Thrilled, excited, high on love, we flew to Ireland, me with visions of Little House on the Prairie at the forefront of my mind. I knew nothing about farming. The closest I’d come to pasteurisation was putting milk in my tea.
Tom explained that the farm had been passed down through the generations and when his parents retired it would become his. I resolved to adapt to country life. I’ve seen Emmerdale and I had visions of Land Rovers, Barbour jackets and naming the cows Daisy and Ermentrude.
My first impressions backed up my picture-perfect expectations. The scenery was stunning as we left the beautiful city of Dublin for the homestead. Every corner we turned revealed more landscapes of breathtaking splendour. Bubbles were rising in my stomach. I was going to love it here.
We arrived at Tom’s house in a muddle of activity – chickens, geese and dogs were all flapping around as his mum and dad came out of the door to greet us.
Tom’s father was the image of him. Tall, grey-haired, with the same twinkling green eyes, I adored him on sight. He took my hand and bowed, smiling as he kissed my knuckles.
‘Well, if it isn’t just the dog’s bollocks to be meeting the lass who’s won the heart of our Thomas,’ he announced and swiftly received a slap across the back of the head from an irate Mrs McCallum.
‘Joseph, what kind of language is that to be using in front of a young lady?’ she exclaimed.
I looked behind me to see what ‘young lady’ had entered, but there was nobody there but me. I winked at Tom’s dad.
‘It’s the dog’s bollocks to meet you too, Mr McCallum,’ I laughed.
A grin overtook his face.
Mrs McCallum tutted disapprovingly and bustled me up to my room. As she opened the door, I realised that this was most definitely not going to be an intimate weekend. The room looked like it hadn’t been used in years, but it was perfectly preserved and spotlessly clean. The floral wallpaper was pink and blue, matching the antique rose carpet and curtains. There was a pine dressing table and wardrobe, which matched the bedside tables guarding the single bed.
Well, I reasoned, what was I expecting? They were obviously a traditional Irish family who believed in morals, standards and respectability. I could understand that. Almost. And anyway, it was only for a couple of days on this trip. Hopefully, by the next time I came over, they’d realise that Tom and I were going to be a permanent thing.
We sat down to dinner at six o’clock on the dot. Tom and his dad stayed at the table as his mum beetled back and forth to the Aga. I offered to help but was shooed away with barely concealed irritation. It was probably just as well. My cooking skills weren’t going to impress anyone.
She dished up huge bowls of mashed potato, vegetables and a thick meat stew. As we ate, Mrs M continued to go to and fro. She didn’t sit down until we were almost finished and only then because Tom asked her to.
‘Mum, Dad, I’ve got something to tell you,’ he announced.
Call it intuition, but I knew what was coming. And from the appalled look on his mother’s face, so did she.
I held my breath.
‘Carly and I are going to be married,’ he revealed, beaming.
I almost choked on my turnip. I had expected him to share the news when they’d got to know me a little, not before we’d even got to pudding on his first night back.
Two things happened at once. Tom’s dad jumped up to congratulate us, leaned over the table to give me a hug and somehow managed to put his elbows in what was left of the mashed potatoes, whilst his mum turned purple and keeled over. We picked her up and put her head between her knees.
Tom looked at me for reassurance that he’d done the right thing. I smiled at him reassuringly, hoping that he couldn’t see I was bluffing. Surely Mrs McCallum would see how in love we were, and then get used to the idea and be happy for her son?
The fact that she picked up her rosary beads and took off for a lie down made me wonder if I was being too optimistic again.
His dad, however, was more enthusiastic about the impending nuptials, and later that evening, Joseph insisted on breaking open his best bottle of Bushmills in celebration. We toasted our future, our children’s future, our future crops. It went on all night until we were very drunk and – mother in law aside – I was on a lovely little cloud of happiness and contentment.
All too soon it was time for me to go home. I cried so much at the airport, the thought that I wouldn’t see Tom every day was too much to bear.
‘It won’t be long, ma darlin’,’ he tried to cheer me up. ‘I’ll send you a cardboard cut-out of me to talk to. Anyway, it’s only for six months.’
I couldn’t even raise a smile. Six months seemed like a lifetime away and not even the prospect of seeing each other two weekends a month, one in Scotland and one in Ireland, could console me. I looked around for a manacle to attach myself to his ankle, but all I saw was a huge board announcing the final call for my flight back to an
