The Pub Across the Pond
By MARY CARTER
KENSINGTON BOOKS
Copyright © 2011
Mary Carter
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-5336-1
Chapter One
Declan
Going Gaga
"She was the most beautiful bride ever," Katie says. She clasps
her hands and holds them over her heart. She's the youngest of
the six McBride girls, or the half dozen, as they're known
around Ballybeog. At six foot, she's also the tallest. Even her
brother Ronan only has a few inches on her. She was born last,
born tall, and born almost blond. Of all the names given to her
hair color—cornflake, strawberry blond, dirty blond—it's actually
honey that fits it best. Honey-colored hair that's more often
than not in tangles. She was a devoted practicer of bedhead before
it became a sexy trend.
Hopeless romantic, they call Katie. Katie agrees with all but
the hopeless bit. She likes to think of herself as an optimist, even
if it's only true about 10 percent of the time. She's twenty years
of age, but nobody thinks of Katie McBride as grown-up, least
of all herself. She looks around the pub, demanding an audience.
Guests are still piling in, shedding their winter coats, revealing
long satin dresses that will shimmer when the ladies
dance and smartly pressed suits the men only wear for weddings
and wakes. Women discreetly slip off their heels and massage
their toes, men loosen their ties, their belts, and their wallets,
and then finally their tongues. The band is lively and drunk.
They've yet to start playing.
"A fairy tale," Katie adds, with a loud sigh.
"Only you would call that ordeal a fairy tale," Siobhan says,
slapping her handbag on the counter and eyeing me. She thinks
that one sultry look from her will be enough to send me running.
And let me tell ye something. It works. Siobhan's the oldest,
the only redhead of the sisters, and practical about most
things, especially love. In trounces the other four McBride girls,
and whether by habit or coincidence, they sit down in order of
their birth. From youngest to oldest it goes: Katie, Sarah, Liz,
Clare, Anne, and Siobhan.
At the end of the bar, and no relation to the girls, sits Riley,
whose real age is a bit of a mystery all right, but he's at least a
thousand years old in drinking age, and more of a fixture at
Uncle Jimmy's than the stool he's perched on. He leans in conspiratorially
and winks at the girls.
"So?" he says. "What was the result?" Even I move in to hear
the answer.
"The result?" Katie says. "Why, what a way to put it."
"Did the groom flee the scene?" a voice calls from the doorway.
Laughter rolls forth, I must admit, even from me. Ah, but
there's no harm in it, we all love the bride.
"It 'twasn't him that flew out of the church, it 'twas her," another
voice adds. The laughter doubles, and there are a few
cheers, mostly from the women. Katie has her audience now.
Her broad smile is lit from underneath by one of the dozen tea
candles that float the length of the bar like lilies on a pond.
Into the mix slips a young German man. He looks like a student.
He's wearing denim trousers and a striped sweater, and he
has an oversized backpack strapped to him. In his right hand, he
holds a long piece of rope. Just about enough to hang yourself
with. We don't have too many high bridges around these parts,
so students under stress get creative. He stands sideways at the
edge of the bar like a puppy trying to squeeze himself into another's
litter. He orders a pint of Guinness. The chin-wagging
momentarily halts, partly so I can take care of him, partly because
everyone wants to ask him about the fecking rope but
we're all too fecking polite. In addition to his pint, he orders a
shot of whiskey, then another shot of whiskey, then another shot
of whiskey. He drinks them without ever letting go of the rope.
"Woman trouble?" I ask him. When you're holding rope, no
use taking the long way to the point. The young man nods. I
pour him another whiskey. Everyone is looking at him. He has a
square jaw, high cheekbones, and black eyelashes so thick that
even I notice. It looks like two daddy longlegs superglued themselves
just below his bushy eyebrows. His hair is fair and
cropped short, and in the dim light of the pub I can't really tell
what color his eyes are. Dark, I would say they are dark, all
right. Dark eyes for a dark horse. Now that I look at him, I
would've pegged him as a wrist cutter or a jumper. Just goes to
show, you never know, do ye?
"I love Lady Gaga," the German says as if it's just occurred
to him. His voice fills our little pub. He puts his hand over his
heart. "When I see Lady Gaga, everything is all right." I nod and
smile, the two biggest tools of the trade. A tear comes into his
eye—looks like we've got a squaller. Alcohol affects everyone
differently. Some people get in fights, some take off their clothes
and knock boots with strangers, others have a good cry. When it
comes to the ladies, I prefer the ones who like to lose their knickers,
but not as much as I hate seeing a grown man cry.
"Some days, Lady Gaga is the only reason I don't hang myself,"
yer man continues.
"Well, here's another reason for ye," I say, setting another
pint in front of him. I turn to Katie and whisper, "Who's Lady
Gaga?" Katie tells me she's a singer and turns back to the suicidal
student. She starts introducing everyone in the entire pub. It
takes a while, especially when she starts saying where they live
and who their young ones are, and gives a quick update on the
status of their occupations, hobbies, living situations, health, recent
deaths, births, or graduations, and lastly an update on their
romantic entanglements. When she's done the suicidal student
looks all glassy-eyed, blinks his spider lashes slowly, and he tells
us his name is The David. That's how he says it, all right.
"I am The David."
"Boy George thinks Lady Gaga is weird," Sarah says out of
nowhere. Sarah's an avid reader, always has the latest tabloid
clutched in her hand. The David looks stricken. "After one of
his concerts she asked him to sign her vagina," Sarah continues.
"He signed her hat instead."
"Are you on holiday, then?" Siobhan asks the man.
"University," The David said. I knew it, but I keep my gob
shut. A humble man eats more pie.
"Galway?" I ask. The David nods.
"But now I'm thinking of killing myself," he says. None of us
are surprised, but we do a good job of hiding it. Most of us anyway.
Riley is too old to hide anything. He points at the rope.
"I think it's a bit too short to do the job," he says. "If ye like,
I've got a bigger piece that'll do ye."
"D'mind him," Katie says. "We'll sort ye out."
"Cheer up, things will get worse," Siobhan says.
"Just keep thinking of Lady Gaga's vagina," I say. "Shite. I
mean her hat." The David nods, but tightens the grip on his
rope. I don't know what it is, but I'm starting to like this lad.
"Why do you want to kill yourself?" Liz asks.
"He already told us," Anne says. "Woman trouble."
"You think you have woman trouble," Sarah says. "Try
growing up with these five."
"D'mind her," Katie says. "Never give up on love. Ever. Do
you hear? We have a love story that might cheer you up."
"Ah, bollix," Riley says. He bangs his pint on the bar. Beer
sloshes over the edge.
"Mind your pint," I say. "Yer wastin' resources." Riley lowers
his head and hides his face behind his Guinness.
"Which love story are ye on about?" Liz pipes in.
"Is there more than one?" The David asks.
"Depends how you look at it," Liz says. "Right?" Like all
good middle children, she and her fraternal twin, Clare, are
dutiful, exact, and the self-appointed diplomats of the lot. Always
mad to get the details right. In other words, right pains in
the arse.
"I've been married forty-six years," Riley said. "Now that's
love."
"Not when you've spent forty-five of them sitting right here,"
I say. Riley pretends he didn't hear me and turns to The David.
"Would you look after a woman for forty-six years?" Riley
asks.
"I wouldn't look after you for forty-six minutes," Anchor
says. I turn, startled. He's sitting in the mix, drinking his pint,
happy as a clam. He's such a big man, it's hard to figure how
half the time I forget he's there.
"Forty-six years," The David says politely. "What's your secret?"
"Even if you come home intoxicated, always come home
with something for her," Riley says. The David nods.
"The clap doesn't count," Anchor says. I shush him with a
look. You can't let the young lads get too fresh, even if they
aren't so young anymore, and even though Riley's too hard of
hearing to cop on to the slag. I too wonder when the last time
was that Riley brought something home for the missus, but once
again I keep my gob shut.
"Can we get back to our love story, like?" Clare says.
"Better get us another pint, then," Anchor says. He holds up
his glass, which is half-full by my account, but of course when it
comes to the pint, most lads around here say it's half-empty. By
the time he takes his last sup, he'll be expecting a new one. I'm
happy to oblige.
"Get us all one," Anne says.
"I'll just have a mineral," Liz says.
"Good girl," I say.
"Good girl?" Anne says. "She downed seven glasses of champagne
before the bride walked down the aisle."
"Walked the plank is more like it," Sarah says. The girls all
laugh at the same time. I've got to tell you, when they all go at
once, they'd bounce the bubbles out of a glass of champagne. I
can't imagine Ballybeog without the half dozen. Sometimes I
feel lucky just to be in their presence, and I realize there are millions
of people who will never meet these girls, never hear them
laugh at the same time, and I can't help but think, those poor
fucking bastards.
"I only drank six glasses," Liz says when their laughter ebbs.
"The first one never counts."
"I'll drink hers," Sarah says.
"Why are ye all here?" Riley says. He looks bewildered, as if
he's just awoken from a long nap.
"We're waiting for the bride," Clare reminds him. I set down
a fresh round of pints. "From the beginning, pet," I say.
"I just want to drink in peace," Riley says. A collective "Shut
yer gob" rises from behind him. The crowd moves in even
closer. After all, besides the whiskey, and the beer, and the
music, and the games, and the races, and the rain, this is why we
gather. We gather after weddings. We gather after wakes. Saint
Stephen's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, Saturday. Monday through
Friday. Sunday after mass. We come to celebrate. Birthdays.
Births. We come for gossip. We come on rainy days, we come on
sunny days. Cloudy days too, plenty of those. And don't forget
windy days, and calm days, and slightly breezy days. Terrific
storms. The calms before. Squalls. Wives sometimes come to
drag husbands home. A few come to sip tea and listen to the
music. But most of all, we gather for this, the stories. There's
nothing we love more than a good story. And so far, this is not
one of them.
"What're you on about over there?" Mike Murphy, the local
guard (that's police officer to you Yanks) and banjo player, asks.
He's warming up his instrument in his left hand while holding
his pint in his right.
"A love story," The David says.
"Right, right," Murphy says. "Time for our break." He motions
to the rest of the band, and they join our little cluster.
Katie looks at her sisters. "I'm not sure where to start," she says.
"Start where all good love stories begin," Siobhan says.
"Paris?" The David asks.
"Rome?" someone else ventures. "Venice? Las Vegas?"
"No," Siobhan says. "With a good woman and a fucked-up
man."
Chapter Two
The Fucked-up Man
Ronan McBride leaned forward and rested his elbows on his
knees. His right foot continuously tapped the ground, funneling
all the energy in his body through his bouncing leg. He gripped
his cards underneath the table. Across from him, Uncle Joe reclined
in his chair. His right leg was crossed over his left, a cigarette
dangled from the corner of his mouth, and he held his
cards loosely in front of him, like a fan. The friendly game of
poker, five-card draw, was going on its thirteenth hour.
In the beginning there were two tables of ten players. Around
one A.M. it dwindled to one table of ten. As men lost, they
smoked their last cigarette, swallowed the dregs of their pints,
and stayed to watch. Nobody dared go home. Not when Ronan
McBride and his uncle Joe were still at the table. Not when they
could recoup some of their losses by betting on who was going
to take the pot, and certainly not when the pot was up to fifteen
thousand. Ronan was a bigger gambler, but Joe, a businessman
and a teetotaler, was well suited to take him on. It was hard to
believe they were related. Joe ran the general shop next door
and hardly ever set foot in the pub.
In the center of the table, crumpled bills lay on top of each
other like a massive pileup in a rugby game. They were out of
cash and had switched to using bingo chips. It was never supposed
to get up this high—it was five thousand when it came
down to the two of 'em, and Joe was willing to keep the pot as
it was, but Ronan had to push it.
Ronan tossed his faded yellow chip into the pot. "Twenty
thousand," he said. He could feel his mates behind him: a chorus
of shuffles, and grunts, and murmurs. He wanted to yell at
them to shut their pieholes, but he didn't want to give anything
away. He had four aces. Two on the deal, and two more sweet
babies on the draw. It was a sure winner. He almost felt sorry
for his uncle. Not sorry enough to stop. Uncle Joe had never
given him a break, had never given his father a break, argued
with him over the property until the day their da died, and even
after, even at his father's wake, Joe was still onto Ronan to sell
him the pub. He never understood his father's love of the drink,
or the craic, or even the money that could be made from a pub.
Joe gave Jimmy grief over every twig or stone that landed on
his side of the property line. He reported infractions to the
guards every chance he got. His mother thought Uncle Joe had
driven his father straight to the grave. Besides the drinking, and
the smoking, and the fact that he never turned down a good
feed, she was probably right; Joe was the one left standing.
But Ronan would take his father's short, boisterous life over
his uncle's nervous, plodding existence any day. And he had four
aces. No, he wouldn't feel sorry for Joe, not after his crass comments
at his father's wake. He could still feel Joe's arm around
him, his breath stinking of tea. He wouldn't even drink a pint to
the oul fella.
"What are you going to do now, lad?" Joe said at the wake.
Ronan looked at his pint, held it up by way of an answer. "I
mean about the pub," Joe said. "I can take it off your hands."
And then, by God if he didn't start in on turning the pub into a
spa with sunbeds. Sunbeds. At his own brother's wake.
Sunbeds, in fecking Ireland.
That's the beauty of it, Joe said. Pale, sun-deprived, Irish
women would go mental over it. They'd be millionaires. Bally
beog had enough pubs. Uncle Joe had been thinking about this
for a while. He'd purchased one sunbed, and it had been sitting
in the back of his truck for months. Ronan told him he should
just drive it directly to these sun-deprived women, whoever they
were, but Joe said he didn't have the time, and besides, he
needed a place for the sunbeds; one wouldn't make a profit, but
think what he could do with twenty!
Like Ronan was going to let his father's pub become a roasting
pit for the sun-obsessed. If they wanted the sun, they should
move out of fecking Ireland. Besides, sunbeds gave you cancer.
Ronan lit another cigarette and waited for Uncle Joe to react to
his raise. Uncle Joe would take his sweet old time, as always.
Ronan glanced with disgust at the overflowing ashtray. He
smoked too much, he always smoked too many fags when he
played cards. Declan quietly moved in, cleared the empty pint
glasses, and replaced the ashtrays. Thanks be to God, Ronan
didn't want to look at the evidence, not stacked up against Joe's
little cuppa tea.
Four aces. Four aces. Four aces.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Pub Across the Pond
by MARY CARTER
Copyright © 2011 by Mary Carter.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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