The Tavern on Maple Street

by Sharon Owens

  But when Jack opened his eyes again, it was after five on Sunday evening. He lifted the bedside clock and rattled it but it was still working. They must have slept right through the alarm. He kissed Lily softly on the cheek. Her face was pink and flushed with warmth.

  ‘Lily,’ he whispered. ‘Don't panic but we've slept in. Lily?’

  ‘What?’ she mumbled. She was still drowsy. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Five o'clock.’

  ‘That can't be right. We only went to bed at four.’

  ‘No, silly. Brace yourself. It's five in the evening. It's Sunday evening.’

  ‘What?’ she cried, suddenly wide awake. ‘It's Sunday evening already? Oh, Jack! How did this happen?’

  ‘I have no idea. We must have been worn out. Listen. It's all quiet downstairs. I can't hear police sirens or anything. I think Bridget and Trudy must be doing okay on their own.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, stumbling out of bed and heading for the stairs with her socks hanging off. ‘God only knows what's going on down there. Did we remember to cover up the paint tray? I bet Bridget has tripped over it and ruined the floor.’

  Jack followed her down the stairs and they hesitated for a moment before pulling open the door. What they saw left both of them utterly speechless.

  Barney Cunningham was balancing on a plank between two stepladders, brushing bright white paint onto the embossed wallpaper on the ceiling. He was puffing away on his pipe and had covered the shoulders of his tweed jacket with a tea towel. Joey Fontaine was behind the bar expertly painting all the hard-to-reach bits round the optics, and Marie was wiping away stray drips with a roll of kitchen paper. The bottles and glasses had been removed from the shelves and were stacked neatly on the counter. Francy Mac was applying emulsion with Jack's abandoned roller to the area around the door and Trudy was peeling masking tape away from the finished areas. By the looks of things, they were well onto their second coat and were almost finished. The three trees were in the middle of the floor beside the tables and they were fully decorated, angels and all. The fairy lights were neatly threaded among the branches and the plugs were taped to the trunks, ready for action. Daisy was collecting up all the leftover packaging and stuffing it into bin bags. Trudy smiled at Lily and Jack as they came into the bar and tried to take it all in. The mirrors had been hung although they hadn't heard the hammer knocking in any nails. Even the fire was lit and Bridget was sitting at the counter, polishing Lily's collection of glass bottles with an old cloth.

  ‘Well, I never! Here they are at last, the two sleeping beauties,’ laughed Barney. He dropped the brush back into the tin and climbed down from the plank. ‘I think you'll find the ceiling well improved.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Lily began.

  ‘What do you think of all this?’ asked Joey. ‘The elves have been in here today.’

  ‘And they're very thirsty,’ added Francy Mac, and he winked and nodded his head towards the pumps. They all laughed.

  ‘Well, aren't you just sweethearts?’ said Lily softly, bursting into tears. ‘A drink for everyone, Bridget, if you please. Whatever they want.’ The tavern had never looked more elegant. It would not be stretching it to say it was actually approaching sophisticated. Lily and Jack were both thrilled.

  ‘It is aubergine,’ Jack said at last and Lily hugged him.

  They all helped with the finishing touches, moving the Christmas trees into place and folding up the dust sheets. There was a strong smell of paint in the air but Barney said that the fire would draw it out in no time.

  ‘I really enjoyed that,’ he added, as he folded up the ladders and returned the borrowed tea towel to Bridget. ‘It was just like the old days. A bit of life in the old dog, yet. Gin and tonic, please, young lady. If Mrs Beaumont is paying.’

  ‘Ah yes, painting away merrily beside a real turf fire. We've had a great time,’ said Joey. ‘Mine's a whiskey and lemonade,’ he added.

  Bridget served both drinks and started a pint of stout for Francy Mac. He never changed his order, he said, no matter what the occasion.

  ‘Who lit the fire?’ asked Jack, feeling slightly territorial.

  ‘I did,’ said Barney. ‘I hope you don't mind. I couldn't believe it when I came in this morning and the grate was empty. You should have had a notice on the front door to warn me.’ Everyone laughed again.

  Bridget began putting the bottles back in their little window-alcoves. It was so beautiful in the tavern now that Lily was almost grief-stricken that they hadn't done it up years ago. So much for her lifelong dedication to the space-enhancing properties of white paint. Colour was the way forward, she decided. Modernity was history, so to speak.

  ‘Thank goodness we had no customers,’ said Jack. ‘There would have been chaos in here this lunchtime.’

  ‘We closed the pub, Mr Beaumont. Except to Barney and the boys here. Sorry. But there was no other way we could get the work finished,’ Trudy explained. ‘I phoned Marie and asked her to come in and help. Daisy too.’

  ‘I thought you might have wanted to decorate the trees yourself, Mrs B?’ said Daisy quickly. ‘I hope you don't mind me doing it. Bridget wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘And that's just what you've done. They're heavenly and all the decorations are so well balanced. I couldn't have done better myself. Thank you, everyone.’

  They all said it was nothing but there was a fantastic mood of achievement in the room. Marie said she had a big pot of beef stew simmering upstairs and they were all more than ready for a plate of it. Fifteen minutes later, everyone was full and content.

  ‘Well, isn't this fantastic?’ Lily said with a sigh. ‘I can relax now. There's nothing else to be done. Let's not bother with opening up for the evening crowd. We'll have a day off. I think we've earned it.’

  ‘Aren't you forgetting the pub-grub critics?’ said Jack.

  ‘Oh, damn it, that's right. They're coming at seven this evening. I'd better get busy,’ moaned Lily. ‘I'm making vegetarian wraps and a salmon pie. Will you help me, Marie?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Marie. ‘I'd love to.’

  ‘I see a few people coming down the street,’ said Jack, looking out of the window. ‘It looks like some of your craft ladies, Lily.’

  ‘Oh, isn't that nice?’ said Lily. ‘They said they might call in today. Quick, open the door. But don't let anyone else in. I don't want the place too crowded for the press visit. I wonder what the craft group will think of the new look?’

  ‘Let's switch on the fairy lights and see,’ said Francy Mac, and he plugged in the biggest tree.

  ‘Oh, it's out of this world,’ said Daisy. ‘It's the prettiest tree of all time, Mrs B. Really and truly.’

  It was the best tree any of them had ever seen. The tiny white lights glittered against the dark walls, and the gold-coloured decorations looked very rich and precious. They quickly powered up the smaller trees and were just putting the last of the glasses and bottles back on the shelves when the ladies filed in and stopped abruptly.

  ‘Well, isn't this gorgeous? I see you've been busy,’ they said happily. ‘It's very swish now, isn't it? Oh, yes! It's like Buckingham Palace.’ Barney, Joey and Francy Mac swelled up with pride. ‘Are you still serving soup and sandwiches?’

  ‘Great to see you again, ladies.’ Lily beamed. ‘We've got beef stew today,’ she added. ‘There's just about enough left, if we use small bowls,’ she whispered to Marie as she slipped upstairs, forgetting entirely that she wasn't wearing any shoes.

  That evening, on the dot of seven, a small party of journalists and photographers turned up and sat at the bar counter. They were all wearing ripped jeans, heavily patched denim jackets and scruffy suede boots. Obviously, the height of urban-chic this year was the rugged look, Bridget decided, as she poured them complimentary drinks. Lily introduced herself and thanked them all personally for coming. The photographers took some enormously complicated cameras out of their bulky canvas shoulder bags and began taking light-readings and linin
g up good shots.

  ‘These pictures will be terrific,’ they said. ‘Love the wall colour. And the Chrimbo trees. Nice.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Lily, blushing. ‘We've just finished the painting. It's very good of you to come at such short notice. I thought you'd be all booked up with the bigger establishments at this time of year?’

  ‘Well, we are, actually. But we like to cover several places each week, ideally. Different sizes and price ranges. Our editors will do the final choosing, though. It's not up to us who gets in the paper.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lily, with her fingers crossed behind her back. The food was all ready and they even had some expensive napkins to go with it, decorated with a picture of an old-fashioned Father Christmas. ‘Shall I bring down the sample menu, now?’

  ‘Yeah, that'd be great. Just a couple of questions, first. Why have you redecorated, just before the pub is demolished?’ asked one very young girl reporter. Jack and Lily didn't think she was old enough to have left school yet. She switched on her tape recorder and set it on the counter. Jack fled upstairs and left Lily to conduct the interview on her own.

  ‘Well,’ she faltered, ‘we just thought, why not? It's Christmas, after all. And the demolition is not confirmed, you know. And we might as well bow out in style, if and when that day comes.’

  When the interviews and the food-tasting were over, Lily asked them all to sign the visitors' book, and gave them a Christmas pudding each to take home. There was a brief session of hand-shaking on the doorstep and then they were gone.

  Next morning, Jack was dispatched to buy the first editions. Lily was jittery with nervous energy, wondering if the editors had decided to be merciful. She fluttered around the kitchen, lifting jars and dishes and setting them down again, achieving nothing.

  ‘Please, let this work out,’ she said aloud. They had almost as many customers as they could cope with already but Lily hoped the newspapers would help bolster support for their cause.

  Bridget and Trudy stayed in their beds, not wanting to be in the same room as Lily if the reviews were poor or, worse, non-existent. Trudy buried her head in a textbook and Bridget wondered when would be a good time to tell Lily that she had had another little accident. She'd sat on a fountain pen and broken it, and the ink had bled onto the rose-patterned sofa.

  Lily knew, when she heard Jack running up the stairs, that the news was good. The tavern had been included on the front page of both papers, probably because of the impending closure, they thought. He read the pub-grub reviews to Lily as they sat in the kitchen drinking tea.

  ‘First one… “Bowing out in style: Beaumont's Tavern on Maple Street is one of Belfast's hidden treasures. Boasting a real turf fire and stylish Christmas decorations, my delicious salmon pie was barely marred by the discovery of a long red hair in the bottom of the dish.”’

  ‘Oh, no! Jack!’

  ‘I thought you served the food? Not Daisy?’

  ‘I did. But Daisy served the second round of drinks. It must have fallen in then.’ Lily covered her face with her hands. ‘What else? Any more bad news?’

  ‘No. It's a terrific review apart from that one thing.’

  ‘I give up. No one will come to eat here now.’

  ‘Wait! There's more… “It has recently been announced that Maple Street may be demolished to make way for a new shopping centre. I, for one, think that Beaumont's Tavern should be saved, as it has stood quietly and majestically in the centre of Belfast for two hundred years.” That was decent of them.’ Jack showed the photographs to Lily. The tavern did look fabulous.

  ‘Let's hope it's true that there's no such thing as bad publicity. What's the other paper say?’ asked Lily in a wary voice.

  ‘It says, “The atmosphere was world-class and the vegetarian wraps were delicious, but the menu was very limited overall.”’

  ‘Can't argue with that. Let's see the picture. It's good.’

  ‘Yes, and they've printed our address and telephone number at the bottom.’

  ‘Do you think we might get any new bookings?’ Immediately, the phone began to ring. Lily ran out to the hall to answer it. ‘If this is Gerry Madden, I'll scream my head off.’ She picked up the receiver. ‘Hello? Beaumont's, can I help you?’ There was a pause, and then Lily said yes several times. Jack noticed that Lily's beautiful dark hair was full of aubergine paint splashes. He was thankful the journalists had not mentioned that in their articles. She hung up the phone and came back to the table, triumph plain on her face.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘It was a woman from America. New York, to be precise. Well, she's over here now, on a long holiday. Clare Prendergast is her name. She wants to hold a party here on Christmas Eve. For about seventy-five people, she reckons. I said yes.’

  ‘Great stuff. Well done, Lily. Food and all? Music?’

  ‘Yes. She wants to hold a kind of special anniversary party for herself and her husband. Peter, I think his name was. She says they had a very modest wedding three years ago in New York but now they want to invite all their Irish friends to a big party in Belfast, and they loved the tavern's decor in the newspaper picture. The Devaney brothers can play for an hour or so at the beginning of the evening. And here's the best bit…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said she would like some hits from the 1980s played, if that's possible. So you can dig out all your old 45s and pretend you're a DJ!’

  ‘Lily, I can't do that! With decks and stuff?’

  ‘That doesn't matter. I told her we didn't have proper disco facilities. She said it would be so much more authentic to play genuine vinyl on an old record player and it doesn't matter if there are jumps and scratches. She sounds really nice.’

  ‘She sounds bonkers. Jumps and scratches! I suppose I could tape some songs onto cassettes and play those? But I'm not giving a running commentary.’

  ‘You pet. It'll be a lovely way to see in Christmas. Don't we love that era, ourselves? Oh, Jack, I wish we'd done things like this years ago. Don't you?’

  ‘Not really. I kind of liked it more when it was just you and me. Life was a lot more peaceful around here. But, I'm okay with it. It'll give us plenty to talk about later on, I suppose?’

  Just then, Bridget came into the kitchen, looking extremely shamefaced. The small matter of the ink stain on the couch had been superseded by another disaster.

  ‘What have you done this time?’ asked Lily, her mood resolutely upbeat.

  ‘Mrs Beaumont, I'm sorry. I broke the bottle of Chanel. It just fell off the little shelf.’

  ‘That's okay, Bridget. These things happen.’ Lily was beginning to think she would have those words inscribed on her tombstone.

  ‘I didn't touch the perfume, honestly,’ Bridget stammered. ‘I wasn't using it or anything. I must have bumped into the shelf when I was getting out of the bath.’ Jack and Lily exchanged glances. They knew that Bridget had surely been helping herself to a little bit of luxury, and now she'd added one of Lily's most treasured possessions to her long list of domestic casualties. That bottle of Chanel had been Jack's present to Lily on her last birthday. Bridget didn't know it but she was only saved from instant dismissal and eviction by the great news of Clare Prendergast's Christmas party.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?’ asked Bridget as she opened the bread bin and looked inside hopefully. There was a packet of fresh butter croissants nestling beside a granary loaf. Her round blue eyes lit up.

  ‘That's okay, Bridget. As long as you replace the perfume by the end of the week, we'll say no more about it,’ said Jack cheerfully and he winked at Lily and went to light the fire downstairs. Lily said nothing, and hurried into her room to make the bed.

  Bridget was in shock as she heated up four croissants in the oven. She couldn't believe they were making her pay for the perfume. And it was a big bottle too. Probably about one hundred pounds' worth. If she'd known they would ask her to replace it she'd have bought her own bottl
e in the first place. She preferred Clinique anyway.

  ‘Good grief,’ she whispered to herself. ‘First, they shack me up with a button-phobic nutcase and now they have me shelling out for jumbo bottles of Chanel. And me only on minimum wages. I suppose I'd better stop phoning Gerry in New York. No doubt Jack will be totting up the calls I made when the next bill comes in. He doesn't miss much! I'll be in the poorhouse this time next year.’

  The phone rang several times that Monday morning. Lily was never away from the half-moon table. By lunchtime her little notebook was full of party details and requests. She was careful not to agree to anything that was beyond her but, overall, she had managed to secure over two thousand pounds' worth of business. Then Clare Prendergast called back to say she had been telling her husband's family and friends about the party, and they'd had the idea of coming in fancy dress. Stars from the 1980s would be the theme: Adam Ant, Robert Smith, Steve Strange, Cyndi Lauper. Lily thought that was a brilliant idea, and said she would get the staff to dress up as well. They agreed on a simple menu of roast turkey wraps with salad and mixed canapés.

  ‘And there's one more thing,’ said Clare. ‘If it isn't too much trouble? I'd like a wedding anniversary cake? Just one tier, I thought. With smooth white icing on the top and sides. Maybe we could have some fresh white roses as a decoration? Something very simple and understated. Can you help me?’

  ‘I certainly can,’ said Lily. ‘I know just what you mean. Leave it with me. I'll bake the cake tonight, myself.’

  ‘Oh, you're a lifesaver,’ said Clare. ‘I knew when I saw your lovely tavern in the newspaper that you were just the place for us. The others we looked at were far too big and cold. I can't wait to meet you. I'll call in later today with the deposit.’