Every Time a Bell Rings. Carmel Harrington
throw a few euro into his box and then Jim says, ‘So fill me in on how this tradition of yours works.’
‘Well, ever since that year, I’ve come back each Christmas Eve. I start off in O’Connell Street, then walk over the Liffey, past Trinity College, say hello to the Molly Malone statue in all her glory, stroll up Grafton Street, then head over to the Ha’penny Bridge, before going home,’ I say.
‘You ever mix it up and change the route?’ Jim asks.
‘Oh, God no. Has to be in that order,’ I say. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to say, I do have a quick pit stop in Captain America’s for hot chocolate and a slice of their, quite frankly, decadent Mississippi Mud Pie. Just to keep the energy levels up.’ I grin like a four-year-old.
‘Sounds like quite a nice tradition to keep.’ Jim says. ‘I’m glad I’m here to share it with you this year.’
‘I’m glad you’re here too. You know, I’ve had years of strolling up and down this cobbled street with boyfriends, girlfriends, school friends and, yes, I’ll even admit it – the shame – on my own a few times.’ I look at him, feeling a little shy. ‘But this feels special, more than any other year. That’s because of you, Jim.’
He grabs my hand and laughs, ‘I’m honoured. Come on then, Ms Bailey, show me what this great city of ours has to offer.’
My eyes greedily take in the view ahead of us, down Grafton Street. Red, flickering lights coil around luscious green garlands, which drape from one side of the street to the other. In the centre of each garland is a large red Victorian lantern and the light casts a warm glow over the busy cobbled street. Each shop window is alight with Christmas lights and resplendent baubles in rich jewel colours.
There’s something about the energy here … well, it is breathtaking.
I’m not the only one who feels that. I can see it on the faces of people as they rush by too, with their pre-Christmas festive highs.
Okay, maybe not so much on that guy’s face, I giggle, as a harassed man in his forties rushes by. Last-minute shopper, I decide. Poor sap. I’ve mine all done and dusted since October. I wouldn’t dream of leaving it to now. But aside from the odd scowling face, the street is awash with a sea of shiny, happy people.
‘Look over there,’ I shout in excitement as I spy a window display with a group of reindeers nibbling on fake grass in the snow. Then another scene catches my eyes and I’m darting over to the other side of the street, pulling Jim behind me.
‘Earlier, when you said happiness is …’ Jim waves his hand around the Christmas-card view in front of us, ‘is all of this what you meant by happiness?’
‘Well, obviously lots of things make me happy. But this, well, it’s up there with the best of them. I love everything about Christmas. You must feel it too? Doesn’t it feel like we’re in a Christmas movie right now?’ I exclaim.
‘Oh, a blockbuster for sure.’ He drawls. ‘Aside from twinkling lights, which I know you’re a sucker for, what else makes you happy?’
I reckon the feel of my hand in his, as we walk through the frenzied crowds, is top of my happy list right now. But a girl has to hold some cards to herself, so I remain silent.
‘I want to know. Come on, Belle. What else makes you happy?’ Jim persists.
‘Oh, a lot of different things. Not having to set the alarm on Saturdays and Sundays. Peanut butter on hot toast. But don’t be giving me cold toast. I can’t be doing with rubbery cold toast,’ I say.
‘A shootable offence that?’ He asks and when I nod, he says, ‘I’m taking notes here. This is good intel.’
‘Well, while you’re at it, add to the list that not spreading said peanut butter to all corners of the toast is equally damnable. I can’t be doing with someone who just smears it on willy nilly, not giving due consideration to all parts of the bread,’ I tell him.
‘Got it. Take care when smearing peanut butter – evenly – on piping-hot toast. What else makes your ladyship happy?’ He says, tipping his hat in mock salute.
‘I love starting a new book and then realising that it’s one of the good ones. The kind that I am not going to want to finish,’ I say.
I think some more and add, ‘Oh and dancing. Any kind, but preferably one that involves a lot of bum-shaking is guaranteed to make me smile.’
Jim raises his eyebrow so I reward him with a little shake of my bum.
‘See. Look how happy my dancing makes you too.’ I tease, and he bursts into laughter.
‘Oh, you can be assured that your bum makes me happy,’ he declares, giving it a pat, and I thank the stars that I stuck at the squats this summer in the gym.
‘You’ve not mentioned swinging,’ Jim states.
‘How very dare you! I’m a respectable lady, I’ll have you know. I’ve never left my key ring in anyone’s fruit bowl.’ I feign outrage. I know what he’s referring to, but it’s still fun teasing him.
He starts to splutter an explanation, then he realises my game.
‘Yes, Jim Looney, I still love swings. I can’t pass by a park without seeing how high I can go.’ I admit. ‘And I do some of my best thinking when I’m up there chasing the clouds.’
‘You were always the same,’ he remembers. ‘I was more of a slide man myself.’
I remember him always trying to climb up the slide, rather than use the ladder and me begging him to push me higher and higher on the swings. That was a long time ago, though.
He pulls me to the side of the street, out of the lane of traffic and looks searchingly into my eyes.’ What about me? Do I make you happy?’
I’m surprised to see that my confident, laid-back boyfriend looks like a ten-year-old boy, suddenly unsure of himself.
Without hesitation, I take his hands between my own and tell him, with the utmost sincerity, ‘You, Jim Looney, make me happiest most of all.’
My friends would be horrified that I’ve laid my heart bare so early on in our relationship. I know that I probably should play a little harder to get. But I’ve never been any good at hiding how I feel.
‘You get what you see with my Belle.’ Tess always says. Heart-on-sleeve territory.
Well, he’s getting a complete, hopelessly devoted to you, kind of lovestruck feeling from me right now.
He gives me the strangest look. Damn it, I’ve frightened him off.
‘You’re full of surprises,’ he says after a moment of tortured silence and you’d swear he was just seeing me for the first time.
‘You okay?’ I ask and my stomach flips. That strange look is back on his face. It worries me.
‘So much has changed since I left, but then, some things are just as they were when I said goodbye.’ He murmurs. ‘It’s disconcerting.’
‘You’re getting all reflective in your old age.’ I poke him in his side. ‘Now enough of that, come on admit it, Brown Thomas gives Macy’s a run for its money, doesn’t it?’
‘Absolutely, it’s not half-bad.’ He acknowledges in his slow half-Midwestern, half-Irish drawl, and we pause to take in the decadent window displays.
‘I really think it’s the most beautiful street in the world.’ I murmur. ‘When I stand here, I feel like a child again.’
As we move from window to window of the department store I have the most wonderful sensation that I’ve been engulfed in a big Christmas hug. Mannequins draped in Victorian clothing, bejewelled with pearls and glittering gems, stand and sit in displays, dressed with snow, fairy lights and dazzling Christmas trees. I lean back into Jim’s