The Tavern on Maple Street

by Sharon Owens

  ‘Daisy, please. I'm exhausted. Can you cover for me?’

  ‘Well, okay, but are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He looks pretty shy to me. He might not come back again.’ But Bridget's confidence had deserted her. She was too used to dysfunctional men and doomed relationships and bizarre behaviour. A nice man with a responsible job, turning up to speak to her like this, was not something she had ever encountered. It was bad enough trying to be civil in front of Gerry Madden (a man she had shared a bed with for over three years) and her own long-lost sisters, without trying to speak politely to John Kelly with an audience present. And if John had not come to see her because he liked her, but on some official errand, then it would be heart-wrenching anyway.

  ‘Daisy, he hasn't come to ask me out on a date, you daft cow,’ she said, sighing, fishing for information. ‘Just because you're totally loved-up, doesn't mean we all are.’

  ‘Remind me to tell you something about David Devaney later on tonight,’ whispered Daisy through the keyhole. ‘Now, just brace yourself and come out, will you? You can't stay in there for ever. They want to knock the tavern down in March, don't you know? Or is this the start of some hardcore protest?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Bridget whimpered. She wished she could throw half a dozen vodkas down her throat, to give her some confidence. But then she thought of Gerry, and her parents. That was the trouble with drink, she thought. The effects of it only lasted for a little while and then reality caught up with you again.

  ‘What makes you think he likes me?’ she asked.

  ‘Because he's got a massive bunch of flowers with him, but I didn't want to spoil the surprise.’ Daisy yawned, and wondered if she had any room left for dessert.

  ‘Flowers?’ said Bridget. Now that was interesting… She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  ‘Thanks for being patient, Daisy,’ she said. ‘My head's away with it, the day.’

  ‘That's the girl.’ Daisy smiled. ‘And by the way, I'm sorry for calling you a pint-sized bitch. You're not a bitch at all.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Bridget. ‘And your love-heart trousers weren't a cry for help. Actually, I thought they were very nice.’ Smiling they rejoined the company, and forgot about the cranberry sauce.

  John was hovering beside the grandfather clock, trembling with nervous anticipation. He had declined Lily's invitation to join them for dinner. That could be very embarrassing indeed, if Bridget didn't want to see him again. He would just give Bridget the flowers and leave if he got a lukewarm reception. In any case, his lunch break was almost up. Bridget crossed the floor of the tavern as quickly as her tiny feet would allow. The others made a big show of eating but they were secretly straining to hear every word.

  ‘Thank you so much for all your help,’ Bridget began, as John handed over the very large and expensive bouquet, rattling in its crisp cellophane wrapper. (He had bought it the night before and kept it in his locker in the police station.)

  ‘These are really beautiful,’ she said, looking at the Bird of Paradise flowers and the dark purple tulips. ‘You shouldn't have.’

  ‘That's okay. It's just… there was something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘But surely there's nothing left to discuss? There was no will, no money, no bills left to pay except the electric. And Father Damien said he would sort that out for me.’ Bridget knew she was babbling but she also knew she was terrified of straightforward men.

  ‘I haven't come about your parents,’ John said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I wondered if I might take you out to dinner sometime?’

  ‘Oh! My goodness! I wasn't expecting this!’

  ‘I know it's very bad timing, but maybe when you're feeling a little better?’

  ‘I don't know what to say,’ Bridget faltered. His businesslike manner was deeply intimidating but quite attractive as well.

  ‘I lost my own parents to illness a few years ago so I think I know how you feel,’ John said kindly. ‘Leaves you a bit at sea, losing them both so close together.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘So what do you say?’ he tried again. ‘Maybe in a few weeks? A month or so?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Leave me your number and I'll call you.’

  ‘That's great altogether.’ He gave her a slip of paper from his breast pocket. ‘Well, I'll be going, then. Cheerio, everyone! Merry Christmas.’

  They all turned to say goodbye to Bridget's admirer, standing beside her in the doorway. Him, six feet tall and wearing his policeman's uniform; Bridget looking smaller than ever in flat shoes and with her hair in a tight bun. They were quite the odd couple. Bridget closed the door behind John and sat down at the table in a daze. She hoped her sisters would not think she had been flirting with the man who had helped to organize the funeral of their parents. She'd thought he was going above and beyond the call of duty when she spied him sitting in the back pew during the funeral service. Bridget wasn't to know he sometimes went to the funerals of people he had met during the course of his work. She realized with a shock that John Kelly was the one good-looking man, apart from Jack Beaumont, she had never flirted with in her entire life.

  Lily found a vase for the exotic flowers and then suggested they have some dessert. There was no need for the cranberry sauce now. All the plates were empty, except Bridget's, and she was miles away. They began to stack plates and clear away the cutlery.

  ‘Now, there's chocolate cake or lemon pie with fresh cream, or mince pies and ice cream, or pudding and custard,’ Lily reeled off. She longed for the sanctity of her bedroom, and to curl up with Jack and think of nothing but him. This emotional day was almost over. Jack winked at her when he saw her smiling at him across the table. He could read her thoughts after so many years together. And he was tired himself. He was beginning to feel his age for the first time. He was determined to cancel all business the following day and stay in bed with a box of chocolates and the remote control.

  ‘I'm full up,’ Jack said, patting his stomach. ‘What's everyone else fancy?’

  But Bridget's sisters were checking their watches, eager to be on their way to the airport. They longed for their anonymous rented homes on the outskirts of London. Nothing exciting ever happened on the streets where they lived and that was the way they liked it. They wanted to be part of the huge urban sprawl where nobody knew their parents had been chronic alcoholics, and no one asked them daily how their ‘poor parents’ were keeping. The girls had worked hard to get on in life, finding training courses and then jobs in a large chain of hairdressing salons. Their flat north of Ireland accents had faded gradually and been replaced by gentler London ones. At the graveside that morning, they had made a vow never to come back to Ireland again. They would keep in touch with Bridget but the next time they saw her it would be on their home ground in the genteel suburb of Isleworth. They decided to pass on dessert, and gathered up their coats and handbags. They said they would like to spend a few minutes beside their parents’ grave before the return flight that evening. By now, the grave would have been filled in and tidied up and they wanted to see it one more time. They shook everyone's hand warmly and Bridget hugged them all tightly before they departed on foot for the taxi rank at the City Hall. She promised she would fly over to London to visit them after the tavern was closed down. Then she went upstairs for a lie-down.

  There was a feeling of emptiness in the room when the O'Malley sisters had left. Somehow, Lily knew that the Christmas pudding was not going to be enough to rescue the party. Barney, Joey and Francy Mac were looking tired, and they said they too would pass on dessert. They were full to the neck, said Francy Mac, and Joey shook his head. Lily felt sorry for them. They had probably been awake since dawn, getting smartened up for the occasion. She suggested they all draw their chairs over to the fire, and have a little rest before going home.

  ‘Can I fix anyone a drink?’ asked Jack, when everyone had refused more food.

 
; ‘I wouldn't say no to a small whiskey and lemonade,’ suggested Lily, and there was a murmur of agreement from the assembled company. Jack stepped in behind the counter and reached down some highball glasses.

  ‘David and Michael are going to London next year,’ said Daisy, as they sipped their drinks two minutes later. ‘They're going to sing in a talent competition on television. And I'm designing the costumes. Well, not costumes as such. Suits, really. But costumes sounds better.’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon we have a good chance,’ said David. ‘Have you seen some of the losers on those shows in recent years? The producers are only having a laugh, I think. But the exposure will be unbelievable.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Daisy. ‘Millions and millions of viewers, they get. Absolutely millions.’ Marie held Michael's hand. His face had turned a sickly shade of grey.

  ‘We're going to get new guitars, new songs, and Michael is going to get his hair cut. Aren't you, Michael?’ teased David.

  ‘Michael doesn't know if he's ready yet, for the glittery world of show business,’ Marie laughed gently. ‘Are you, Michael?’

  ‘What's that?’ said David. ‘He is, surely, what are you talking about? We have it all planned.’

  ‘I think Michael would prefer to keep things the way they are,’ said Marie firmly. She had a steely glint in her eye that Lily, Jack and the other girls knew came from the alcohol she had consumed with her lunch. But Michael and David didn't know that. They all held their breath.

  ‘Michael doesn't want to be a big star, David.’ Marie sighed. Obviously, the poor man needed things to be spelt out for him. David looked momentarily puzzled, then dismayed.

  ‘Don't tell me you've changed your mind? Michael?’

  ‘Marie is right,’ Michael said gently. ‘I told her a few days ago. I can't face the cameras and all that, David. I'm sorry.’

  ‘But that's nonsense, Michael. Just a bit of the old stage fright! You'll be all right on the night. Trust me.’

  ‘No, I won't. It's not just stage fright, David. I could get over that if I wanted a big career badly enough. I just don't want to be famous. I want to stay small, stay local. I want to be a pub-singer at weekends and teach guitar during the week.’

  ‘Well, this is a nice thing to be told, on Christmas Day of all days,’ David said bitterly.

  ‘Oh, don't start. You sound like Granny Devaney when someone told her Graham Norton was gay.’ Michael was mortified that his future was being discussed in front of other people. But then he was suddenly glad. If David wanted to slog his way up the glittery ladder of fame, taking on the lengthy touring, the nasty TV judges and the long list of record company demands, well, that was up to him. Michael just wanted an easy time and a quiet life. He didn't care about being rich. It was a relief to confess it all, at last.

  ‘You don't mean that, you're just scared of the cameras. Now listen to me. You can go to a hypnotherapist,’ David persisted. ‘I've heard of a man near Botanic Avenue who can do anything. What's his name again? Alan something…’

  But Michael only kissed Marie's hand and smiled. ‘I haven't got the fame bug,’ he said. ‘You'll just have to win the contest and travel the world on your own, David. I'm staying right here.’

  ‘Trudy, talk some sense into this lad,’ pleaded Daisy, looking at her friend. Trudy was the wise one of the gang. That was obvious from all the poetry she read. But Trudy had enough drama going on in her own life and had no desire to get dragged into anyone else's problems. Besides, the nurse at the hospital had told her to avoid any unnecessary stress.

  ‘Oh, count me out,’ said Trudy. ‘Gerry and me are going for a walk, actually.’ They collected their coats and set off, promising to be back soon. Daisy, David, Marie and Michael decided to go for a walk also. They could be heard discussing the talent show as they closed the door behind them. Lily and Jack were left sitting at the fireside with the three old men.

  ‘A minute ago the room was full, said Barney.

  ‘And now we're all alone.’ Joey sighed.

  ‘That's life,’ added Francy Mac.

  21. Bridget Saves the Day

  The following day, before Lily was awake, Jack slipped out of bed, took the telephone into the bathroom and locked the door firmly behind him. He dialled the out-of-hours contact number he had been given for the building contractors and waited an agonizing five seconds before the call was answered.

  ‘Hello, Judy speaking. Can I help you?’

  The woman on the other end of the line sounded tired and cross, but Jack wasn't to know she had worked all day the day before and late into the evening too. Vincent Halloran paid good wages but he had no respect for the usual nine-to-five business hours. Unsure of the success of his shopping mall project, he had been double-checking plans, costs and timescales all during Christmas Day. To see if there was any way he could increase his offer to the stubborn Beaumonts. And that meant Judy had to be in the rented office in Belfast too. A man as important as Vincent Halloran couldn't be expected to make his own coffee.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said again, as Jack hesitated.

  ‘Jack Beaumont here,’ he began. ‘I'm afraid there's a problem about tonight's party, Judy.’

  ‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,’ she said. She waved across the office at Vincent. ‘There's a problem at the tavern, sir.’ He looked up from his desk.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Jack. ‘The catering equipment has broken down.’

  ‘What, all of it? Can't you fix it?’

  ‘No, I can't.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Now Vincent was coming over to her desk.

  ‘It's a very old stove,’ Jack said firmly. There was no way he was backing down. He was having a day off or else he was going to collapse.

  ‘Well, we don't mind if there's only cold food,’ Judy said quickly, with Vincent Halloran leaning over her. His face was like thunder. He had ordered this staff party for one reason and one reason only: as a way to meet the Beaumonts and talk to them, face to face. His repeated requests for an audience with them had been unsuccessful.

  ‘Crisps and nuts, even?’ she squeaked.

  ‘I'm terribly sorry, but I've had to cancel,’ Jack said. ‘I'll return your deposit, of course.’

  ‘Wait! Surely, we can still go ahead? I mean, you have a bar, right? You have drinks? We can bring our own food.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack. ‘It's too late. I've let the staff go home for a few days.’

  ‘Well, I'm sure we can organize something? Everyone is going to be very disappointed,’ Judy begged, but it was too late. Jack Beaumont had hung up.

  ‘What a rude man,’ she said to Vincent. ‘He just cut me off.’

  ‘Don't tell me the party's off?’ boomed her boss.

  ‘Okay, then, I'll write it down for you,’ she snapped.

  ‘Get Beaumont back on the line right away and rescue the situation,’ he demanded.

  ‘I'm going back to the hotel to lie down, Mr Halloran.’ She yawned. ‘I can't keep my eyes open.’

  ‘You leave now and you're fired, Judy. Don't bother coming here in the morning, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ Judy replied. She stood up and put her cardigan round her shoulders. It was lucky for Vincent Halloran that she was a single woman with no husband at home to stand up for her, otherwise he wouldn't get away with this kind of treatment. Vincent fired Judy at least twice a day.

  ‘I can't be bothered with a party now anyway,’ she retorted. ‘I haven't the energy. You can notify the other guests, if you like.’ And she handed him a printout. They had invited everyone they knew in the north of Ireland.

  ‘Judy, don't leave me. I'll give you a thousand pounds if you can set up a meeting.’ Vincent used his charm when all else failed.

  ‘It's no use,’ she said. ‘The guy is plain bonkers. Like everybody else in this city, if you ask me.’

  ‘Please, Judy? There's millions riding on this.’

  ‘Not for me, there isn't.’ Judy wondered if she w
as the only twenty-seven-year-old woman in Ireland who was single, bored, working on Boxing Day and wearing a cardigan with horrible roses all over it, that her grandmother had knitted for her. ‘And I'm fed up in the hotel,’ she said. ‘I'm going to pack and go home to Dublin today.’

  ‘Two thousand pounds? Judy, I promise you, if you help me?’

  ‘Will you put that in writing?’ She slid a sheet of paper towards him.

  ‘I will.’ He wrote it.

  ‘Okay.’ She sighed, and sat down again.

  ‘Keep trying, that's a good girl,’ Vincent Halloran told his loyal secretary. ‘And don't let slip it's our company that's building the mall. They'd never have taken the gig if they'd known.’ He marched back to his desk.

  ‘Keep your wig on, I'm not stupid!’

  Judy was very cross at being made to work during the holidays. She'd been looking forward to the party in the tavern too. In such a small venue, she was bound to meet some new friends. Maybe even a new boyfriend: there was a bricklayer from Ligoniel she fancied like crazy.

  ‘What about the party?’ she said, as she dialled the number.

  ‘It doesn't matter about the feckin' party,’ he roared across the office. ‘Book another party somewhere else, if you must. I don't care! But don't leave that desk until you get me Jack Beaumont on the line. Or you've set up a meeting. If he hasn't answered in another half-hour, get yourself over there and break in.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said crisply, hating him with every ounce of her strength. He was an obsessive bully. What kind of man would slyly book a Boxing Day party in a harmless little pub, and then throw the owners out on their ear a few weeks later?

  Lily smiled when she saw the tray of lovely things that Jack was carrying. She turned to look at her bedside clock but he had hidden it in the wardrobe.

  ‘Don't even think about it,’ he warned. ‘Time is irrelevant today.’

  ‘But, the party?’

  ‘It's cancelled.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They phoned just now,’ he lied. ‘Firm's gone bust.’