The Pub Across the Pond (11 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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C
HAPTER
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: S
UPPORT
Y
OUR
L
OCAL
B
ARTENDER
. 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?”
“Bookies,” Anchor said.
“Same old ding-dong,” Eoin said.
“So, how ye keeping?” Collin asked.
“I'm keeping . . . well,” Carlene said.
For someone who just woke up, is wearing the same clothes she wore last night, and hasn't even had a cup of coffee yet
. “Although I have a lot to learn,” she said.
Like how to keep men from sneaking in before dawn and starting without me.
“We'll teach you,” Riley said. “Let's see you pour a pint of Guinness.” His gravel voice carried the weight of cigarettes and bricks. The men straightened up respectfully as Carlene took a pint glass and held it under the tap. She couldn't remember if Declan had pushed it or pulled it. She pushed it. A collective groan rose from the bar. Carlene stopped. She kept the pint glass under the spout and pulled the lever instead. The men erupted in disgust.
“Start fresh,” Collin said.
“Rinse the glass out, for feck's sake,” Riley said.
“Somebody play some tunes, this is going to take a while,” Ciaran said.
“Tunes?” Carlene said. “I have tunes?” Collin pointed. There, behind the battered pool table, was a jukebox. The discovery filled her with unexpected joy. Her pub. Her customers. Her tunes. From now on her life would be filled with surprises, and music. And men who liked to drink at eight o'clock in the morning.
“You think we'd come to a pub that doesn't have tunes, Yank?” Anchor said. “We have motorcars, petrol, electricity, and Facebook too,” he added.
“D'mind him,” Ciaran said. “His Irish charm takes about twelve pints to kick in.” Carlene glanced at Anchor. “That's twelve pints into you, lass, not him,” Ciaran added. Anchor laughed. He threw his head back and kept laughing. It was a laugh fit for a man of his size. So infectious, she had to laugh too.
“Focus on the Guinness,” Billy said from the tree. “Become one with the pint.”
“Don't mind him,” Eoin said, jerking his thumb over to Billy. “We'll throw him out with the branch.” Collin held up the plug to the jukebox.
“Drumroll,” he said. The men pounded their hands on the bar. Collin plugged it in and stood back. It didn't light up. He shook it. He kicked it. “Dead,” he said. “Add that to the list.”
“Now you can't drown out our shite talk,” Eoin said. Collin punched the jukebox again. Carlene wondered if she should tell him not to do that, but she wanted to keep the few customers she had. She leaned in and whispered to Eoin.
“How old is he?”
“Drinking age in Ireland is eighteen, luv,” Collin called from across the bar.
“Sorry,” Carlene said. Wow, the young ones had really good hearing.
“But he's only sixteen,” Ciaran said. Carlene must have look stricken, for they all laughed.
“Fuck off,” Collin said.
“I second that,” Billy said.
“They're nineteen and twenty,” Ciaran said. “But some pubs let 'em in even younger than that.”
“Am I going to die here waiting for that pint?” Riley said. Carlene turned her attention back to the Guinness tap. The men shouted instructions, and she followed along like a game of Paddy Says.
Pull the lever. Tilt the glass. Easy does it. Now you have to stop pouring halfway, put the pint glass down, and let it settle. That's right, ease up now. Put the pint down. Walk away from the pint. Busy yourself with the customers, but keep one eye on it. Never let a man's glass get empty. Take yer top off if you'd like. You don't even need to ask, just throw down a second one when there's only half left in the first one. Now go back to yer pint. Fill it until there's about this much head at the top. Billy, would ye stop laughing every time somebody says “head”? No, that's a pope's head. No, that's a bishop's head. That's right, you want a priest's head. So do a lot of other people around the world right now, but we won't get into dat now, will we? Speaking of which, will you be wanting mass times?

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