The Tavern on Maple Street

by Sharon Owens

  ‘Should have done this last night,’ he muttered, and Bridget closed her eyes with shame.

  Lily shivered. It was, indeed, like a scene from one of Dickens's novels. She expected to see Oliver Twist coming down the chimney at any moment. In this day and age, when the country had never been more prosperous, it was a real shock to the system.

  The kitchen was equally bleak. There was a blue plastic dish rack, some chipped cups and plates, a loaf of cheap bread and a small box of budget teabags. A bar of pink soap with grey lines in it lay on the window sill. Four tins of vegetable soup stood on the counter and Bridget said they would have come from the church's annual charity hamper. Her parents would never buy tins of fancy carrot soup at eighty-four pence each. A saucepan with no lid was upside down on the counter. The vinyl on the floor was worn through to the concrete beneath. The larder was empty. So was the fridge. The back door was not even locked. The house felt derelict as if nobody had lived in it for years. There were no Christmas decorations in the house, except for a small sprig of fresh holly on top of a picture of the Sacred Heart. One of the neighbours must have brought it, Bridget said.

  The bedrooms were even worse: empty and cheerless, with pillows on the beds that were as flat as paper. The bedroom that Bridget and her sisters had once shared was small, cramped and full of dust. Bridget picked up a solitary rag doll from the window sill, held it against her cheek for a couple of moments and set it down again. They went back down the stairs, shoes clattering loudly on the wooden steps.

  ‘There's nothing here that I want to keep,’ Bridget announced. ‘I'll phone the council and tell them they can re-let this place. If they can find anybody willing to take it, it's so damp. They never turned the central heating on, never.’

  ‘I'll take care of the house details, Bridget. Don't worry yourself about it,’ said Father Damien. ‘Shall I arrange the wake for tomorrow evening? We can borrow some chairs and candlesticks from the parish hall.’

  ‘Could we just bring the coffins directly to the church, Father? And not have a wake in the house? I think that would be for the best. They had no real friends around here. Only charity workers, and people from the welfare office. And neighbours who felt sorry for them.’

  ‘They were well liked, Bridget. It's not true they had no friends. You mustn't think that about your parents. It wasn't their fault that their addiction made them unworldly.’

  Unworldly, thought Lily, stunned by the empty feeling in the little house. That's got to be the greatest euphemism of all time, she said to herself. This is third-world stuff. She couldn't understand why the children hadn't been taken into care. Possibly, there weren't enough foster places at the time?

  ‘It's what I want, Father. I want some dignity for them,’ said Bridget firmly. ‘I don't want my parents to be laid out here, in this cold house with no comfort in it. I want the coffins closed too.’

  A wise decision, thought Lily. I don't blame you one bit.

  ‘As you wish, Bridget. I'll speak to the mortuary staff and the undertakers.’ Father Damien resigned himself to Bridget's unorthodox instructions. He was not convinced it was a good thing that his parishioners were making up their own minds about funerals these days. Still, at least she didn't want football strips or pop songs in the church. He was glad he was an old man and would not live to see much more change.

  ‘What about the funeral expenses?’ said Lily, suddenly. She felt more than a little guilty. All her adult life, she'd sold alcohol to the public and barely considered the consequences. Now, the meanness and poverty in the O'Malley home had opened her eyes. ‘Can we help towards the cost of the coffins?’

  ‘No way, Lily,’ said Bridget. ‘You will not pay for anything. I won't let you.’

  ‘The authorities will take care of that side of things,’ said Father Damien abruptly. He was a staunch Irish-nationalist who resented any handouts from the government across the water in England, but what could he do about it? Even basic funerals cost a lot of money these days. At least there were plenty of holly trees and evergreens around the Parochial House. He would ask his housekeeper to make up a couple of nice wreaths to go on the coffin lids. And they had enough candles in the sacristy, thank God. They would put on a decent enough show for the funeral on Christmas Day. He sighed, remembering that he would have to make alterations to his prepared sermon. ‘In the midst of life, we are in death,’ he said.

  Bridget looked as if she might cry again, but she only breathed in sharply and thanked them all for their support.

  ‘I mean it, Bridget,’ said Lily. ‘Could Jack and I pay for the flowers, even? It's the least we can do for them.’

  ‘You never knew them, Lily. You never met them.’

  ‘Please, Bridget. I want to do it. For your sisters' sake, at least?’

  ‘Lily, I know you mean well. But an extravagant funeral just wouldn't suit my parents. It would be wrong. It would be a lie.’

  ‘Oh, Bridget.’ Lily looked around the chilly sitting room with cobwebs hanging off the light bulb. She would take to the drink herself if she had to live like this. ‘We should do something nice.’

  ‘The trappings of a funeral are unimportant, Mrs Beaumont. I appreciate your gesture, but Bridget is correct. Mr and Mrs O'Malley were very unhappy in this life. Now they are with the Lord. They are at peace and they have no need of fancy flowers.’

  Lily felt suddenly sick. She thought of her own parents, sitting in their modest kitchen in the north of the city, listening to the morning news on the radio and lamenting the state of the world. They had no interests of their own at all, beyond the gossip at the factory where they worked. Her mother's hair was nothing more than grey and shapeless tufts by now. Lily had a photograph of her parents at a family christening last year, sent by a distant relative who didn't know they were not close any more. She thought of her father, smoking away his weekends in the rocking chair. Her mother and father had never left the country, never eaten a foreign meal. Her mother refused to believe that homosexuals existed, and thought fabric conditioner was a swindle. They still refused to speak to Jack. They would take the grudge of Lily's lost degree to their graves. Lily never visited them. She wondered if it was because she loved them too much, or hated them too much. She wondered if it was too late for reconciliation. Probably it was. Her parents would never understand Lily in a million years: how her love for Jack was all that mattered to her. Their own marriage was lifeless and dull as dust. They thought Lily had wasted her life, and she thought they had wasted theirs. No, it was too late to turn up on the doorstep now, all tears and hugs and apologies. Far, far too late.

  ‘As you wish,’ she said softly, and looked at her watch.

  ‘Come on,’ said John Kelly, taking command of the situation. ‘I'll drive you both back to Maple Street. There's nothing else to be done here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lily, halfway out the front door already. She was stiff with fatigue and dying for a hot bath. ‘That's very kind of you, Constable. Or is it Officer? I'm not sure what to call you.’

  ‘Call me John,’ he smiled.

  ‘Would you like to have the picture of the Sacred Heart, at least?’ Father Damien took it off the wall and offered it to Bridget. ‘I brought this picture back from Rome, for them. It was blessed by the Holy Father himself.’ Bridget looked highly offended. For one awful moment, Lily thought Bridget was going to smash the picture over her knee, and she was horrified. But then Bridget's face softened. She accepted the picture gracefully and went out to the police car without looking back. The front door was locked and Lily gave the key to Father Damien. They waved to him as they drove away.

  ‘He was very nice,’ said Lily. ‘I thought he was a kind man.’

  ‘He was the only real friend we ever had,’ said Bridget. ‘He always managed to find us a turkey and some toys for Christmas. He begged things from every store in the city, and organized a food collection in the church each year. One time, we got a fresh pineapple. Ma said it was only for sn
obs and she threw it in the bin.’

  Lily closed her eyes. She was desperate to see Jack. To hold him in her arms and smell his spicy aftershave.

  ‘It was good of you to accept the picture,’ said Lily. ‘Father Damien was pleased about that.’

  ‘He thinks he's helping to restore my faith. I didn't want to hurt his feelings,’ said Bridget. ‘But I gave up believing in God a long time ago.’

  Later that day, it was decided that Bridget should take a few days off work. She didn't want to, saying she would rather be kept busy. But Lily phoned Bridget's doctor, and he convinced her to rest for a while, and to speak with her sisters about what had happened. By seven that evening Bridget was back in bed, where she fell asleep almost at once. She slept right through the party that night and only woke up at four in the morning for a cup of coffee.

  She wished that Gerry would call and chat to her, but he had promised Trudy he wouldn't phone again at an unsociable hour. Bridget looked over at Trudy in the next bed, and wondered how she had managed to tame the wild Gerry Madden. He hadn't missed one session with the nurse. He'd even told Trudy he was trying to get his bosses to lift the suspension. He'd met with them several times, and grovelled for all he was worth. He had offered to work over Christmas too. He was a changed man. Bridget couldn't understand it. She couldn't get her parents to give up alcohol and pay her more attention. And she couldn't make Gerry do it either. She must be unlovable. That was the only answer.

  When she crept out of the room to rustle up a nocturnal snack a few minutes later, she was feeling very sorry for herself. Luckily, the kitchen was piled high with good things to eat. She saw a cake tin with her name written on a piece of paper and taped to it. Inside was a selection of sandwiches wrapped in tin foil, a generous wedge of chocolate fudge cake and a thick slice of cooked chicken. A little note at the bottom of the tin said, ‘We love you, Bridget, from Lily, Jack, Trudy, Daisy and Marie.’ Bridget sat at the table looking at the note for a long time. She drank three cups of coffee but the delicious food was left untouched.

  18. Lily Changes Her Mind

  Christmas Eve

  Trudy, Daisy and Marie did their best to cheer Bridget up the next day. She was strangely calm and they interpreted her solemn state as a bout of depression. They told her that her parents had gone to a better place and that they were now at rest, and all the usual platitudes. They said they had booked her sisters into a local hotel, for when they flew over for the funeral. They had also arranged for a beautiful wreath of red roses to be sent to the church. Bridget looked at Lily with pursed lips, but Lily said that Jack had ordered the wreath before she had time to tell him not to, and now it was too late. Daisy volunteered the lend of her best black velvet hat for the funeral, Marie donated a smart black scarf and Trudy said she would style Bridget's hair into a pretty bun for the occasion. Bridget said little throughout the day. She simply looked thoughtful and subdued. She tidied the bedroom, did a small mountain of ironing and watched a Bette Davis movie on the television.

  She put the picture of the Sacred Heart under her bed, then took it out again and polished the grimy glass with a new duster. The picture reminded her of Father Damien and he was a good man. She decided to keep it to remember him by. She stood the picture on the mantelpiece, and tried to say a prayer for her parents, but the words died on her lips. She realized she couldn't remember a single one.

  At three, she begged Lily to allow her to help with the preparations for Clare Prendergast's party, and Lily reluctantly agreed. They were slightly behind with the catering, as the lunchtime rush had been busier than usual. Word was spreading about the tavern's imminent demise, and more and more people were popping in for a farewell visit. The visitors' book rested on a little table beside the grandfather clock and there were seventy-nine pages full of signatures by Christmas Eve.

  ‘I really think you should have a lie-down, though, Bridget. You'll be on your feet all day tomorrow,’ Lily said.

  ‘Look. My sisters don't get here for another five hours. And until they do, I can still help with the party food. Please. I want to enjoy a bit of life and noise before the funeral.’

  ‘Okay, pet, if you're definitely sure? Marie and Trudy can advise you on what to do. And I'll go down and help Jack and Daisy.’

  The girls were getting very hot and flustered in the kitchen. When yet another turkey was lifted out of the oven, a blast of hot greasy air came with it and the temperature in the small room soared. The window was wide open but even the icy chill flowing in past the glass storage jars couldn't cool the pink faces of the two cooks. Despite that, they were uneasy about accepting help from a girl in mourning.

  ‘If you don't let me do something, I'll just go ahead on my own initiative,’ said Bridget. ‘I'm warning you.’ She took a sharp knife out of the drawer and demanded to be given something to chop up.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Marie. ‘You can do the chicken and olive terrine, if you insist.’

  ‘I do,’ replied Bridget. ‘Just tell me how.’

  ‘Well, chop one onion and three rashers and fry them in olive oil for five minutes. Add a splash of white wine. Dice five chicken fillets and add some chopped olives and parsley. Then you have to line a tin with more rashers and put it all in.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Bridget. ‘Let me get on with the first bit and then give me the next instalment. Cocktails are a breeze compared to this cookery lark.’

  She smiled for the first time that day, and for a couple of hours there was peace and harmony in the kitchen. Platters of well-garnished party food were covered with plastic film and laid along the hall floor.

  Lily and Jack were rushed off their feet behind the bar. They were still suffering from the effects of the flu, but the bar was nice and cosy, and they were both wearing warm clothes. Luckily for the customers, their sniffles and sneezes had subsided. They still had shivery chills and painful joints, but nobody noticed them hobbling slightly, as everyone enjoyed the delightful decor and the tasty food. Daisy was swiftly clearing plates and glasses, and manning the dishwasher on a full-time basis. She was secretly overjoyed that Lily and Jack were up and about again since she was absolutely worn out. She was planning to look for something else after Christmas. And that meant she would have to move out too. But she wouldn't mention that until the Christmas rush was over.

  Lily told Jack she felt quite weak, but she just couldn't miss Christmas Eve in the tavern, no matter how ill she was. It might well be her last one ever in Maple Street. She was filled with bittersweet feelings about the tavern. It was Lily's home and her refuge, but she still hadn't recovered from the shock of seeing the O'Malley place, and she doubted she ever would. She'd always believed she was providing something of value to the city. The tavern was a haven of peace and comfort in a fast-moving world. But she also knew she had really loved this building because it meant that she and Jack could isolate themselves from other people. It was their excuse for not spending time with their difficult families. It had protected them from the stresses of the workplace, from friends and acquaintances that might require some of their attention. They had been rather selfish, in a way.

  Lily had made such a fuss about her precious roll-top bath when it was ruined with black dye. Bridget had accepted the news of her parents' death with more dignity. What a burden of disappointment her childhood must have been, for her to think such a tragedy was normal? And now Father Damien, with his food hampers and his kind words, had taught Lily a valuable lesson. She thought she wanted to help other people too. She wanted to make a real difference in the world, even if it was only a small difference. And she was not afraid any more. No matter what happened in the future, she knew that Jack would always love her, and she would always love him. If Vincent Halloran was able to destroy their livelihood with his ugly shopping mall, then so be it. The Beaumonts would survive. One thing was for sure: they would never end up like the wretched O'Malleys.

  Jack knew there was something on Lily's mind and
he asked her about it, as he was pulling three pints of stout for Barney Cunningham.

  ‘I'll tell you later,’ she whispered. ‘But if we can't prevent the closure, we'll be okay. I realize that now.’

  ‘Am I hearing things?’ he said quietly, carefully levelling off the head of foam on one of the glasses. ‘Are you giving up the fight? You want to sell?’

  ‘I'm not giving up,’ she replied. ‘Just accepting the possibility that we may lose the battle.’ Jack was stunned. ‘And besides,’ she added, ‘I don't think I could go on working at this pace until I retire. I've never been so tired.’

  ‘Well, this is a turn-up for the books. But, darling, you said things would go back to the way they were, when this was all over.’

  ‘I know I did, but I think I was being naive. Don't worry, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I'm exhausted and feeling sorry for myself at the moment, so it could just be a notion of me. I'll tell you when I have something more specific than a vague jumble of emotions. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, my love.’

  Lily smiled at Barney, and set his three glasses of Guinness on the counter. He nodded innocently and winked his thanks, but he had heard every word. He carried the little tray back to the booth, with a heavy heart.

  ‘Let's enjoy these,’ he said, as Joey and Francy Mac reached out their hands for the drinks. ‘I've just heard Mrs Beaumont saying she may not be able to save this place. Close the door, there.’

  Barney drew his pipe from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, and the other two watched respectfully as he filled it with tobacco and struck a long match.

  ‘They'll regret it, if they leave Maple Street,’ said Joey.

  ‘Aye. They were made for this place,’ said Francy Mac. ‘Do you remember the time they first took over here?’ But Francy Mac's reminiscence was suddenly interrupted when Jack opened the door of the booth. He set a silver platter of assorted party nibbles on the table, and three large glasses of brandy. The three men looked with wide eyes at the neat rows of glistening pastries and savoury snacks.