The Pub Across the Pond

by Mary Carter

  “Twelve to one,” he said.

  “Is that good?”

  “It is if he wins.” He smiled. “Why don’t you place a bet on this one too,” he said.

  “I don’t have any euros yet,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” He dug in his pocket and handed her a twenty.

  “I couldn’t,” she said.

  “Ah come on,” he said. “You took me pub, you might as well take me money.” He said it lightly, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d also just dialed up his Irish accent, but the comment still stung. He immediately softened, palmed the twenty in her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I’ll pay you back,” she said.

  “Especially if you win,” he said.

  She scanned the line of bookmakers. Ronan pointed out the ones who would pay out the most if Cabernet Sauvignon won. From among them, she chose a man in his fifties because he had the biggest smile. “Twenty on Cabernet Sauvignon to win,” she said. He tossed her money into his pack, printed off a ticket, and handed it to her.

  “Good luck, pet,” he said.

  Ronan took her to the parade ring where they watched the horses being led around for all to see. Cabernet Sauvignon was a tall and gorgeous animal. Deep black muscles rippled through his strong legs as he pranced around the ring like he owned a little piece of the world. He was a lucky horse if there ever was one. Carlene couldn’t stop grinning. “He’s going to win,” she said. “I can feel it.”

  “Come on,” Ronan said. “Let’s get a spot by the fence. I want to be up close and personal for this one.”

  It was race number five, the first jumping race. The starting gate was on the other side of the fence, so they watched the race unfold on the giant television screen suspended above the track. Soon the horses passed the castle. Ronan put his arm around Carlene. They were standing directly in front of the fourth hurdle. The only way they could have a better view was if they were the jockeys themselves. As the horses took the first hurdle, Carlene realized she was holding her breath. The horses were jammed so close together, it was hard to make out the wine-colored hat and jacket of Cabernet’s jockey. She didn’t really even care who won—it was just so exciting to watch. Before she knew it, the horses were nearing the fourth jump. Ronan squeezed her waist. “He’s right there, on the outside, see?” Ronan pointed. “He’s doing good,” he whispered. Once she spotted him, Carlene didn’t dare take her eyes off her gorgeous, lucky horse.

  Such grace, such power, such strength, such beauty. Carlene could see how you could get addicted to this. She shouted when everyone else shouted and jumped when everyone else jumped, mixing her enthusiasm with the frenzied crowd. And when Cabernet Sauvignon leapt over the hurdle, she lifted right off the ground with him. She braced for landing as his magnificent body seemed to defy gravity and hovered midair. The image of him suspended like that would remain with Carlene for the rest of her life.

  Even though it was all unfolding in front of her, it took Carlene a long time to realize what was happening. Cabernet’s back leg twisted. His body tilted sideways. The jockey, who was airborne, instinctively tucked himself into a ball and landed with a soft, sickening thud near the fence. Horrified, the crowd watched as Cabernet crumpled to the ground. He lay on his side, twitching. Carlene screamed, and Ronan pulled her into him. People cried, moaned, and shouted all around her, and an ambulance screamed into high gear. All the while, the rest of the horses kept running, their hooves pounded on. Despite the sirens, the shouts, and the smell of fear permeating the field, through it all they thundered on toward the finish line.

  Paramedics lifted the jockey onto a stretcher. He lifted his head and reached his hand out as if to touch Cabernet, but his view was obscured; vets were already erecting a white tent around the fallen horse. Ronan clasped Carlene’s hand and they began to fight their way out as the crowd swarmed in to witness the tragedy up close. Ronan never let go of her hand, and somehow, they made it through the grounds, out into the field, to the safety of the car. Ronan opened the door for her, and even leaned in and put her seat belt on for her. When he got into the driver’s seat, a single shot rang out across the field. Carlene winced and hid her face in her hands.

  “Are you okay?” Ronan asked after a minute. She took her hands away and nodded. The lump in her throat precluded her from speaking. When they pulled out of the lot, she didn’t turn around, not even for a last look at the castle in the middle of the field.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Family Tree

  As traumatic as the Galway Races were, Carlene made an effort to put it out of her mind. This was such a rare opportunity, and she vowed to enjoy the moments as they unfolded. There were so many sights to see and so many bits of Irish trivia running through Carlene’s head, she felt as if she were having an out-ofbody experience. Twelfth-century Norman invasions, and walled towns, and ringforts, and ruined abbeys. Rivers and bays, and soaring thirteenth-century churches, and castles, and town gates, and stone mansions, and Celtic crosses, and sheep and cows, and energy windmills, and roundabouts designed to keep the traffic moving, unlike the four-way stops at home, but that only made Carlene dizzy, and colorful shops, and cobblestone streets, and pubs, and pubs, and pubs, and pubs, and more pubs.

  Not that she was able to take it all in at the speed they were traveling. Had she known Ronan McBride “drove it like he stole it,” she might have opted for a bus into Ballybeog. As they drew closer to town, Ronan told her there used to be thirty-three pubs in Ballybeog, but now there were only eleven. The Celtic Tiger had been declawed. Ten of the pubs were located on Main Street, an easy stagger from one to the other. The eleventh, i.e., her pub, she surmised, was the odd man out. Out in the bogs, in the middle of nowhere? It was late afternoon, and traffic on Main Street was surprisingly heavy. Carlene began to feel as if they were in a parade. Ronan beeped and waved at everyone he saw and everyone beeped and waved back. Carlene absolutely loved all the stonework and brightly painted shops.

  “Wait until it’s lashing down rain,” Ronan said. “You won’t be so cheery then.” Carlene ignored him and feasted on the shop signs. John O’Malley and Daughter (the sign said they sold: Groceries, Fruit and Veg, and Ice Cream). Helen’s Foodstore. East Ocean Chinese. Bridget’s Gifts. Dally’s Lounge, Undertaker, and Pub, rolled into one.

  “One leads to the other,” Ronan said with a wink when she pointed it out.

  JP Moran and Company. Drapery and Books. Bank of Ireland. Philips Electronics. Although their signs remained, some hanging askew, at least half the shops they passed were out of business. Darkened windows covered in dust announced their sad state. Carlene wished she could bring them all to life. Many of the shops had gorgeous arched doorways leading to little cobblestone alleys she was dying to explore, and stone plaques she couldn’t wait to read.

  And of course, she saw all the pubs. Mickey John’s, and O’Sullivan’s, and Finnegan’s, and she couldn’t keep up with them all. She wouldn’t worry about it, she would focus on her pub. Which was—where, exactly? She told herself not to panic; surely her street would be just as nice. Maybe it was good to be a little ways out. Before she knew it, they were exiting through one of the town gates, leaving the main drag, and turning left onto a country road. The cobblestone streets and colorful shops faded farther and farther away, replaced by paved roads and long stretches of green.

  Was Ronan just showing her the beauty of the land? Surely her pub wasn’t going to be in the middle of a farmer’s field. Who would come to it? Cows?

  Speaking of cows, they were all over the place. And unlike the ubiquitous black-and-white cows she was used to seeing in Ohio, these cows were diverse. It was as if, like all Europeans compared to Americans, these cows had better fashion sense. These cows had caramel coats, and lush dark brown coats, and sun-kissed yellow coats. These cows had style.

  After passing several farmhouses, many of which looked surprisingly new and not like farmhouses a
t all, but more like mini–limestone mansions, they turned left again, and here the road twisted and turned, trees hugging their every curve. Ronan seemed to think a winding road was an invitation to speed up. Carlene gripped the side of the door, too frightened to even yell, “Stay to the left!”, and prayed she’d be able to see her pub just once before he killed her in a fiery crash.

  And then, just when she was wondering why her life hadn’t flashed before her—only, strangely, a pint of Guinness—the road straightened out, and Ronan slowed the car down considerably. A white clapboard house set just a little off the road with a sign above it came into view: UNCLE JOE’S GROCERIES. And next door, there it was. It was similar in size, and also white, but her pub was made of stone. For some reason it made Carlene think of the Three Little Pigs. Apparently, the Big Bad Wolf had already blown down the one made of straw, and she was grateful that Joe’s wooden shop, and not her stone pub, would be next.

  Mine, she thought, as she took it in. That adorable little pub is mine. The windows were accented with bright blue paint, and there it was, just like in the pictures, a thick, thatched roof. Her sign read: UNCLE JIMMY’S. She also had a small front yard with an enormous tree in front. But the biggest surprise of all was the large crowd gathered in the yard to greet her.

  “Surprise,” Ronan said. He pulled directly onto the grass. Carlene made a mental note not to ever allow him to do this again, but she decided to let it go for now. Carlene smiled when she got out of the car, expecting a big welcome, maybe even a few cheers. It took her a moment to realize no one was looking at her at all. Instead, they were all looking up at the sky. Carlene followed suit. A thick cloud was chugging along, making its way toward the pub, as if it were going to rain directly on it and nothing else. Still, hardly worth such a gawk, was it?

  “What’s going on?” she asked Ronan. The sound of an industrial-strength chain saw revving up obscured his answer. It was coming from the enormous tree that stood less than twenty feet away, towering over the yard like a friendly, old guard keeping watch.

  “What in the fuck?” Ronan said. Halfway up the tree, in full rappelling gear, a small man was shimmying up the trunk. In his hand was a cordless chain saw. He revved it up again, and it roared like a racecar taking off. The crowd moved in and gathered around the tree as he climbed higher. Carlene turned to Ronan, but he had disappeared. She turned to a man next to her.

  “Is it a sick tree?” she asked.

  “Nah,” he replied. “But I’d say it’s a sick fella, all right.”

  “I don’t understand,” Carlene said. “What is he doing?” The man in the tree had reached the first large branch. It reached out like a giant arm offering to shake his neighbor’s hand. The man hugged the tree and adjusted the saw so that its teeth were poised on the base of the branch.

  “What’s going on?” Carlene yelled again. She looked for Ronan but she couldn’t find him in the crowd.

  “Some craic, isn’t it?” another man said. “He says the branch crosses over his property line, so he’s going to cut it off.”

  “That’s Uncle Joe?” she said.

  “Joe Monkey, eh?” the man said.

  “But it’s not his tree!” At least she didn’t think it was his tree. It didn’t look like his tree—it was in front of her pub, so it looked like her tree. Nobody else seemed panicked.

  “He’ll get away with it, all right,” the man said. “The new owner was supposed to be here this morning, but she’s a noshow. Probably already scared off from all this fecking rain.” Carlene stared up at the tree. Uncle Joe was still wiggling around, trying to position himself and the saw just so.

  “Hey!” she yelled. She turned back to the man next to her. “Somebody should stop him,” she said.

  “Ah, right,” he said. “Can ye imagine? He’s seventy-three. He’s going to kill himself. And all because of some fucking Yank.” Carlene ran to the base of the tree.

  “Hey!” she yelled. “Stop!” Uncle Joe didn’t look down at her. The saw bit into the branch with a screech. The crowd dispersed, people flew out of the way, yet they somehow managed to balance the pints they were holding without spilling a single drop. Carlene stayed put. “Stop!” she yelled again. Suddenly, arms wrapped around her and pulled her back.

  “It’s too late,” Ronan said as the branch started to tilt. “Clear out.” Carlene watched helplessly as inch by inch the giant branch fell, a loud, continuous breaking away. It was headed straight for the pub’s adorable thatched roof. Carlene watched in horror as it missed the roof, but crashed through the little stained glass window set into the front door of the pub, and continued to fall, splitting the old wooden door smack down the middle. Carlene wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. The branch lay prone on the ground, half-in and half-out of the pub.

  Carlene turned away and stared at Uncle Joe. He scurried down the trunk and stood at the base of the tree, hands on hips, grinning. The chain saw lay quietly on the ground beside him. Carlene walked toward him. Slowly, he sensed her gaze. Their eyes met and he tipped his cap to her.

  “If you’re here for a wee pint,” he said. “I think they’re closed for renovations.” Carlene continued to stand and stare at him as he began to remove his rappelling gear.

  “You okay?” he asked her after a moment.

  “No,” she said. “I’m certainly not okay.” His eyes narrowed, probably at her accent. He stuck out his hand.

  “Joe McBride,” he said. Carlene stuck out her hand, and when they shook she squeezed his hand as hard as she could. “And you are?” he said, glancing at the viselike grip she had on his hand.

  “The fucking Yank,” Carlene said.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Welcome Party

  Joe McBride was saved by the rain. It came fast and heavy, slipping sideways across the sky. He ran back to his store, toting his chain saw, and Carlene followed the pubgoers who ran around the side of the building, toward the back. There they entered a small, enclosed porch cluttered with bits of rusted metal, boxes, and bottles. A small table missing a leg was jammed into a corner, and a chair with no middle was shoved up against the back wall. On the table sat an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. This must be the smoking area, Carlene thought. How charming.

  They entered through a back door and into a narrow hallway. The air was heavy with the scent of stale beer and damp stone. But Carlene also caught a scent of bleach, as if someone had at least made an attempt to clean up. The hall led directly into the main room. The crowd made their way back to their stools and seats at tables while Carlene stood and took it all in. The pub was the size of a large studio apartment. The long bar was made of sturdy dark wood that shone as if recently polished. Shiny brass foot rails ran along the base. On the back wall, in the space behind the bar, was an enormous mirror with an ornate gold frame. Liquor bottles lined the shelves like soldiers awaiting orders. Built-in cabinets housed row after row of mini-bottles of soda. She counted six beers on tap. Guinness had two taps. There was so much to look at, she didn’t know where to focus her attention first.

  Knickknacks and sports paraphernalia hung in every available space. The floor was made of thick wood beams. The bar stools were sturdy with high backs and faded red leather cushions. Guinness signs hung from the ceiling, along with an oldfashioned road sign that said BALLYBEOG at the top, with the Irish spelling, BÁILE BÉAG, below it. She’d learned its meaning after she won the pub. Little Center. This pub was going to be her world now, her little center. She stood, just taking in the sounds of her new world. Voices, laughter, footsteps, chairs squeaking, rain falling on the roof, glasses clinking. And the smells: ale, bleach, the scent of something cooking, something fried. The odd whiff of cologne, and she dared say, body odor, and the smell of mold were in the mix as well.

  There was a small stage set up in the left-hand corner of the room, and three large, oval windows overlooked the front yard. A faded dartboard hung askew on the left wall, and beyond i
t sat a tattered pool table. Along the same wall, tucked into the very back corner, a set of stairs led up to a second floor. Only a railing, a small hallway, and a shut door were visible from below. I love it, Carlene thought with a breath of relief. Except for the tree branch, crashed through the old front door—that she could do without. Rain was coming in through the split, along with leaves, dirt, and bark. The wet debris hit the floor and turned into muddy bits that weaved their way through the grooves in the wood. Several men were gathered around the tree branch, speaking to each other while looking down at it, so from a distance it appeared as if they were talking to the branch, scolding it for crashing their party. Seconds later, they hauled it inside and stood studying the broken door.

  “There’s some wood out on the porch,” Carlene heard Ronan say. “I’ll get it.” Suddenly, a tall, beautiful woman with long honey-colored hair stood in front of Carlene. She had a beautiful, soft face and was all smiles. She stuck her hand out.

  “I’m Katie McBride,” she said.

  “I’m Carlene.”

  Katie squealed, grabbed Carlene’s hand, and held it up like she’d just won a boxing match. “Ah lads, look,” Katie yelled into the crowd. “This is Carlene.” There was a polite round of applause. Carlene waved. Everyone waved back, and many held up their pint glasses in salute. Suddenly, a man appeared to her left. He was huge. Tall and broad, with a soft, boyish face, at least what could be seen of it underneath his blue wool cap and thick red goatee. He was holding two pints of Guinness. He handed one to Carlene.

  “This is Anchor,” Katie said. Ah, Carlene thought. The ambassador of craic himself.

  “Hello, Anchor,” Carlene said.

  “How ya keeping?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” Carlene said. “How are you keeping?” Suddenly, the noise in the pub dropped, and voices hushed one another, as if the curtain had just opened on a play. Were they waiting for her to make a speech? She hadn’t prepared one. “Hello, everyone,” Carlene said. Hellos came back to her twice the volume, and a few people clapped again. A camera snapped. A man stepped forward with a tape recorder and a small microphone. Behind her, Ronan and a few others came down the hall hauling a large sheet of plywood.