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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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C
HAPTER
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 at 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: U
NCLE
J
OE'S
G
ROCERIES
. 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: U
NCLE
J
IMMY'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.
C
HAPTER
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, B
ÁILE
B
ÉAG
, 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 it 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.
“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 suddenly 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.

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