After going through the estate’s very impressive sunken garden, they walked past the front portico with its wide steps up to a huge oak door and strolled past the windows to the main hall. Cally peered in as they went past to see a large fireplace with an ornately carved dark wood mantel and a framed picture of some family member or another, which was nearly as bigas her whole flat. Going around the back and stopping to have a look at what was growing, Logan then opened a green side door to a long, narrow utility room packed to the rafters with picnic baskets, outdoor weather gear, cool boxes, old oars, and lanterns. Stuff to facilitate a life outdoors was crammed into every nook and cranny. Amongst green Barbour gear, a fair few of the navy-blue Lovely coats were hung by their hoods, fishing rods were stacked up in the corner, rubber waders were lined up by another door, and waterproofs of all shapes and sizes were jammed onto brass hooks here, there and everywhere.
Squeezing past a rack of fishing rods and a battered old gun cabinet, Cally followed Logan through a tall, narrow door into an inner utility room clearly more for household use. Warm, indoor air scented with lavender, a clean floor smell, and centuries of tradition filled her nose. Using her right foot to lever her welly boot from her left foot, Cally yanked it off, did the same with the other one and then handed her boots to Logan who placed them neatly on a worn double-width mat by the door next to his own. The room was dominated by a large Belfast sink in the centre, its white porcelain surface marked with signs of years of use. Above it, a Sheila’s Maid clothes airer hung from the ceiling laden with damp tea towels and dishcloths. The faint hum of a washing machine provided a background noise punctuated by the occasional gurgle of pipes and a radio somewhere in the distance played happily away to itself.
Cally loved how it felt like a second home and looked around the cramped space where any and every outdoor gear item possible was crammed onto shelves, hooks, and hanging from the high ceilings. Three of the walls were lined with wooden pegs, each one weighed down with tweed jackets, waterproofs, and the occasional kilt. In one corner, a stack of welly boots, their rubber surfaces caked with dried mud, lined up on a long, wide coir mat printed with the estate emblem. In little timbercubby holes, leather Chelsea boots were stacked neatly and along a row of brass hooks, printed baseball caps, tweed flat caps, and wide-brimmed felt hats jockeyed for position.
'Quite the collection,' Cally remarked, running her hand along the sleeve of a Lovely wax jacket. ‘I know where to come if it starts to rain. Oh, wait, no, I have my own coat now, ha!’
Logan chuckled. 'You should see it during the winter. You can barely move in here for all the tweed.'
Cally imagined how pretty it would be at the estate in the winter. ‘Hopefully, I’ll be coming back. I love the cold months. It must be beautiful up here.’
As they stepped through into a large kitchen, a rush of warmth hit Cally square in the face. The kitchen was enormous, easily the size of her entire flat back in Lovely Bay, and like the kitchen in the cottage, a lovely blend of old and new. A massive old Aga range with a dark green enamel surface gleamed in light streaming in through tall, heavily curtained windows. All manner of pots and pans hung from a rack above a square scrubbed pine table, its surface scarred and stained from years of use. A jumble of mismatched chairs surrounded the table, and a gigantic enamel pitcher full of heather was plonked in the centre. The kitchen and the table spoke of cosy family meals and gatherings in the warmth after a long day outdoors. On the far wall, a few modern appliances under a commercial stainless steel surface juxtaposed an aged exposed brick wall. A very fancy-looking shiny Italian coffee machine sat next to a white KitchenAid mixer beside a jumble of what looked to Cally like homemade preserves. Somehow, it all worked together; it was functional, cosy, and oh-so-homey all at the same time. Cally loved it.
Cecilia, wearing green wax trousers, a cream Aran jumper, and a navy tartan scarf, smiled.
Logan greeted. 'Aunt Cici. We're back. You’re rugged up!'
'Ah, there you are! I’ve been sitting still getting chilly. I was beginning to think you'd got lost out there. I wasn’t sure whether my message had come through or not, seeing as there’s no reception in that part of the estate.'
Logan whipped out his phone and frowned. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t see that.’
Cecilia shook her head. ‘Maybe it arrived as you got a signal.’
‘Yep.’
‘Have a seat. You must be parched after your walk. I've just put the kettle on.'
As they settled around the table, Cally got lost in the kitchen. Like the kitchen at Lovely Manor and Logan’s cottage, it screamed old money, oozed good taste, and something no amount of cash could buy. Old, well-worn wooden worktops scarred with life sat on top of handmade cupboards, and a collection of mismatched mugs hung from hooks beneath painted cream-white cabinets. Above the Aga, a massive copper hood dominated the wall, its surface patinated with age, and hanging from a rack beneath it, an impressive array of pots and pans, sizes ranging from tiny milk pans and small saucepans to enormous stock pots, which looked as if they’d been there forever. Perhaps they had. Deep window sills housed pot after pot of herbs, pump dispensers of hand cream, jugs stuffed full of dried heather, and everything and anything else in between. A gorgeous, jumbly curation of family and holidays and happy mess. A conglomeration of things Cally had sorely missed.
At the far end of the kitchen, a massive fireplace took up nearly an entire wall. Cally imagined it at Christmas, crackling with a fire and a real fir garland from the trees outside draped across its top. From heavy beams over her head, huge bunches of drying herbs and strings of onions and garlic added to the homely feel and smell. Tucked to the left of the table, a large dresser housed an eclectic collection of crockery. Chunky potterymugs, delicate china teacups, and terracotta pots shared space with sturdy earthenware bowls.
As Logan chatted to Cecilia about the family gathering later that evening, Cally sat with her chin on her hand, taking in the little details of the kitchen. Every surface, nook, cranny and space seemed to hold some interesting object or tool. It was as if various people had used the kitchen at various times and left a little bit of themselves behind. Ancient biscuit cutters hung from a wire rack, a collection of wooden spoons their handles smoothed by years of use stood in a ceramic jug next to the Aga, and a huge stack of old-fashioned mixing bowls looked as if it might topple and smash on the floor at any given time.
Cally shook her head. 'This is such a beautiful kitchen. It feels so lived-in and cosy. I could curl up on that rug there and have a nap.'
Cecilia laughed. 'Oh, it is. That and the air outside does it to you. Let me tell you, though, this kitchen's seen more drama than a soap opera. Meals cooked, arguments had, celebrations enjoyed, tears, laughter – it's all happened right here. I don’t think we’ve had a death yet, so… not in my time, anyway.' The kettle whistled from the Aga. Cecilia lifted it off and poured boiling water into a large Brown Betty teapot. 'Milk, no sugar, isn’t it?’ She said to Cally.
'Just a splash of milk, please.’
'So, Cally,' Cecilia said as she put a steaming mug of tea in front of her. 'How are you finding it up here in this neck of the woods?'
Cally wrapped her hands around the mug. 'Much better than I thought it was going to be. No wonder you all love it so much. It's absolutely beautiful. I've never seen anywhere quite like it.'
Cecilia beamed. 'Itisrather special, isn't it? Been in the family for generations, this place. Originally, like a long, longtime ago, it started out as just a small hunting lodge, if you can believe it.'
'Really? How did it end up like this?'
Cecilia sat down. 'It all started back in the day. You’ll have to go to the library and have a look at some of the old photos.’
As Cecilia launched into the tale of the estate, Cally’s tiny spare box room study at her grandma’s house flashed in front of her eyes. She realised that the room she’d sat in where she’d logged her uni assignments was not much bigger than the fireplace at the end of the table. She remembered how bitterly cold it had been in the early hours as she’d tried to focus. She was so far from her little life in that tiny room it didn’t even feel possible. Cecilia got up to refill the teapot and Cally squinted at a collection of photographs on the wall near the Aga; a mishmash of old and new, some in faded sepia tones, others in colour. ‘I love all the old photos.’
'They're a family timeline. That one is Logan's distant relative...'
'Not the story about the bagpipes again, Aunt Cici.'
Cecilia laughed. ‘I’ll save that for later, then. When we’ve all had a few whiskies.’
For a moment, Cally felt a pang of something – envy, jealousy, bitterness, or all of the above. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it didn’t feel that nice. A wistful sort of longing. These people lived a life that seemed gilded. Nothing bad ever seemed to happen. Nothing went wrong, or at least that’s how it felt to her. Her own family history was so different. Apart from the actual class differences, which were so very far apart, her daily life had been much more fragmented and, to be frank, not that pleasant at all. No cosy, rosy, posy chats around a beautiful kitchen fireside in our Cally’s world. Bed hoists, mental health issues, and liquid diets more like. She sucked it up just as she always did and pushed her horrid thoughts aside. There wasnothing she could do about the past. Nothing she could change. Onwards and upwards was really the only path she could take. At least the path nowadays was on its way to somewhere nice. She really hoped it stayed on track.
