Authors: Mary Carter

The Pub Across the Pond (2 page)

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond

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May good luck be your friend in whatever you do, and may trouble be always a stranger to you.

âIrish Blessings quote

The only sure thing about luck is that it will change.

âBret Harte

Just tell yourself, Duckie, you're really quite lucky!

âDr. Seuss

If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities.

âMaya Angelou

Luck is believing you're lucky.

âTennessee Williams

Luck never gives; it only lends.

âSwedish proverb

My luck is getting worse and worse. Last night, for instance, I was mugged by a Quaker.

âWoody Allen

I'm an American girl looking for a REAL Irish guy. Must come with an accent. I'm a fun girl! Facebook me!

American woman looking for a well-off STABLE Irish guy who just wants to go out for a laugh. No crazies, married, or “separated.”

PLEASE COME FROM IRELAND AND NOTHING TOO PERVERTED. Thanks!

I'm an American lassie looking for the stereotypical movie romance. Please have an Irish accent, be under 40 years old, and don't send me any pictures of your cock-a-doodle-doo. Here's your chance to sweep me off my feet.

Looking for my Irish Prince Charming but tired of kissing drunk frogs. . . .

I've always had a fascination with Irish men. I don't know if it's the accent or what, but I've always had a soft spot. HOWEVER, no drinkers, gamblers, cheaters, or redheads. May overlook ONE of the above if you can Riverdance.

That's right, I am American and I love Irish men! I came on here hoping to find an Irish dude for love, friendship, pen pals? Whatever works for you! I plan on visiting Ireland, you can count on that. So, c'mon guys, hit me up! Bonus points if you play the banjo.

I'm American and would love to explore the Emerald Isle with a charming Irishman.

I am a hopeless romantic and the boys here are not exactly cutting it.

I would love to meet a true man, one that I can trust and give my undivided love to. One that I would cross oceans to be with. . . .

Also I love the accents. . . .

I am sick of the States, sick of the people here. They have no culture, no passion, no sense of being. I am three-quarters Irish and love it there in Ireland, love the Irish men, and would love to meet a few. I am looking to move to Ireland in the next couple of years after I get my divorce.

Looking for my “Sunrise and Sunset”???

I would like to find my sunset and sunrise. Partly cloudy okay too. R u out there somewhere?

P
ROLOGUE

Declan
The Greatest Love Story Ever Told in Ballybeog

It was the greatest love story ever told in Ballybeog when everyone was drunk but nobody wanted to go home and all other great love stories had been told.

Name's Declan, but I'll answer to most anything as long as yer thirsty and polite, and in that order. Ah, say nothin' until you hear more. I've been a publican at Uncle Jimmy's going on twenty years now. Most days it's good ole craic, but sometimes when you're a publican, you've gotta be a bags. I wasn't sure Carlene Rivers, the Yankee Doodle Dandy who won the pub, had that in her. She had sweet written all over her, and I hate to say it, but girls like that always seem to attract the wrong kind of lads. I've seen many a sweet lass get the guy of her dreams, only to watch him turn into her worst nightmare. Over time their men belly up to the bar more than they do the bedroom. Because the Irish men who “do” usually don't hang around here. And Ronan McBride was no exception.

Nobody thought the lad would ever settle down. There are three kinds of Irish men: those who do, those who don't, and those who say they might but probably won't. Ronan McBride was the latter. He was thirty-three years of age but still hadn't worked out his boyish ways. I don't know why nature makes those marriage-phobic men so alluring to the womenâa course, no one would disagree that he was the best-looking man in the family, and I'm not just saying that because he was the only man in the family. His father, James McBride (or Uncle Jimmy, as he was known around here), had passed, God rest his soul, leaving Ronan, his mother, and six sisters to run the McBride family pub. In heavenly retrospect, I bet James wishes he would've just left the pub to the girls; it would have been an insult to his only and eldest son, all right, but as I said, sometimes when you're a publican, you've gotta be a bags.

As the song goes, Ronan was a rambler and a gambler, although he was never a long way from home. I can't tell you what it was that made the birds go absolutely mental over him, except he was over six feet and had all his hair. Let's just say he had his pick of chickens in our little town, not to mention a hen or two who would've liked to sink their beaks into him.

But it was Carlene who got folks to whispering that maybe, just maybe, our terminal bachelor might mend his wayward ways. There was something in the air whenever those two were in the same room. A bit of a spark you might say, especially when they were arguing. Yep, things certainly hummed when they lit into each other, and for anyone watching it was great craic. Although we worried about Sally Collins, of courseâshe'd been absolutely lovesick over that boy her entire life. Still, it did me good to see that beautiful Yankee bird come into town and shake up his world, and my money was on her from the beginning.

But despite cheering the lass on, I understood Ronan's terror. For some, there's nothing more frightening than love, except maybe running out of ale. I was like him meself, one of the Irish men who don't. And let me tell you, many are the nights when I've regretted it. Cold, long, rainy nights when I'm lying in bed and I close my eyes and some skirt that I chased when I was a younger lad comes skipping into my dream, all pretty, bouncy, and smelling nice, only to start giving me shit for letting her go.

Worse than the terrors, those dreams. I've known Ronan since he was a squaller, and I didn't want him to make the same mistakes I did. I used to say, “What's for you, won't pass you,” but I know it's a lie. I let them pass me. I always thought there'd be more time.

I'm in me seventies now, and it's probably too late for me. I'm a scrawny-looking thing with black wire glasses and I've a tuft of silver bird nest sitting on me head, but I've been told I still have a right nice smile (even if they're not all me original teeth), and believe it when I tell ye I got me share of tiddlywinks back in the day. I'm not much over 5'5”âwhich I read in some touristy-type book is average for an Irishman. The average Irishman, according to this book, is 5'5”, drinks four cups of tea a day, has 1.85 kids, and spends three euros a day on alcohol. I don't know where the writer of these so-called facts was getting his information, but it sure wasn't here, 'cuz some of our lads spend five euros an
hour
on the black stuff. That's a pint of Guinness for you blow-ins.

To make a long story short, I'm just your average Joe Soap. I make up for it in other departments, if you know what I mean. Ah, but this story isn't about me or my regrets, so I hope you can put away all lurid thoughts of my national endowments. If you want to take that matter up on a one-to-one basis, and it goes without saying that you have to be a good-looking bird, then you can Facebook me. I didn't join the fecking thing until the pub went up for raffle in America, but now that I'm on it, I reckon I might as well make the most of it. On that note, if anyone has an extra goat to give away, I'm on that farming game and I can't seem to get a fecking goat no matter what I do, so send me one, so, if you please.

To make a long story short, we were a nice, quiet town until that fecking raffle went viral. That means a lot of people on the Internet saw it. The tickets were sold in Irish festivals all over America, and they went for twenty dollars apiece. Everyone and their mother wanted to win a pub in Ireland. And if Carlene's mother looks anything like her daughter, I would've gone for a mother-daughter combo, but the Young Yank came on her own. And in the wink of an eye, our quiet little town weren't so quiet n'more.

Situated on the West Coast of Ireland, we're nestled on the edge of Galway Bay. We might be small, but we're mighty. Close enough to Galway City we only need to follow the scent of heather and lager along the coast to lay our fingers on her thriving pulse, but tucked far enough away that until that fecking raffle, we didn't get too many blow-ins.

We'll call our little village Ballybeog, or, in Irish, BÃ¡ile BÃ©ag, which means “Little Center.” I picked it because it sounds pleasant and Irish-y and because nobody in their right minds wants me to use its real name. Not out of shame, mind you, but for fear of being overrun by Americans like what happened in Dingle when the dolphin showed up. Nothing can ruin a sweet little village faster than a gaggle of Americans tracking down their “Irish roots” with their iPhones and dodgy laminated diagrams of supposed family trees.

Regardless, everyone will be treated as if they're welcome at the McBride family pub. This is the place to be. Drink away your troubles, catch up with the locals, watch a horse race, listen to traditional Irish music, play a game of pool, or darts, or cards, and see how much better life treats ye after a nice pint. Or two. Or twelve. Nobody keeps count except the Americans. Right now the place is jammers. We're waiting on a bride. So let me tend to my other customers now, but doncha worry. I'll check back to see how you're doing or freshen your pint. And if you get half a mind to be neighborly, don't forget to send me a fecking goat.

C
HAPTER
1

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 colorâcornflake, strawberry blond, dirty blondâit'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 eyeâlooks 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.”

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond

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