The Tavern on Maple Street

by Sharon Owens

  Another taxi to the hotel; he didn't recall paying the driver. The room had been tidied up in his absence. There was a giant Christmas hamper sitting on the desk. A gift from Perry to celebrate the new deal, according to the gift tag. Liam had sold the final script directly to his agent, on the understanding that he would not have to promote it. It was three in the morning when he tore the cellophane off the hamper, fished out the champagne and continued drinking. He remembered looking at his watch at twenty minutes past four. After that, he must have passed out.

  He looked at his watch now. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. On Christmas Day! A day for happy families to be together, and he had wasted the morning in a drunken sleep. Slinger Magee would have been proud of him. Liam laughed at his reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Well, you did it,’ he said. ‘Wrote the novel in five weeks, ditched the wife, got out of that blasted house in Marlborough before the stairs wore me out. Sold said novel to Perry Shaw for half a million. No promotion to do. I'm a free man.’ He saluted his reflection. A wave of nausea made him kneel down and he thought he might be sick. But then he remembered he had spilt most of the champagne on the expensive eiderdown, and he was weak with relief. That was it, he remembered. He'd spilt the first bottle, almost all of it. And so he'd opened the second one, but then he'd fallen asleep before he had time to drink very much. Most of that bottle had also soaked into the mattress. At some point during the night he must have woken up for long enough to set the bottles on the cabinet, but not his glass. He checked his face in the mirror. A deep indentation was still clearly visible across his cheekbone.

  He had no idea how much alcohol he had consumed in the last twenty-four hours. He might have drunk himself to death. Or cut his jugular open with a shard of broken glass. Which would have been a very stupid act, given that he had made a fortune of money almost overnight. His clothes were damp and cold. He felt awful.

  Perry had made him an offer he couldn't refuse as they said goodbye in the foyer of the hotel in London. Aware that Liam was ashamed of his second novel, and was unlikely to put much effort into the round of planned interviews and book-signings, Perry had decided to buy sole rights to the manuscript and market it himself. He planned to tell the publishers and TV executives that Liam Bradley was in a private clinic being treated for alcohol-related stress and depression. Liam was to keep a low profile for six months. The resulting notoriety was bound to boost interest among the publishing industry. Perry knew for certain he would double his investment. If not treble it.

  ‘Well, good luck to you, Perry Shaw,’ Liam gasped as another wave of nausea rose and fell. ‘You deserve it.’

  Liam peeled off his stale clothes and crawled into the shower tray, carefully rolling up the cheque first and sliding it into his right shoe. He sat there for half an hour, letting the hot water pound him into oblivion. He thought he might have fallen asleep for ten minutes but he couldn't be sure. Afterwards, he felt marginally better. He brushed his teeth thoroughly and had a shave, wrapping his face in a hot towel first. This made him so relaxed that when he was finished he lay down on the floor beside the bed, still wrapped in a giant bath sheet. He reached for the telephone and dialled Reception. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a hotel for ever, he thought, as he waited for someone to pick up at the other end.

  ‘Hello? Hello, there. It's room 401, Liam Bradley. Yes, merry Christmas to you too. I was wondering, is the maid available today? I've spilt some champagne on the bed, I'm afraid. Sorry about that! Could I have some new sheets?’

  ‘What about the mattress? Have you wet that too?’

  ‘Have I wet the mattress? Gosh, I have no idea. I'll check. It is rather wet. Sorry.’

  The girl on the other end of the phone made a rude gesture at the receiver. Today of all days, when they were mad-busy with the festive lunch menu, that wino in 401 had to go and ruin his bed. She hoped for the maid's sake it was only champagne she would have to clean up. She paged a chambermaid and explained the situation. Then she came back on the line.

  ‘I can have a new mattress brought to your suite and made up with fresh linen, sir. But I'm afraid it will show up on your bill.’

  ‘That's okay. Can I have some dinner brought to my room also? Christmas dinner, and a pot of tea? I know I didn't book it yesterday but I'd be very grateful, miss, if you could work a little magic for me.’ He crossed his fingers. ‘I think I've caught a chill, you see, and I don't feel up to the dining room.’

  ‘I'll see what I can do, Mr Bradley. I'm sure Chef will oblige but you may have to wait an hour or two. We're very busy at the moment.’

  ‘That's fine,’ Liam said. ‘Thank you very much. Maybe you could have the tea sent up in the meantime? And a spot of toast wouldn't go amiss.’ The girl hung up without speaking. The bloody nerve of some people, she thought. Caught a chill, my ass.

  Liam lay down on the very edge of the bed and found a dry corner of duvet. As he waited for the tea to come he wondered how he would spend Perry's money.

  Betsy Bradley, on the other hand, was full of purpose, and whizzing round her granite and steel kitchen like a whirlwind on fast-forward. No fewer than nine saucepans were resting on the industrial-size stove. Mashed potatoes with parsley and cream, plain mash for Ted, Brussels sprouts, carrots and parsnips together, carrots on their own for Ted's children, who were fussy eaters like their father, proper old-fashioned giblet gravy, cranberry sauce, bread sauce, vegetable soup. She peeked under the lids. The food was piping hot and smelt delicious. She'd been slaving since eight that morning, using only fresh ingredients and taking no short cuts. The turkey was ready, covered with strips of crispy bacon, and packed with pork and apple stuffing. They said on the cookery shows that any stuffing should be cooked in a separate dish but Betsy had always loved hers soaked in the turkey juices, and it hadn't poisoned her yet. She checked the bottle of wine in the silver bucket; it was perfectly chilled.

  Ha! she said out loud. ‘Who's a domestic goddess now! I think that Liam has been a jinx on me all these years. The dinner was never this good before. Now, what time is it? Hope my lot aren't late!’

  Every room in the house had been decorated with white Christmas lights, fresh greenery, red and green silk baubles and red velvet ribbons. Even the banisters were draped in glistening branches from a posh shop in town. And she had hung miniature Santas made from tin cans on the big chandelier. Betsy had copied the ideas from an old issue of Homes and Gardens. It was all very vintage and tasteful.

  She was dressed in neat cream trousers and a matching mohair sweater that covered up her modest post-op cleavage. Her hair was cut into a shoulder-length bob and dyed a glossy chestnut brown with honey highlights. The hairdresser had flicked the ends outwards and Betsy thought she looked much more bubbly and animated than usual. Her impossibly long fake nails had been consigned to the bin for ever.

  She had seventeen members of her extended family due for dinner in half an hour, and she was hoping they wouldn't recognize her. In the weeks since Liam had left, Betsy had become a new woman. She had stopped being a slave to her looks, and had started using her imagination. Her brothers didn't know it yet but Betsy was about to give them all a big Christmas surprise. She had decided what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

  She was going to combine her hankering for tennis with a spot of charity work. She was going to open up a tennis club in Belfast, employ some young people to help her and give free lessons to underprivileged children at weekends. Of course she had to learn how to play better herself, first. But that was a mere detail. The main thing was, she would get to meet lots of interesting, wealthy, well-connected people, and she would get lots of media attention because of her charity work. There was bound to be a nice plot of land somewhere that she could afford with her house proceeds. She'd build a dainty little clubhouse on it, and four tennis courts. She was going to sell this huge house while the market was still buoyant, and buy one of those chic little apartments on the other side of the ave
nue, and from there embark on her plan of world domination. Maybe, if her fortunes improved, she could move to Malahide some day, but this would be a good beginning. This time next year she might be celebrating Christmas with actual, living, breathing celebrities. She'd be in all the glossy magazines then: ‘Ex-wife of famous author helps local youngsters in cross-community tennis project’. She might win a Tatler Magazine Woman of the Year award! A nice big lump of glass for the mantelpiece! She'd be the new best friend of Bono's wife! And if none of those things came to pass, well, at least she wouldn't be the sad bewildered trollop that Liam had made her into any more.

  She looked out of the front window to see if her brothers, Ted, Roy and Mark, and their wives and children were here yet. They weren't so she returned to her saucepans. The doorbell chimed as she was adding a knob of butter and some bacon crumbs to the sprouts. She flicked off the extractor fan and went skipping to answer it. Eleven children swarmed in and ran up the stairs. They loved playing hide and seek in the bedrooms, trying to find the presents that otherwise wouldn't be handed out until after the main meal. She ushered in the six adults and closed the heavy door against the cold.

  ‘Betsy, my God! You look fantastic,’ the women chorused. ‘What have you done to your hair? That style takes years off you.’

  ‘Thank you! The single life takes years off me,’ replied Betsy, laughing and patting her new hairstyle. ‘I've tidied myself up a little. Now I have the time.’

  ‘You're keeping fine, then?’

  ‘God, yes. I've been liberated. You wouldn't believe how much work it was, looking after Liam. He was so untidy.’

  The women chuckled and made faces at their husbands. The men looked suitably chastened. But they were all delighted that Betsy was in such good humour. They'd been dreading this lunch, afraid that Betsy would be a snivelling wreck, threatening suicide in front of the kids. They had offered to hold the annual dinner at one of their own houses but Betsy was insistent that she would play the host, as usual.

  ‘Liam never did lift a finger to help me on Christmas Day,’ she told Roy's wife as she helped the petite redhead out of her mink jacket. ‘Just sat about the kitchen, telling me not to put too much lard on the roast potatoes.’

  ‘Men!’

  ‘I know. They eat like horses and then blame us for cooking the dinner. I thought I'd stab him the day he left me, but now I feel like I've been let out of prison.’

  ‘Good for you, Betsy. We're all taking your side, you know. We always thought he was a bit odd.’

  ‘You don't know the half of it, Muriel. Right, are we all ready?’ She went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, ‘Children, can you come and sit down now?’ Then she turned back to the grown-ups, who were busy admiring the decorations. ‘I thought we'd stay in the kitchen this year. It's much warmer and we'll be closer to the fridge!’

  ‘I can't wait to eat, Betsy. And the house looks fantastic.’ Ted patted his sister's arm and they smiled at each other.

  ‘Thanks for all the advice, Ted,’ she whispered. ‘I might have lost everything in a court case. Liam really has flipped his lid.’

  If he comes anywhere near you, Betsy, just call me and I'll have him arrested,’ soothed Ted. ‘Can't be too careful with these creative types. There's a fine line between genius and madness. I've always said it.’

  ‘I know, Ted. Now, let's eat!’ Betsy had never looked happier or more relaxed. It was a miracle. ‘Just sit where you like, everybody, and I'll start serving right away. I have prawn salads for us and melon boats for the children, to begin with,’ she trilled. ‘Mark, you can carve the turkey this year; and Roy, would you open the sparkling wine? Lovely!’

  The children all trooped empty-handed and complaining loudly into the huge kitchen, their mothers scolding them and telling them to behave themselves. Betsy opened the door again and took a quick glance down the avenue. There was no sign of Liam. She'd had a dream the night before, that he turned up and begged for reconciliation. But, clearly, he was not going to do that. And she didn't want him to. As long as she stayed with him, she'd never have the courage to be her own person.

  She wondered how her family would react when she told them that she hadn't bought them any presents this year. Her nieces and nephews were spoilt rotten. And her brothers and sisters-in-law had everything money could buy. This year, Betsy had bought a herd of goats and a year's supply of schoolbooks for a village in Africa instead. She was going to give Ted a fun Christmas card she had found in the supermarket, with a picture of three goats on it. It was a wonderful idea, to help Africa for Christmas. And it took her only five minutes over the phone with a credit card. As a consolation, she had bought the children chocolate selection boxes and packets of colouring pencils.

  She sighed and shut the front door. The wreath she had bought from the greengrocer's looked magnificent covered with a midnight frost that had not yet melted. The snow was getting heavier: large soft flakes that came swirling down from the sky, making you dizzy if you tried to follow the progress of one flake in particular. Betsy thought the street had never looked more beautiful. She was glad she would not be leaving Marlborough Avenue for a while. The downsizing had been Ted's idea. He'd told her not to make too many big changes in her life all at once. Betsy wondered what Liam was doing at that moment and if he was looking out onto the snow too. Then she went back into the kitchen to join her family around the table.

  Barney, Joey and Francy Mac stood at the end of Maple Street and caught their breath. They had met up by the Gothic church beside Queen's University Student Union, and walked to the city centre. This was the first year, in over sixty years of friendship, that they were spending Christmas Day together. They were all wearing their best clothes, and were clutching tins of shortbread biscuits and bottles of white wine.

  ‘I feel a bit of a lemon now,’ said Francy Mac. ‘I hope it isn't a real fancy do.’

  ‘Don't worry, I'm sure Lily and Jack wouldn't have invited us if it was going to be six forks each and all that malarkey.’ Joey straightened his tie.

  ‘True,’ added Barney. ‘We'll just eat up, enjoy ourselves and go home early. So the young people can have a bit of a dance.’

  ‘And remember, all of us, to keep the stories of bare feet to church, and oranges in our Christmas stockings, to an absolute minimum,’ said Joey. ‘We don't want the lot of them in tears all day.’

  ‘Laughing at us, more like,’ said Barney wisely. ‘The youth of today think we make up all those stories. Did I ever tell you about the time I walked all the way to Donegal, with only a raw onion in my pocket for lunch?’

  ‘Save it for another day, old man. Righto, then. Let's go,’ said Francy Mac. ‘We're twenty minutes late already.’ An icy blast of air blew down the street and they shivered violently. Their light scarves and gloves were little use in such low temperatures. They hurried down the alley and were slightly surprised to find the door being opened by David Devaney.

  ‘Hello and welcome,’ he said. ‘Mrs Beaumont invited myself and my brother Michael to Christmas lunch as well. Wasn't that very nice of her?’

  ‘She's a real lady,’ said Barney.

  ‘The genuine article,’ said Joey.

  ‘As long as you leave some turkey for us. I could eat a horse,’ added Francy Mac. And the other two men nudged him. They went in. The tavern was spotlessly tidy and the fire was flickering away, well stacked up with split logs.

  ‘Hello there, and thanks for coming,’ called Lily, coming towards them. She was wearing a long purple dress and cardigan and had a white feather ornament in her hair. She looked a little tired and her nose was red and shiny, but she kissed and hugged each one in turn. ‘Now, let me introduce you to everybody. The Devaneys, you've met before. David, who is Daisy's young man! And Michael, who is with Marie! Over there at the bar is Gerry Madden. He's just begun walking out with Trudy. So, you can see Cupid has been busy this Christmas!’

  They nodded over to Gerry. He was sipping a glass of orange jui
ce and was very dapper in an expensive-looking white linen suit and green silk shirt. Lily hung up coats and the old men hurried over to the fire and began rubbing their hands. Jack poured them all a pint of stout.

  ‘Bridget, you know, of course,’ continued Lily. ‘And these three lovely girls are her sisters, home from England for the funeral. We buried their parents' this morning.’

  The old men nodded their sympathy to Bridget and her younger sisters. The four girls were like Russian dolls, all identical in appearance, and each one slightly smaller than the next. ‘Mary, Elizabeth and Teresa, meet Bernard, Joseph and Francis.’

  ‘Sorry for your trouble,’ said Barney.

  ‘God rest their souls,’ said Joey.

  ‘A sad time of the year to leave this earth but a good time to go to heaven,’ added Francy Mac. They all looked at him, astonished at his wise words. Bridget smiled weakly. She had no tears left.

  ‘There was a terrific turnout in the cemetery, wasn't there, Bridget?’ said Lily. Bridget nodded. ‘We weren't expecting many to go to the grave, it being Christmas Day.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Bridget. ‘They had a lot of friends, it seemed. People I never met before, or even knew about, came to pay their respects.’

  Bridget's sisters said nothing. They seemed a little bit distant. Lily supposed they must have found the entire experience quite surreal. She wished they weren't sitting down to lunch in the middle of a pub, and hoped the irony of the situation was lost on the young girls. And anyway, she kept telling herself, it doesn't look like a pub any more: it looks like a country house dining room.

  ‘Now, we're all here so let's eat,’ said Jack in a light voice. He had moved the tables into a neat row down the centre of the room, and covered them with white cloths, extra-tall white candles and little pyramids of juicy fresh oranges. Lily had scattered orange-foil-wrapped sweets along the entire length of the tables and placed her wonderful fruitcake at the end. The slices of dried orange and shiny organza ribbon were the perfect decoration. Lily and Bridget had iced the cake the night before, after seeing Bridget's sisters safely into their hotel.