Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married

by Marian Keyes

  I tried to hide my alarm, but it must have shown on my face because he burst out laughing.

  “Poor Lucy. Would you look at the worried little face!”

  I tried to smile gamely.

  “But settle yourself, Lucy, I’m only teasing. They’re not actually insane…”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “…as such…” he continued. “But very, very emotional, I suppose is the best way of describing it.”

  “How do you mean?” I might as well deal with it there and then, I decided.

  “I’m kind of afraid to tell you, Lucy, in case I convince you that I’m stone crazy. When you hear the kind of background I come from, you’ll probably run away screaming.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said reassuringly. But I had a little knot in my stomach. Please God, don’t make this too awful. I like him too much.

  “Are you sure you want to hear this, Lucy?”

  “I’m sure. Nothing can be that bad. Have you parents?”

  “Oh aye. The full complement. A matching pair. A complete set.”

  “You already mentioned that you had lots of brothers…?”

  “Five of them.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Not really, not in the area I come from. I was always ashamed that my number of brothers didn’t run to double digits.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Older. They’re all older than me.”

  “So you’re the baby.”

  “I am, although I’m the only one of the guys who doesn’t still live at home.”

  “Five grown men all living at home—that must create a lot of problems.”

  “Jesus! You don’t know the half of it. But they have to, really, because they work on the farm and in the pub.”

  “You own a pub?”

  “We do.”

  “You must be loaded.”

  “Well, we’re not.”

  “But I always thought owning a pub meant you could almost print your own money.”

  “Not our pub. It’s my brothers, you see. Fond of the drink.”

  “Ah, I see, they drink the profits.”

  “No they don’t,” he laughed. “There aren’t any profits to drink, because they drink the drink.”

  “Oh Gus.”

  “And we hardly ever have any stock because they drink it all and we owe money to every brewery in Ireland so almost none of them will deliver to us anymore. Our name is a hissing and a byword among the distillers of Ireland,” he said, quoting P.G. Wodehouse. My, what a literary fellow this was.

  “But don’t you have customers, couldn’t you make a profit from them?” I asked.

  “Not really, because we’re in such a remote area. Our only customers are my brothers and my da. And the local constabulary of course—and they only come after closing hours every night. And they can’t be charged the full price—in fact they can’t be charged any price—because they’d close us down for breaking the liquor laws, if we tried to.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  My head was racing, trying to come up with money-spinners, profit-making schemes for Gus’s family’s pub, Karaoke evenings? Quiz nights? Special promotions? Food at lunchtime? And I said as much to him.

  “No, Lucy.” He shook his head and looked amused and sad at the same time. “They’re not great organizers. Something would go wrong because they’re forever getting drunk and fighting each other.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am! Most nights in our house are conducted in a state of high drama. I’d come home in the evening and the brothers would be in the kitchen and a couple of them would be covered with blood and another would have his hand wrapped up in a shirt after putting his fist through a window and they’d be calling one another names and then they’d start crying and telling one another that they loved each other like a brother. I hate it.”

  “And what would they fight about?” I asked, intrigued, fascinated.

  “Oh anything at all. They’re not picky. A dirty look, an inflection in a voice, anything!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I was home at Christmas and the first night I was back we all had a huge feed of drink. And it was great for a while, until things went wrong, the way they usually do. At about midnight P.J. thought Paudi was looking at him funny so P.J. hit Paudi, then Mikey shouted at P.J. to leave Paudi alone and John Joe hit Mikey for shouting at P.J., then P.J. hit John Joe for hitting Mikey and Stevie started crying because of brother being set against brother. And then P.J. started crying because he was sorry for upsetting Stevie, then Stevie hit P.J. for starting it all, then Paudi hit Stevie for hitting P.J. because he had wanted to hit P.J… And then my da came in and he tried to hit all of them.”

  Gus paused for breath. “It was terrible. It’s the boredom, I’m sure of it. But the whole thing is fuelled by alcohol. They calmed down a bit a few years ago when we got Sky Sports, but then the da wouldn’t pay the bill for it, so the ruckus started up again.”

  I was spellbound. I could have listened forever to Gus’s beautiful, lyrical accent, telling the story of his fascinatingly dysfunctional family.

  “And where do you fit into it all? Who do you hit?”

  “No one. I don’t fit into it at all, at least I try my very best not to.”

  “The whole thing sounds hilarious,” I said. “Like something out of a play.”

  “Really?” said Gus, sounding shocked, annoyed even. “Maybe I’ve told it wrong because it wasn’t funny at all.”

  Immediately I felt ashamed.

  “Sorry, Gus,” I muttered. “I forgot for a moment that this is your life we’re talking about. It’s just that you tell it so well…. But I’m sure it was terrible really.”

  “Well, it was you know, Lucy,” he said, indignantly. “It left terrible scars, it made me do awful things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I used to walk the hills for hours and talk to the rabbits and write poetry. Of course it was only because I wanted to get away from the family and because I didn’t know any better.”

  “But what’s wrong with walking the hills and talking to the rabbits and writing poetry?” I thought it sounded wild and romantic and Irish.

  “Plenty, Lucy, as I’m sure you’d agree if you ever read any of my poetry.”

  I laughed, but only a little bit, I didn’t want him to think I was making fun of him.

  “And rabbits make very poor conversationalists,” he said. “Carrots and sex, that’s all they talk about.”

  “Is that right?”

  “So as soon as I got away from there, I dropped the poetry and the tortured soul image.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with being a tortured soul…” I protested, desperate to cling to the image of Gus as a poetic figure.

  “Oh, there is, Lucy. It’s embarrassing and boring.”

  “Oh, is it? I quite like tortured souls…”

  “No, Lucy, you mustn’t,” he said firmly. “I insist.”

  “So what are your parents like?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “My father is the worst of them all. A terrible man when he has drink taken. Which is most of the time.”

  “And what about your mother?”

  “She doesn’t really do anything. Well, I mean she does

  plenty—all the cooking and washing and stuff, but she doesn’t try to keep them in line. I suppose she’s too afraid. She prays a lot. And cries—we’re a great family for crying, a very lachrymose crowd. She prays for my brothers and father to give up the drink.”

  “And do you have any sisters?”

  “Two, but they escaped when they were very young. Eleanor got married when she was nineteen to a man who was old enough to be her grandfather, Francis Cassidy from Letterkenny.”

  Gus seemed to cheer up at the memory. “He only came up to the farm once and that was to ask the da for her hand, and maybe I shouldn’t tell you this becau
se you’ll think that we’re a crowd of savages, but we ran him out of the place. We tried to set the dogs on poor old Francis, but the dogs refused to bite him. Afraid they might catch something, probably.”

  Gus peered at me closely. “Should I bow my head in shame, Lucy?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s funny.”

  “I know it wasn’t very hospitable, Lucy, but we had little to amuse us and Francis Cassidy was awful, far worse than any of us. He was the most miserable-looking old stick you ever laid eyes on and he must have had the evil eye because the hens didn’t lay for four days afterwards and the cows had no milk.”

  “And what about your other sister?”

  “Eileen? She just disappeared. None of the local boys came looking for her hand—I suppose Francis Cassidy had warned them off. We only noticed she was gone when the breakfast wasn’t on the table one morning. It was summer and we were making the hay and had to get up at the crack of dawn and Eileen was supposed to make the food before we all went off to the fields.”

  “And where had she gone?”

  “I don’t know, Dublin, I think.”

  “And wasn’t anyone worried about her?” I asked, appalled. “Didn’t anyone try to go after her or to find her?”

  “They were worried all right. They were worried that they’d have to make their own breakfasts from then on.”

  “But that’s terrible,” I said, feeling upset. The story of Eileen had upset me far more than the story of Francis Cassidy and the dogs. “Really, really terrible.”

  “Lucy,” said Gus, squeezing my hand. “I wasn’t worried about having to make my own breakfast. I wanted to go after her, but my da said he’d kill me.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, feeling a bit better.

  “I missed her, she was lovely, she used to talk to me. But I was glad for her that she was gone.”

  “Why?”

  She was too bright to let my father marry her off to one of the old men who owned the neighbouring farms. He wanted to get his hands on their land, you see.”

  “That’s barbaric,” I said in horror.

  “Some people might call it good economics,” said Gus. “But I wouldn’t be one of them,” he added hastily, when I gave him a glare.

  “And what became of poor Eileen?” I asked, feeling as though my heart would break from the sadness of it all. “Did you ever hear from her again?”

  “I think she went to Dublin, but she never wrote to me, so I don’t know for sure.”

  “It’s so sad,” I breathed.

  Then a thought struck me and I looked at him sharply. “You’re not making any of this up, by any chance, are you? This isn’t one of your inventions like the squirrels gambling and my roommate Elizabeth Ardent?”

  “No.” he protested. “Of course it’s not. Honestly, Lucy, I wouldn’t joke or make things up about something important. Although I wish the story of my family was a fairy tale. I suppose it sounds very peculiar to a sophisticated city girl like yourself.”

  Oddly enough, it didn’t.

  “But, you see, we were very isolated,” Gus went on. “The farm was remote and we didn’t meet that many other people so I didn’t know any better. I had nothing to compare my family to. For years I thought that the fights and the crying and the shouting and everything were perfectly normal and that everyone lived like us. It was a big relief, I can tell you, to find out that my suspicions were correct and that they were really as crazy as I had thought they were. So that’s the story of my origins, Lucy.”

  “Well, thank you for telling me.”

  “Have I scared you away?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your family must be crazy too.”

  “They’re not, sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Then why are you so tolerant about my crowd?”

  “Because you’re you, not you family.”

  “If only it was that simple, Lucy Sullivan.”

  “But it can be, Gus…Gus what?”

  “Gus Lavan.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Gus Lavan,” I said, shaking hands with him.

  Lucy Lavan, I was thinking. Lucy Lavan? Yes, I liked it. Or how about it being double-barrelled. Lucy Sullivan Lavan? That had a lovely ring too.

  “And I’m very pleased to meet you, Lucy Sullivan,” he said solemnly, clasping my hand. “Although I’ve already said that, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you said it last night.”

  “But it doesn’t make it any less true, Lucy. Want to go for a pint, Lucy?”

  “Er, yes, if you want. Have you walked enough?”

  “I’ve walked enough to work up a thirst, ergo I’ve walked enough.”

  “Fine.”

  “What time is it, Lucy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you have a watch?”

  “No.”

  “Neither have I. It’s a sign.”

  “Of what?” I asked warmly. That Gus and I were soul mates? That Gus and I were ideally matched?

  “That we’ll always be late.”

  “Oh. Um, what are you doing?”

  Gus had leaned back almost horizontally on the bench and was staring at the sky, sucking his teeth and muttering things like “a hundred and eighty degrees” and “seven hours ahead in New York” and “or maybe that’s Chicago.”

  “I’m looking at the sky, Lucy.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out the time, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  A pause.

  “Any conclusions?”

  “Yes, I think so.” He nodded his head thoughtfully. “I think so.”

  There was another pause.

  “Lucy, I’ve made up my mind that it’s almost definitely—of course there’s always room for human error here, you understand—but I’m prepared to say that it’s almost definitely daytime. Eighty-seven percent certain. Or maybe eighty-four.”

  “I’d say you’re right.”

  “I’d be interested to hear your views on the matter, Lucy.”

  “I’d say it’s about two o’clock.”

  “Oh God.” He jumped up from the bench. “That late? Well come on then, we’ll just have to do our best.”

  “What are you talking about?” I giggled, as he dragged me after him through the park.

  “Closing time, Lucy Sullivan, closing time. A dirty word. Two dirty words, actually. Filthy, heinous words,” he said, almost spitting them out. “Filthy! The pubs close at three o’clock today and they don’t open again until seven—am I right?”

  “Yes.” I tried to keep up with him, “unless they’ve made changes to the liquor laws this morning.”

  “Do you think they might have?” asked Gus, stopping abruptly.

  “No.”

  “Well, then, come on,” he said, almost running. “We’ve only got an hour.”

  Chapter 27

  We stopped at the first pub we came to when we got out of the park. It wasn’t too awful, which was just as well because I sensed that Gus would have made me go in even if the roof had caved in and the walls were falling down.

  He put his hand on my arm at the door.

  “Lucy, I’m sorry about this but I’m afraid that you’ll have to finance this mission. I get my unemployment on Tuesday so I’ll pay you back then.”

  “Oh…oh…fine.”

  My heart sank, but I caught it before it hit the ground. After all it wasn’t Gus’s fault that I met him on a weekend when he was broke.

  “What would you like to drink?” I asked him.

  “I’ll have a pint.”

  “Of what?”

  “Guinness, of course…”

  “Of course.”

  “…and a small one,” he added.

  “A small one?”

  “Jameson’s whiskey, no ice.”

  “Er, right you are.”

  “But make it a big one,” he suggested.

  �
��Sorry?”

  “A big small one.”

  “What…?”

  “A big Jameson. A large one.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, Lucy, but I don’t see any point in doing things by half,” he said apologetically.

  “It’s fine,” I said faintly.

  “And whatever you’re having,” he added.

  “Um, thanks.”

  If I had been Karen, I would have said my “um, thanks” sarcastically, but seeing as I was only me I just said “um, thanks” like I really meant “um, thanks.”

  “There’s a table just over here, Lucy. I’ll guard it while you get the drinks.”

  I stood at the bar and I felt sad for just a moment. Then

  I forced myself to stop. I was being silly. He’d have money on Tuesday.

  “And maybe some potato chips,” said Gus’s voice in my ear.

  “What flavour?”

  “Salt and vinegar…”

  “Okay.”

  “Good woman.” I got myself a modest Diet Coke.

  Gus had finished his pint and his large small one before I finished my drink. In fact he nearly had them finished by the time I sat down.

  “We’ll have another,” announced Gus.

  “I suppose we will.”

  “You stay where you are,” he said kindly. “Just give me the money and I’ll get them.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, fishing in my pocket for my purse which I had just replaced and pulled out a fiver.

  “Five pounds?” he said doubtfully. “Are you sure that’ll be enough, Lucy?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly.

  “Don’t you want one for yourself?”

  “Yes!”

  While he was gone I drank the rest of my drink quickly. I decided that if he didn’t give me back my change without me having to ask I would…I would…I don’t know…

  “Here’s your change, Lucy.”

  I looked up from where I had been staring gloomily into my empty glass. Gus was looking at me anxiously, a few pennies in his open palm.

  “Thanks.” I smiled and took all thirteen pence or whatever it was. I suddenly felt better.

  After all, it was the principle as much as the money.

  “Lucy,” Gus said earnestly. “Thank you, for the drinks and all that…it’s very good of you. I get my check on