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Authors: Mary Carter

The Pub Across the Pond (21 page)

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“Of course,” Carlene said.
“Would ye like a cup of tea?” If there was ever a time she should refuse a cup of tea in Ireland, now would be the time, for if there was ever the sort of Irish person who needed every drop of sustenance for herself, it was this woman.
“I'd love a cup of tea,” Carlene lied.
The tea was bland, a perfect accompaniment to the audio presentation. Carlene drank and listened to the monotone recorded voice for forty-five excruciating minutes. “Thank you,” Carlene said the second it ended. “I'd better be going.”
“It's souterrains you're interested in, is it?” the woman said.
“Souterrains?”
“Underground caves, passages, shelters,” the woman said.
“Yes,” Carlene said. “You've heard of such things?”
“Of course I have,” the woman said. “Ireland has a wealth of mysterious places underground. Some of the caves date back to the Bronze Age. But most of the structures are man-made. Nobody knows exactly why, or even when some of them were built. Some say they're more recent—bomb shelters built by the IRA, but others say the IRA simply found these underground structures already built. Which could mean they were made by the Vikings, or the Normans. Others think they date much later in time and were simply constructed during the famine as cold storage to preserve food.”
“Wow,” Carlene said. “Are there a lot of them?”
“I had a book somewhere,” the woman said. She moved over to the desk. Carlene couldn't help but notice that she almost floated instead of walked, as if she were so light she was carried by the air. She glanced around at the desk, then looked at the ceiling. Carlene looked at the ceiling. It was a very low ceiling. In fact, she was starting to feel claustrophobic, as if they were already in an underground structure. “It's probably up there,” the woman said, continuing to stare at the ceiling.
“Oh,” Carlene said. “I don't see anything.” Nothing could have prepared Carlene for the shock of the woman's laugh. It wasn't exactly a warm sound, but Carlene didn't think her capable of it nonetheless. The woman walked over to the farthest wall and pointed out a small string hanging from the ceiling.
“There's a storage space up there,” the woman said. “But it will take me a while to go through it.”
“No problem,” Carlene said. “Maybe if you come across it, you can drop it into the pub.”
And I'll feed you a hundred cheese toasties
.
“I've never touched an alkie holic drink in me life,” the woman said.
“I can give you a mug of tea,” Carlene said.
And a hundred fucking cheese toasties.
“I'll let ye know,” the woman said.
“Please do,” Carlene said. “I'm really anxious to read the book.”
“And why would that be?” the woman asked. Carlene was surprised by her bluntness.
“I'm having a trivia night at the pub,” Carlene said. “I'm hoping to stump them with unusual questions about the landscape of Ireland.” The minute it was out of her mouth, Carlene knew she had to do it. The lads would love a trivia night, and it was the perfect cover to ask a million questions.
“I see,” the woman said. “I'll have a look for it, then.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Carlene said. The woman smiled, although it never reached her eyes.
“Mind yourself,” the woman said as Carlene went out the door.
Eat something,
Carlene thought.
“You too,” she said instead.
C
HAPTER
24
Trivial Matters
Dear Becca,
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Of course I haven't drowned in the Irish rain, nor am I “sinking into a bottle.” And no, I don't need any of my buddies in the gym to come and kick some Irish ass, but thanks for the offer. I've just been very busy. Yes, still loving the bar business. Congratulations, that's wonderful news about Shane, I had no idea there was such a thing as Baby Menses.
Love,
Carlene
P.S. How's my dad? Have you seen him? Talked to him? It's been so hard to get him on the phone!
 
 
Dear Carlene,
It's Baby Mensa, not Menses. Obviously you were never a candidate, ha-ha! Sorry to nitpick, but I just can't have you going around saying that! I don't know what to say about your dad, I think he's kind of lost without you.
Love,
Becca
Riley was in a chatty mood. Apparently, he'd recently come across a Scottish man in a kilt, although where or when, Carlene couldn't quite understand. Riley was slurring his words more than usual lately, even before finishing his first drink. “They have to have drawers under them kilts,” he said. “What if they're going over a hill and there's a big wind?” Carlene nodded in agreement. She did a lot of nodding and smiling these days.
She still hadn't seen Ronan, but she wasn't obsessing over him. She visited the underground passage almost daily. She'd yet to make it more than a few feet into it. Every time she tried to crawl farther, she was absolutely seized by a feeling of terror. Was that how her father felt most of the time? Terrified? Was that the demon he tried to chase by counting, and pacing, and preparing? The next time she talked to him, she would bring it up, see if they could talk through their fears. She would tell him she loved him, try to get him to commit to a visit. She really wanted him to come for Christmas, even though he'd mentioned her coming to Ohio to celebrate. She felt guilty, but there was no way she was going to miss her first Christmas in Bally-beog. She still had a few months to work on him.
Even Sally seemed in good form lately. She had dropped all veiled threats about Ronan. And, as usual, the regulars were—well, regular, and always good company. Things were changing too. Carlene had booked a trad band for Sundays as well as instituted quiz night on Thursdays. Last Thursday had been the first one, and although it was just a small group, as predicted, the lads loved it.
They were good at trivia, and competed passionately for the prize—Carlene would rip up the bar tab of the winning team. In addition to tidbits from local newspapers, Carlene collected the trivia questions from an Irish pub way down south in County Kerry. They posted their past quiz night questions on their website for free. Geography, sports, history, music, and Dumb Things Americans Do were their favorite topics. Carlene always asked the questions; it was a surefire way of getting out of answering them. Even so, some of the boys found ways to dig at her, especially Anchor, who was a whiz at geography.
“Carlene wouldn't want to answer that question,” he'd say. “It involves Asia. We know Americans don't learn about the world in school.”
“And you did?” Carlene said.
“Try me.”
“What's the capital of Ohio?”
“
World
geography,” Anchor said.
“Wrong,” Carlene said. “It's Columbus.” And then, because she couldn't think of any world geography questions to stump him with, she moved on to the next round of questions. “Which has the highest mountain: Earth or Mars?” Carlene blanched. She didn't even know Mars had a mountain. Although she would have guessed Mars anyway, because that's what you do when you're faced with such a question, you pick the most outlandish answer, and she was right, of course the answer was Mars. She had to come all the way to Ireland to learn there was a mountain on Mars. Damn her American education! The next question, thanks to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, she would have gotten right. Who was the Godfather of Soul?
“James Brown,” all the lads shouted at once, disgusted at her for such an easy question. The third one was also a winner. Thanks to his sexcapades, Carlene knew Tiger Woods's real name was Eldrick. “Which country is bordered by both the Atlantic and Indian oceans?” Both teams wrote the answer easily. Carlene silently cursed her American upbringing. A slew of geography questions followed, and she felt smaller with each one. Which country had eight of the ten highest mountains, which area in the Pacific means “many islands,” which country beginning with a “T” has a shoreline on the Andaman Sea?
Sometimes she knew the trivia questions when they didn't. “On which street did Bert and Ernie live?” Stares all around. “Sesame Street!” She said it with great snobbery, pride, and one of those little fist pumps she'd often see golfers do after a great shot. Danny knew Elvis died in 1977. Carlene learned it took the famine ships four or five weeks to reach America from Ireland. Snooker was invented in India by British soldiers. The two teams were tied. Anchor grabbed the list and turned the questions on her.
“Clean, jerk, and snatch are terms used in what activity?” he asked.
“Bartending,” Carlene answered. She got several laughs, Anchor got claps on the back.
“We can guess who clean and jerk are,” Ciaran said, jabbing his thumb first to Collin, and then to Anchor. “But I'm afraid, pet, you're the only one with a snatch in here.”
“Are ye fecking saying I look like a bloke?” Sally said. She was perched on her usual spot behind the bar reading a magazine. She spread open her legs and rubbed her hand on her thighs. Carlene was grateful she was wearing jeans.
“Fine,” Ciaran said. “My apologies. Two snatches in the room.”
“Don't ye fucking call it a snatch,” Sally said. “It's a fanny.”
“What?” Carlene said. “Fanny means ass.” Sally laughed.
“Ah right,” she said. “I forgot you Yanks call it that. We call our—snatch—a fanny. You call your arse a fanny. I met these Yanks once and one turned around and showed me her arse and asked me if her fanny looked big. I was like—‘Turn around and let me have a look at it.' ” Sally covered her mouth and rocked back and laughed and laughed. Carlene and the lads had no choice but to laugh with her.
“How many terms are there for the female genitals?” Eoin asked. “Not as many as for men, do ye think?”
“Let's make a list,” Danny said. They were off and running. Pussy, vagina, cunt—which launched a discussion about how Irish men often called each other cunt, which had nothing to do with a woman, and how offended Americans were by this, but it was the intention, and their intention was simply an affectionate slag on each other—snatch, fanny, gee-bag (which Carlene had never heard of and didn't interrupt for clarification), beaver, love tunnel—
They got stuck and switched genders. “Go,” Danny said. Pecker, dick, cock, sword, rod, penis, pole, willy, staff, pencil—
Carlene took the time to wash the glasses, leaving them to their male bonding, although Sally would often join in with a new addition, said loudly and proudly at the top of her lungs. Apparently, it was still a tie.
“One more question,” Collin said. Collin wasn't holding the list of questions. “For the tie-breaker,” he added.
“Go on with ye,” Anchor said.
“Who was Carlene with, hanging all over, like, at the opening night of the Galway Races?”
Sally jumped off her perch and made a beeline for Collin. She leaned over the bar so that his face was only a half an inch from her cleavage.
“What's that now?” she said.
“Collin,” Carlene said. “Very funny. You know what? Both teams are winners. Drinks are on me,” she said.
“I want to hear this,” Anchor said. The rest of the lads me too-ed. Collin was all smiles. He wasn't wearing one of his usual T-shirts today. He had on a white pin-striped dress shirt. His hair was stiff with gel.
“Who was she drooling all over?” Sally asked. “You've opened yer gob, now ye have to tell us.”
“Nobody,” Carlene said. “Collin's just taking a piss.”
Eoin laughed and pounded on the bar. “Taking
the
piss,” he corrected. “Not taking a piss.”
“Whatever. Case closed. Do you guys want free drinks or not?” In the end, free drinks won out over Sally's cleavage.
“One mighty wind,” Riley said. “And they'd be showing their sticks and pouches to the wind.”
“Sticks and pouches!” Danny said. “We missed those ones.”
“Collin?” Carlene said. “I've got that thing on the back porch you wanted. Do you want to come get it now?”
“What thing are ye on about?” Sally asked. “I'll get it for ye.”
“Not necessary,” Carlene said. As she led the way to the back porch, she could have sworn Collin had a definite bounce to his step as he followed. When they reached the enclosure, she immediately dropped all pretenses. Collin's grin seemed to be a permanent feature of his face today. He pulled out his iPhone, thumbed through it, and turned the screen toward her. There was a picture of Carlene and Ronan at the races, locked in a kiss. Carlene quickly put her hand over the phone.
“It was nothing,” Carlene said. “Just the one time.” Ronan was already avoiding her, just out of paranoia of anyone finding out. What would happen if he knew Collin had a picture of them together? He'd probably disappear from her life altogether.
“So you're not dating him?”
“No. Absolutely not.” Collin kept smiling. “And I wouldn't want anyone to think we were,” Carlene said. “You can understand that, right?”
“Absolutely,” Collin said.
“Good,” Carlene said.
“So you're not dating him.”
“I told you, no.”
“So you're free to go out to dinner with me Saturday night,” Collin said. So there it was. It all clicked into place—how he was dressed, the grin, the gel, the bounce in his step. It was all part of his grand plan to seduce and blackmail.
“I have to work Saturday night,” Carlene said.
“I'll fill in for ye,” Sally said. She was in the doorway, listening. How long had she been there? How much had she heard?
“Brilliant,” Collin said. “It's settled, then.”
“But I like working Saturday nights,” Carlene said. As soon as she said it, she realized it was true. She loved the weekends. The pub was attracting more and more visitors. Single girls were starting to come in from Galway, along with middle-aged couples out for date night. Weekends were when the pool table was in use, the jukebox never stopped, and the drinks flowed. Carlene didn't even mind cleaning up afterward; the routine helped her wind down before sinking into her little bed, her limbs weary from a hard day's work, the noise of the evening buzzing softly in her head.
“Ah, so, you are involved with a certain someone, aren't ye?” Collin said.
“Who?” Sally said. “Tell me.”
“Collin,” Carlene said. “I'm serious. I really, really like Saturday nights.”
“All right,” Collin said. “How does Tuesday night suit?” Sally was still staring. Collin was still grinning.
“Suits me just fine,” Sally said.
“Okay then,” Carlene said. “Tuesday it is.”
“It's a date,” Collin said.
“It's a date,” Sally said.
 
Carlene had never ventured into the souterrain this late at night. She dropped to the usual spot and turned on the flashlight. The passage was becoming a familiar friend. So far she had been able to crawl along it to the count of ten. Then she crawled backward to the count of ten. It was damp and the stones were hard on her knees, but she had no idea where in Ireland to buy knee pads without starting some kind of bizarre rumor, or ladies' rugby team. Tonight, she would go to the count of twelve. The passage was so low her head grazed the roof as she crawled, sending dirt tumbling into her eyes. She made it to the count of twelve, then hesitated. She could go all the way.
No, she wasn't ready tonight. She still wanted to tell someone else, have some kind of a backup plan in case something went wrong. Besides, she was starting to enjoy the anticipation of what waited at the end of the tunnel. It was distracting and exciting. At least that's how she justified her inability to make it all the way.
Afterward, she stood in her shower and watched the dirt run down the drain. Did anyone else know about the secret space? The McBrides should be the first to know. If she wanted it, she had a good excuse to call Ronan.
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
8.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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