An Early Wake (4 page)

But. The real question, now taking shape for Maura, was: could Sullivan’s make money, if she could bring the music back?

She knew up front that she couldn’t do it herself. She’d need help, since she knew next to nothing about current music, at least beyond the big names. She wasn’t sure if whatever pub license she had would cover live performances. She’d have to check legal capacity. She’d have to see what advertising would cost and if it even reached the right people.

But could it work? It was something to think about, but she had to shelve it then as another group of men came in. Mick left around ten, and Maura and Jimmy closed up the place after eleven, as the last patrons scattered into the night. “You go on home, Jimmy,” Maura said. She wasn’t just being generous: she wanted a little time alone in the place.

Jimmy grabbed his jacket and left quickly, with a “ta” on his way out the door. Maura finished rinsing glasses and cleaning the tables, then swept the floor. Then she looked at the long room, parallel to the road. The walls were dark, as was the battered, mismatched furniture. Of course, when the place was full, none of that showed. She wandered toward the back room and paused in the doorway, listening. For what? The ghosts of long-gone musicians? In the murky light from the weak lightbulbs, the empty room looked sad and shabby. Again she tried to imagine it packed wall to wall with bodies, moving to whatever beat the band generated. It wasn’t easy. The rock face at the rear was cold, and she’d been told that when it rained it got pretty damp back here. To be honest, the place just didn’t look all that impressive. So what had drawn so many musicians to it? Maybe the acoustics were spectacular. “Hello?” she said tentatively, feeling foolish. Her voice echoed hardly at all. With a sigh she turned off the lights, locked up, and walked out to where she’d parked her car.

T
he papers she’d left scattered on her table on Thursday didn’t look any more appealing to Maura the next morning, and she had no new insights to add. If she was lucky, the pub was breaking even, with maybe a bit left over. But the slow season was looming, and there wasn’t much to be done about that. Unless . . .

Maura knew a little bit about the traditional side of Irish music, as she’d told Billy. With Boston’s Irish population, it was hard to avoid. She didn’t particularly like it; she’d always found it kind of sloppy sentimental or sad. Lots of dying and mourning—or being betrayed by a fair maiden. Not really her thing. Nor were the endless celebrations of battles bravely fought and almost always lost. Had the Irish ever won a battle?

Once she was dressed, she stuck her nose out the front door and found the temperature cool but not unpleasantly so. She pulled on a sweater and stepped out. Walking to the end of the lane, she saw Mick’s car parked in front of Bridget’s house and didn’t want to intrude, so she turned around and walked toward the other end, where the lane petered out in a farmyard with the abandoned house and a barn that housed mostly hay. She listened to the birds in the hedgerow on the other side: they were still busy. The cattle in the field off to her right looked up with mild curiosity and, when she didn’t offer them any food or entertainment, went back to cropping the still-green grass. As a born-and-bred city girl, Maura was still surprised by how loud a group of cows tearing and chomping could be. There were maybe fifteen cows in the field, and she idly wondered how many cows it took to make a herd. Was this enough? They were black and white, a pretty contrast to the mostly green landscape, but Maura had no idea what breed they were.

Someday, Maura thought, she should introduce herself to her other neighbors, beyond Bridget and these cows. There
were
other people living nearby who occupied nice houses that had been built when the Celtic Tiger was briefly thriving, although uphill the new houses alternated with older houses, now abandoned. Some of those looked to be in decent shape, like hers, while others had been left to fall to pieces, like the one directly next door.
Why is nobody living on this farm?
Maura had trouble imagining people just walking away from a perfectly good house in the country, although she knew that even in cities like Boston it happened quite a bit. But those places were usually owned by absentee landlords, who refused either to pay taxes and manage them or to give them up to the city (which probably didn’t have the money to do anything with them anyway). She sighed. Maybe she should ask Bridget for the history of the hill.

Maura figured she might as well head for the pub, and when she pulled up in front of Sullivan’s, Tim Reilly was already there, leaning against the wall next to the door, hands stuffed in his pockets. He straightened up when he saw her. “I didn’t know what time you opened,” he called out when she opened the car door.

“It kind of changes day to day,” Maura said. “Technically it’s ten thirty, but we don’t always follow that if there are no customers. Usually we’re open before twelve, at least, during the week.”

“I can go away and come back later, if I’m in the way,” he volunteered.

“You don’t have to do that—I’m happy to have company. I can offer you coffee, but nothing to eat,” she reminded him.

“You don’t do food here?” Tim asked.

“Not at the moment. The former owner didn’t, and I haven’t changed much since I took over. There’s a kitchen behind the bar, but I hear from other people who are doing it that it’s a real pain to meet all the European Union regulations these days, so I haven’t done anything about it.” Maura got the door unlocked and pushed it open. “Come on in.”

Tim followed her into the empty pub. “Thank you. When will Billy be in?”

“Whenever he decides to come in. He lives at the other end of the building, so he doesn’t have far to come. But he knows that you’ll be waiting for him, so I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Plus Maura suspected Billy knew Tim would be good for at least another pint or two. Did Tim have the cash to keep Billy—or anyone else he might interview—supplied with Guinness?

“I like yer paintings,” Tim said, pointing to the large ones that flanked the fireplace.

Maura went around turning on lights, and then she figured she might as well start the fire, take the edge off the room after a cool night. “They’re done by a local artist who lives nearby. You might see her in here if you’re around for a bit longer.”

While Maura stacked turf in the fireplace, Tim wandered around the room, peering at the photos and flyers and even a few posters tacked or stapled or taped to the walls—growing more and more excited as he went. “Do you know what you have here?”

“You mean, all that stuff? Not a clue.”

“This is amazing! It’s like a history of music for the last few decades, all jumbled up with tourist shots and sporting events and who knows what. You mind if I take some photos?” He reached out a reverent hand to touch one of the posters, as if to make sure it was real.

“Knock yourself out. Maybe when you’re done, you can tell me who some of those people are—the ones on the posters, I mean. Do you have a schedule for this project of yours?”

Tim sat on a bar stool and continued to look around, his mobile in his hand. “Did you say something about coffee? As for the schedule, this is kind of an exploratory trip, you know? I mean, I didn’t know what I’d find here, if anything at all. All I had to go on were some comments from people, and I’ve seen a couple of references to this place here—Sullivan’s—in the newspaper archives. I kept finding not big articles or profiles, but more like a mention here or there in a music mag that folded ten years ago, that kind of thing. The name Sullivan’s popped up often enough that I got curious, and I thought I’d come see for myself. Now, even though me ma was raised near here, I’d never been to Cork, and I couldn’t figure how this out-of-the-way spot could pull in big names, since it looked kind of an unlikely spot for a music mecca, doesn’t it? Sorry—I don’t mean to offend you.”

“I know it’s a dump, but apparently that’s the way some of my customers like it,” Maura said as she set a cup of coffee in front of him. “I’ve been taking it slow, because I’m afraid if I change anything I’ll drive away what few I have, and I need every one of them.”

“You haven’t been here long?” Tim asked.

“I told you, barely six months, which is why I don’t know anything about what you’re looking for. I haven’t even looked hard at that back room, because we’ve never had a big enough crowd to need it.”

“It must’ve been grand back in the day,” Tim said dreamily, looking past her without seeing.

“Why are you so interested?” Maura asked, making herself a cup of coffee as well. “You said your mother came from Clonakilty? That’s not far.”

“Yeah, but once she got to Dublin she never looked back. She’s got no family left there.”

“Was Sullivan’s unusual, or were there places like this all over Ireland? That brought in musicians, I mean—I know there are plenty of places to drink and talk.”

“Ah, that’s the real question, Maura. And that’s what I want to understand. You have to remember how far back our traditions in music go, along with our poetry. We were often a people who were afraid to commit words to paper, even if we could write, so we committed the words to memory instead, and we passed them on. We’re a nation of poets, or bards, if you will, and that may be why the old forms have persisted, even in modern rock music. You must have heard enough of it to know that.”

“Okay, I get that, Tim, but you didn’t really answer the question: what made
this
place special?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I want to talk to the people who were part of it, because maybe they can explain how it all happened. Or maybe we’ll never know. But it did happen.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

“Ah, don’t worry yerself—there’ll be plenty who were around back then. Billy’s a grand man fer the stories.” He turned eagerly as Rose came in. Maura noted that Rose was wearing a sweater that she’d never seen before—for Tim?

“Good morning, Tim,” Rose said brightly. “Did you find the hostel all right?”

“I did, and they fixed me up for a bed,” he said.

Something in his tone made Rose look more sharply at him. “Is it not to yer liking, then?”

He shrugged. “I’m in a room with three Norwegian guys who seem to have visited every pub in Skibbereen yesterday. Even asleep they were loud.”

“I’m sorry if I steered you wrong. Maura, do you know anyplace else Tim might find a space?”

“The hostel’s all right,” Tim hurried to assure her—Maura assumed because he didn’t have the money for anything better. Even if he hadn’t been a complete stranger, she couldn’t exactly offer to let him stay with her, since she hadn’t done a thing with the tiny second bedroom upstairs—the sprung bed in there looked older than either of them—and she only had Old Mick’s battered easy chairs downstairs, not even a sofa.

“Maybe Mrs. Keohane could take him in,” Rose said to Maura eagerly. “Will it be fer long, Tim?”

The Keohanes’ place was a good suggestion, Maura thought. Ellen Keohane, who lived across the road, let a couple of rooms, although it wasn’t exactly a B&B. Maura had stayed there when she’d first arrived in Leap.

“Through the weekend, at least,” Tim said. “Depends who I can find to talk to. But don’t put yourselves out for me.”

“Won’t hurt to go over and see if the Keohanes have space for you,” Maura said. “Do you have your stuff with you?”

“I do. I was afraid to leave it lyin’ about in that room, and there isn’t much anyways.”

There wasn’t a customer in sight, although it was still early. Tim kept bouncing from foot to foot, uncertain about what to do, where to go. Maura decided for him. “All right, let’s go talk to Ellen Keohane now and get one thing done. Rose, can you cover?”

Rose looked at Tim but said, “Right so, Maura. I’ll be here.”

“Tim, let’s go.” Maura resisted the urge to take him by the hand and lead him across the street. Not that it was necessary: she could see only one car on the road, a half mile away. The traffic wouldn’t pick up for another half hour at least, when people started in on their lunch errands.

“Where is it we’re going?” Tim asked.

Maura pointed across the road. “The Keohanes live down below, on the harbor—you can’t really see the house from here. They’re nice people. Oh, they do have kids, if that’s a problem.”

“Not at all.”

They turned down the driveway that descended toward the Keohane house. At the front door Maura rapped, and a harried Ellen opened it. “And a good morning to you, Maura. How are yeh? Sorry I haven’t stopped by, but the wee ones keep me busy.”

“I’m great, Ellen. Look, I have a favor to ask. This is Tim Reilly.” Maura nudged him forward. “He’s a student from Dublin and he’s here for a few days. I wondered if you had a room free for him? If it’s no trouble.”

Ellen smiled warmly at him. “Ah, sure, not a problem. We don’t get much in the way of visitors once the summer’s over, and truth be told, I don’t go looking for them, what with the children and all keeping me busy. But yer welcome to stay, Tim. Will you be here long?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Keohane,” Tim said politely. “Only a few days, I think. I’m doing research for university, and I’m not sure how much I’ll find. But this would be great, right across from the pub.”

“Then we’re fixed. Maura, I’ve got a women’s club meeting at the church, while the babes are in school. Tim, you can stop by later and I’ll give you the tour of the place and a key, if that suits?”

“That’s great, thank you.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” Maura added. “Stop by the pub if you can—I’ve put in a new coffee machine.”

“Grand! See yeh.”

Ellen shut the door with a smile, and Maura turned to Tim. “There, that’s one thing taken care of. Let’s go back and see if Billy has arrived.”