Spin the Bottle

by Monica McInerney

  She turned off the vacuum cleaner and ran downstairs to the phone, grabbing the will from the folder in the kitchen drawer as she went past.

  ‘Mr Fogarty, it’s Lainey Byrne.’

  ‘Lainey, how are you?’ There was a long pause, with just the occasional sigh audible, then a rustle.

  Probably putting down his cheese sandwich, Lainey thought. ‘I’m just grand, thank you. Mr Fogarty, can I check something with you? You know I think that Green Gables didn’t enjoy the greatest reputation around Meath.’

  ‘No, Lainey. I think it would be fair to say that.’

  ‘Can I change the name? Is there anything in May’s will that says I have to keep calling it Green Gables?’

  ‘Just one moment, Lainey. Let me check for you.’ She sat there, imagining his little feet padding across the carpet.

  He was back moments later. ‘No, Lainey, there don’t seem to be any sub-clauses regarding illegality of any name change, so my feeling would be I can grant you permission to use any name as desired. In fact, I think that’s a marvellous idea.’

  Flicking through her copy of the will, she saw something she hadn’t taken notice of before – the name and address of one of the witnesses. R. Hartigan. Dunshaughlin, Co. Meath. ‘This witness, Mr Fogarty. R. Hartigan? Is that as in Rohan Hartigan? The tourism consultant? Curly dark hair?’

  ‘I believe it’s the same young man.’

  ‘Did he know my aunt that well?’

  ‘I can’t say how well, Lainey, but certainly they were acquainted with one another. Mr Hartigan is involved in an important project regarding the Hill of Tara and he and your aunt shared a great love of Irish mythology, history, legends, you know the sort of thing. They were working on an oral history project together before your aunt’s sudden death. I presume Mr Hartigan was there the day she decided to revise her will. It was all legal, I assure you. All of her wills were.’

  Lainey felt a sudden rush of frustration about her father’s situation, against May, who could have just left her house and land to him. Against Rohan, for being a witness to the will. ‘Mr Fogarty, does it go against all your legal training to answer a few simple yes or no questions?’

  There was a pause. ‘Possibly.’

  In her mind’s eye Lainey was now in a gripping courtroom scene in LA Law. ‘In your opinion, do you think Mr Hartigan may have had something to do with this change of mind? With this new element of her will?’

  ‘Well, I know that they both felt strongly about the importance of young Irish people being aware of their heritage. Mr Hartigan is a staunch supporter of that issue. An enthusiast, even. I believe Miss Byrne was very taken with his ideas and energy.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘I believe he is concerned that the history is being diluted, that people, those of Irish ancestry in particular, come back to Ireland looking for picture-postcard Ireland –’

  ‘Picture-postcard? And he doesn’t like that? What, he’s planning on changing the scenery for them?’

  ‘Perhaps picture-postcard is the wrong term. I believe he feels the tourist-brochure image of Ireland of leprechauns and little thatched cottages does the country a great disservice. That it makes a laugh of us, if you like.’

  ‘So he and my aunt were planning a revolution together, were they? What were they going to do, storm the tourist offices?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Mr Hartigan that yourself, Miss Byrne. All I know is that your aunt was greatly taken with the idea of Irish people abroad being made fully aware of their heritage and history, in particular through spending time here learning about the real Ireland.’

  Irish people abroad. Like Lainey and her family. Would May have been so taken by the idea she changed her will to make them come back for a year? ‘Thank you, Mr Fogarty. You’ve been very helpful.’

  And was it thank you for nothing, Rohan Hartigan? Why would he have done it, though? As part of his master plan to re-educate the people of Ireland, to banish the paddywhackery approach to tourism? To get her back for the dare-gone-wrong all those years ago? Or just pure and simple mischief? She was going to find out. She pulled out the piece of paper with his phone number on and rang it. He answered on the first ring.

  ‘Rohan, hello. It’s Lainey Byrne.’

  ‘Lainey, how are you? Settling in?’

  Her voice was brisk. ‘Perfectly, thanks. You mentioned that you might be able to spare a minute, to answer any questions I might have and to give me a crash course in Tara legends. Did you mean it?’

  ‘Of course. When would suit you?’

  ‘Is that arm of yours able to hold up a pint?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, it is indeed.’

  ‘Then what about Friday night? In that pub with the thatched roof?’

  ‘Perfect. At nine?’

  ‘Yes, see you then.’ She hung up, pleased. She could have asked him on the phone but she had a feeling it was better to have that sort of discussion face to face, where she could see his reaction. Besides, it would be nice to be out and about. Her life was being lived over the phone too much at the moment in any case.

  Back to the kitchen table – her office, she liked to think. She pulled out a copy of the Meath B&B guide. All the obvious names, the best names, would be long gone, she knew. She pulled out the Hill of Tara guide book next. Could she call it after any of the features? She frowned as she read down the map. No, perhaps not. Who would want to stay at a B&B called Mound of the Hostages? Or The Sloping Trenches? The Banquet Hall, maybe, but she’d hardly call her breakfast a banquet.

  She’d have to think laterally. Tara, the ancient capital of Ireland. Home of the Kings? No, it sounded more like a casino or a sporting ground. Something more noble, perhaps. Other B&Bs called themselves things like The Priory or The Grange, which sounded very alluring. She could call it The Temple. The Castle. The corny names? Dunroamin? Neverome? No point running a B&B, then. A friend of hers in Sydney had called her house High Dudgeon. No, not right for a B&B either. High Fidelity? High Hopes? High Moral Tone? No, no, no.

  Think of beds, then. Sleepy Hollow. No, sounded too creepy. Slumberland. No, it sounded like a mattress factory. Pillow Talk. Duvet Drive. Forget the bed side of things. What about the breakfast? The Egg B&B. Oh yes, perfect. Rasher View. Pig in a Poke. A Choice of Three Cereals B&B. The More Toast Madam? B&B.

  Or forget the names altogether and just call it B&B. She looked at it again. Her initial was B. May’s initial had been B. Byrne and Byrne. May Byrne and Lainey Byrne. Two Byrnes. B&B. The B&B B&B?

  She stopped herself. She’d clearly lost her mind. She shut the notebook. It was time she went into Dunshaughlin and saw some other human beings.

  She drove past her family’s old house again, stopping outside and checking to see if she had any sentimental attachment to it at all. She didn’t, she realised. Perhaps there wasn’t a sentimental bone in her body. She drove past Eva’s old family house. Her parents had moved too, and were now in a newer housing estate on the other side of town. No sentimental yearnings to be had there, either. She drove past the school and parked in the main street, narrow and clogged with traffic, deciding to do some shopping while she was in town.

  She was in the off-licence choosing a bottle of wine when through the window she saw Rohan Hartigan walking down the opposite footpath. He had a young woman with him, eighteen, nineteen years old perhaps. She was too young to be his girlfriend, surely? Was it his daughter? Lainey felt like a spy, looking out at them. Rohan was doing all the talking, the young woman shaking her head occasionally. They walked into the coffee shop on the corner of the main street. She considered for a moment whether to go in and say hello, then decided against it, in case it was his girlfriend. Her German wasn’t feeling up to scratch today. She’d be seeing Rohan soon enough in any case.

  An idea for the name came to her as she was driving home. She parked the car and stood in front of the house gazing at it. What was another name for a bed-and-breakfast or guesthouse? A lodge. Where
was she? Just near Tara. Of course. It was the perfect name. She could picture the new nameplate already. Tara Lodge.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘A DATE WITH ROHAN? Lainey, well done. That was quick work!’

  Lainey laughed into the phone. ‘It’s not a date, Evie. I invited him for a drink because I think he had something to do with May’s will and I want to find out what.’

  ‘That’s all, really? You’re not attracted to him at all?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. Oh, I see, this is your meeting of the fates idea again, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, don’t you think it’s weird? You’re only here because of that will and Rohan is the one who witnessed it. So maybe you are meant to meet him for some reason. Lainey, maybe he really is your Mr Cholera.’

  ‘Are you on some sort of commission from the marriage licence board?’

  ‘Don’t tease. You know I just want you to be happy. And I’m just saying that maybe you should stay open to anything that might happen.’

  That night Lainey dreamt about Adam. She woke in the morning expecting to find him in bed beside her, convinced for a moment that she could feel his silky skin, the hard muscles of his back, the brown arms wrapped around her. Those kinds of dreams weren’t doing her any good at all, she thought crossly, thumping the pillow and turning over in the bed. She had to try harder to put him out of her mind.

  There was a traffic jam in Dunshaughlin when Lainey drove in to meet Rohan the next night. Sitting in the car, the radio playing, her mind started drifting towards an Adam memory. No, Lainey, stop it, she told herself. She mustn’t go there. She had to think of other things. Eva’s phone call about tonight’s drink with Rohan came to mind. She tried to picture what would happen if Eva had her way…

  The pub was small, cosy, intimate. There was a fire burning in the grate at one side, music playing softly in the background. Not Irish folk, but a low, sexy, jazz-type song.

  She saw Rohan instantly. He was sitting in a corner, dressed in a dark woollen jumper, his hair ruffled, reading a book of poetry. He seemed to sense her eyes on him and looked up. For a moment his face was still, then he slowly smiled as she walked towards him.

  ‘Lainey, hello. Can I take your coat for you?’

  She nodded, shrugging out of the dark woollen garment, glad she’d taken the extra time with her hair and make-up, knowing that the dress she’d chosen accentuated her curves, clung to her body. She knew he noticed, could feel his eyes on her.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Martini, please.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – a dry, is it?’

  ‘You guessed.’

  ‘I did.’ His look was long, hot…

  The loud blast of a horn behind her jolted her to reality. As the traffic started moving again, she turned left and found a parking place across the road from the pub. After quickly checking her lipstick in her rear-view mirror, she hurried across the road, hugging her coat tightly in around her body.

  She had to blink to make the scene from her imagination disappear. The noise helped – the pub was rowdy with the combination of jukebox and sports results blaring from a TV in the corner. It took a moment to find Rohan. He was sitting at a table to the left, with a nearly empty pint of Guinness in front of him, reading the sports pages of the local paper. She had sat down in front of him before he noticed her. He had an earplug in his ear.

  ‘Lainey, good to see you. Sorry about this.’ He pulled the earplug out and smiled apologetically. ‘Bayern Munich are playing tonight. I’m just getting the results.’

  ‘No problem at all. Can I get you a pint?’

  He made to stand up. ‘No, let me. What will you have?’

  He’d always had nice manners, even as a schoolboy, she remembered. ‘I’m happy to go to the bar, Rohan, really. A pint?’ He nodded. ‘Grand, I’ll be right back.’ She was trying to be as businesslike as she could be, knowing this wasn’t a social drink, that finding out about the will was the real reason she was here tonight.

  ‘Two pints was it, love?’ The barman had half an eye on her, half on the television behind the bar.

  ‘Pint and a glass, thanks.’ She wanted to keep her wits about her.

  As Lainey waited for the Guinness to settle she looked around the bar. It was getting hard to tell what was authentic old-style Irish pub decoration and what was new replica Irish-style decoration. This pub had the usual collection of old Guinness and tourism posters on the wall, glass-fronted cupboards filled with old books and newspapers and pottery dishes, but she couldn’t tell if they had been there for decades or been bought as a job lot from a refitting company.

  She returned to Rohan’s table with the two drinks. He really had turned into a good-looking man, she thought again, though his face still had a certain boyish quality, probably helped by the dark curls. As she came up he took out the earplug again and gave another apologetic smile. ‘They’re through. It’s brilliant. It’s been a real roller-coaster year, you see. Their key defender got injured early in the season and there’s been trouble with the striker as well, so we –’ He stopped, laughing. ‘Do you know, I’ve never noticed anyone’s eyes glaze over quite so quickly. Football’s not a great interest of yours, I gather?’

  ‘It was that obvious?’

  ‘It was that obvious. Pick your audience. Isn’t that the first rule of public speaking?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Sláinte, Lainey. Thanks for the pint.’ They clinked glasses. ‘So how are you? How are things coming along at the B&B?’

  ‘Fine, just fine. I’ve had a few more ideas.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, you’re going to open up an advertising and marketing company there, to exploit us simple country folk?’

  He was teasing, she realised, but she wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. She’d just opened her mouth to defend her choice of career yet again, when over his shoulder she saw an old Bord Fáilte poster aimed at the American market, all thatched cottages and bonny-faced colleens. It was time for some teasing of her own. She gave him a winning smile. ‘Oh, nothing like that. Actually, one of these pubs gave me the idea. I’m going to turn it into a theme B&B.’

  He stopped mid-sip. ‘A what?’

  ‘I’ve been doing my research and I’ve realised that’s exactly what the tourists want. Irish history delivered in nice, comfortable chunks. So that’s what I’m going to do. Turn it into the Hill of Tara theme B&B.’

  He looked appalled. ‘What, redecorate it, dress up in costumes, that kind of way?’

  She had no intention of doing any such thing. ‘You’ve got it exactly. I’m even thinking of getting a donkey for the back field. And old-style beds, with a bit of straw thrown around the rooms. And I’ll be serving authentic Irish breakfasts, of course.’

  He relaxed slightly. ‘Authentic? You’ve done some research into it, then?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m not going to go as far as cooking authentic old meals. I just thought I’d rename some of them.’ Lainey noticed with some delight that Rohan’s eyes were narrowing into slits, just like her cat Rex’s did when he got cross. ‘I’m going to call porridge gruel of course, and bacon and eggs will be, I don’t know, ye olde Irish breakfast, something nice and simple like that. And I thought I’d get some old newspapers made up, with events from the old days. You know, “Finn McCool wins another battle”, or “Great bargains on Tara brooches at the Mound of the Hostages jewellery store this week”.’

  ‘What?’ He was making no pretence about being polite any more. ‘That’s Hollywood-ism, exploiting the past.’

  ‘Exploiting it? I’m trying to understand it, give myself a crash course. And I’m sure the people who come to Ireland and stay in my B&B will appreciate the chance to learn about Irish history too.’

  ‘That’s not history. Like hamburgers aren’t real food. This is fast history you’re talking about.’

  She was starting to believe her own arguments now. ‘Rohan, history is history, surely, no matter how it’s communicated. You’re not being
a snob about this, are you? Saying history is just for the elite? That you can only learn about it in a lecture hall or in a hardback book covered in dust?’

  ‘There’s something called the truth, though, and what you’re doing isn’t the truth. It’s peddling fantasy, like opening a theme park. I’ve spent the past ten years of my life fighting exactly that sort of madness.’

  ‘Have you really? Then surely you’ve discovered that what I’m suggesting is what most tourists really want. They arrive here, they want history in bite-size pieces, three counties in ten minutes. And what I’ve always said is give your customers what they want.’

  ‘There’s fake history and there’s authentic history. And you’re peddling something fake if you go ahead with this, Lainey.’

  She was enjoying herself. ‘I should go the whole way, you mean? Really re-enact Tara life? Have beds completely made of straw? Tell the guests, “Sorry, no breakfast this morning, the servant girl was killed by a tribe from the south who then ransacked our scullery and took all the food. Oh and there’s no hot water either because hot water services still haven’t been invented.” Is that what you mean?’

  He was trying not to smile, she just knew it. There was a glint of something there for a moment. Like a flash of light against a dark night sky. Then it was gone. She kept talking. ‘It’s called tourism, Rohan. Nothing to get upset about.’