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Authors: Mary Carter

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BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“Ah right,” his mother called from the other room. “Hello, hello. I'll just get changed and I'll make you lads a fry.” They listened to her hurry back up the stairs, where she would change out of her robe and into clothes worthy of a guest.
“Maybe I should let you at it,” Anchor said. He rose halfway. Ronan motioned him back down.
“Stay,” Ronan said. “Somebody's going to have to carry out my dead body.”
Siobhan's hand shot up. “I'll do it,” she said.
“Ronan,” Katie said. “You're scaring me.”
“Just call Sarah,” Ronan said.
 
Siobhan gave up her seat so that Mary McBride could sit at the head of the table. They were all there, including Sarah, who looked as if she'd literally been dragged from bed. Her hair was tucked into a baseball cap and there were smudges of mascara under her eyes. Mary fussed with the bun on top of her head, her once-lush brunette hair streaked with gray. She was plump like the twins, but still had a youthful look about her, a softness cultivated by years of service to her family. She was not comfortable sitting; it was torture for her not to whip out the frying pans and start cooking, and she had not expected to find all seven of her children, and Anchor, waiting at the table.
She looked at each of them, then crossed herself. She grabbed the hands nearest to her, which happened to be Anchor's and Sarah's.
“Sacred heart of Jesus,” she said with her head bowed. “Who died?”
“The pub, Ma,” Ronan said. “I killed the pub.” Mary looked at her son and tilted her head. She patted a few loose strands of hair. She glanced at the stove. Siobhan shot out of her chair, smacked her hands on the table, and leaned into Ronan.
“What are you on about?” she said. “Did ye set fire to it or what?”
“O sacred heart of Jaysus,” Mary said, crossing herself again. “Is anyone hurt? Just tell me nobody is hurt.”
“Nobody is hurt, Ma,” Ronan said.
“All right. Let's just breathe. We're insured. I know your father made sure we were covered against everything, even acts of God—”
“Ronan is not an act of God,” Siobhan said.
“I didn't set the pub on fire, Ma,” Ronan said.
“Oh, thanks be to Jesus,” Mary said. She stood up. “Should I start the fry?” Anne took her mother's hand and gently pulled her back down.
“What did you do, Ronan?” Siobhan said. She stood, crossed her arms, and glared at him.
“I played a game of cards,” Ronan said. Mary sighed; she'd made her views on gambling very clear.
“And?” Siobhan said.
“Siobhan, would you sit down and let him speak, like?” Sarah said. Siobhan shook her head, but sat.
“I had four fucking aces,” Ronan said. “Do you know how good that is?”
“Language,” Mary said.
“It was down to me and Uncle Joe,” Ronan said.
“Oh, this has got to be good,” Anne said. “You lost, did ye? And now—what? We're going to have to put one of his fecking sunbeds in the pub?”
“Is that it?” Katie said. “I wouldn't mind trying it out myself.”
“You're close,” Ronan said. “But it's not that simple.”
“He put the pub into the pot and he lost,” Anchor said. All heads jerked to Anchor. He put his hand up.
“Sorry, lad,” Anchor said. “But this is getting fucking painful.” He glanced at Mary McBride. “Pardon my language,” he said, tipping his baseball cap.
“He put the pub into the pot,” Mary McBride said slowly. She looked to her daughters to interpret.
“You what?” Clare said. “What is he on about?”
“I had four aces,” Ronan said.
“But Joe had a royal flush,” Anchor said.
“I don't understand a single word you lads are saying,” Mary McBride said.
“He's saying that at some point in the evening, your drunken son ran out of dough. So instead of calling it quits—like a normal human being—he bet the pub. Our pub, our da's pub, now belongs to Uncle Joe, who quick as you can say Tan Land is going to turn it into our worst nightmare. Is that about it, like?” Siobhan said. She was on her feet again, hands raised to the heavens. Anchor nodded, but nobody was looking at him.
“Siobhan, don't be ridiculous,” Mary said.
“I didn't start it,” Ronan said. “Joe threw in the keys to the shop—then said, ‘Now you throw in the keys to the pub.' ”
“I knew it,” Siobhan said. She began to shuffle-pace across the kitchen floor. “I bloody well knew it.”
“Uncle Joe tried to raise you and you took the bait?” Sarah said. “Don't you remember Da telling us about his shoes?”
“I had four aces,” Ronan said.
“Oh my God,” Liz and Clare said in unison.
“O sacred heart of Jesus,” Mary McBride said while crossing herself.
“I don't fucking believe you,” Siobhan said. “Come over here. Let me punch you.”
“Siobhan,” Mary said.
“Don't worry, Ma, each of us will get a turn, but I jest have to have the first crack.”
“We are not going to punch him,” Sarah said.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Ronan said.
“Anchor has bigger hands. Give him a good old wallop for us, will you?” Sarah said. “And don't hold back, lad.” Anchor looked around the table. He looked at his fist. He looked at Ronan's face.
“Everybody wait,” Ronan said. He screeched out of his chair and threw his hands up, just in case Anchor snuck in with a sucker punch. “Don't get your knickers in a twist. There's a fallback.” Anchor's head bobbed up and down. He pointed at himself with his thumb and looked around the table with a big grin. Only Katie returned it.
“Well, let's have it,” Liz and Clare said at the same time.
“We have a month,” Ronan said. “To come up with a hundred thousand.”
“A hundred thousand what, luv?” Mary said. One by one, her children looked at her and kept looking at her. Finally, Siobhan rubbed her fingers together in the international sign for money until the light dawned. Mary's delicate hands flew up to her mouth. “O sacred heart of Jesus,” she said. This time, the McBrides crossed themselves en masse.
C
HAPTER
4
One More Chance
After two weeks of keeping his promise, the third Sunday Ronan was barely on time for morning mass at Saint Bridget's. He didn't intend on breaking the promise, exactly, but the past two weeks he'd learned his lesson. Too early and his mother would launch herself on him and drag him to her pew, front and center. Too late and Father Duggan would actually stop the sermon, fold his Bible against his ample stomach, and wait for Ronan to settle in.
“Glad you could join us,” Father Duggan would shout. “God loves all of us, even those for whom time is as arbitrary and flexible as a sinner's universe.” (Ronan had worked out that Father Duggan's God must be extremely hard of hearing, for he always shouted rather than spoke, something that was totally unnecessary given the incredible acoustics of the church, the bounce and the echo that followed his voice.) Then Father Duggan would thrust his Bible-wielding hand heavenward, while the entire congregation watched Ronan, as if expecting lightning to strike at any moment. The first time this happened, Ronan grinned and waved. This elicited a sermon the likes of which he'd never seen. From his mammy. He wouldn't dare do it again.
Ronan darted in, stuck two fingers in the holy water, crossed himself, and knelt. He had no problem with praying. Lately, he'd been doing little else. Today, he needed it more than ever. He finally had a couple of good tips on a gigi, straight from the jockey's mouth. There was a chance, however small, that he could win big. Big enough to pay off his debt to Uncle Joe. If there was ever a time to pray, this was it.
Ronan made the mistake of looking up and catching his mother's eye. There she sat, in the front row, motioning frantically for him to join her, her arm turning like a windmill. When she failed to elicit his reaction, she patted her bun, eternally searching it for escaping brown and white strands. Even after five years, it was so strange to see her sitting there without his father. She looked smaller with him gone, shrunken. Or maybe Ronan had done that to her. Wherever his father was, Ronan hoped there was whiskey; if he was looking down on them, he would need it.
Liz, Clare, Katie, and Anne sat with their mother. Siobhan and Sarah were probably sleeping. No rest for the wicked. But wicked or not, they were his flesh and blood. Which is why Ronan had to fix this. If his horse came through—he was 25 to 1—Ronan would have enough to tide Joe over. He was a long shot all right, but Racehorse Robbie assured Ronan his beauty of a horse was going to send serious shock waves through the Killarney Races. And Racehorse Robbie didn't take these things lightly; he'd made millions on his horses over the years. Furthermore, Ronan still had the Galway Races coming up—there was time, and there was hope.
In the meantime, Uncle Joe was already measuring the floor space in the pub, plotting where he would put his tanning beds. Ronan wasn't going to let that happen. He'd chain himself to the front door first. Of course, Joe would just go in through the back, but the point was, he was not going to let it happen. Not now, not ever. Ronan headed to his usual pew, situated in the very back row.
He was known as one of the “Last in Lads” aka “the Back Pew Boys.” He and his mates sat in a cluster, so close to the back they were practically out the door. As Ronan tried to squeeze himself in, Anchor elbowed him in the gut and Eoin gave him a soft kick with his dirty work boot. Seven lads in all with barely enough room for their elbows and knees.
Ronan crossed himself and looked heavenward.
Please, Big Guy. I know I fucked up big-time.
He tried to think of something else to say, something more convincing, but he was distracted by the pitched ceiling. It was in disrepair. Its imperfection stood out only because its surroundings were so gorgeous. Hundreds of years old, soaring steeple, grand stained glass, and polished wood. Father Duggan asked Ronan if he would organize some lads to repair the ceiling. Ronan said of course he would.
That was over a year ago. He still intended on fixing it, but his prayer would've gone down easier if only it was done already. It was cracked, and it leaked. Ronan intended on fixing the crack and replacing the damaged wood, but he'd leave a tiny bit of the leak, just the part above the stained glass window, since there were folks who only came to church after a hard rain, just to see the Virgin Mary cry. Eoin shifted and stepped on Ronan's toe. Eejit. Who wore work boots to mass?
Speaking of work, he couldn't just sit there, he had to nail down his bets on the races. Ronan stood as if to stretch, jumped over Eoin's extended leg, and bolted out the door before Father Duggan had uttered a single word of his Sunday sermon.
 
The fastest way to the pub was through Paul Keals's field. An escape route—that was Ronan's definition of religious freedom. Paul had warned Ronan not to cut through his property, plenty of times. But he wasn't doing any harm, aside from spooking a few barnyard animals. He jumped the teetering wood fence separating Saint Bridget's from the Kealses' property and skirted along the edge. His boots instantly sank into the ground, weighing them down with muck.
Sheep stood in an awkward clump in the middle of the field like teenagers at their first dance. “Baaa,” Ronan yelled as he clomped past. “Baaa!” That felt good. Nonplussed, the sheep blinked and chewed. God, what an existence. See, things could be worse. He could be one of those poor bastards with nothing but wool between his ears. Farther up the field horses stood grazing and lifting their long muscular legs to adjust or scratch. If he had a choice, Ronan would much rather be a horse. Those beauties could at least race. His heartbeat picked up at the thought of the horse “guaranteed to send shock waves” through the Killarney Races.
If only he could be there in person, standing next to the fence as the horses flew by, screaming his brains out, touching the horse that won him his pub back. He'd withdrawn every penny from his bank account to put down on the pretty pony. He was on his way to pick up some cabbage from the till at the pub too, every euro of which he'd replace. He wasn't trying to hide it from his mother or the half dozen, but he couldn't take the chance that they would get all preachy or freaked out and try to stop him. He had to lay down some serious dough on the horse—it was the only way he'd make enough to appease Joe. As long as he got close to a hundred thousand euros, Joe would have to take it. Listen to reason. Why did Anchor say a hundred thousand? Why didn't he say fifty thousand? What if Joe would have taken fifty? It was too late now, too fucking late, and he knew he had no one to blame but himself. Although it did make him feel a little better to share a tad of the blame with Anchor.
He'd watch the races at the pub. It would be good luck. He'd pop into the pub, get the dough, go to the bookmakers, place his bet, then come back to the pub to watch his horse cross the finish line first. If he stopped thinking and started running, he should have just enough time.
Today was the day, it had to be the day, he could feel it. He neared the Kealses' cow, a beast so old, her teats so saggy and wrinkly, if she was still making milk, it probably came out curdled. For luck, Ronan gave the old biddy a light slap on the ass as he passed. It was impossible to take life too seriously when you were slapping a cow on the ass.
The cow bellowed and gave him a look that shamed him to the core. Come on, he'd barely touched her, what was this? It was like Paul had trained the cow to hate him. Sure enough, here came Paul Keals lumbering toward him in tight pants and oversized wellies, shaking his veined fist, large face crimson with rage. Ronan did not have time for melodramatic cows or angry farmers. Paul Keals was another teetotaler in town, so Ronan's usual backup—an offer of a free pint—wouldn't help him out in this case.
“Aw, now, it was just a little love smack,” Ronan said. “More like a tap. Love tap. Kind of in between a tap and a very affectionate smack.” He threw up his hands. “She's all right, lad.” He gave the cow a look, urging her to back him up on this one, tell her master she liked a little smack on the ass now and then. Instead, the cow bellowed again and turned her chocolate swimming-pool eyes on Paul. Women. Drama queens, every last one of 'em.
“You bollix you,” Paul screamed. “I told you never to set foot on me property again.”
“On my way,” Ronan said. He didn't run; he walked backward as fast as he could without looking like he was afraid of Paul or his damn cow.
“Off to the pub, are ye?” Paul said. “On a Sunday no less. While your dear sweet ma is praying to God, you'll be praying to the pint.”
“I didn't see you in mass,” Ronan said. “Unless your congregation is a bunch of sheep.” Oh, why didn't he just shut his trap? He didn't have time to antagonize anyone today, nor could he afford the negative karma. Positive thoughts, positive thoughts, positive thoughts. Paul was just too easy to poke. And this was all because Ronan had never gotten around to fixing Paul's fence like he promised.
“I'll get to your fence next week, Mr. Keals,” Ronan said. God, he felt like a right eejit. Like he was back in school sucking up to Sister Ellen.
“Like hell you will,” Paul said. “Next time I catch you on me property, I'll tie you down and let the old cow have her way with you, I will.”
“Aw now, Mr. Keals, I appreciate the offer, but I'm not attracted to your missus in that way.” Oh, why, why, why did he do it? He just couldn't keep his mouth shut. He liked Mrs. Keals too. Who wouldn't like a gal who'd put up with the likes of yer one for all these years?
Ah, impulse control, not your strong point,
Ronan said to himself.
Ronan stared at the old fella's ears as if expecting smoke to pour out of them. He waved and tipped an imaginary hat to the cow. “Apologies, ma'am,” he said. He bowed. Paul Keals lurched forward. At first, Ronan thought the old fella was having a heart attack. Then Paul started to run. After him. The old guy was actually going to chase him down. Ronan almost stood there, willing to take whatever the old man wanted to do to him, but then he remembered he had a bet to place. So he ran.
So much for looking casual. He sprinted full on down the field with Paul Keals clomping behind him in his wellies. Just ahead of him, plopped in the middle of the field for no foreseeable reason, was a large rock. The kind you could sit on and have a nice picnic if you didn't mind the smell of cow shit with your chips and ham-and-cheese sandwich. Ronan saw it a second too late. He jumped it, caught his foot on the tip of the rock, and landed face-first in wet cow dung. Even with his ears to the ground, he could hear Paul Keals having a right old belly laugh.
Ronan stood, brushed himself off as best he could, and, chin up, headed for the road, as if cow shit on his face didn't bother him at all. He wasn't going to give the old man the satisfaction. He stepped out onto the road. He heard the roar of an engine and turned toward it. A blur of yellow, churning, belching metal was hurtling straight for him. It was Anchor on his tractor. He'd engineered it himself, doctoring it with a racing engine. Nobody believed it until they saw it, but Anchor could get that beast up to seventy miles an hour. Right now it seemed as if it were aiming for ninety. A blast of wind whipped up as the tractor sped by, unleashing a mini-tornado of dirt, pebbles, and glass from the road, pelting Ronan as he dove for the ditch. The tractor slowed, then idled beside him. Ronan looked up; Anchor was all teeth.
“I'm flying it,” he yelled. He flashed him the horns. Anchor, a heavy-metalhead, always flashed the horns. Back of the hand out, index and pinky fingers up. Then, without offering Ronan a ride, he zoomed off again. Ronan put his head back in the ditch and pounded it softly against the ground. Maybe, just maybe, he should have stayed in church a little longer.
 
By the time he saw Galway Bay shimmering in the distance, Ronan felt like a new man. The sight of the bay never failed to soothe him. It was like the perfect pint of Guinness: dark at the bottom, buoyant in the middle, topped off with a nice, frothy head. Ronan pulled his racing card out and whistled a tune. Looking at the names of the ponies made him feel alive. He loved the little flip in his stomach, the tingle in his spine; he even loved the sweat that broke out on the back of his neck when he placed a bet. If he thought about it, in some ways this pre-bet feeling was even better than winning. Winning was grand too, winning was riding the crest of a wave, but still, there was something about the glorious thought of winning that he experienced before every bet, no matter if he won or lost, that raised his betting life to a near-spiritual level.
The lingering promise of—this could be it. This could be the one that changed his life. If he won big on this, he would change. He would. He would stop gambling altogether. Just one big win to carry him home. He would save the pub, pay off Uncle Joe, fix the ceiling in the church, mend fences, literally, with yer one, and maybe, just maybe think about settling down. He couldn't live above the pub forever, could he?
He had a tip that was “guaranteed to send shock waves through the Killarney Races.” Howards End. Heard it from Racehorse Robbie himself: This young horse was going to go nuclear on the track.
This is it, Ronan, you're a right eejit if you don't listen to me on this one, take everything you've got, I mean fecking everything because this horse is going to be talked about for the next two hundred and fifty fucking years.
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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