The Pub Across the Pond (17 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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It was as if she read her mind. Sally leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly, which meant she was now speaking in a normal tone of voice instead of shouting. “There's only one thing in this town I haven't bedazzled yet,” she said. “But I'm working on that one, if you know what I mean.” Oh, Carlene was pretty sure she knew what she meant. And she certainly knew
whom
she meant. There was a synergy that existed between women who loved the same man, a connection you could feel, like dread, in the pit of your stomach. Carlene felt the urge to flee, and an equal urge to stay and glean everything she could about Sally.
“Are you sure you need an axe to get rid of this two-legged rat?” Sally said. “How about I give you a pair of heavy work boots and you just kick him up the arse? I could even bedazzle the boot for ye.”
“As tempting as that sounds,” Carlene said. “I'd better stick to the list.” A burly man in overalls, carrying a large ladder, tried to pass unseen behind Sally. He would have had plenty of room had she just moved up a smidge. Instead, Sally turned on him.
“Can't you see I'm standing here, so?” she said. The man halted, blushed.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Yes, you are,” Sally said. “Didn't you know it's bad luck to pass behind a lady with a ladder?”
“I thought it was the other way around,” the man said. “It's not bad luck if the ladder is passing you, it's bad luck if you're passing under the ladder. In the first case—”
“I know what you're on about, I just don't want to be taking any chances, so,” Sally said. She put her hands on her hips and stared until the man finally began to back up with the ladder, taking the long way around instead.
“That's me father,” Sally said when he was gone. “I swear I'm going mental in this place. Let's go get you an axe, so,” she said.
Carlene bought an axe, paint, nails, screws, and hinges. She also bought kitty litter, cat food, and a cat bed. Despite her earlier proclamation, Joe didn't deserve her business.
Sally efficiently rang her up and insulted at least three more male customers while helping Carlene. They all apologized.
“You should come work for me,” Carlene said.
“Where's that, lad?” Sally said. They stared at each other. Carlene figured Sally knew exactly who she was, but she played along anyway.
“Uncle Jimmy's Pub,” she said.
“Ah, right, right,” Sally said. She took off her apron and screamed for her father. He poked his head around the corner, as if afraid to show his entire body. “This is me two minutes' notice,” Sally said. Her father looked at his watch, then raised his hand and nodded. Sally stood there for another minute, then threw her apron across the room. “Right, so, lad,” Sally said. “Let's go.”
C
HAPTER
20
Bewitched, Bothered, and Bedazzled
You should come work for me.
It was a joke, a flippant remark. It came with an implied
ha-ha!
Although Sally had a little silver car, so at least Carlene didn't have to pay for a taxi. Now here they were, standing in the pub, Ronan's mouth absolutely agape, Sally shooing Riley out of the pub with a broom. Ronan looked at Carlene, looked at Sally, looked at Carlene. She shrugged. What was she to say
? I didn't really hire her, but I'm deathly afraid of her so here's our new barmaid?
Carlene didn't even know if she even had enough to pay her. Sally came back into the bar shaking out the broom. Carlene glanced at Riley's empty bar stool.
“I didn't mind him here early,” Carlene said. “He must be so lonely.”
“So's the missus,” Sally said.
“Riley's married?” Carlene said.
“Forty-something years,” Sally said.
“You've heard him go on about the wife, haven't you?” Anchor said.
“I always thought he was joking around,” Carlene said. “My God. His poor wife.”
“Don't you go feeling sorry for everyone,” Sally said. “She's probably thrilled to bits to have him out of her hair. Pub widows spend a lot of time whining, but once their fellas are back in the house, they don't know what to do with them. It's not long before they're begging them to go back to the pub.” Carlene didn't comment. Personally, she would hate being married to a man who was always off to the pub. But it was such an ingrained part of the culture here. And American men often stayed late at the office or the gym, or were glued to the television, or secretly watched hundreds of hours of porn on the Internet. At least at the pub there was human interaction.
There were jokes, laughter, music, and conversation. True, sometimes she could feel her brain cells being picked off one by one, but other days the conversations were just as brilliant as she imagined back in Paris in coffeehouses in the twenties where great minds solved the world's problems on a lazy Sunday afternoon over cups of tea, or coffee, or buckets of absinthe.
“I just wonder why the wives never come,” Carlene said. “Or any women at all, for that matter.”
“Oh, that's just because the women here don't like you,” Sally said. It was said with such frankness, almost friendliness, that Carlene wasn't sure she heard her correctly at first.
“I'm sorry,” Carlene said. “What?”
“Carlene?” Ronan said. “Would you like to come over and help me hold this door?”
“I'll do it,” Sally said. She was there in a flash. And if Carlene wasn't mistaken, she'd unbuttoned the top few buttons of her work shirt. She stood as close to Ronan as she could get; the top of her head barely came to his chin.
“They don't even know me,” Carlene said. “How can they hate me?”
“You're American,” Sally said. “They wonder why you'd want to come over here and try to take what's ours when you live in the land of plenty.” The candy, Good & Plenty, in its hideous pink, purple, white, and black rectangular box floated through Carlene's mind. She caught Ronan's eye, and he shook his head slightly.
“Somebody had to win the pub,” Carlene said. “I'm so sick of being blamed for this.” Was she going to cry? Were there actually tears coming to her eyes? And what was this girl doing here, standing underneath Ronan, all unbuttoned? Carlene didn't want to stare, but she was pretty sure Sally had crystals glued to her cleavage. “It wasn't my decision to raffle the pub off to Yanks,” Carlene said. “And by the way—we're not all that bad.”
“I'm just trying to answer your question, pet,” Sally said. “Give you the overall picture.”
“Thank you, Sally, you can move now,” Ronan said.
“The half dozen like me,” Carlene said. “Well, four of them, anyway.”
“Which two don't like you?” Ronan said. Oh, why did she open her mouth again? She hadn't meant to start on any of this.
“The door looks beautiful,” Carlene said.
“Which two?” Ronan said.
“I was just kidding.”
“Which two?”
“The twins, okay?”
“Liz and Clare?”
“It's nothing,” Carlene said. “Maybe I misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood what?” Ronan said.
“It's just that—I ran into them at the abbey the other day.”
“And?”
“Did you hear that?” Sally said. “The abbey.” She gave Ronan a look. The kind of look you share with a lover over an inside joke. Ronan, Carlene noticed, didn't seem to engage in it. Despite her own feelings for Ronan, Carlene almost felt sorry for Sally. It was painful, watching her throw herself at him. She could definitely use a little American advice à la
He's Just Not That Into You,
but Carlene kept her mouth shut.
“Carlene, I'm not going to ask you again,” Ronan said. “What did the twins do?”
“Seriously, Ronan,” Carlene said. “Nothing, really. I just got the feeling they didn't want me around here.”
“Told you,” Sally said.
“I'll speak with them,” Ronan said.
“No,” Carlene said. “That will only make it worse. It will make me look like I can't stand up for myself.”
“They're my sisters,” Ronan said. “It's me they should be giving out to.”
“I agree,” Carlene said. “But please, just drop it. For me?” The minute Carlene said it, Sally's head snapped toward her. Carlene didn't dare glance in her direction. Ronan gave Carlene a nod and turned back to the door. Anchor and Eoin stood back from the door and gestured. Ronan opened and closed it. It squeaked.
“Bollix,” Ronan said.
“I love it,” Carlene said.
“It squeaks,” Ronan said. “We'll fix it.”
“No,” Carlene said. “I love it. It's better than a bell.”
 
After putting in her new door, the lads didn't hang around long. Carlene even offered them a pint, but they all had somewhere else to be. It startled Carlene; she'd almost stopped seeing them as people who had lives outside of her bar. And was Ronan really just going to disappear on her again? What about the little flirtation from earlier? The hurried, whispered, “I'll get back to you on that”? Get back to her when?
Sally, that's what happened to it. Did Ronan know that Carlene knew that Sally was in love with him? Did he think she'd personally hired his stalker?
Sally touched everything behind the bar, rubbed her hands against every surface, as if sizing up what could fall victim to her Bedazzle Me. None of them, was the answer, now Carlene just had to bring herself to say it out loud. Carlene went to the back counter and picked up the one photograph in the bar that belonged to her. It was taken the night of her welcoming party, with her and the half dozen. They were all smiling at Carlene, had their arms around her. She knew she was being slightly childish and should just let the subject drop, but she couldn't. She thrust the picture at Sally.
“See,” she said. “They threw me a party. They wanted this picture with me. I really, really think the half dozen like me.” At least four of them. “They were so friendly,” Carlene added.
“Ah, pet,” Sally said. “Irish women will always be friendly to you. It doesn't mean they like you. This was their pub. Their livelihood. Do you think they wanted to lose it overnight? In a poker game? I'll tell ye how much they like you. They like you slightly more than a tanning bed, that's how much they like you.”
“Oh,” Carlene said. She grabbed a rag and cleaning polish. She set upon the bar, wiping it down in a circular motion, counting as she did. Stranger yet, she had an urge to go in the backyard and pace. She suddenly missed her father. She wanted him there. Even if it meant putting on rubber gloves. She would happily spend the next eight hours silently scrubbing by his side. She would pace the bog without complaining. At home, sometimes she made a game out of their pacing. She'd listen to the sounds of the neighborhood, those you would only hear at two
A.M.
Crickets. The breeze through the trees. Cars going by, their shoes swishing in unison in the soft grass. They could have made an Olympic event out of it; synchronized pacing.
She missed the gym too. Shirtless, muscular, sweaty men with towels thrown over their shoulders, sweat dripping down their backs, squeaks and grunts, and punches, and big smiles for her. She missed Becca and their weekly glasses of wine, their daily coffees. She was missing out on little Shane. He was probably head of the swim team by now.
A punching bag. She needed her own punching bag, she needed to start doing her workout again. Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain. Maybe it wasn't healthy, all this rain. The next time the sun was out, no matter what she was doing, she was going to drop everything and go outside. Maybe she would fix up the little back porch. She would definitely fix up the little back porch. Why hadn't she thought of this before? She would get rid of all the junk, maybe put a few plants and some nice patio furniture out there. She would offer wine, just like Rebecca suggested, and she would put up a swear jar. Every time anyone cursed, they would have to put a euro in the jar. She'd use the proceeds at the end of the month to buy something nice for the pub. If it was true, if no one liked her anyway, she might as well start taking charge, really making the place uniquely hers.
“Are you okay?” Sally said. There was a lot of wood in the pub. Carlene was going to polish all of it. She was going to put on music, and she was going to enjoy the hell out of the regulars who came in tonight, because the women of Ballybeog might not like her, but the men certainly did. Maybe, for once, she would even dress sexy tonight. Maybe she would bedazzle her cleavage. The kitten jumped up and rubbed against Carlene as she polished.
“No, kitty,” Carlene said. “This isn't good for you.” Sally, who was flipping through a magazine and filing her nails, swooped over and picked up the kitten.
“Aren't you a luv,” Sally said. She planted kisses all over it. Carlene hated to admit it, but she was jealous. It was her cat, her pub. “What's its name?” Sally said.
“I don't know yet,” Carlene said.
“Midnight.”
“No.”
“Blackie.”
“No.”
“Smokey.”
“No.”
“Slinky.”
“No.”
“Guinness.”
“Definitely not.”
“Jaysus,” Sally said. “I think it's a form of abuse to let this wee thing go around not knowing his own name.”
“Her own name.”
“It's a girl?” Sally turned the poor kitten upside down. “How can ye tell? No willy?”
“It's a girl,” Carlene said. “And she likes me.”
Sally pointed her finger at Carlene. “You've got some kind of naming phobia, don't you?” she said.
“What?” Carlene said.
“You haven't named the kitten, and you haven't named the pub either,” Sally said.
“Named the pub?”
“You don't exactly look like an Uncle Jimmy to me,” Sally said.
Named the pub. Carlene hadn't even thought of that. She could change the name. Could she? Well, why not? It was her pub. Why did she constantly have to remind herself that it was really her pub? Carlene looked at the kitten.
“Gypsy,” Carlene said.
“Are you joking me?” Sally said. “Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's bad luck to name your cat after a knacker,” Sally said.
“A knacker?”
“Knackers, gypsies, tinkers, you know who I mean, like? The travelers? They live in the caravans on the road. Stay away from them.”
“Why?”
“Because they're dirty, stinking whores.”
“Oh.” Carlene had heard this reaction to the “travelers” before. A definite bias existed, and it kind of made her cringe, just like whenever the lads jingled their change in their hands and asked her if she had a jar to donate to the black babies, even though it was said without a trace of prejudice. It was, Sally said, just what they'd always called them.
“They don't like us either,” Sally said. “They keep to themselves, they steal, they stink.”
“I heard you the first time,” Carlene said. “I don't know anything about them.”
“Well, you don't want to be naming your cat after them, that's for sure.” Carlene didn't answer. At least she had goals now. Clean out the back porch and make a nice outdoor seating area, name the kitten, and name the pub. Her pub.

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