Heartstones (6 page)

‘I’ll sleep in the living room,’ Honey had pushed herself in between Katrina and Fibber. ‘I’ll put the cushions from the sofa on the floor and use your sleeping bag, Uncle Fibber, and I’ll put a hot water bottle in the lady’s bed and find some magazines for her to read before she goes to sleep.’

‘You’ve got it all sorted out, haven’t you?’ Fibber ruffled her hair affectionately.

‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but I don’t want to be any trouble.’ Phoebe tried to politely back away. ‘I’ll just go back to Cork, I’m sure there’re lots of places there.’

‘No, you’re no trouble at all, and haven’t we got a great plan worked out now? Honey will enjoy camping in the living room.’

‘She’ll be camping nowhere,’ a loud voice said. The bar had fallen silent once again as the crowd parted to make way for a tall, broad-shouldered man; the collar of his heavy coat was turned up, a wild mass of fair hair glistening from rain. He pushed in roughly beside Phoebe, making her knock her neighbour’s glass; lager sloshed onto a beer mat. Phoebe looked around for someone to apologise to but all eyes were on the newcomer; his eyes were on the small girl. ‘She’s coming home with me.’ Phoebe could smell whiskey on his breath and see at least three days’ stubble on his chin.

‘But Daddy, I want to …’

‘Get your coat, Honey,’ the man interrupted her. ‘The car’s outside.’

Honey looked up anxiously at Katrina and Fibber. The grey-haired older woman marched up from the other end of the bar and put her arm around Honey’s shoulder.

Fibber leaned forward and spoke quietly into the man’s unshaven face. ‘I think you should leave, Theo,’ he said, pronouncing each word slowly. ‘You’re not safe to drive, I won’t let the child go with you in the car.’

The man lowered his own voice and glared at Fibber. ‘You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do with my own daughter.’

The whole pub seemed to be straining to hear the conversation; no one spoke, no one moved.

‘Honey is my niece,’ Fibber said. ‘She comes here of her own accord, she wants to be with me and Katrina and her grandmother. The poor kid has no life up at that house. You can’t look after her; and till you sort yourself out you aren’t fit to look after your dog, let alone the child.’

‘How dare you, Fibber Flannigan! One of these days I’ll take you outside and I won’t be held responsible for what I’ll do. Honey, I said get your coat, we’re getting out of this place; a bar is no place for a little girl.’

‘At least the drinking doesn’t start round here until lunchtime.’ Fibber’s voice was barely a whisper, but Theo slammed his hand down on the bar with such force that Phoebe jumped in fright and several more drinks sloshed their contents onto the counter.

‘That’s enough now, Theo.’ Old Mrs Flannigan held a phone in her hand. ‘If I make just one call to the Guards to say you’re driving under the influence, Sergeant Jackson will be here in a flash and you’ll lose your licence for good this time.’ Theo looked as though he might jump over the bar and throttle the old woman, but instead he turned around and started to walk out of the pub.

‘Just think about how Maeve would feel if she could see the state you’ve let yourself get into,’ Fibber addressed the man’s retreating back. ‘It would break her heart, God rest her soul.’ Theo stopped in the middle of the room. Phoebe waited for him to turn around and come back to haul Fibber over the counter for a full-blown fight but instead he headed for the door and disappeared into the night.

The silence continued for a few seconds before the clamouring at the bar resumed.

‘There are never the boring moments in Carraigmore,’ said Katrina to Phoebe with a smile.

‘
Never a dull moment
,’ corrected Fibber, then added, ‘not with Theo the way he is now. Sorry, Honey, I know he’s your dad but he’s not the man he used to be at all.’

‘He’s just sad.’ Honey sounded years older than she looked.

‘Time for bed sweetheart,’ said Mrs Flannigan. ‘School tomorrow.’ Honey gave a groan.

‘Ah, you know you’ll love it when you get there,’ said Fibber. ‘I know you have a secret crush on Mr O’Brian.’

‘Yuk, no I don’t.’ Honey made a face. ‘He’s mean and he looks like an old frog – in fact all the teachers I’ve ever seen look like old frogs.’

‘I’m a teacher,’ said Phoebe with amusement. ‘Do I look like an old frog?’

Honey looked surprised, ‘No, you look like a princess, not like a teacher at all.’

‘Maybe the teacher-princess here could come and give Mr O’Brian a kiss and he might turn into a handsome prince,’ Fibber winked. Honey shuddered.

‘I bet he’d still have breath like old potatoes and get cross with me for getting nought out of ten in my spelling test.’

‘Bed!’ ordered Mrs Flannigan, giving Honey a gentle prod with the ice tongs. Honey blew them all a kiss and waved good night.

‘’Night Uncle Fibber, ’night Katrina, ’night ’night Grandma, good-night Teacher-Princess.’

‘I’ll be up to tuck you in in a minute,’ called her grandmother, smiling the first smile Phoebe had seen her give that night.

‘Right,’ shouted Fibber setting up a microphone stand. ‘Who’s for a spot of karaoke?’

The opening bars to “Dancing Queen” blared out across the room, and three large women, Carraigmore T-shirts stretched tight across their breasts, sprang up from their seats to stand on a small stage in front of the television. They swayed ample hips and started to sing along with the music, stumbling over the words that sailed across the screen.

‘I am sure by now you are needing a drink,’ Katrina shouted to Phoebe above the noise. ‘What will you have?’ Phoebe suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired and the thought of a drink was appealing. Maybe she would accept their offer of a bed for the night.

‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, but can I pass on the out-of-date crisps?’

Katrina smiled. ‘Honey is too honest. Fibber told her “do not mention the date on the crisps.”’

‘Is that why he’s called “Fibber”?’ asked Phoebe.

Katrina burst out laughing, ‘I think this lady wants to know if you are a liar,’ she playfully poked the big man beside her with a long fingernail.

‘No,’ replied Fibber, busy pulling pints, ‘I’m as honest as a mirror buffed with vinegar, that’s the truth. But I do come from a long line of Fibbers. Fibber Flannigan the fifth I am, my mother was married to Fibber Flannigan the fourth, my granny was married to the third, his father was the second – you get the idea I’m sure, and all of them as true and straight as they come – well, maybe my old dad was a bit prone to distorting the specifics when it came to the ladies, but that’s all in the past.’ He winked again at Phoebe.

‘And have they always had this pub?’ she asked.

‘There’s been a Fibber Flannigan’s Pub in Carraigmore since Michael Collins sat on his mother’s knee.’ Fibber replied. ‘There’s nothing gone on in this town that the Flannigans haven’t known about for over a hundred years – isn’t that right Ma?’

Old Mrs Flannigan stopped pouring coke on top of a shot of vodka and leant her solid body against the counter.

‘That’s right.’ She answered her son but all the while she stared at Phoebe.

‘Here is your gin, Phoebe,’ Katrina handed her a cool glass and Phoebe found herself drinking it down too fast. Her head spun a little; maybe she should have had the crisps.

‘What can I get you, Béarla cailín deas?’ asked the elderly man who’d sung the national anthem; he was so stooped that Phoebe had to bend to hear his cracked and wavering voice. ‘That means
pretty
English girl
,’ he continued. ‘You’re in the Gaeltacht now you know? Another gin is it?’ Before Phoebe had time to say she’d like an orange juice or ask what the Gaeltacht was, she found that anther glass of gin had magically appeared in front of her.

The old man raised his own glass of whiskey to her and shuffled back to his seat. Phoebe took a sip of her fresh drink, hoisted herself onto a high barstool, and watched the boy with the Celtic drum accompanying a young girl singing an Adele song on the karaoke. Soon the whole pub was joining in with the singing, and as Phoebe finished her third gin and Fibber was up at the microphone giving a rendition of ‘Always on My Mind’, she found herself swaying in time to the music and singing along to the chorus.

An hour later, more gin, the rousing strains of “The Irish Rover” and several encouraging locals, had lured Phoebe off her stool to partake in a whirling dance of interchanging partners that left her laughing and breathless in the middle of the small space cleared for dancing. This was followed by much enthusiastic stomping and clapping to “Come on Eileen” and then a lively display of accompanying actions to a
Grease
medley. Phoebe collapsed back onto her stool as a wizened woman with no teeth stepped up to the microphone and began sweetly to sing ‘The Rose of Tralee’. Phoebe turned to Fibber behind the bar and declared, with only the merest hint of a slur, that the people of Carraigmore were the most wonderful people in the world and that she loved them all.

Chapter Five

The painful throbbing in her head broke through a tangle of dreams. A team of muscle-bound Gaelic football players had been serenading her with “Super Trouper” until David appeared and started to dance the samba dressed from head to toe in luminous green. With great difficulty Phoebe opened one eye. For a moment she wasn’t sure where she was. A pale morning light filled the unfamiliar room; she could see orange floral curtains complementing a floral duvet, floral pillowcases, and floral walls. The patterns hurt.

Phoebe closed her eye again. Memories of the night before came back in blurry snatches; the several gin and tonics that had led to a double whiskey, and then Fibber’s special Carraigmore cocktails – she hated to think what had been in them. She had had quite a few and then – oh no, please no! Phoebe buried her face in her pillow, trying to suffocate the recollection – had she really sung karaoke “Wind Beneath My Wings” and, even worse, “How Am I Supposed To Live Without You”? Had she really started to cry in front of all those strangers and then been sick in that poor boy’s Celtic drum? She had a vague recollection of being put to bed by Katrina and a very grumpy Mrs Flannigan. She could remember little of the bedtime scenario, but the fact that she was still in her clothes suggested that she’d either passed out pretty quickly or struggled so much they couldn’t get her undressed.

Phoebe groaned; she couldn’t possibly stay here now; she’d have to leave Carraigmore before anyone saw her. She would have to leave Ireland. It had been a ridiculous idea to come anyway; what was there for her here, just a pile of old stones by the cold, grey sea? She’d drive to the nearest airport and get a flight as far away as possible. She would take a vow of silence in some remote Indian Ashram or lose herself travelling across the Gobi desert, or at least go somewhere where drinking was prohibited. She tried to sit up but her head felt as though it was made of lead, her neck too feeble to support it. Gently she eased herself back down onto the pillow and was immediately overcome by a wave of nausea. She’d leave her escape for a few more minutes.

‘Good morning, Phoebe,’ Katrina was standing at the end of the bed with a tray. Bright sunshine poured in through the opened curtains, Phoebe realised she must have gone to sleep again. ‘Feeling better?’

Phoebe tried to speak; only a cracked croak emerged from her dry mouth.

‘Tea and paracetamol,’ said Katrina, putting a mug and two tablets down on the bedside table. ‘And when you’ve had that you must eat.’ She put a plate beside the mug. ‘Soda bread and raspberry jam. I bake the bread myself, this morning. It will make you better.’ She sat down on the bed and picked up Phoebe’s hand, examining it in her own. ‘You are very thin, are you sick?

‘Only when I mix my drinks,’ croaked Phoebe weakly.

‘Fibber’s cocktails are strong; I should have told you to be taking care.’ Katrina’s silky Eastern European accent sounded soothing to Phoebe’s aching head.

‘I’m so embarrassed,’ whispered Phoebe.

‘You weren’t the only one who was a little – what is it that you say in English? Bad for wear? But you were very sad last night. You were crying when we try to get you into bed. All the time you were saying, “David, David, I miss David”. He is your man? Have you had row? Split up?’

‘No.’

‘Then do you want me to phone him and tell him where you are?’

‘No, no,’ Phoebe moaned. ‘You can’t phone him.’

‘But he could chat with you, cheer you up.’

‘He hasn’t got a phone.’

Katrina shook her head in surprise, her glossy bob swung against her cheeks. ‘No mobile? No work number? There must be some way you can be getting hold of him.’

Phoebe sighed, she hadn’t wanted anyone to know, she hadn’t wanted anyone to feel sorry for her, but since she had managed to reveal her broken heart to the whole town within a few hours of arriving, what did it matter?

‘He’s dead.’

‘Oh! You poor thing,’ Katrina leant down and stroked Phoebe’s hair. Phoebe started to cry. ‘You know him long time?’ Katrina asked, taking Phoebe’s hand again.

‘I met him when I was fifteen.’

‘Was he your husband?’

Phoebe thought about explaining that he had actually been someone else’s husband but found herself nodding her aching head instead.

It was nearly midday by the time Phoebe managed to drag on some fresh clothes and make it down the stairs. In the kitchen she found Katrina sitting at the table; a round of rolled-out pastry lay beside her while two big iron pots emitted delicious smells from the Rayburn. Despite her hangover Phoebe was suddenly starving.

Katrina didn’t hear Phoebe; she was reading, completely absorbed in the thin sheet of paper that she held between her manicured hands. She sniffed and picking up a tea towel wiped her eyes. Mascara smudged down her cheek.

‘Are you all right?’ Phoebe asked. Katrina jumped.

‘Oh, Phoebe, you give me fright out of my skin,’ she quickly folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

‘Sorry,’ said Phoebe. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Katrina smiled broadly and stood up.

‘Yes of course, I am as OK as the rain. Did you eat the bread and jam?’ Phoebe shook her head. ‘You must eat, I have told you this. You will feel better if you eat.’ Still smiling, she hustled Phoebe into a windsor chair at one end of the table and pushed a crocheted cushion behind her back. After a few seconds a steaming bowl of soup appeared in front of her and another plate of soda bread, spread thick with yellow butter. ‘Good for the morning afterwards – it will help your head, and after soup you must have stew.’ Katrina gave the second pot a stir and sniffed its contents. ‘Mmmm. Is good I think.’

‘What are you making with the pastry?’ asked Phoebe between mouthfuls of the comforting soup.

Katrina nodded to a bundle of rhubarb sticks at the end of the table, ‘Rhubarb and almond pie. I will serve it with some honey and ginger ice cream for the lunch-time customers.’

‘I didn’t expect food like this in Carraigmore,’ Phoebe said, wondering how Katrina managed to cook with those incredible fingernails; now the glittering stars had gone and each nail was painted with a leopard-skin effect.

Katrina effortlessly lifted the thin pastry and draped it over a pie dish, gently pushing it down into the base with her knuckle, easing it up the fluted sides. ‘I am a good cook. I learn it from my mother.’

‘In Slovakia?’

Katrina nodded and Phoebe noticed that her expression was suddenly sad again.

‘What brought you here in the first place?’ Phoebe asked after a little while.

Katrina started to trim pastry from the edge of the pie dish.

‘Maeve’s funeral.’ She didn’t elaborate and Phoebe let the silence linger, not wanting to press her. Katrina looked deep in thought as she slowly turned the dish around, then she looked up. ‘When she die I come all the way from Dublin to say goodbye to my friend.’ She gathered up the pastry off-cuts and threw them at the feet of the Jack Russell, sitting pressed against the warmth of the Rayburn. ‘It is very sad but at the end of the days there was some good because I found Fibber and now I am happy.’

‘Who was Maeve?’ Phoebe asked, surprised to find she felt curious about the lives of the people in Fibber Flannigan’s pub, it had been weeks since anything had roused her interest.

Katrina pricked the pie-case with a fork, slid it into the oven, and leant back against the Rayburn. ‘She was so much, is hard to say. When I meet her I was living in a bedsit in Dun Laoghaire and she and her husband and her little girl are living in the house next door.’

‘So she was your neighbour?’ asked Phoebe.

‘Yes, she was my neighbour but she was also very good friend – and also she was Mrs Flannigan’s daughter, Fibber’s sister, Honey’s mother, and Theo –you remember Theo from last night?’ she did a brief impression of an angry figure stomping their feet. ‘She was Theo’s wife.’

‘He seemed very upset,’ said Phoebe.

Katrina didn’t respond but turned her back to ladle out the stew onto a plate.

‘Honey seems like a lovely little girl.’ Phoebe smiled up at Katrina as she placed the plate in front of her and handed her a fork. ‘She must have been through a tough time.’

Katrina sighed and sat down next to Phoebe. ‘Yes. But Theo can’t see that Honey is hurting too. He can only feel about himself. I think he does that thing that some unhappy people do – how is that how you say it? – Taking bath in his sad feelings?’

Phoebe thought for a few seconds, ‘Wallowing in his own misery?’

‘Yes that is it, he is always wallowing.’ Katrina wiped her floury hands on the tea towel. ‘But you must know how it is he feels, how it is to grieve for the person that you love. It must have been hard times for you when your husband died.’

Phoebe pushed the stew around the plate, her appetite suddenly gone.

Katrina picked up a stick of rhubarb and began to chop it into little pieces. ‘So tell me, Phoebe, what has brought
you
to Carraigmore?’

Phoebe shrugged. ‘Oh you know, half the world wants to come and find their Irish roots don’t they?’

‘But Carraigmore in March? Is not best time to see this place, you know?’

‘It felt like the best time to me.’

Katrina stopped chopping and looked at Phoebe. ‘Maybe you think walking on the windy beach will mend your heart? That will not work you know – to start with no one will leave you alone, everyone will want to know who you are, why you here,’ she laughed, showing off a beautiful set of teeth. ‘They will want to know what is favourite TV show, what you like for breakfast, where you buy your underwears. In Carraigmore finding other people’s businesses is nearly as big a sport as is the football.’

‘If you really want to know, my grandmother was from Carraigmore. I used to come here as a little girl to visit her and I wanted to see the beach again.’ Phoebe took a small mouthful of stew, and then another as her taste buds came alive. ‘Wow, this stew is amazing, what’s in it?’

‘Pheasant and red wine and my secret ingredient.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Like I say, is secret. But tonight you must taste my Thai green curry, it is also very good.’

‘Oh, I’m not staying that long – especially after last night. I’ll be gone after I’ve had a quick look around.’

Katrina looked disappointed. ‘That is shame, especially as I am thinking you have to talk to Fibber’s mother, she must have known your grandmother; she has known everybody who ever live here.’

‘I don’t think she likes me.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She gave me some very dirty looks last night and that was before I got sick all over her pub.’

‘Mrs Flannigan is a good woman but sometimes she can seem hard. Since Maeve died she too has been very sad. She is like a lemon.’

‘Bitter? Sour?’

Katrina nodded. ‘Yes, just like that. But I like her, she is letting me live here with Fibber, she is giving me this job at the pub, good pay. Underneath her bitter, sour lemon she is kind.’ Katrina lowered her voice. ‘Also, Fibber he tell me this, Mrs Flannigan’s mother was not right up here,’ Katrina tapped her head with a long finger nail. ‘She was, I think, a little mad, and also when Mrs Flannigan was a schoolgirl the teachers always beat her because she couldn’t learn to read and write.’

‘Poor Mrs Flannigan.’ Phoebe stared out of the window on to an overgrown back garden. She thought about the class of children she had left behind in England. She couldn’t imagine ever thinking it would be a good idea to beat them. She felt guilty that she hadn’t had a chance to tell them she was leaving. Maybe she should just go back to England, face up to Nola, ask Mrs Leach for her job back before she found another Year One teacher to take her place.

‘Katrina!’ The shout came from another room.

Katrina chopped the final stick of rhubarb and stood up. ‘I must go and help Fibber in the bar. There will many be wanting the hairs of the dog today.’ Katrina took off the apron and hung it on a hook. Phoebe noticed that she took the letter from the apron pocket and slipped it into the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans. With a wave to Phoebe Katrina went through an adjoining door into the bar, and as the door slowly closed, Phoebe caught a glimpse of Fibber wiping away the smudged mascara on her cheek.