An Early Wake (8 page)

“I have,” he said.

“You ready?”

“I am. Question is, are you?”

“I have no idea.”

She let him go back to serving drinks and doling out food. Standing on the front steps of the hotel, she looked across at Sullivan’s. It still looked the same—save for the growing line of parked cars.

It was barely past noon.

I
nside Sullivan’s, controlled chaos reigned. Maura had never seen it so packed at midday, not even on a Saturday. Rose’s father, Jimmy, had arrived, and he and Rose were handling the taps. Jimmy was in his element, trading quips with everyone as he pulled pints. He waved when he saw Maura come in.

“This here’s the new owner of the place, Maura Donovan,” he told anyone who was listening. “She’s American, so she hasn’t heard all yer stories. I’m betting she’d love to, though. Maura, come ’round behind. Rosie, me love, you go pick up the empties, will you, now?”

“Sure, Da,” Rose said, and came around the end of the bar. Maura joined Jimmy behind it. For a moment she was overwhelmed: there were so many people (mainly men, but a few women too) clamoring for a drink—and for her attention. She plastered on a smile and said to the nearest one, “What can I get you?” It took her ten minutes to fill all the requests, and then there was another row behind, and another.

While she waited for pints to settle, she found herself repeating the same brief story over and over. No, she’d never known Old Mick. Yes, she was from America. Boston, in fact, and that usually triggered more questions, along the “do you know” lines. No, she didn’t know any Irish bands, old or new, but she’d heard that some of the players might be stopping by later. It seemed that each and every man would launch into a favorite Old Mick story, or speculate on who was around and could be stopping by, or reminisce about the first pub band he’d ever heard.

At about one o’clock Niall Cronin stepped out from the back room, where Maura had been hearing odd snippets of sound issuing from behind closed doors, and there was a momentary hush in the room as people noticed him. Then suddenly the noise was back, louder than before. Niall took it in stride, politely elbowing his way to the bar. “I could use a pint, Maura, love—we’re about sorted now, but it’s thirsty work.”

The crowd seemed evenly split between those who were in awe of the celebrity in their midst and those who wanted to have a word with him or at least shake his hand. Maura figured her stock had risen simply because the great man had called her by name.

“Everything working all right?” she asked as she topped off his pint and set it in front of him.

“Seems so. We’ll see. Any others come in, send them to the back, will you?”

“Sure, no problem,” Maura said. As if she’d recognize any of the other players Niall might be referring to. Maybe Tim could help, if he could tear himself away. During a slight lull a short while later, Maura grabbed the chance to take Tim aside. “Tim, you’ve got to help me out here. If there are going to be all these music people coming in, I won’t have a clue who they are. Or where they fit. Can you fill me in on whoever walks in the door?”

“Sure, I’d be happy to. But you can’t leave the bar, can you?”

“No, you’ll have to come around behind. That’s a bonus—I’ll show you how to manage the taps and serve at the bar, in case your university career lets you down. It’s a handy skill to have.”

“If you say so.” Tim didn’t look convinced, but Maura didn’t care. She all but dragged him behind the bar and stationed him in a corner, out of the way of the taps. Rose flashed him a smile but kept pouring. “How should I let you know who’s who?”

“You don’t have to announce everybody,” Maura said, “just give me the lowdown on anybody I should know, so I don’t look like an idiot.” Which she was, but still.

“Got it. Do yeh want the short history of modern Irish music first?”

“Only if there’s time,” Maura said to him while smiling at a local man she recognized.

“Right so. Well, if you’re tellin’ me that you didn’t know who Niall Cronin was until he walked in, I can see I’ve got my work cut out here. Have you ever heard of O’Carolan?”

“No. Look, Tim, assume I grew up on Mars and never heard anything. But keep it simple—we don’t have much time, and it’s kind of busy, you know.”

Tim nodded crisply. “Got it. Okay, here’s the basics: old Irish music was mostly about battles and the like, which the Irish mostly lost. The harp was once the main instrument, and harpers were respected men and treated well, but after 1900 the piano came in big for the upper classes, and in the country they went over to the uilleann pipes. You do know what those are?”

“Kind of like bagpipes but smaller, right?” Maura asked. She nodded at someone across the bar and pushed a waiting pint his way.

“Right. Anyways, most rural music happened in what was called the
clachán
—that’s kind of a small group of homes, where the nearby people would gather and sing and dance when their work was done. Most of the bigger gatherings took place based on the agricultural year—you know, sowing, harvest, celebrating the potato digging.”

“You’re kidding! Irish music was influenced by potatoes?”

Tim grinned. “In a manner of speaking. Then came the famine, when so many people died or left for good, and that killed a lot of the old music as well. They say it was like a silence came over the country, what with how the language fell away as well, and the folklore, and the superstitions.”

Maura checked the crowd—and the number of men waiting at the bar for their pints. “This is great stuff, Tim, but can we skip ahead to the heyday of Sullivan’s, please?” she said, setting up yet another row of glasses.

Tim sighed; clearly he loved his subject and loved talking about it. “Okay, I’ll fast-forward to the seventies: Planxty, with Liam O’Flynn, Christy Moore, Donal Lunny. De Danann out of Galway. The Bothy Band. From the eighties you might know of Clannad—they were a Donegal family, and Enya came out of that. Please tell me you’ve heard of Enya?”

“Yes, she’s kind of hard to miss. Go on.”

“Then there was Moving Hearts, one of the first groups to mix traditional music with contemporary rock, but they didn’t last long. In the nineties you had Altan, Dervish, Arcady, and some people who went solo, like Martin Hayes, who came from County Clare but left for the States and settled there. Mostly the nineties are known for the commercialization of traditional music.”

“So who played at Sullivan’s?”

“The Saw Doctors. Glen Hansard, before he got so big. We talked before about the Cranberries. Plenty more you might never have heard of.”

“Probably not,” Maura agreed. “Are any of them likely to show up here tonight?” Were many of the members of the groups Tim had just mentioned still alive?

“Could be anyone. Plenty of people played with different bands over the years. Plenty more played in recordings behind the bands. Wasn’t even fer the money—mainly they’d all help each other out. It wasn’t a big community back then, so they all knew each other. And still do, if what’s happenin’ here is any indication.”

Maura reminded herself yet again that Ireland was a very small country. Which right now was a mixed blessing. If this event took off, through word of mouth, and half of the country showed up, they’d be bursting at the seams. It would certainly put the name of the pub out there, and hers as well. It looked like it was too late to stop it now, in any case.

“Okay, Tim, that’s great. Now, remind me of who’s already here. It’s hard to keep everybody straight. And there are more of ’em coming in all the time.” Tim listed off a string of names that meant nothing to Maura, so when he finished, she said, “Point them out to me if they come out here again, will you? Oops, here’s another one.”

A guy with a guitar was standing in the doorway, looking confused; even if Maura couldn’t identify the face, she could certainly identify a guitar case. Tim waved him over to the bar. “You’ve come fer the music, have you?” The man nodded. “It’s in the back. But let me introduce you to the owner first—Maura Donovan. If yeh knew the place in the old days, you’ll agree that she’s a lot prettier than Old Mick was.”

The man laughed and extended a hand. “I’m Morrie, and the lad is right.”

“Thank you, Morrie. Would you like a pint to take with you to the back room?”

“I never turn down an offer like that,” the man said, settling one hip on a bar stool. As Maura filled his pint, she noticed the others in the pub nudging each other and staring. It seemed they knew him, even if she didn’t. “How long’ve yeh been runnin’ the place?” he asked as they waited for the pint to settle.

“Six months now. Old Mick was a distant relative, and he left the place to me. It’s a long story.”

“You’ll have to tell it to me someday when there’s a bit more time,” the man said. He took his waiting pint, grabbed the guitar case, and headed toward the back room.

When he was gone, Maura turned to Tim. “Okay, who is he?”

“That’s Morrie O’Keefe. Made his mark playing with the Broken Melons, then went off on his own—has a couple of decent CDs out, not big sellers. He’s been a pal of Niall’s for years.”

It was a scene that replayed many times during the afternoon, Tim feeding her information on the players when he could. Maura lost count and was beginning to wonder how so many people could fit in the back—it reminded her of one of those silly clown cars at the circus, only in reverse. And where on earth would there be room for an audience? Maybe the musicians didn’t care; maybe they were playing for each other, as old friends.

Maura supposed she’d find out soon enough.

T
here was a slight lull around suppertime, when the local customers reluctantly tore themselves away to go back to their families, promising they’d be back later. Maura wasn’t surprised. There were hours left before the sun went down, and a long night to come. Maura decided that since she was the boss, at least in theory, she should get her small staff together and make sure they were on the same page. She ducked into the back room, where Niall and a couple more guys she didn’t recognize were shoving equipment and tables around again.

“Mick, can I grab you for a minute?” Maura said loudly, trying to make herself heard over the noise.

Mick had to tear his attention away from the tangle of wiring he was trying to sort out to look at her. “What is it?”

“I want to get you and Jimmy and Rose together and make sure we’re ready for tonight.” She smiled at the musicians in the room—or at least, she assumed they were musicians, since most were holding one or another instrument. “If you guys can spare him?”

“Ah, where’d I leave me manners?” Niall said with a smile. “Here we’ve taken over yer place, and you’ve never met most of the lads.”

“Tim’s been trying to help me with names, but it’s hard to remember so many new people at once.”

For some reason that inspired the group to introduce themselves to her all over again, and she wished desperately that she had name tags to stick on them. But that wasn’t going to happen, so she’d just have to muddle along. And as she smiled and nodded, she had to wonder: if Niall was the superstar and the wizard who was pulling this together, where did the others fall in the rankings? Where was the split between leaders and backup? How the heck did the guys figure out how to coordinate what they played, and with who? She had no idea.

“Are more people coming?” she asked, not sure what answer she wanted to hear.

“A few more of me friends said they might be stoppin’ by,” Niall said.

“Sounds good to me. Mick, just a couple of minutes, please?”

“Do you need me?” Tim piped up from a corner, where Maura hadn’t even noticed him. How had he managed to sneak out from behind the bar? Probably she’d been too busy to notice.

“Might as well, Tim. Then you can all get back to . . . whatever it is you’re doing.”

Mick and Tim reluctantly tore themselves away and trooped out to the front room, not that it was any quieter or more private, so Maura decided to keep going and take everyone into the unused kitchen behind the bar. Jimmy stood in the doorway, keeping one eye on the crowd and one ear in their conversation, with Rose standing beside him. It looked like none of her staff would be going home for dinner.

“What do you need, Maura?” Mick asked. “There’s a lot to be done before tonight.”

“I know, I know. Look, this is new territory for me. To hear you tell it, we’ve got half of all the Irish rock superstars either here or expected later today, and God knows how many people coming to hear them. None of us has ever held this kind of event here—yes, Mick, I know you might have seen a few, but you didn’t have to manage it. I want to know if we’re ready to do this.”

“Do we have a choice?” Mick asked.

“It looks like the answer is no, but it’s not like we planned for this—it just kind of happened. It’s kind of late to reinforce the building, so we’ll have to hope everything holds up. How’s the electric stuff going, Mick?”

“All good so far. Hell, if that fails in back, these guys can go acoustic by candlelight.” He appeared almost happy at the prospect.

“Fire hazard,” Maura said absently to no one in particular. “We should have flashlights, just in case. I can run down to the hardware store and pick up some extras.”

“I’ll do it, Maura,” Jimmy said. “Yer the face of the place—you should be up front to welcome yer guests, all of ’em.”

“Okay. Or you can send Rose. Take enough cash from the drawer to cover it. Next, Mick, you said you’d taken care of extra kegs?”

“All set.”

“Anyone going to want the hard stuff?”

“A few,” Jimmy said. “But the point is to hear the bands, not to get drunk, and we’ve plenty on hand.”

“Good. Somebody keep an eye on the toilets—we don’t want them getting jammed up in the middle of everything.” Maura wasn’t surprised when nobody volunteered for that task. “Okay, I’ve talked to our neighbors so they know what’s going on, as well as the gardaí. Now, how the heck do we handle closing time? Did you tell me about a lock-in, Mick? Or was that Billy?”

“Billy, most likely. He’s seen his share. That may be hard to manage. Did Sean Murphy have anything to say about closing time? If not, odds are he’ll look the other way, for a one-time event.” At least, that was what Maura wanted to believe.

“Let’s hope so, because I don’t want to think about trying to shove everyone out of here if things are going well. Anybody have anything else to add?”

Tim spoke up. “I’m going to try to keep track of whoever comes in, maybe film some of it if I can, unless you need me for anything else, Maura. I’m not really any use behind the bar, but I can help collect glasses and wash up and the like.”

“Thanks, Tim. We may need that. Mick, you’re covering the music side of things. Jimmy and I will be serving from both bars, me up front and Jimmy in the back, with Rose’s help. Rose, you stick with your dad—I don’t want you getting into any situation you can’t handle.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Jimmy said.

“Great. That’s all I can think of. Are we good?”

“We are,” Mick said firmly. “Stop fretting yerself, Maura. It’s going to be grand.”

Despite his words, Maura wasn’t convinced. If she was a more religious person, this would be a good time to pray.

After everyone had gone back to their tasks, Maura waded through the crowd to talk to Billy. “Any surprises?” she asked, leaning close to his ear to be heard over the din.

“Better than I’d hoped,” he said. “I only told a coupla friends, and many of us are gettin’ on in years, so I wasn’t sure if the word would get ’round.”

Maura looked around the room. “I think it did, Billy. Of course, I gather that snagging Niall was a big part of that.”

“I knew him when he was in knickers—his mother is me second cousin. Always was a nice lad, though.”

“Well, whatever you did, thank you. Or maybe I should wait to say thanks until tomorrow morning, if the place is still standing.”

“It’s lasted this long—and this is what it’s meant for.”

As Billy greeted another friend, Maura went back to the bar, where Rose was holding her own. “Isn’t this amazin’?” the girl said.

“It is. Are you okay with staying?”

Rose smiled broadly. “As if I’d go! Me da will be here to look out for me, if he can drag himself away from the music.”

“When will they start, do you think?”

“I can’t say, but I’ve heard it happens when it happens. It’s not like this is a band. Just a bunch of guys who like to play. Someone will sit in for a song or two, and then swap out for whoever’s willing. You’ll see.”

“Does your dad play?”

“Everybody plays, just some better than others. Or they sing. What about you?”

“I can carry a tune, barely, but nobody’s going to ask for encores. And I don’t know the words to most Irish songs, except the corny old stuff.”

“After a few pints, no one will care. We’ll be charging for the drinks, won’t we?”

“Of course we will! Except for the musicians. I’ve been told that Mick kept the taps flowing for them, no charge. But regular customers should pay.”

“Can you afford it?”

“I hope so. I’d bet the patrons will be buying some rounds for the players—isn’t that polite? Let’s just hope for the best. If this is a flop, we’ll go out on a high note, even if we’re broke.”

The sun began sinking after five, but it was hard to tell because there were so many people blocking the light from the windows. So far there was a bit of space between them, but how much closer would they be before the night was over? Maura wondered. More men than women, no surprise, but more women than Maura had expected. They weren’t young, so no doubt they remembered the bands from years ago, and they weren’t going to miss this night.

Musicians kept arriving, dragging their instrument cases. Since those were bulky, there was no way they could slip quietly through the crowd, and when someone recognized each of them in turn, that slowed their progress toward the back room even more. Maura calculated the mean time of transit through the room as at least ten minutes. Of course, often they stopped to pick up a pint on their way, chat to a few people, and introduce themselves to Maura. She met a Danny, a Liam, a Connor, and a few others, but she never managed to catch their last names—not that they would have rung any bells for her anyway, in spite of Tim’s coaching. Maybe Tim would have notes, or pictures. She was going to have to adopt a more Irish attitude: it would all come right in the morning. However it had come about, he had walked into a rare and wonderful opportunity, and he must be over the moon. Maura wondered if he realized what his simple quest had started.

The excitement ramped up gradually, after darkness had fallen. Maura, Jimmy, and Rose were kept busy doling out pints and picking up the empty glasses. At close to nine, a series of electronic shrieks and squeals came from the back, where Maura had left the door between the two rooms wide open, followed by sounds even Maura could recognize as guitar chords. What else could she hear? No keyboard, apparently. That caterwauling sound, she had learned, came from an uilleann pipe. A small drum set, she guessed. Banjo? Definitely guitars, both electric and acoustic. The music emerged in a gradual way: what started out as random sounds finally blended into something with a recognizable tune and structure. And then the voices joined in.

Maura looked at the crowd in the front room—the latecomers who hadn’t made it to the back. The music drifted out, muted in volume but still clear. The talk in the front stilled as everyone began paying attention, looking rapt in the uncertain light. Maybe half of them were already mouthing the words to familiar songs.

And it went on. The crowd grew to as much as the room could, and most people had smiles on their faces. People flowed between the two rooms, and every now and then Maura would look out the front window to see a garda car slide by, but there was no need for their assistance. The crowd wasn’t looking for trouble. Most people were kind of middle-aged and were reliving their memories. As Billy had suggested, the younger people had stayed with their own kind, in flashier places in Skibbereen. At Sullivan’s Rose might have been the youngest in the room.

After a long time she came out briefly from behind the bar to stand by the front door and take in the whole scene. The front room was dark, but golden light spilled from the back room, as though the music had a color, drawing people toward it. Maybe Maura couldn’t remember anything about Niall Cronin, but she wouldn’t forget him now. And after a couple of hours, she was beginning to believe in the magic of it all.

Mick was leaning against the doorjamb between the two rooms; he noticed her watching and gave her a warm smile, and she returned it. She felt rather than heard a quiet rapping on the front door and turned to see Sean Murphy on the other side. She opened the door enough to let him slip in; nobody else seemed to notice a garda in their midst.

“How’s it going?” he said into her ear.

“Great. Amazing, in fact. I can’t tell you how many guys are back there playing, but don’t they sound wonderful?”

“That they do. No problems?”

“None that I’ve noticed. Of course, I haven’t been looking for them, but so far everyone seems very . . . happy, I guess. I’m glad I’m here to see it.”

“It’s something special, I’d say. I only wanted to stop by and make sure you and yer lot were all right.”

“Do we have to close soon?” Maura hadn’t looked at her watch in hours, apparently: she was surprised to see it was now past midnight. “If I go in there now and try to shut the music down, I might cause a riot.”

Sean took in the crowd. Those in the front room were fairly calm; those in the back were cheering at the end of each song, but with affection. “I’ll drive by in another hour or so. Spread the word that’s leaving time and you should have no trouble.”

“Thanks, Sean. Wish you could have been here to hear more of it.”

“You sound like you’ve been won over.”

“Maybe I have.”

“Then I’ll come next time. Good night.”

She watched him leave before she realized he’d said “next time.” Would there be a next time? Maybe there would, if the pub hadn’t gone belly-up handing out free pints to all the musicians tonight. Yet she had a feeling they’d be fine.

She conveyed Sean’s hint to Jimmy, then went toward the back to tell Mick as well. In the doorway she took a look at the musicians left onstage. They looked drunk, but not with liquor: more like drunk on the music. How often did these guys get to play together, without all the bright lights and glitz? This must have been how they’d all started, in one place or another, and they looked glad to be back again. They looked like they belonged.

She leaned toward Mick. “Sean wants us to clear the place out in another hour. Does that work?”