The Pub Across the Pond (13 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“I see,” Carlene said.
“You've got nothing but a bog in the backyard, did ye know that?”
“I haven't quite had time to check it out,” Carlene said.
“It would cost you a lot of money to fix up that swamp land back there. You're not going to make that kind of money running a pub. Ah, but sure, try it. You'll see what I mean soon enough. When you're ready, give me the digger and I'll know you're wantin' to sell. I'll give you ten thousand euros, and we'll have a solicitor draw up the contract. It's not a fortune, mind you, but you won't get any better offers, I'm tellin' ye. Not with the old bog in the back. Ten thousand euros for twenty American dollars, now that's a beauty of a deal, if you know what I mean.”
“I think it's a beautiful piece of land,” Carlene said. Joe gave her a look that could only be translated as:
You would
.
“Americans. They like the promise of something for nothing, don't they?”
“Thank you for the tea,” Carlene said. “And the clock. But I'm afraid you won't be getting it back.”
“In time,” Joe said as she headed out of the store. “In time.” On her way out, Carlene stopped once again by the young parents, family, and friends, gathered for the christening. They were putting on coats, hugging each other, preparing to leave.
“Please come next door for another toast,” Carlene said. “The first drink is on me.”
“Ah, we couldn't,” the young father said.
“You've been too kind already,” the mother said.
“I insist,” Carlene said.
C
HAPTER
15
Three Black Swans
The next morning, Carlene's first act of business was to hang an Opening Soon sign on her pub. She made it out of a rectangular scrap of wood she found on the back porch, along with a can of red paint. She sat on her little back porch, painting the simple words on the sign, excitement building with each curve of the paintbrush. When was the last time she even worked with paint? Grade school? This felt good, this felt right, maybe they were onto something in elementary school, maybe they should have warned her there would come a day when she would stop painting, and coloring, and cutting out shapes, and she wouldn't even realize how much she needed the simple, creative pleasures in life. Maybe her third-grade teacher should have grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “Never stop doing this, do you understand? Do not stop.” Then for good measure, given her a good shake. It might have scarred her in the short term, but perhaps she would have been a famous artist by now, or at the least, a little bit more in touch with that warm, calm, floating feeling she was experiencing right now, in her slightly damp, woodsy, yeasty, paint-smelling porch.
In addition to simply making her feel good, she hoped the sign would build suspense, garner interest in the change of ownership. She thought about adding the phrase “Under New and Improved Management” just to piss off Ronan, but in the end she decided against it. She honestly didn't know whether Ronan was in cahoots with Joe. She'd seen Ronan's face when they spotted Joe up in the tree, and he'd looked just as surprised as she did. She was going to have to be careful as to whom and what she believed from now on.
The group from the christening the other day weren't big drinkers, but they brought loads of sandwiches in with them and showed Carlene where her teakettle and accoutrements were. It was strange to think that everyone in town knew her pub better than she did, but she found it endearing that they were more than willing to show her the ropes.
She learned the young father was a solicitor and the mother worked in the hair salon in town. James was their first baby. The couple had courted in Joe's shop, which was why they wanted to hold the last bit of the ceremony there. They stayed for several hours, and when they left Carlene was happy to have met new folks, but utterly exhausted. Despite it only being early afternoon, she'd fallen into bed and slept all the way through until this morning.
It was so nice to wake up without a hangover. She hummed as she came down the steps in her pajamas. Riley was sitting on his stool. She broke it to him as gently as he could that she wasn't going to be open for a few days, and when she did open, it would be at three
P.M.
, and not a second earlier. Riley slunk away like a child who was just told that Christmas had been canceled that year. She was going to have to survey the entrances to the pub; obviously, it had been too easy for him to get in.
Carlene made herself a cup of tea. There was something cathartic about encountering a barrage of the new and simple. Filling up an electric kettle, plugging it in, setting up the teacup, spoon, and saucer. When would this no longer be novel and beautiful? When would she simply do it with her eyes closed and forget there was once immense pleasure in watching a tea bag steep in a cup of hot water?
She planned on going to a grocery store later and buying instant coffee. It would have to do until she bought a coffeemaker. She wandered around her pub with her tea, checking every nook and cranny. She felt a little guilty, especially when it came to looking at photographs of smiling strangers. She felt like a voyeur, a stranger who had swooped in on a foreclosed house and taken it over with the previous owner's possessions still sitting where they'd left them, where they'd lost them.
This was not my fault,
she reminded herself. Someone had to win the pub, why not her? She would make the best of it. At least her intentions were good—she wanted to make her pub the best it could be, she wanted to fit in with the locals, she wanted to create a space where people felt welcome.
And she wanted Ronan right by her side, running the pub with her—
She didn't know where that thought came from, and she didn't like it. It was probably guilt, or sexual attraction, or fear of not being able to make it on her own, or loneliness. She did not need Ronan by her side. Although she wouldn't mind looking at him up close every day, learning the nuances of his expressions, unraveling exactly what kind of man he was—
That was enough daydreaming. She had work to do. After finishing the sign, Carlene headed for the stairs with a skip in her step. She stopped dead near the pool table. Lying across it, like a body she thought she'd buried, was the tree branch. Yesterday, Joe had insisted the young father take it with him. By the time they left the pub, they'd apparently forgotten all about it. Either that, or they really didn't want a tree in the wee fella's room. Go figure. She would just have to deal with it later. For now, she wanted to explore the town while there was a break in the rain.
 
It was a grand fresh day, as she'd heard some locals say. The air was indeed crisp, smelling as if it were on the verge of rain.
Carlene loved that smell. She loved the scent of fresh grass and damp earth. Birds chirped and twittered all around her, and she could have sworn that even they had an Irish lilt. She didn't quite have a plan worked out, other than to head down the road toward the main street and take in the sights. Major shopping might have to wait until she had a car, or maybe a wheelbarrow, but she could pick up a few bits and bobs in town. She wanted the folks of Ballybeog to see her face about town, to get used to her as someone who shopped, ate, and waved, like everyone else. She'd show them she wasn't a typical Yank, whatever that was.
Maybe she would buy a new outfit, since she'd brought so little with her. She could even get some new knickers.
Knickers, she'd said knickers. She'd barely been in Ireland and she was already picking up the lingo. Maybe she truly belonged here, although it might take more than saying “grand fresh day” and “knickers” to convince everyone else of that.
Rain boots, she would definitely buy some rain boots, her tennis shoes weren't going to cut it. What did they call those boots? Wellies! Wellies and grand fresh knickers.
She waved to the cows and sheep in the fields, she waved to the farmer hauling pails out of his barn, she waved at a car whizzing by. The cows and sheep simply stared, the farmer lifted his head in a nod, and the driver honked. She was happy. Even the stones at her feet were exotic and new. She'd grown up across from a gravel pit in Ohio, and she'd never once found the stones exotic. Here in Ireland, everything was nicer than she'd ever known. She wanted to touch everything, memorize everything, love everything. Like the sky with its slapped-up patches of blue and gray, the purple flowers spilling over the hedges on the side of the road, and the miles and miles of limestone walls that bordered the rolling fields.
It was a pleasant walk and soon she was nearing the arched entrance to Main Street. Bally Gate, as she remembered from her reading—the only one of the four original gates that remained of the walled town. Did the folks who lived here know how lucky they were? How cool this was? Would her countrymen have torn down the soaring stone gate and replaced it with McDonald's? Yellow arches for a stone arch? She hoped not, but it was a shameful possibility.
Passing through the gate, Carlene marveled at the history contained within its walls. They were the same stones that stood during the Norman invasion, and Cromwell, and the Black and Tans, and the potato famine, and yet here it was, still standing. She could touch it, feel its history beneath her fingertips, caress the wet, historic stone. She moved down the street, thrilled to be there, happy just to walk about and see the shops up close. Just ahead, she spotted Nancy's Café. She was starving, and maybe she could get a cup of coffee. Just like at Joe's, a little bell tinkled as she entered the café. She wondered if she should get a bell for the pub. If nothing else, she should put a bell on Riley.
It was a cozy, two-room restaurant with yellow and brick walls, a smooth stone floor, and a fireplace in the front room. The open kitchen ran the length of the back wall. In front of it, pastry cases beckoned with cakes, pies, and scones. She smelled bacon, eggs, and fresh bread, and by God—was that coffee?
There, on the back wall, sat a cappuccino machine. Carlene heard angels sing. Almost every table in the place was full. There were young couples, and families with children, and babies, and old people. They were chatting, reading newspapers, and eating from heaping plates of food. Many looked up and smiled when she walked in, others paid her no mind. Carlene squeezed into a small table by the fireplace. Within seconds, a young woman with a long, dark ponytail approached. She grinned ear to ear, handed Carlene a menu, and put her hand on her shoulder.
“How ya,” she said. “I know who you are. I was hoping to meet you. I'm Nancy.”
“Nancy?” Carlene said. “As in—this is your place?”
“This is my place, sure,” Nancy said. “How are you settling in? The weather's been miserable for you, sure. I hope everything is treating you all right, and if you've any questions at all I'd be happy to answer them.”
“Can I get a cappuccino?” Carlene asked, still suspecting it was some kind of trick.
“No bother a't'all,” Nancy said.
“Make it two, please,” Carlene said.
“No bother 'at'all,” Nancy said. Carlene also ordered a scone with fresh cream and strawberries, to which Nancy said, “no bother a't'all.” The cappuccinos were heaven. Carlene ordered a third to go, and invited Nancy to pop into the pub sometime, to which Nancy responded, “I will, yeah. No bother a't'all.”
When she was finished, and caffeinated, and full, Nancy suggested Carlene take a walk to the ruined Franciscan abbey just outside of town. Carlene intended on doing just that.
“Mind yourself, now,” Nancy said. Carlene smiled and thanked her, and felt an irrational stab of jealousy. Now, that girl was nice. Genuinely nice. She had nice coming out of her pores. She probably didn't have an inner critic judging everyone around her, and there was definitely sugar in the sugar jars. She was pretty too. Was Nancy single? Did Ronan fancy her? If not, why not? She was cute, bubbly, and friendly, ran her own business, and was full-blooded Irish. Not some wannabe, but the genuine article.
Maybe Nancy was madly in love with someone else. She hoped so. But even if Nancy wasn't in love with Ronan, surely some woman in town was? Why was she thinking like that, why did she even care? She had plenty to do—and fix, starting with her front door.
She'd stop into a hardware store and ask if there were any handymen about who could fix it. And she would send Joe the bill.
She would have to call her father soon too, let him know she was all right. She'd have to get the phone working in the pub first, along with the cable for the television. There was so much to do, but she looked forward to it all. This was how she felt when she'd rented her first studio apartment, when even going out to buy Windex felt like an adventure.
As Carlene made her way down the street, she made a point of waving to everyone she saw. She rarely beat them to it; usually they waved and said hello first. Just ahead, a boy soared toward her on a bicycle. He had a round face and chubby red cheeks, and behind him loomed the town castle. She held the image in her head, wanting to capture it forever.
She passed a small stone house. In the windowsill sat a pair of porcelain dogs. They looked at her with cocked heads, floppy ears, pink tongues, and big painted brown eyes. She passed pubs that were open and pubs that had been long closed. She passed the butcher, the bookmakers, and the bank. The town was a blend of medieval and modern, and somehow it all just fit.
Carlene took a right on the street where Nancy told her to turn. Just look for Dally's Lounge, Undertaker, and Pub. It was easy to find the pub; Carlene remembered pointing it out to Ronan on her way into town. The sign for Dally's hung sideways at the top of the building, a circular wooden painting of an older gentleman with a handlebar mustache, holding a pint of ale. Dally's, Carlene thought. A good place to drink and die.
Across from Dally's was another string of small stone houses. Above the middle one hung a simple wooden sign that said: MUSEUM. She would have to check it out later. Here the street came to a dead end in front of an open field. In the distance, the old Franciscan abbey sprawled the length of a football field. She only had to walk over a small wooden bridge and down a short stone path to get to the abbey. First, she crossed over to the little museum. She tried the door, but it was locked. She peered into the little window but was unable to make out anything other than dark, lumpy shapes in the small room. She would have to come back later. Carlene was about to cross the field to the abbey when it started to rain. It was just a light mist, and Carlene figured she might as well take a quick look around, then she'd definitely be off to buy her wellies.
 
Carlene paused on the wooden bridge and looked down at the shallow river. Farther downstream, a white-and-brown horse drank from the muddy banks. He was tall, his legs taut and stretched, sinewy muscles reflexively contracting and relaxing, neck proud and long. A thing of beauty, but too thin; his ribs stuck out like a broken accordion. She would have guessed he was wild, but a thin rope connected him to a nearby stake. Carlene wanted to go to him. Free him, feed him, touch his soft nose, feel his fleshy lips tickle the palm of her hand. But this wasn't her country, and he wasn't her horse. She had a constant sensation of being watched, of invisible boundaries, which, if she crossed, she would be banned, she would remain forever not one of them.

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