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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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C
HAPTER
2
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. Ballybeog 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.
Joe dug in his pockets. He was such a thin man, and he was starting to look old. Was he shrinking? He and his father had never looked alike, his father so tall, so large, so full of life. Like two balloons, only somebody popped Joe and sucked all the air out of him. How was it that he was the one still alive?
Joe took out a set of keys. He was going home. This would all be over. He could probably sense Ronan's unbelievable luck. Four aces. Maybe Ronan had signaled his hand, shaking his damn leg. Well, it was all he could do to contain himself. He was too wrecked to keep up his poker face. He smiled and reached for the pot. Joe's hand slapped over his with surprising force. “Settle,” Joe said. It was the same tone he'd used with Ronan when he was a child. “Settle.” Ronan snatched his hand back and tucked it under his armpit. Joe dangled the keys over the center of the table. They swirled clockwise over the pot like a dousing rod sensing water. The men watching moved in, mesmerized. Once, around, twice around, three times around before they dropped with a clink.
Ronan stared at the keys. He looked at Uncle Joe. Ronan could hear his best friend, Anchor, standing behind him, smacking his lips. Anchor always smacked his lips when he was excited, which is why he was out of the game after the first round.
“What's that now?” Ronan said, pointing to the keys. “Your truck?” Joe's truck was a rusty old thing, not worth piss, even with the sunbed thrown in.
“Keys to the shop,” Joe said.
“Keys to the shop,” Ronan repeated.
“Now you put in the keys to the pub,” Joe said. The lads reacted behind him. They said, “oh man,” and “oh fuck,” and “no fucking way,” and he couldn't tell who was saying what because the loudest voice was inside his head, and it belonged to his father.
Joe's crafty. Did I tell ye about the time he tricked me outta me own shoes?
You did, Da. Many times.
They were new shoes too. I'd only worn 'em one hour. Was sent home from school for walking around in me socks.
Quiet, Da. I have to focus.
Four aces. He had four aces. He had to have him beat. Joe was bluffing, or Joe thought
he
was bluffing. Joe never took Ronan seriously, always thought he was a fuckup, probably couldn't imagine him with pocket aces and two more sweet babies on the draw. You did not fold with four aces. With four aces you owned the table.
Ronan studied his uncle's face. Round, drawn, and lined like a basket. With his stick-thin body and round head, he looked like an aging lollipop. His hair was surprisingly still hanging on, soft curls that had long since turned gray and were in desperate need of a snip. Bushy eyebrows, thin lips, watchful brown eyes underneath heavy spectacles. He always looked slightly drunk—ironic wasn't it, for a teetotaler? He looked relaxed. Too relaxed?
Ronan glanced behind the bar to see if Declan was watching. He was wiping down the bar, as if paying no attention whatsoever.
“Declan?” Ronan called.
“Yes, lad?” Declan didn't look up, but he visibly flushed.
“Toss me the keys, will ye?” Anchor, so named because he had the strength to hold most anything down, clamped his hand down on Ronan's shoulder.
“Roe,” he said. “Don't.” Despite his heft, Anchor was a softy, always looking out for the lads. He worked hard, he played hard, and he'd be the first to arrive and last to leave if you ever needed anything from him. But in this case, Ronan knew he was looking out for his own self. Anchor would go mental if his local pub suddenly morphed into Tan Land. Even if the place was filled with half-naked women. As the old joke went, a gay Irishman was an Irishman who would pick pussy over a pint.
“Throw 'em,” Ronan said. Declan lifted the set of keys from the hook on the back wall and tossed them into the air. Ronan caught them in his left hand without even looking up. Had it not been such a tense moment, that kind of catch would have been cause for a celebration, and a round of shots would've been bought and downed. As it stood they were suddenly sober, and deathly silent. Even their cigarettes seemed to hover in midair. As Ronan gripped the keys to the pub, he and his uncle Joe stared steadily at each other from across the table.
“Wait,” Anchor said. “Just hold on.” Sweat poured into Anchor's goatee. He adjusted his baseball cap, then held both hands out. He took his cap off, wiped his brow with his massive, freckled forearm, then put it back on. “Just hang on here,” Anchor said. He paced a stretch of floor. “This is fecking nuts. We have to have some kind of sit-down.”
“We are sitting down,” Ronan said.
“It's not your game, lad,” Joe said.
“How about a fallback?” Anchor said.
“How's that now?” Joe said.
I have four fucking aces,
Ronan tried to convey with his eyes.
“How about—a hundred thousand euros—within a month—or you get the pub?” Anchor said. “Or shop,” he added with an apologetic glance to Ronan.
“Bollix,” Ronan said. “Leave it be.” Anchor put his hand on Ronan's shoulder and leaned down until his breath wheezed in Ronan's ear.
“I'm giving you a fucking fallback,” he said. “Take it.” Like Ronan would ever be able to raise a hundred thousand euros. He looked at his uncle. Joe smiled; he was thinking the same thing.
Everyone is always underestimating me,
he thought.
Not this time.
“A hundred thousand euros within the month,” Ronan said.
“Or?” Joe said.
“Or my pub is your tanning bed,” Ronan said. The men laughed. This time, Ronan didn't. “You want to give me the same deal?”
“No,” Joe said. “If I lose, you get the shop.”
“Fair enough,” Ronan said. This was crazy. His uncle was losing it. Maybe he was getting demented. Maybe Ronan was taking unfair advantage of an old fella. A straight flush was the only hand in the whole world that could beat four aces. Who wouldn't bet with these odds? If Joe wasn't bluffing, he probably had a high straight at best. Once again, Ronan almost felt sorry for him. But there was no pity in gambling, and they were all getting tired, and it was time to end this. Ronan laid down his cards in one swift smack to the table.
“Four aces,” he said. “Sorry, Joe.” The lads whooped. Anchor cried out, tried to fist-bump Ronan, but caught him in the jaw. Ronan was too psyched to feel the pain. He'd just won Uncle Joe's shop. He didn't even know what he'd do with it, maybe see if his mam or the half dozen wanted to run it. Joe would turn it over all right, just like Ronan would've turned over the pub if he lost. An Irishman always honored his bets, even the foolish ones. Anchor put both hands on Ronan's shoulders and squeezed. It hurt like hell, but Ronan was too happy to yell. But then, something shifted. Uncle Joe fixed Ronan with a look, and instantly Ronan felt as if he'd been hit with a blast of cold air. He even looked down at his shoes, half expecting to see only socks, with holes in the big toe, laughing up at him. Joe smiled. A crafty fecking smile if Ronan ever saw one. Then, one by one, as if serving tea to the queen, Uncle Joe laid his cards on the table. As Ronan said, only one hand in the great game of poker could beat Ronan's four aces. And when Uncle Joe laid his high straight down on the table, Ronan's face wasn't the only thing that was flush.
C
HAPTER
3
O Sacred Heart of Jaysus
It dawned on Ronan, as he sat in his mother's house at the kitchen table where he was reared, that given the choice, he would have rather faced a firing squad. Anchor, who had refused to leave his side since the game went down, sat across from him. Apart from occasional lip smacks, and chairs creaking as the lads shifted in their seats, the house was silent. Mary McBride was still asleep. Ronan hoped it was a good sleep; thanks to him, it could be her last good sleep for the foreseeable future. Despite the renovated living room with fireplace, and the den with a flat-screen television that Ronan built into the wall, and the screened-in porch with soothing rocking chairs, the kitchen was where everyone gravitated, no matter where else they began. It had never struck Ronan until now how white everything was. White walls, white tiled floor, white fridge, white stove, white cabinets. Except for the faded rectangular wood table where he sat, everything else was white. He'd grown up in this kitchen and he'd never really registered the shocking amount of white. It was like a celestial haven, designed to soak in the smells of home cooking and the laughter and chatter of children, and their children, and the occasional friend or neighbor who stopped in for tea. It was the heart of the house, the place where they all ran for comfort. It was fitting, then, to choose this location to break his mother's heart.
If only he could take the night back. Guilt churned in his stomach. But who could blame him? With three aces he would have folded sure, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine anyone folding with four aces—even those who didn't have a bit of gambling in their blood. That was the worst bit. If he had to do it all over, he would have done the same thing. It was a nightmare, the kind you had after too much drink, the kind designed to warn him that he was gambling too much; the waking lesson: Slow down. Was he just dreaming? Unfortunately, the hangover felt real, and Anchor's brooding presence reminded him it was all too real. Maybe he should have done this with a phone call instead.
It was too late to run now. He'd already woken up all six of his sisters, and they were on their way to Ronan's “emergency family meeting.” In his thirty-three years, Ronan had never called an emergency family meeting. That was usually the MO of his mam and his sisters, always wanting to convalesce over some emotional upheaval. Ronan dreaded the family meetings. Five out of six sisters said they'd be there and left it at that, but Siobhan grilled him incessantly. She kept repeating, “What have you done now?” He refused to get into it on the phone. Siobhan would have been the fifth dentist, as in “four out of five dentists recommend.” Siobhan is the one fucking dentist who just can't agree. Emergency family meetings were supposed to be treated like births in the McBride family—it was simply mandatory to show up for them, regardless of what was about to come out.
Anchor looked as if he was going to cry. Ronan only felt numb, although as the minutes ticked by, dread slowly crept in. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, his hands were shaking. He was too hungover for this shit. When would he ever learn? This was it, this was his lesson, and by God he was going to learn it.
A pot of tea, a pitcher of milk, and a bowl of sugar sat in the middle of the table, along with nine porcelain cups on saucers and a pile of little gold spoons. In the “Tea Party from Hell” he was definitely playing the role of the Mad Hatter.
He thought about making a fry, but he knew he'd get sick. They all would. He'd put them through a lot in his lifetime, what with gambling, drinking, women, and the time he almost set fire to the shed, and the time he landed in the slammer at eighteen for drag racing, a stunt that ended with John O'Grady in traction after he smashed head-on into the town wall. And although he got out of it with nothing more than a few broken bones, John O'Grady never drove again; to this day he rode his bicycle everywhere he went. And there were many such incidents over the years to add to the list of dumb things Ronan had done.
But this was by far the dumbest. And there was no time to waste, no avoiding this one; by the time breakfast was being cleared in Ballybeog, everyone would know that Ronan McBride had fucked up once again, and this time he'd lost the family pub.
Ronan curled his fists up and stuck the right one in his mouth. Otherwise he was going to scream. He didn't know who he dreaded facing the most, his mam or the estrogen gang, as he liked to call the half dozen. He'd disappointed them plenty over the years. Disappointed them, angered them, and at times tortured them as only a big brother could. It was still hard to believe they were all grown women now. He still saw them as little girls. Vicious, evil little girls.
He deserved whatever they were going to throw at him. He was a grown man. Grown men should not be risking the family's livelihood in a game of cards. His mother would weep; oh God, he hated it when she cried—especially if he was to blame. She would pray too, she would pray for him, which would make it even worse. Jaysus, he didn't think about kindness. What if they killed him with kindness? Ronan shot up from his seat. The chair squealed on the tile floor.
“I gotta get outta here,” he said. “Will you tell them?” Anchor pointed to the chair like the grim reaper. Ronan knew Anchor would physically restrain him if he tried to leave, nail his ass to the chair if he had to—he was that kind of friend. Ronan fell back into the chair, legs splayed, arms clutching his head. Then slowly, visions of racehorses circled the tracks of his thoughts.
What if he could rake in enough wins on the ponies to pay Joe the hundred thousand? He mentally jotted down names of jockeys and trainers who owed him; he'd call in all his favors, he would get some good tips. His buddy Racehorse Robbie would help him, wouldn't he? The man was a genius, he'd made big money on the ponies. Ronan could do it, he could pool all his resources and with just a little luck—
He was going to do it. This was meant to be. He'd always been afraid to really go for it, flat to the mat, like. Racehorse Robbie knew how to abandon all fears and plunge headfirst into his bets. That was the lesson Ronan needed to learn. How not to be such a chickenshit. This would elevate him from smalltime gambler to the big leagues. This was the lesson he was supposed to learn. Nothing in life was risk-free. Fear was only in the head. From now on, his head would be fearless. He'd get the pub back and then some. He unclenched his fists and took a deep breath. He was starting to feel better. Excited even. This was going to work.
Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to share his plan with the estrogen gang. Somehow he didn't think they would go for gambling as a way to pay off a debt he lost gambling. Women could be weird that way.
Siobhan was the first to arrive even though she lived the farthest away. She was also single and had no young ones of her own to slow her down, nor did it look like she took any time to dress herself. She wore a sweat suit, and her red hair was piled on top of her head, held precariously in place with a pencil. Her freckled face was unmade. She stood in the doorway and glared at Ronan from behind oversized navy spectacles that flared out at the edges like an eyepiece from a masquerade.
“Did somebody die?” she said. “You'd better fucking tell me right now if somebody died.”
“Nobody died,” Ronan said. Siobhan let out a sigh and slammed the door. Ronan winced and looked toward the ceiling. He wasn't ready to see his mother. He wanted to delay it as much as possible. Siobhan dropped her purse on the floor next to the door and shuffled over to the head of the table. Even as a kid, Siobhan was never one for picking up her feet. She looked as if she belonged at a construction site, barking orders, shuffling through sawdust, and looking for the pencil stuck in her hair. It was funny to see her in public; it was the only time Siobhan would actually lift her feet off the ground like a normal person. And it was how Ronan always knew when she had a crush on a boy.
“Tea?” Ronan said.
“What did you do now, Ronan?” Siobhan said. She looked at Anchor. He kept his eyes on the table. “Shit,” Siobhan said. She nodded at Ronan and he poured her a cup of tea. It was strange, the silence. Ronan wasn't used to it. He hated it. The table was always a hub of conversation, mostly the girls chattering away with their mother at the stove, soothed by the smell of a fry while gossip flew around the table faster than Ronan could catch it. Siobhan tapped her foot on the floor. She glanced at the clock above the sink and shook her head.
Katie was the next to arrive. She was dressed as if going out for the evening: heels, a pencil-thin skirt, and a soft lavender sweater adorned with ribbons. Her long honey hair hung in waves around her pretty face. She was wearing lipstick and smiling.
“Howya,” she called. She shut the door quietly, stepped over Siobhan's purse, and threw her arms around Ronan from behind. When she leaned over and kissed both his cheeks, her lilac-scented hair tickled his collarbone. Maybe his mother crying wouldn't be the worst bit; maybe it would be seeing a little bit of the goodness go out of Katie's eyes. Ronan's hands, which had been resting on his knees, curled into fists under the table. She smelled flowery and eternally optimistic.
“Hey, Katie,” he said softly. He wasn't worried about going to hell, he was already in it.
“Hi, Anchor,” she said. “What's the craic?”
“For God sakes, Katie,” Siobhan said, gesturing to Katie's outfit. “Did ye think you were coming to a party?” Katie stood with one hip jutting out and slid her eyes over to her older sister.
“Siobhan,” she said. “Nice glasses.” Ronan poured her a cup of tea. Katie sat next to Ronan and looked at the stove. “Where's Mammy?” she asked. Siobhan and Ronan glanced at the ceiling. Siobhan folded her arms and stared at Ronan.
“Is it good news?” Katie asked. “Or bad?”
“For fuck's sake,” Siobhan said. “Use your eyes, would ye?”
“Maybe he's getting married,” Katie said. “And it's rendered him speechless.” She laughed and winked at Anchor. Anchor tried to smile back but only managed to twitch his lips.
“Good Lord,” Katie said. “Did somebody die?”
“Nobody died,” Ronan said.
“Yet,” Siobhan said.
“Should we wake Mam?” Katie said.
“Let's wait for the rest,” Ronan said. Katie drummed her fingers on the table. Liz, Clare, and Anne were the three with young ones at home, and Sarah was not a morning person. Katie took out her cell phone and set it next to her cup of tea.
“Should I call them?” she asked.
“No,” Ronan said. “They'll be here.”
Liz and Clare, the fraternal twins, lived next door to each other and arrived together. Ronan was relieved that their young ones weren't with them. Although fraternal, the twins still resembled each other. They were heavier than the rest of the girls, although you would hardly call them fat. Voluptuous, Katie called them. Meaty, Ronan called them, but only when he wanted to get slapped. Both had shiny chestnut hair—Clare's still hung to her shoulders, but Liz had recently cut hers in short layers. Clare immediately took her place at the table, but Liz had to go up to each of them and make them feel her hair. For a moment the heavy silence was lifted by compliments and questions about who, when, and where she'd had it done. Ronan simply poured the tea.
“Anne was right behind us,” Liz said. “Hope she makes it before it starts lashing.” Ronan glanced out the window. Indeed, the clouds had moved in, casting dark shadows across the kitchen wall. Maybe it was for the best; it would feel wrong to deliver the news if the sun was shining. It made him think of Joe and the sunbeds that would soon litter the pub like vampire coffins, sucking the lifeblood out of their father's pub.
“Nobody died,” Katie said before the girls could ask. Anne soon emerged struggling under a bag full of groceries. Since no one got up to help, she had to shut the door with her foot. She was envied by the rest of the girls for having the straightest, inkiest hair. When she was little, Ronan used to make her cry by telling her she was adopted and that her real parents must be Orientals. God, he was such a wanker, and not much had changed.
“I swear the wind was going to whisk me away,” she said. “Oh my God, Liz,” she said. “Your hair.” Liz ran up to Anne and made her feel it. Anne put her other hand on her own head, also cut short. “Now we're the twins,” she said. All the girls laughed.
Remember this sound,
Ronan thought;
they aren't going to be laughing for long.
Upstairs, Ronan heard his mother's footsteps. Anne set the groceries on the counter and looked around the table.
“Fuck me pink,” she said as she made her way to the seat where Ronan pointed. “Who died?”
“Nobody,” the girls answered in unison.
“What did you do, Ronan?” Anne said. She stood by her chair but remained standing.
Is that why God gave women bigger hips? So they could put their hands on them and stare at you condescendingly?
“Just sit,” Ronan said. They heard their mother coming down the stairs.
“Ma,” Ronan called out. “Anchor's here.”

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