Mismatched (8 page)

Fifteen minutes later I am showered and dressed in a clean pair of jeans, a crisp-ish white shirt, and I’ve changed my green sneakers for my newer white ones.

Ridlee gives me the once-over, her chin resting in her hand. Then she takes a hair comb, emblazoned with emerald-coloured stones from the dresser and expertly puts my hair into one of those messy chignon buns. Next, she pulls out what looks like lipgloss and rubs a finger tip full across my lips and into my cheeks. “Better,” she murmurs to herself. She steps back again and looks me up and down. “Something’s missing…”

“It’s cool, Rid. Let’s go. It’s bum-fuck Ireland. It really doesn’t matter what I look like. We’re here to find this Flanagan guy and go, right?”

“Aha!” Ridlee searches through the tiny wardrobe in the corner. That’s one thing about Rid, she takes care of her clothes. I notice now that she has unpacked her cases and is airing any items that may have suffered creasing while in transit. She produces a cute, tailored navy jacket and holds it out for me to put on.

“Nah, Ridlee. That’s your Prada jacket. What if I spill a drink on it or something?”

“Then you’ll have a dry-cleaning bill, won’t you?”

Reluctantly I shuffle into the jacket.

“Spill anything on this and you’re dead,” she whispers in my ear.

I snap my head around to see if she’s smiling, but she’s turned away reaching for something else on the dresser.

“Scary Ridlee.”

“It’s a joke, silly! But seriously, just be careful.”

I check myself out in the mirror and smile. I look good. The jacket is beautifully cut and even makes my Gap jeans look stylish. Ridlee looks amazing in her five-hundred-dollar jeans, vintage chiffon blouse, angora sweater, and brown leather boots just high enough to be sexy but low enough for the countryside. We stand in front of the mirror, arms linked, smiling.

“Let’s go paint Doolin red!” cries Ridlee with more exuberance than I’ve seen in her since she started at law school. I guess she’s ready to let her hair down. We march down the stairs, passing Mrs. O’Grady on the way out.

“Is off out dancin’ youse are?” she asks, brightly.

“Yes, Mrs. O’Grady. We thought we’d have a glass of sherry or a shandy or something in one of the pubs,” I say, expertly using my older people skills again to deflect any suspicion that we are anything other than angelic.

“Who’s Sherry?” asks Ridlee, utterly perplexed. I elbow her in the ribs.

“Sure the craic will be ninety. Go on. Enjoy yerselves. But not too much!” Mrs. O'Grady chuckles to herself as she walks back toward the kitchen.

“Don’t forget, eleven pm curfew, ladies!” she yells just as I’ve almost steered Ridlee out the door.

“What? Wait…was that old lady trying to sell us crack cocaine?” Ridlee’s aghast. “And what the hell was that about a curfew? I’m twenty-four years old.” We’re walking down the street but Ridlee keeps straining her head to look back at the B&B.

“Relax, Ridlee.
Craic!
It means fun and lively conversation.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” She stops dead in her tracks and pulls on the sleeve of my —well
her
— Prada jacket, so that I have to stop too. We’re facing each other, standing at the top of the hill that leads down into the tiny town of Doolin. The houses are all multi-coloured and I can already identify the three pubs that make the town a town.

“Look, Erin, I don’t know what’s come over you, but we don’t need drugs to have a good time. We always have lively conversations.” She gives me a reassuring smile and folds her arms. I stare back blankly at her. “And anyway, ninety euros is waaay too expensive.” She says this as though that’s what would steer me clear of my secret drug habit.

“
Craic agus ceoil
, Ridlee. It means fun and music.
Ninety
refers to the high level of fun to be had. Mrs. O'Grady assured us that the fun would be great. No drugs. Whad’ya take me for?”

“Ooohhh… I see.” She grins big. “Well, let’s go have some
crack
then!” And with that she loops her arm through mine and starts skipping down the hill.

It’s as quiet as a tomb when we get inside the first pub. An old man is standing behind the bar reading the local newspaper. He looks up at us as we enter.

“Fuck, he’s seen us,” I say under my breath to Ridlee. “We have to have a drink here now.” My excitement plummets. It’s like when you pick the wrong line in the supermarket. In my mind I can see the other two pubs, bursting at the seams with people having more craic than they’ve ever had in their lives, and here we are in the graveyard of pubs.

“Well, well, well. Aren’t you a pair of lovely ladies. What can I get ye?” Ever so slowly he shuffles to our end of the bar. It’s like watching someone in slow motion. Ridlee and I stand there, smiling to beat the band.

“What’s this, the oldest barman in Ireland?” asks Ridlee through gritted teeth. She’s always prided herself on her ventriloquist skills.

“No, I believe the oldest barman works in Lahinch—not too far from here, m’dear,” he says reaching our end. Ridlee actually blushes, a first for her.

“Ahh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” she stammers.

“Not-ta-tall! Not-ta-tall! Sure, it’s old I am. No gettin’ away from that fact. Eighty-two next birthday.” He says this with the kind of pride peculiar to the very old and the very young when giving their age. “Or is it eighty-three? I can never remember…” He shakes his head, leaning on the beer taps in front of him, lost for a moment.

We wait patiently.

“Not to worry, doesn’t matter.” He looks up at us. “Well, I’m not gettin’ any younger standin’ here. What can I get you lovely ladies?”

“Eh, do you sell wine?” asks Ridlee eagerly. I have warned her that small, out-of-the-way pubs tend to do beer, stout, and hard liquor well but that wine can be a bit hit and miss, but she persists anyway.

“Indeed I do, young lady. Indeed I do.”

Ridlee stands there beaming at him.

He beams back.

Time passes.
 

“Umm, could I see the wine list please?” she asks.

“No need for a list, m’dear. It’s all up here.” He points a curled finger to his temple.

“Fabulous! Well, do you have…?” begins Ridlee, but the barman cuts her off.

“…We have eh, red wine,” he counts off his fingers, “and eh, white wine, but not the mixed kind.”

“Rosé,” I offer helpfully, grinning at my friend. It’s Ridlee’s dream to own a vineyard some day; she takes her wine very seriously.

“Wonderful,” she says with way too much enthusiasm. “I think I’ll have…,” she contemplates the bar for a moment, “…a pint of Guinness.”

“Make that two,” I add. “And could you put a drop of blackcurrant in my friend’s pint? She’s still acquiring the taste for the black stuff.”

“Right ye are," answers the barman winking at me. “Have a seat and sure I’ll drop them down to ye.”

I walk after Ridlee, then pause and turn back to him. “Excuse me for asking, but you wouldn’t happen to know a Padraig Flanagan would ye?” He isn’t from Doolin, but I figure it can’t hurt to ask.

“I knew a Padraig Flanagan of Lisdoonvarna. Might that be him?”

“Could be. Do you know where he lives? Or even,
if
he lives?”

The barman looks at me trying to get the measure of me. I feel my heart-rate begin to quicken. Maybe he’s already dead and had no family…

He raises his hand to his chin and rubs thoughtfully. “I went to school with a Padraig Flanagan. Nice fella. Dead now, though. Some young lass broke his heart when he was only a young fella. Don’t think he ever got over it. I’m almost sure he never married.” He looks at me closely. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help.”

“Oh no, not at all. You’ve been very helpful.”

I can’t help grinning as I sidle over to Ridlee who is sitting at a low table by the fireplace. It’s September but there’s a turf fire going and we’re glad of the heat it gives off.

“Things are lookin’ up, Rid.” I tell her what I’ve just learned. “We might be on a flight back to Boston in a day or two if we play our cards right.” I’m finding it hard to contain my excitement.

“Cool,” she says in response, looking round the place.

It takes an age but our pints eventually arrive. The old man hovers at the table as I take a long swallow.

“Wow!” I exclaim. Even Ridlee seems to like hers.

He smiles. “You’re an American, so here’s one for ye…” He’s looking at Ridlee. “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”

Ridlee raises both her eyebrows and looks to me for help. I take another mouthful of creamy Guinness as I shrug.

“Ummm, I don’t know. How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” she answers gamely.

The old man beams. “Practice!”

We all have a good chuckle and the barman shuffles off to read his paper. The pints of Guinness are going down very nicely. Even Ridlee is drinking hers at a reasonable pace.

We’re almost finished when Ridlee leans into me and whispers, “Great, now we’re stuck here all night. We can’t exactly leave; he doesn’t have any other customers.”

“Don’t be silly, Ridlee. We’re on a pub crawl. He understands that.” I look over at the barman who’s looking up at us again, and raise my glass in salute. He has exceptional hearing.

“A pub what?”Ridlee is yet again perplexed.

“Crawl.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like bar-hopping on your planet.”

“Figures.” She shakes her head slowly, chuckling to herself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her expression and tone make my temper flare just a bit; I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because she’s sounding as though she feels superior.

“Well, you must admit; it’s kind of telling that in your culture people crawl from bar to bar, whereas in mine, we hop.”

“You had better not be spouting that drunken Irish stereotype bullshit, Ridlee. That’s too lazy, even for you.” I can feel my colour rising. Why do I give a shit? I couldn’t wait to leave Ireland and never look back.

“Okay, okay, I see I’ve hit a nerve. I didn’t mean to offend the Old Country. It was just an observation. Come on, drink up. Let’s crawl on over to the next pub.”

I do my best to shrug off the offended feelings as we drain our pints in one. Standing to leave and headed for the door, we yell “Thank you!” in chorus.

Linking her arm through mine once we’re outside, Ridlee leans in and tries to tickle me. I refuse to laugh, milking my hurt cultural pride for all it’s worth. Thing is, her remark did kind of annoy me. Sometimes I get tired of the Irish jokes that people expect me to enjoy so much. Ireland’s full of drunks and leprechauns and not much else, apparently. Of course the irony that I make my living out of those stereotypes is not lost on me and only makes me crankier.

Ridlee drops onto all fours.

“What the hell are you doing, Rid?”
 

“I’m crawling to the next bar.” She looks up at me with cute puppy dog eyes.

“Get up, ye eejit!” I giggle, reaching down to help her to her feet before she muddies her five hundred dollar jeans. I feel better now that she’s debased herself in order to make me laugh.

There are more people milling around as we come into the town. I stop a young fella of about fourteen or fifteen and ask him where McMahon’s Pub is. I’ve heard that they have great traditional Irish music there.

He points down the road. “Do ye see the post office there?”

“Yeah.” I nod in the direction of the post office.

“Well, ignore that. Don’t mind that. Just keep walkin’ till you come to a small thatch building. That’s McMahons. Are ye joining the session?” He looks round me for any sign of an instrument.

“Eh, probably not. Just gonna’ listen, I think,” I say, half apologetically.

“Grand, so. Well have a great night.” And with that he tips his hat and keeps going.

“Jesus, it’s like going back in time.” Ridlee stares after the guy.

“Come on.” I take her arm and jauntily head in the direction of McMahons.

Each time we pass someone, Ridlee tips an imaginary hat and says ‘top of the mornin’ to ye’, even though it’s clearly the evening. The Guinness has gone to her head.

McMahons is teeming with people, and the session is in full swing. Squeezing our way up to the bar, we order a couple of pints of Guinness and some peanuts. One side of the pub is reserved for musicians, while everyone else gathers around clapping and cheering. There’s a guy with a banjo, a woman playing the violin or fiddle — I never can tell the difference — another bloke on guitar, two people with tin-whistles, and even a young girl with a set of uillean pipes. We get lucky and squeeze into two seats just vacated, right beside the musicians.

“Ooh, look! Bagpipes!” cries Ridlee.

“Not bagpipes, uillean pipes!” I yell over the music.

“Oh.” She sips happily on her pint, tapping her foot to the music.

The group is really good; they play well together. It can be potluck at a session. Anyone can join in and often the musicians won’t have played together before. As we’re sitting there, a guy arrives with a traditional drum.

“What’s that?” yells Ridlee.

“It’s a
Bodhrán
,” I yell back.

“A bow-wow? Is it made of dog hide?” she asks, earnestly.

“Bow-Rawn. It’s an Irish word. You hold the drum upright on your lap and play it with a bone. It’s pretty sexy. Wait, you’ll see.” We watch the guy take out his
bodhrán
followed by the bone and position it on his lap while he waits for a break in the music.

I am sitting behind him and can only see the muscles in his shoulders and back as he leans over the instrument. He’s brawny, with a strong back, but I can’t see his face. Dark brown hair curls at the top of his shirt. I glug down some more of my Guinness trying to cool the heat that’s building.
Whoa there, Erin. Remember you’ve sworn off Irish guys…
I remind myself.

The next piece starts, and I can see that he has his ear cocked, waiting for the right time to begin. The fiddle, banjo, and guitar are in full swing when he begins to drum silently on the rim of the drum. The music gets faster and louder and in he comes with more volume. He uses his whole body, leaning in and out as he drums harder and then softer. At one point, I can almost see his face, but he has his eyes closed, lost in the music. His features are strong and angular, and I squirm a little in pleasure. He plays so well that the other musicians make room for a bodhrán solo. He is fantastic.