The Tavern on Maple Street

by Sharon Owens

  Betsy was bored with Belfast. There weren't enough glamorous parties or glittering fashion shows. Or upmarket nail and beauty parlours either. Or private dentists offering American-style teeth whitening. And as for members-only restaurants! It was pathetic, really. Belfast was just too far behind Dublin for Betsy's liking. She had taken to reading VIP celebrity magazine every week and drooling over the glossy pictures therein. Poor Betsy, who was reared in a tenement block on the Falls Road, thought she was the equal of the sons and daughters of the old-money elite of Dublin. Betsy Trotter that was, who swore non-stop, smoked forty cigarettes a day and drank milk straight from the carton, actually believed she would be welcomed with open arms by world-famous icons of music, theatre and fashion. Liam didn't even take her to book-signings any more, ever since the time she'd disgraced him in front of a buyer for Waterstone's book stores by claiming she'd never heard of W B. Yeats.

  They'd gone to bed without kissing each other goodnight, and this morning things were no better. Betsy boiled an egg for herself, and Liam had to fix his own breakfast. He decided to spend a few days sitting around in public houses, avoiding Betsy's faltering libido and listening out for examples of colourful use of language and comedy-Belfast phrases. He was always quick to borrow material from the man in the street. As he was leaving the house, the phone rang. It was dear old Perry. Still hopeful of the second book but letting Liam know that he was now having to consider scripts by other budding crime-writers. Of course he wanted to retain Liam as his star writer but if there was no second book in the pipeline, then what else could he do? After Perry's phone call, Liam had been in a foul mood and he had nobody to take it out on except his wife. He'd told her that with an accent like hers, as rough as a vulture's arse, she wouldn't get in the back door of the Clarence Hotel or the Four Seasons Hotel or anywhere else on the A list. So she needn't be counting the days till Liam wrote another book and could afford the extortionate Dublin property prices.

  He recalled the conversation now, as he waited for Jack Beaumont to take his order.

  ‘We're as common as muck, Betsy. As common as hell, we are. You'll just have to get used to it.’

  ‘That would be true if you were anything else but a writer,’ she said patiently. That was one good thing about Betsy: she could handle tough criticism.

  ‘Author,’ he corrected. ‘I'm an author.’

  ‘Whatever. You know what I mean, Liam. When you're an author, a singer or a painter, being working class is an asset. Some might say it's an absolute necessity. How can you write about suffering if you've never suffered?’

  ‘I'm mightily impressed, Betsy, my little armchair-philosopher. And whoever taught you how to use words like necessity?’

  ‘An estate agent, if you must know.’

  ‘Richard Allen, was it? Still dallying with that lizard? Isn't he a bit old for you? What age is he anyway? Fifty?’ Betsy was an immature thirty-two and Liam was an even more immature forty.

  ‘I have no idea what age he is,’ she snapped furiously. ‘And I am not dallying with him. I simply invite him to value my townhouse from time to time, that's all.’

  ‘What a quaint way to put it,’ he laughed uproariously. Betsy had seen quite a lot of Richard Allen over the years but Liam wasn't jealous in the slightest. Betsy was entitled to amuse herself in the afternoons in whatever way she could. And it was cheaper than paying those eye-watering gym-membership fees.

  ‘Anyway, it's true,’ she said. ‘There's nothing wrong with being working class. It's only stubbornness to stay on here when we could be living in comfort beside the sea. It might even help our marriage, Limo.’ He flinched at the hated nickname. ‘I mean Liam. It would be a fresh start for both of us. Just you and me, no complications, no third parties.’ She adjusted her new breast implants and lit another cigarette with a disposable lighter from Portugal.

  Liam was surprised that he felt some degree of pity for his bleach-blonde wife. Maybe that was better than feeling nothing at all for her, he concluded. He reminded her that they could never leave Belfast, because that was his USP or unique selling point. Dublin was full of James Joyce wannabes. You couldn't throw a stone in Dublin without hitting an aspiring author on the forehead. But Liam Bradley was special because he was one of the few Ulstermen who hadn't deserted the old sod when he made it big. The rest of them went running over the border as if military conscription had been reintroduced, twittering on about the breathtaking scenery and the big-hearted people. But the truth was they were ashamed of being Northerners. They wanted to lose their hard Ulster accents and be assimilated into the more glamorous South. Betsy told her husband that he was impossible and that she would continue to buy VIP magazine, and check house prices in Malahide on the Internet.

  The truth was somewhere in the middle. He wouldn't mind saving a fortune in taxes, of course, but he worried that if he moved house his elusive imagination would desert him completely. He was a superstitious man in many ways. Over the years he'd given dozens of interviews declaring he would never leave Belfast. What would his fans think of him if he decamped to the champagne set in Dublin now?

  Liam sighed, nodded hello to Jack, and ordered a pint of lager and a cheese sandwich.

  ‘Any chance of a bit of Roquefort, Jack?’ he joked.

  ‘You'll have Coleraine Cheddar and like it,’ replied Jack, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I bet if we wrapped Coleraine Cheddar in fancy paper and sold it to the French, they'd be over the moon. They'd be desperate for it.’

  ‘Worth a try,’ said Liam, laughing. ‘God loves a tryer.’

  Liam looked around the bar for Jack's delectable wife, Lily, but she wasn't on duty that morning. Pity. He liked to admire her in her long swirling skirts and dainty black button-boots. It was a pleasant distraction for Liam, trying to catch a tantalizing glimpse of Lily's slender ankles, or the suggestion of a lacy brassiere beneath her linen blouses. Such a change from Betsy's slashed-denim mini-skirts and barely there T-shirts. That was the main problem with Betsy: when sex was so clearly on offer, Liam didn't want it nearly as much as when it wasn't. And with her new white and pink highlights, and tattooed-on lipliner, his own wife reminded him of a stripper. Strippers were fine for one-night stands but Liam didn't want to be married to one. Of course, he hadn't a snowball in hell's chance of a fleeting fling with Lily Beaumont. He knew that. Lily's passionate feelings for Jack were obvious even to a sham-merchant and sexist fool like himself. But it was always nice to dream. That was why he liked this dusty hostelry. It was like going back in time before that six-figure bidding war and all those early morning live-TV interviews had made his life so stressful.

  He listened to the conversation of the three old-timers in the first booth as he waited for his sandwich. They were discussing the tavern's possible closure and speaking with great nostalgia of their days in the painting trade, when they would call in for a glass of cold beer on the way home from work. And of how they used to go calling from house to house in the early days of their apprenticeships, with tins of gloss paint and brushes at the ready, offering to redo the skirting boards of the big houses in the Malone district. Hard days, hungry nights, and begging for odd jobs from the gentry. No big story in this lot, thought Liam. But he kept his ears peeled anyway.

  Then his heart missed a beat as Lily came downstairs and he noticed that her eyes were red with crying. Her lavender hat was pulled well down round her ears and the purple moonstone brooch caught the light and shone darkly. She had her tapestry bag over one arm, and the unusual umbrella with the horse's head carved out of wood. But even though she looked very upset, she still paused to kiss her husband tenderly, as she always did before popping out to the shops. Liam wondered if Betsy, or any woman, would ever love him enough to kiss him like that. He doubted it. He leaned back in his chair and gazed into the heart of the fire. Lily's perfume drifted across to him as she went out.

  She was probably upset about the proposed new mall, Liam decided. He hoped they wouldn't move too far aw
ay from Maple Street when it was all over. He wouldn't like to lose touch with Lily.

  He wished he had so much money that he could buy the entire block and give it to her as a gift. Would she be grateful enough to spend the night with him, he speculated. What would he give to see Lily Beaumont naked? Answer: millions. Or even to see her with her hair out of that tight braid for once? Stop lusting after the lady of the house and come up with a plot, he scolded himself. Think about all those royalty cheques, he thought. And then: don't think about them. Do not think about them at all, he decided. They put too much pressure on him. So! Analysis time. What is wrong with current drama?

  Most of the serious crime dramas he had watched on television in recent years were set in dismal car parks or in dirty alleyways full of rubbish. And usually there was some poor, bedraggled streetwalker who met with a very unpleasant fate indeed. Red stilettos lying abandoned in the ditch during the opening credits. Perverted, that's all it was. Liam liked his titillation to be harmless, soft-focus and fun.

  Wouldn't it be a nice change if he set his story in an old bar like this, he thought suddenly. He felt a fizzy rushing feeling start up in his chest. Yes. Some ludicrous mystery set in a nineteenth-century pub like this one? Maybe some impulsive murder committed on the premises two centuries ago? A subsequent cover-up by the local community because the victim was hated by all of them? The terrible secret is handed down through the generations…

  Then the bones turn up in the present day when a gas company starts digging in the yard, and Slinger Magee is called in. Slinger starts asking questions, aggravating people and throwing punches. He finds old letters and documents in the cellar. He discovers a list of possible suspects and several very good motives. All of the main suspects are long dead, of course, but maybe there's one or two of their descendants still hobbling around on the fringes? The emotional side of things didn't really matter to Liam or to his readers. It was all about the plot. Liam pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and began to make notes.

  The setting: an ancient tavern. Down at the end of a dark and deserted alleyway. There is no rubbish on the ground. No hookers hanging around, either. None of the usual jazz-blues background stuff. A soft Irish jig is drifting out of the bar instead. Long shadows in the moonlight at closing time. Next day, bones are discovered when a gas company digs up the yard. Work is halted for a time. The street is cordoned off. Bones are shown gleaming white against the compacted mud. Would the bones have survived for two centuries? Never mind, they will in my novel!

  This is a very good start, he told himself.

  Slinger Magee is called in. Introduce the current owners of the tavern at this point: a happily married couple. They don't have much fun in the bedroom department, though. Slinger notices twin beds in the bedroom during his investigation. Why? Research: medical problems. Slinger quickly identifies the long-dead victim from a distinctive piece of jewellery. A ring or belt buckle?

  I like it, Liam thought.

  Sub-plot: an embarrassing encounter with Claudia, the forensic scientist at the mortuary. Ice-maiden turned stalker. She cuts some of Slinger's belt-keepers with a scalpel and his trousers fall down? He has to leg it out of the morgue in his Y-fronts. She wants to see him again but he has taken a fancy to the landlady of the tavern, and can't be bothered with Claudia any more. Claudia takes rejection badly and starts making nuisance calls to Slinger in the middle of the night. Contrast Claudia's pure white bob and white medical coat with landlady's colourful vintage clothes.

  The tavern landlady would be the most beautiful woman in this story, totally surpassing the pretty scientist in the looks department. She would look exactly like Lily Beaumont.

  Liam took a long sup of his pint and kept writing.

  The beautiful woman character this time round is the landlady of the tavern. She is dark haired, pale skinned, wide eyed and watchful. Wearing full-length skirts and tight lace blouses. A buttoned-up and repressed beauty, just ripe for Slinger's manly attentions.

  There would be a theme night or a fancy-dress party in the second book, with this Lily look-alike in a very low-cut peasant blouse.

  Liam's hand was shaking with excitement. He could hardly get the words down on the page in a straight line.

  Research: peasant blouses and corsets 1850–1890 for the fancy-dress night.

  Liam ordered another pint and almost frightened himself with how happy he was feeling. It was such an almighty buzz when he was creating.

  There would be another murder not long after Slinger turned up. There was always another murder or two when Slinger was close to the truth. Possibly the second murder could be carried out with an antique pistol or sword displayed on the wall of the pub. Hooray!

  The second murder is committed to avenge the one that happened two centuries earlier. Research: period weapons. There is a battle for the ownership of the pub among the surviving relatives in the present day. Slinger establishes the rightful owner of the tavern in a lengthy and emotional court case. The current owners get to keep it and the beautiful landlady is very grateful to him. Very grateful indeed.

  Bingo! Slinger would solve both murders and seduce the landlady. And crack many jokes about antique undergarments all the way through the book.

  Things were looking up at last. He would make the novel very visual so that TV producers wouldn't have to try too hard to imagine it on the small screen. The actors who would play the parts in the mini-series could also play their own ancestors in the flashbacks. He would include a smattering of background information on the history of the time as well. Just to impress the critics.

  Hunger, anger and death. A people obsessed with land ownership. Note, nothing has changed, except maybe the hunger.

  ‘Wonderful stuff,’ he said out loud. The entire plot was almost resolved, and all in one morning. Who said hanging around in pubs was the road to nowhere? Liam was so pleased with himself he almost did a power-grab.

  He had a setting, a story and a beautiful woman. All he needed now was the original crime circa 1804 and he was back in business. And that would be easy. Say, two brothers fighting over the newly built tavern because their father has died intestate?

  Two brothers fight over the pub. Maybe they are twins but they don't know which one was born first so the rule of primogeniture does not apply? A spectacular punch-up ensues with many broken beer bottles and chairs. One brother drowns the other in a barrel of ale in the cellar? He is desperate for a livelihood because his wife is pregnant and they are about to be made homeless. And then he buries his brother in the yard and tells everyone the dead man has emigrated. What he doesn't know is that the victim has already fathered a son with the local strumpet, and the strumpet has an intuition that her lover has been dispatched. And their child will grow up to bitterly resent his rich uncle…

  Okay, the two brothers could have shared the tavern, Liam thought, but hey, this is literature. Yes! Crime-caper number two could begin to take shape. Liam could barely wait to get home and rip the dust cover off his computer.

  He decided to do a little research on Beaumont's Tavern at the Public Record Office, on the way home to Marlborough Avenue. He might unearth something for his new novel. Some legal jargon of the time, at least. Holy smoke, Liam thought. He actually felt like doing some research. He must be a real writer, after all. He went to the Gents and checked that it was empty before punching the air several times with sheer happiness. He would phone Perry Shaw that evening and tell him that he was beginning the second book right away. A quick visit to the urinal and he was back in his seat. He ordered a third pint, drank it in one go, and jotted down a brief description of the tavern in his notebook.

  Worn floorboards underfoot, exposed brick chimney (huge), turf fire (good for atmosphere), very low doorways (potential there for some interesting head injuries), many glass bottles on the window sills (could be knocked over and smashed in a fight scene), flickering gas lamps on the walls (good possible source of explosion?).

  And
then he came up with some sexy images, just for fun. Inspired by Lily Beaumont, naturally.

  Woman's heaving cleavage in flimsy costume, dotted with beads of perspiration, as she begs Slinger (with her eyes) to take her to bed. The woman's husband is obviously not able to satisfy her. Slinger tries to resist for about ten seconds! Then our hero does what he does best, trousers round his ankles. Again! Landlady falls in love with Slinger but cannot leave her sick husband. They have another few romantic moments as the loose ends of the case are tied up. But soon Slinger must take the pieces of his broken heart (and his burnt-out car, courtesy of Claudia) and stagger on towards the next crime scene.

  ‘Phew,’ Liam whispered to himself. ‘Christmas TV Special, here we come!’

  A sudden surge of nervy adrenaline shot through him. He might even grant Betsy's wish to move house if the new book turned out well for him. It would be nice for Betsy to make some new friends in Malahide before he abandoned her for ever, for the bright sun and waving palm trees of the Bahamas. He would tell her this afternoon that he was prepared to think about relocating. If she would agree to move out of the master bedroom for a while and sleep in the guest bedroom on the second floor. Just for a few weeks, to give him peace to write the new book. Those tattooed lips of Betsy's were a slightly disturbing sight first thing in the morning.

  3. The Barmaids

  Jack held the letter in his hand. It was ten in the morning on Saturday, 20 November. He'd been setting the fire in the grate, when, with a small flutter, a single brown envelope landed on the doormat. Lily had just come into the bar with two cups of tea and a plate of buttered pancakes on a tray. She set the tray down on the counter and looked at Jack with fear in her eyes.