A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Apart from feeling awkward about Paul, she was pleased to see a packed house, the way it often was when her father was alive, though tonight it was a little more subdued than normal because of the funeral.

  It was around quarter to ten, when things had quietened off again and she was washing the glasses, that she heard the door to the snug bar opening. When she glanced over, she could see three figures through the frosted glass. She couldn’t tell whether they were male or female.

  It was unusual to have women in during the week in the evenings, so she thought it might be strangers who had travelled for the funeral. It was surprising who might frequent the smallest and most private part of the public house. In general, it was frowned upon to have ladies in the bar, so the snug was ideal, as it was completely separate from the rest of the pub, with its own door and lock inside. It also had its own bell for customers when they wanted to order a drink, which was then served through the hatch by the barman. The frosted glass on the doors and the hatch gave privacy, which suited people such as priests and members of the local Guards who would often pop in for a quiet pint, and the odd courting couple.

  Fiona recognised one of the voices – it was Maggie O’Connell – and then she remembered Maggie saying that she might drop over with her friend. Patrick returned with empty bottles, and made to go straight to the snug end of the bar.

  “I’ll get them,” Fiona told him. “I think it’s Maggie O’Connell and her friend.”

  “Grand,” he said, turning to resume his bottle collection.

  It crossed Fiona’s mind how lucky they were to have such an efficient, dependable and easy-going barman. What, she wondered, would they have done after their father had died without Patrick? They would have had to take on someone else to manage the pub, and neither she nor her mother would have had the experience to interview and choose someone who could do all the things that Patrick very quietly did. They were lucky that he could just continue with the exact same daily routine he and their father had been used to. The routine that kept both the business and the Tracey family from disintegrating into small pieces.

  When she went to the snug end Maggie was there, leaning on the bar chatting to a young man in his late twenties. He had longish fair hair and was dressed casually in a cream fisherman’s sweater, a denim shirt inside it, and jeans. He didn’t look like their usual sort of customer and, if he had been younger, she would have taken him for a student. Her gaze shifted to the red-haired woman who was seated at the table behind, and who Fiona guessed was Maggie’s friend from Galway. She wondered if he was her boyfriend.

  “What can I get you?” she said, smiling at them.

  Maggie turned to the young man. “This is Fiona, the girl who might be able to help you.”

  “Hi there.” He smiled and stretched out his hand. “I’m Michael O’Sullivan.”

  His name was Irish, but his accent was not. It was unmistakably American. There was something immediately likeable about him.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Michael.”

  He took her hand in a warm and firm handshake.

  Maggie looked back at her friend. “Fiona, this is my friend, Anne, who I was telling you about earlier on in the shop.”

  Fiona looked over at the attractive woman with the lovely flowing red hair, and said hello. Both hairdressers, she thought, were good adverts for their trade.

  “Well, it’s been a day of surprises,” Maggie said. “We met Michael as we were coming up the street. He’s been to Hayes Hotel and Bolger’s looking for a room for the night, but they’re both packed. I said you often let the rooms and it was worth giving you a try. I’d no idea it was so busy in the town tonight.” She lowered her voice. “What on earth is going on with all these well-dressed men in Tullamore?”

  “A funeral and apparently there’s a big farmers’ meeting in Hayes Hotel as well.”

  “Ah!” Maggie said. “That explains all the strangers, and why there are no rooms anywhere.”

  “I’m not sure how we’re placed. We might have one of the rooms free, but I’ll have to check with Patrick. He said something about a fellow coming down from Dublin.” She looked over to the table where he was chatting to some locals. When she caught his eye she waved and a few moments later he came back to the bar.

  “Do you know if that third room is needed tonight?” she asked.

  “It is – I meant to say it to you earlier. There’s another man on his way over from Kildare, so we have a full house.”

  Fiona felt a dart of disappointment, and it must have shown on her face.

  “Is there someone else looking for a room?” he asked.

  Fiona thumbed towards the snug. “Maggie met an American fellow outside who has been round a few places and can’t get anywhere to stay.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “An American?” He thought for a few moments. “I could stay up at the family house tonight and let him have my room.”

  “Not at all,” Fiona said. “We can’t put you out of your own room for a stranger!”

  “I’ve often done it on fair days,” he said. “And the mother and father are always delighted to have a bit of company for the night.”

  Fiona shook her head. “It’s too much trouble.”

  “Look,” he said, “the poor fella’s probably been travelling for hours, and you can imagine how it must feel landing in a strange country, and not having a bed for the night.” He paused, thinking. “I’ll nip upstairs and move any bits I have lying around the room, then I’ll go on up to the parents’ house and let them know I’ll be home for the night.” He smiled. “Sure they’ll be only delighted to have the company. They’ll sit up until I finish – they sit up late at night anyway – and I’ll bring a couple of bottles of stout for the old lad and a drop of whiskey to make a toddy for my mother, and they’ll be as happy as Larry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go and tell the Yank he can have my bed. It was only changed the other day, but if he’s a fussy type there are clean sheets and pillow covers in the wardrobe. Mary Ellen always leaves a clean set in case anyone comes unexpected.” He glanced around the bar now. “There’s a few gone now, so it’s quieter. Can you manage on your own for a while?

  “Of course I can. On you go.”

  She went back to the snug.

  “I’ve checked with Patrick,” she said, “and there’s a spare room for you.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Michael O’Sullivan said.

  Fiona thought she should explain. “It’s actually the room Patrick uses himself when he’s staying overnight, but he’s sorted it out for you. He’s happy staying up at his parents’ house. He occasionally does that if we’re very busy.”

  “Are you sure?” Michael O’Sullivan looked slightly alarmed. “I don’t want to put anyone out.”

  “I’ve checked with him and it’s really no problem. As I said, it’s not the first time, and he does stay at the family house on his days off.”

  He relaxed again. “Well, that’s very good of him, and I appreciate it.” He gestured towards the bar. “And this is exactly the sort of place I was looking for – a traditional Irish bar. It couldn’t be better.” He put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “The least I can do is buy you ladies a drink for helping me out. What will you have?”

  Maggie looked back at her friend. “I’ll have a Babycham – is that okay for you, Anne?”

  “Grand,” Anne said.

  He took a five-pound note out of his pocket. “And I’ll have a Tullamore Dew. What will you have, Fiona?”

  “Oh, that’s okay.” she said. “I don’t drink that much.”

  “No, please,” he said, “I insist. If it wasn’t for you, I could have been sleeping in the hired car tonight.”

  “Go away out of that!” Maggie said. “We would have found you a bed somewhere, wouldn’t we, girls? I’d have even risked my whiter-than-white reputation and given you the couch for the night.” She winked and everyone laughed. “Fiona will have a
Babycham the same as us.” And before Fiona could refuse, she said, “You’ve been on your feet all day – it will do you the power of good to have a little drink.”

  “So,” he said, “we’ll have three Babychams and a glass of Tullamore Dew.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes and laughed. “I don’t suppose a Babycham will do me any harm.”

  She only had time to serve the drinks and take a quick mouthful of her own, and then she had to help Patrick with the rush for last orders at the bar.

  Afterwards, they both went around the room, picking up glasses and bottles. Fiona kept away from the corner where Paul Moore was sitting, in case he thought she was trying to catch his attention.

  The crowd in the room began to disperse. Patrick said he had checked his room upstairs and that it looked fine to him. But, since he knew that women had different ideas about what was fine, he didn’t mind if Fiona wanted to double-check it for the American guest.

  “I wouldn’t think he is the fussy sort,” she said. “He seems decent, and he insisted on buying me a drink.”

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Did you get time to drink it?”

  “I’ll finish it later when I get time. I just want to check the room first.”

  He looked up at the clock and then rang the ‘drinking-up’ bell. “I’ll try to get them moving out of the bar now. When you come back down go into the snug and enjoy your drink. Maggie just bought you a second one, so they’re waiting at the table for you.”

  As she went upstairs, it occurred to her that tonight had turned out differently than usual with Paul Moore turning up and the friendly American. The fact that there were a number of strangers in the bar was surprising too. For once, her mother was proved right. You never know with a bar who might drop in.

  And as she walked along the narrow corridor to Patrick’s room at the bottom – past the Sacred Heart picture, lit with a small red bulb – she became aware of a feeling she had not had since her father died. A feeling of hope or perhaps even of anticipation. Something similar to the feelings she had every time she received an airmail letter with the Manhattan postmark. A feeling that there was something more for her out there. Something in the bigger and wider world. Something better.

  Chapter 21

  Fiona changed the sheets and pillowcases on Patrick’s bed and straightened the blankets and the top cover. Patrick had moved any personal items into drawers, so she just gave a quick dust around, and straightened the tie-backs on the curtains.

  Michael O’Sullivan, she thought, like most men, probably wouldn’t notice whether things had been freshly washed and ironed. But, then again, you never knew with Americans. She felt the perfectly ironed creases that Mrs Mooney left on the folded pillowcases gave a good impression of their business. She knew from Elizabeth’s letters from New York that their small pub would not live up to the modern standards that Americans were used to – where everything was bigger and better. But there was nothing could be done about that. Everyone knew Ireland was Ireland and America was America – and that they were both worlds apart in every way. She wondered what had brought him over from America, and why he had come on his own. The usual reason was looking up ancestors, and he had an Irish name. She smiled to herself – no doubt Maggie would have got all that kind of information out of him.

  As she passed through the bar there were still customers at half a dozen of the tables, who Patrick had not succeeded in moving out as yet. She glanced over to where Paul Moore had been sitting and was relieved to see that he had gone. Their meeting up again had made her feel happier. It now meant that if she came across him and Claire Ryan in the town at the weekend, she wouldn’t feel too awkward.

  She went through the bar and into the snug where Maggie and Anne and Michael O’Sullivan were sitting chatting together. Anne was telling them about a new restaurant that had opened in Galway. They all looked relaxed, as if they knew each other well. Maggie had a knack for putting people at their ease, something Fiona wished she had herself.

  She caught the American’s eye, and said, “Your room is all ready now.” She looked at his rucksack which was lying by the empty fire-grate. “If you want to put your stuff up now, it’s no problem.”

  He came over to her, his drink in his hand. “That’s great,” he said. “I’ll carry the rucksack with me when I’m going up later.”

  “Whatever suits you,” she said. “There are clean towels on your bed, and the bathroom is at the bottom of the corridor. The boiler comes on early in the morning, so the water should be good and hot if you want a bath. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”

  Fiona turned and went back into the bar, and he came out behind her, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “It’s so good of you people to do this for me, especially at such short notice.”

  She paused, smiling at him. “Oh, we’re used to it. We’ve had phone calls to the house in the middle of the night.”

  “Don’t you ever have a problem with the unpredictability of it?” He moved over towards a table now and put his glass down on it, then he pulled a chair out for Fiona and one for himself.

  She sat down opposite him. “I don’t mind it,” she said, shrugging. “Most people are decent and you want to do your best to help them out.”

  It occurred to her how easy it was to talk with confidence to an attractive man, when you were talking business. When you had to give information or serve someone, no one could accuse you of being forward. People were expected to chat in those circumstances. Her father had told her that the first day she stepped behind the bar. He said communication oiled the wheels of any business in Ireland. Talking was as necessary as the products you were selling.

  Michael O’Sullivan smiled warmly at her now. “I’m truly grateful to you for sorting me out. I guess it was kind of stupid of me to think I could just turn up in town, and find somewhere to stay.”

  “Well, normally you could find a place easily,” she said. “But everywhere in town is busy tonight. We often have a couple of the rooms free. We’re only really a stopgap – the hotels have most of the bed and breakfast trade as they have better facilities.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad to be here,” he said “I know it’s different to the hotels I usually stay in...” He caught the look on her face. “I mean that it’s different in a good way. It gives you a better feel for places when you get to meet the locals.”

  There was something nice and easy-going about him, and she liked the tone of his voice. It was soft and warm, and not like some of the louder American accents which she had heard. “Where are you heading after Tullamore?”

  “I’m going to Connemara,” he said. “I promised my mother I would attend to a few family things on this trip.”

  The way he said ‘on this trip’ made Fiona wonder. “So, have you been to Ireland before?”

  “Yes, we used to come regularly when we were children. We flew over most summers to stay in Connemara.”

  Fiona nodded her head slowly, trying not to look surprised. No families she knew flew back and forward from America. Up until recently – certainly her parents’ generation – people went to America and never came home again. Things had changed in the last few years. The cost of flights had come down enough to allow people to come home now and again, but those who visited every year were very few and far between.

  Elizabeth had told her she was saving money every week from what was left of her wages, as she planned, at some time in the future, to come home for a month. She reckoned it would take about three years to be able to afford the plane fare and the presents she wanted to bring back with her.

  Michael O’Sullivan – for all his casual clothes and longish hair – clearly did not come from an ordinary family.

  He caught her eye and smiled, then took a drink of his beer. “I’m hoping to surprise my mother,” he told her. “I’ve heard the old family home is up for sale in Clifden – my great-grandparents’ house and the house my grandmother was born in.
A local guy owns it but it hasn’t been lived in for over five years. It’s a fisherman’s cottage – and my great-grandfather was a fisherman. It’s pretty basic, but in a good location just outside the town. When I wrote to him to enquire about it, he got straight back saying he would be very happy to sell it. ”

  Fiona was interested now – she leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “And what are you thinking of doing with the house?” she asked.

  “Extend it with a couple more bedrooms, put a bathroom in and maybe add a small courtyard. Then, I plan to give the deeds to my mother as a sixtieth birthday present next year. I think she would love to spend her visits in the place she grew up in, rather than having to stay in hotels and bed and breakfasts.” He grinned at her. “I’m quite excited about it. It will be a lovely project – if it comes off.”

  She smiled. “I’m curious – how would you organise all the work while you’re in America?”

  “Well, I’m not in any real hurry back home from this visit. I hope to get things started and sort as much as I can while I’m over here.”

  She smiled understandingly, as though people told her things like this all the time. As though flying across the Atlantic and the price of flights were of no consequence.

  “Well, isn’t that great you don’t have to rush back? Having the time to travel and suit yourself.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  There was a small silence. Fiona suddenly felt she was talking too much, asking him too many questions. She started to gather the beer mats that were scattered on the table, and square them up on top of each other.

  He took another drink of his beer then looked at her again. “It will be just fine if it all works out. I’ll draw up plans while I’m here and leave them with local builders to do the work.”

  “And can you draw plans up yourself? Would you be able to do that?” She was back asking him questions again, as though unable to stop herself. All the days and the weeks of having the same old conversations with her mother and Mrs Mooney and Patrick, made everything Michael O’Sullivan said seem different and exciting.