The Pub Across the Pond

by Mary Carter

  “I’m from RTÉ,” the man with the microphone said. “Welcome to Ballybeog.”

  “Thank you,” Carlene said. She took a sip of her Guinness. It was smooth, but stronger than she expected, and she’d taken too big of a gulp. She sputtered and coughed. The crowd laughed.

  “She doesn’t like the black stuff, so,” a man in the crowd said.

  “I do,” Carlene said. “It’s good.” To prove it she took another sip, a longer one. The crowd cheered.

  “Were you surprised to find your front door knocked down by the branch of the ash tree when ye arrived?” the reporter asked.

  Ass tree? Carlene thought. Did he just say ass tree?

  “She was, yeah,” Katie stepped in and said when Carlene didn’t speak.

  “Very,” Carlene added. Great, now she sounded like an American idiot. The men by the door had positioned the piece of plywood over the crack and were hammering it in. Shit, Carlene thought, it looks like shit. From what she could see of it, the original door had been beautiful. Dark wood, arched at the top with that little stained glass window. She would have to make sure she got it fixed as soon as possible.

  “Ah right,” the reporter said. “I suppose you would be, sure.” He glanced around the pub. “Well, what do you think?” Well, waddayetink? She loved all of their accents. So buoyant, and upbeat, and lyrical, and hopeful. Sounds you could float away on, drown in.

  “I love it,” Carlene said, this time out loud. It was quaint, it was cozy, it was perfect, it was hers. Several women gathered behind Katie and moved in closer.

  “Let me introduce you to my sisters,” Katie said.

  “Or the half dozen, like everyone else calls us,” a redhead said. She held her hand out first. “Siobhan.” The rest of their names came in rapid succession. Liz, Clare, Anne, Sarah. They led Carlene up to the bar and stared at the men sitting in the stools until one by one, the men left their seats to the ladies. All except one, a little old man on the farthest stool to the right. He didn’t budge, but he did raise his pint glass a smidge and give her a nod.

  Carlene took a seat at the center of the bar, feeling like a queen. A thin, older man was behind the counter. He wore eyeglasses and had a patch of white hair sticking out of his head, but when he looked at her and smiled, he appeared ageless.

  “That’s Declan,” Katie said. “He’s an institution around here.”

  “Hi, Declan,” Carlene said. He pointed at her pint. She’d barely drunk any of it. “It’s great,” she said. “I’m just slow.”

  “Well, horse it into ye,” Declan said. “It’s your party. Get your drinking shoes on.”

  “We’re so sorry about Uncle Joe,” Katie said.

  “He’ll pay for that, mark my words,” Siobhan said.

  “Why were you so late coming in?” one of the twins said. Even though they were fraternal, they looked similar enough that Carlene couldn’t remember which was which. Carlene opened her mouth to tell them about the races. She glanced around the room. Ronan was standing with a couple of other men. He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back and had to force herself to look away.

  “My plane was delayed,” Carlene said. She watched as Declan moved fluidly behind the bar, gliding from one side to the other, always in motion, always doing several things at once. She had an employee! This was great. She had been worried about how she was going to run a pub all by herself. How silly to think she was going to be dumped into it without any help. And so much for her worry that she wouldn’t have any customers. The place was packed. To her delight, a band was making its way onstage. She saw a banjo, a guitar, a tin whistle, and a funny-looking drum that the musician held in front of him.

  “That’s a bodhrán,” Katie said. “It’s made of goat skin.”

  “It’s an old Celtic war drum,” Siobhan said.

  “Cool,” Carlene said. She wished she sounded more sophisticated, less American. Carlene finished her pint, and she’d barely slid it forward on the bar when Declan was sliding another one toward her.

  “Cheers, pet,” he said. Katie linked arms with her, pulled her off the stool, and began touring her around the bar. She shook hands and posed for pictures. She felt famous. Everyone was friendly. I’m going to love it here, she thought. There was a loud pounding on the new front door. Several men flocked to the window where they gestured and shouted at the new arrival to go around the back. Carlene couldn’t help but laugh. A few minutes later, a short and somewhat plump woman with a brown bun walked up to Carlene. Ronan trailed behind her. The woman held out her hand to Carlene.

  “I’m Mary McBride,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “So nice to meet you too,” Carlene said. Mary glanced at the boarded-up door, then looked back at Carlene with a shy smile.

  “I see you’re redecorating our wee little pub already,” she said.

  Carlene laughed. “I’ve just decided to shut everyone in,” Carlene said. “So I’ll always have customers.”

  “Was Anchor on time to pick you up?” Mary said. Carlene glanced at Ronan. His eyes remained steady.

  “He was.”

  “I hope he didn’t drive like a manic.”

  “He did.”

  Ronan raised an eyebrow.

  “This is my son, Ronan,” Mary said stepping back to make the introduction. Carlene could hear the pride in Mary’s voice and see the loving gaze with which she looked at her son. Ronan held out his hand, and Carlene shook it.

  “Nice to meet you, Ronan,” Carlene said.

  “Nice to be met,” Ronan said. All of the McBrides were gathered around her now. As they slowly looked around the pub, an awkward silence fell.

  “I’m sorry,” Carlene said. “This must be so strange for all of you.”

  “It’s better than Tan Land,” Siobhan said.

  “I wouldn’t have minded trying it,” Katie said.

  “You would have burned like a shrimp on the barbie,” Ronan said. He failed to pull off the Australian accent. Carlene might have laughed a little too loud, and Ronan might have grinned back a little too long, for suddenly everyone was looking at the two of them look at each other.

  The half dozen swept her up again and brought her back to the bar. Carlene immediately began asking questions. When would her training begin, what days were the pub open, when could she go up and see her apartment? The girls ignored all of her questions, and Declan set a heaping plate of food in front of her. The band began to play. She didn’t know the song, but they were skilled musicians, and it was a happy tune, a jaunty tune. She tapped her foot on the stool and stared at the plate of food. There were huge French fries, and sausages, and chicken fingers, and mashed potatoes, and beef with gravy, and coleslaw, and a salad the size of a tablespoon. An image of her father’s horrified face rose before her. He’d been eating a macrobiotic diet for years. This was heaven. She could dig into this plate of fat and fried food openly. It was encouraged. It was a plate of love. She burst into tears.

  “Jaysus,” Ronan said. Carlene looked up. He was standing behind the bar, leaning against the back counter. His arms were folded across his chest. His green-gold eyes bored into her. “Don’t eat it if it’s going to make you weep,” he said. Declan stepped forward and hovered over her plate.

  “Is it all right, chicken?” he said. “I can warm it up for you if ye fancy?” He reached for the plate, but Carlene held out her hand to stop him.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “These are happy tears.” To prove it, she dug in. Declan stood watching her until half the food was gone and she’d wiped her tears away.

  “Good girl,” he said. He patted her hand and slipped away to help the other customers. Ronan was still watching her. She took a moment to enjoy herself. Good food, good people, good traditional Irish music, and a beautiful, brooding man, watching her as if she were the most interesting thing he had ever seen. She tried to put away all thoughts of dead horses, broken doors, and tree limbs lying in the middle of the floor. She was su
ddenly exhausted, weary to the bone, yet alert at the same time. She wished her father were here to see this, sitting next to her, drinking a pint, eating thick French fries with his bare hands, instead of where he was now, at home, alone, wearing a fresh pair of blue rubber gloves, pacing the floors, and counting to fourteen thousand and forty-four.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Hangover

  Carlene awoke with a start. It was pitch black and there was a chill in the air she felt all the way down to the bones in her toes. She looked down at her feet. They were bare and sticking out of the tiny bed. So tiny no man would ever be able to join her. Her head was aching, her pillow was stiff, and the wool blanket covering her was scratchy. She had no idea what day, or time it was, or for a split second, even who she was. Then it all came hurtling back. The pub. The party. The drinks. Oh God, the drinks. How many pints did she have? And shots, did she really do shots? Oh yes, she did shots. She’d morphed into some foolish little dog, showing off her tricks, drinking every shot they called out. Do an Irish flag! Do a baby Guinness! Car bomb, keg bomb, so many bombs, and they were concurrently detonating in her skull.

  That’s what she got for being a people pleaser, a people-pleaser hangover. There were so many shots, so many toasts, oh God, what was she thinking? Cheers, good luck, sláinte!

  She must be in the upstairs room. She felt like such a fool. She’d imagined a large apartment upstairs, with a nice round living room, fireplace, and a standing harp (that she vowed she would someday learn to play); a huge walk-in kitchen where plump and happy Irish women would teach her how to make Shepherd’s pie and Irish soda bread; a bedroom big enough for a sleigh bed, with a second fireplace, a cozy chair by the window where she would sit and read James Joyce (and now that she was practically Irish, she would understand every word of it on a deep empathetic level); and a claw-foot bathtub with lion paws for feet, where she would soak in Irish bubbles after a long day of standing on her feet.

  Instead, it was a very small bedroom with a very small bathroom, with room only for a toilet and a shower. When you sat down on the toilet and closed the door, the doorknob jammed into your knee. For thirty solid minutes after she flushed the toilet, it sounded like a waterfall was in her room. The sink was outside the bathroom, next to her bed. There was one small window overlooking the backyard. She’d been too drunk last night to take it all in. She remembered stumbling up the steps and standing in the doorway. The party was still going strong when she passed out, and she could hear grown men below singing off-key at the top of their lungs.

  Now it was silent. Had they locked up? Cleaned up? When was Declan coming back? Was she going to be open for business soon? Not today, she could tell them, couldn’t she? Of course she could; it was her pub. But it didn’t feel like her pub, not in the wake of her morning hangover. It was somebody else’s pub, somebody’s family pub. She closed her eyes. Getting up wasn’t an option. Sometimes there was a lot of relief in running out of options.

  The second time she woke up, the pounding in her head had eased to a dull thudding. From now on, she swore, she would serve the drinks instead of consuming them. Suddenly, she heard voices. She sat up in bed—big mistake, too quick, her head was exploding again full force. She lay down again and listened. Her heart hammered from the exertion of sitting up. There were definitely people downstairs. Men’s voices, at least three or four, talking over each other. Were they still here from last night? What was she doing here? Who did she think she was? She didn’t know anything about running a pub. She couldn’t work with all this drumming going on in her skull. She wanted to stay in her stiff, scratchy, cold bed and listen to the rain. It was hard to tell what time it was. It was definitely lighter outside than when she went to bed, but the sky was an overcast, gunmetal gray, leaving open for interpretation exactly what time of day it was.

  Oh, why wouldn’t they go away? From below, the sound of laughter and glasses clinking filtered through the air. She sat up again, slowly this time, as if her head were barely attached and in danger of snapping off and rolling away, like a broken china doll whose glue hadn’t had sufficient time to set.

  Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch. Where was her suitcase? Was it still in the trunk of Ronan’s car? She’d been too distracted by the “tree trimming” to think of it. Sure enough, she still had on her skirt and top from yesterday. Her mouth was dry and tasted like copper. She slowly put her feet on the floor and pushed herself upright. She splashed water on her face from the little sink next to the bed. The faucet squealed when she turned it on, and the water was ice cold. There were no mirrors in the room. She went to the bathroom and smacked her knee on the doorknob. The toilet made its loud gurgling noises, and the waterfall sounds started up. She washed her hands in the cold water again. She was going to have to buy some soap. There weren’t any hand towels. Carlene wiped her cold, wet fingers on her skirt.

  She walked into the hall and peered down the railing to the bar below. The lights were on full blaze, and from her perch she could see four men sitting at the bar. How did they get in? How could they start without her? What time was it?

  She eased herself down the stairs. Here she could see there were actually five men at the bar drinking full pints. The large tree branch was still in the middle of the pub, and a man was walking across it while trying to hold his pint. When he got to the other side without spilling a drop, shouts erupted from the bar. Money was thrown down and snatched up.

  On the farthest stool to the right was the same old man Carlene had seen there last night. For all she knew he was superglued to the stool. He could have been any age from seventy to ninety. His face was gaunt and wrinkled, his cheeks concave, his lips thin and brittle. He had a full set of brown hair, hanging straight on his head like an upside-down bowl. It took a moment for Carlene to realize it was a hairpiece. He was wearing a striped shirt with suspenders and a cardigan sweater. He was the first to notice Carlene, maybe because she was staring at him. He gave her a gruff nod and raised his pint glass as if requesting a refill. Immediately, all faces at the bar turned toward her. The distraction proved fatal to the log roller. He lost his footing and slipped off. His pint glass crashed to the floor. Dark ale ran out and snaked along the floor. As the men at the bar looked on and laughed, he let out a long string of cuss words, only half of which Carlene understood. Shouts and groans rose from the men, and once again money was thrown down and snatched up.

  “How ya?” the man closest to the stairs called. “What’s the craic?”

  “Hello,” another said. “Which one of us beasts woke up beauty?” Carlene laughed.

  “I see you’ve started without me,” she said.

  “If you come over and pull a pint, ye can catch up right quick,” the one closest to the stairs said. He was an averagesized man who appeared to be in his thirties. He had a buzz cut, brown eyes, and dimples. He stuck his hand out.

  “Name’s Eoin,” he said. “In case you don’t remember from last night.” Carlene shook his hand.

  “Of course I remember,” she lied. With the exception of the log roller, who barely looked eighteen, and the old man at the end of the bar, the other four men looked like they were either going to or coming from work—heavy boots, long hours, and dirty nails. They ranged in age but united in smiles. A surge of hope rose in Carlene. They seemed like genuinely nice men, even if they were drinking at what couldn’t be later than eight o’clock in the morning. Carlene slipped behind the bar and eyed the pint glasses lined up in front of them. Had they just served themselves? Had they paid? As if reading her mind, the one next to Eoin spoke up.

  “Ronan fixed us up,” he said. He held up his pint glass. It took Carlene a minute to recognize him. He didn’t have his hat on, so at first all she registered was the thick, red hair.

  “Anchor,” she said. “The ambassador of craic.” He grinned.

  “Spot on,” he said. He elbowed Eoin. “See? She remembers me.” Next to Anchor sat a beautiful-looking man—or boy, should she say—with
blue eyes almost as light as hers. He was wearing a T-shirt that said: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL BARTENDER. Below it was a picture of a bra and thong. He caught her reading it and grinned. Eoin pointed at him.

  “That’s Collin.” Collin waved. Carlene wondered if she should ask him for ID, although judging from the state of his pint, it was a bit too late. “Next to him is Ciaran.” Ciaran, forties, light blond hair slicked back, nodded. “And the oul fella on the end there is Riley.” Riley raised his pint glass again.

  “I’m the baddest motherfucker in this bog,” Riley said. The men burst out laughing.

  “Don’t forget me,” the boy on the log said.

  “D’mind him,” Eoin said. “He’s a bollix.”

  “Billy the bollix,” Anchor said.

  “Shut yer piehole,” Billy said. He waved. He had reddish brown hair and a face full of freckles. He lay down on the log and stared at the wood-beamed ceiling like a kid trying to spot shapes in the clouds.

  “He’s communing with nature,” Eoin said when he caught Carlene watching Billy. The men laughed.

  “Feck off,” Billy said.

  “Meditation won’t crack that walnut,” Eoin said.

  “Did you say Ronan was here?” Carlene asked Anchor. He pointed to a spot in the upper corner of the bar. There hung a television. Carlene hadn’t noticed it last night. “He said we could watch the races,” Anchor said. “But it’s not working.”

  “Bet they forgot to pay the cable bill,” Ciaran said.

  “I’ll look into it,” Carlene said. “Where’s Ronan now?”