t be sad, Kiki. You still have Eddie; one holiday romance is quite enough for one trip. Plus, I have other fish to fry . . . ’

  I tell her all about what had happened with Father Duffy, Mac, the house and then Donal.

  ‘Donal!’ she shrieks. ‘You’re working with Donal!’

  ‘Shush, not so loud! And yes, he’s being very helpful.’

  ‘Well!’ Kiki stands up from where she’s been perched on the edge of my bed. ‘I’m away for one day, and you’ve ditched one man, got your hooks into another, played at Indiana Jones, and befriended a bird! That’s going some, Ren, even for you.’

  I have to smile. ‘Yes, I suppose I did do quite a lot yesterday. But I do not have my hooks into Donal! He’s helping out, that’s all. I mean – as if?’ I say, pulling a face.

  ‘I thought I might be pushing it a bit far with that one.’ Kiki winks and sit down again.

  ‘Donal is a very nice man – we mustn’t make fun of him. He’s a bit . . . different, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll make someone a lovely husband one day. Apparently he’s had quite a few ladies in his life—’

  ‘Donal! You’re kidding?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Ah, it’s always the quiet ones,’ she smiles, and then her expression becomes sombre. ‘There’s no point trying to change your mind about moving out, is there?’

  I shake my head again.

  ‘I thought not. So shall I help you pack up and move out to the house?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ Kiki says gloomily.

  ‘I’ll only be up the road.’

  ‘I know, but I’ll miss you anyway.’

  I reach across the bed and give her a hug.

  ‘I’ll miss you too, Kiks – more than you know.’

  After breakfast, Kiki helps me move my stuff to The Welcome House.

  I’m grateful that the only time I see Finn during this process is before it’s even begun, as we’re on our way back from the breakfast room.

  We don’t speak. He’s behind the reception desk, dealing with a guest, so I hurry extra fast through the foyer, while Kiki follows at a normal pace behind me.

  ‘You’ll have to speak to him sometime,’ she says when she’s caught me up at the lifts.

  ‘Not today, I don’t,’ I insist. ‘Now let’s get this move done before anyone notices.’

  Considering The Welcome House is quite close to a busy road, it’s incredibly quiet. This really would have been the perfect house for Ryan Dempsey, I think as I wait in the sitting room for my guests to arrive.

  Enough of that, I tell myself. There are more important things to think a
bout – for the time being, anyway.

  Kiki, after helping me unpack my things – and after much encouragement and reassurance from me that I’d be fine here on my own – departed a couple of hours ago. So now I’m waiting for my guests, Father Duffy and Donal, to arrive for our midday meeting.

  I glance towards the bookcase. How funny that the entrance to the cellar had been blocked like that, as if someone didn’t want its existence to be discovered. But who? Could it be the same person who’s been looking after this house?

  I’m hoping Donal and Father Duffy might be able to shed some light on these and the many other questions I still don’t have answers to.

  Father Duffy is the first of my two guests to arrive.

  ‘It’s a while since I’ve been in here,’ he says, looking around as he walks into the hall carrying a cardboard box containing some of the bound volumes he’d showed me yesterday. ‘The house is looking well. By the way, I’ve that book in here with the others.’

  ‘Which book would that be, Father?’ I ask, showing him into the sitting room.

  ‘The one you are featured in.’

  Father Duffy places his box on a table and lifts a leather volume from it. Then he pulls his pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket, and puts them on before he touches the pages.

  ‘Here,’ he says, sitting down with the book on his lap. ‘Come and see.’

  I go over to him and glance down at the book.

  ‘You see this figure here,’ he says, pointing. ‘This is the fiery lady I was telling you about. Look at all her red hair cascading down her back – much like your own.’

  I lean forward to peer at the page. In amongst the other faded drawings I can clearly make out a figure, but it’s difficult to tell whether the figure is male or female. He or she is wearing a long gown, which might denote a female, but the red hair Father Duffy is pointing to could equally be the fire the figure is surrounded by; it’s hard to tell where fire ends and the hair begins.

  ‘I suppose . . . ’ I say hesitantly, not wanting to commit myself.