An Early Wake

by Sheila Connolly

  “I could name names for you, for the bands, but you wouldn’t know them. So you’ve never been to a live concert, then?”

  “No,” Maura said curtly, feeling defensive. Popular music had never really appealed to her, and while it had always been on in the background in the bars where she worked, she’d never paid much attention and always had trouble identifying any particular group. Half the time the music was drowned out by the noise in any of those pubs, especially on weekends. And none of the places had been the kind to bring in live bands. “Not interested.” A lame excuse, but at least partially true.

  Mick looked at her with something suspiciously like pity. “We Irish love our music. There’s hardly a man or woman ’round here who doesn’t play some instrument, or is willing to pick one up if a seisiún starts up. And if they’ve no instrument, they’ll sing. We all share the words and the tunes. Some go back centuries, even. You’ve probably heard yer fair share of them even in America—many of the folk singers back in the sixties picked them up again.”

  Maura held up a hand. “Okay, you can stop now. I get it. There’s a lot of Irish music history, and some part of it took place right here in Sullivan’s, right?”

  “Right. This Tim will be getting a true oral history from Billy there.” Mick nodded toward the old man, dozing in his corner.

  “Yeah, they both seemed pretty happy earlier.” Maura wondered if there were any other surprises about the pub she now owned. “You aren’t going to tell me that Michael Collins spent his time off here, are you?”

  Mick smiled. “Yer all but an idiot when it comes to Irish music, but at least you know that the founder of the modern Irish state was from a Cork family not far from here. No, he did his drinkin’ at the Eldon Hotel in Skib. And Clonakilty, of course, although that’s not to say he didn’t stop in here for the odd pint—this place has been around for a long time.” He turned away to take the orders of a pair of men who had just come in.

  Maura wondered for a moment whether she should tell Mick about her concerns about the cash flow at Sullivan’s. After all, he’d worked here a lot longer than she had. She knew exactly what she was paying him, and he hadn’t asked for anything more. But then, she had no idea what his expenses were. In fact, she realized that she knew next to nothing about Mick’s life outside the pub—not only did she have no idea where he lived, she didn’t even know if he lived with anyone else—family, friend, or partner. He’d never mentioned a wife or girlfriend and didn’t seem to answer to anybody else. How had he managed to remain single so long? What did he do in the time he wasn’t at Sullivan’s, other than visit Bridget? Where would he go if she shut down the place? When he’d learned that Old Mick had left the pub to Maura, he hadn’t quit (which she was afraid he would), but neither had he offered to buy her out. Assuming he could’ve afforded to.

  Rose’s dad, Jimmy, had been more difficult about her inheritance, but Maura was pretty sure he couldn’t pay for a share of the place even if he’d wanted to. But Jimmy was the type of guy who would probably land on his feet no matter what, even if he never did more than scrape by. Besides, it was Rose who Maura worried about. Mick and Jimmy were grown men and would just have to deal with whatever came along.

  Business picked up gradually through the evening. Billy garnered his share of attention: he looked almost like royalty, enthroned in his well-worn chair by the fire, spinning tales to all who would listen, tourist and friend alike. His glass was seldom empty. Jimmy came in a bit after six, presumably well fed by Rose, and set about clearing used glasses and wiping down empty tables with good cheer.

  Maura greeted at least half the people who came in by name, which was a huge improvement over the past couple of months. On the other hand, did it matter if she charmed whoever walked in the door? She was still trying to figure out what her role at Sullivan’s was: she wanted to make it clear that she was the owner, not a barmaid, but she admitted to herself that she still had to make an effort to welcome people and schmooze them while they waited for their pints to settle. One thing she’d learned since she’d been in Ireland, however, was that a pub owner, especially a woman, was expected to chat with customers, create a relationship with them, so they’d come back regularly for a pint and some craic. That was the way the business worked, but it was hard for her. A lot of that came from how she’d grown up, with her father dead and a mother who’d run off, God knew where, when Maura was a baby. Plus she’d lived in a rough neighborhood where it didn’t pay to reveal too much of yourself, in case it made you look weak and vulnerable. Back when she’d been waitressing or tending bar, she’d always tried to be as bland as possible. She knew she could have made bigger tips if she’d been friendlier or flashed more skin, but she’d never been comfortable doing that. She’d accepted the price of smaller tips in exchange for clinging to some of her dignity.

  But now she was the owner, the “face” of Sullivan’s, and the rules had changed. Could she change along with them? Did she want to?

  Jimmy deposited a double handful of empty pint glasses on the bar in front of her. “Penny?”

  Maura looked blankly at him for a moment. “What? Oh, for my thoughts, you mean.”

  “I do, that,” he replied. “Yer looking pretty somber for such a fine evening. Troubles?”

  “No, everything’s fine. I was just thinking.”

  He accepted her explanation without comment. “What’s this I hear about a college boy nosing around, talking about the music?”

  Had Rose mentioned Tim to him over supper? “That’s about it. He’s at Trinity in Dublin, and he’s doing some kind of research on Sullivan’s back when it was the music capital of West Cork, or something like that. He talked with Billy for a while, and he’ll be back tomorrow. Do you remember those days?”

  Jimmy leaned against the front of the bar. “Some. I was working in town back then, before I started here, and newly married, so I didn’t have much time of my own. But there was always talk of who might be showin’ up at Sullivan’s of a weekend.”

  “Sounds like there was a lot going on back then. Mick says they packed this place, front and back. Must have been like sardines.” And no doubt a fire hazard and hot and damp, and Maura didn’t even want to think about the state of the bathrooms during such an event. Maybe the guys just went out the back door and did what they had to do, although maybe they might not be let back in. All in all, hard to imagine. “Table in the corner is looking for drinks, Jimmy.”

  “I’ll see to it,” he said and went over to greet the customers there.

  Maura was left with her own thoughts again, once everyone was supplied with pints. She couldn’t imagine this place as the hub of anything, but it seemed to have been true once. The space in the back looked unlikely, what little she’d seen of it, but it had worked once. Could it happen again? Even she was aware that the music world had changed a lot in the past twenty years. Everything was electronic now, and people could carry or access their entire music library on a tiny device or through their cell phone. She’d heard that the old bands who still toured often priced their tickets beyond the reach of everyday fans, at least back in the States. She had no idea where to find small start-up bands in Boston; where could she look in Ireland? And where on earth would a small place like this, far from any major city, fit in the music world now?

  But. The real question, now taking shape for Maura, was: could Sullivan’s make money, if she could bring the music back?

  She knew up front that she couldn’t do it herself. She’d need help, since she knew next to nothing about current music, at least beyond the big names. She wasn’t sure if whatever pub license she had would cover live performances. She’d have to check legal capacity. She’d have to see what advertising would cost and if it even reached the right people.

  But could it work? It was something to think about, but she had to shelve it then as another group of men came in. Mick left around ten, and Maura and Jimmy closed up the place after eleven, as the last patrons scatt
ered into the night. “You go on home, Jimmy,” Maura said. She wasn’t just being generous: she wanted a little time alone in the place.

  Jimmy grabbed his jacket and left quickly, with a “ta” on his way out the door. Maura finished rinsing glasses and cleaning the tables, then swept the floor. Then she looked at the long room, parallel to the road. The walls were dark, as was the battered, mismatched furniture. Of course, when the place was full, none of that showed. She wandered toward the back room and paused in the doorway, listening. For what? The ghosts of long-gone musicians? In the murky light from the weak lightbulbs, the empty room looked sad and shabby. Again she tried to imagine it packed wall to wall with bodies, moving to whatever beat the band generated. It wasn’t easy. The rock face at the rear was cold, and she’d been told that when it rained it got pretty damp back here. To be honest, the place just didn’t look all that impressive. So what had drawn so many musicians to it? Maybe the acoustics were spectacular. “Hello?” she said tentatively, feeling foolish. Her voice echoed hardly at all. With a sigh she turned off the lights, locked up, and walked out to where she’d parked her car.

  Chapter 5

  The papers she’d left scattered on her table on Thursday didn’t look any more appealing to Maura the next morning, and she had no new insights to add. If she was lucky, the pub was breaking even, with maybe a bit left over. But the slow season was looming, and there wasn’t much to be done about that. Unless . . .

  Maura knew a little bit about the traditional side of Irish music, as she’d told Billy. With Boston’s Irish population, it was hard to avoid. She didn’t particularly like it; she’d always found it kind of sloppy sentimental or sad. Lots of dying and mourning—or being betrayed by a fair maiden. Not really her thing. Nor were the endless celebrations of battles bravely fought and almost always lost. Had the Irish ever won a battle?

  Once she was dressed, she stuck her nose out the front door and found the temperature cool but not unpleasantly so. She pulled on a sweater and stepped out. Walking to the end of the lane, she saw Mick’s car parked in front of Bridget’s house and didn’t want to intrude, so she turned around and walked toward the other end, where the lane petered out in a farmyard with the abandoned house and a barn that housed mostly hay. She listened to the birds in the hedgerow on the other side: they were still busy. The cattle in the field off to her right looked up with mild curiosity and, when she didn’t offer them any food or entertainment, went back to cropping the still-green grass. As a born-and-bred city girl, Maura was still surprised by how loud a group of cows tearing and chomping could be. There were maybe fifteen cows in the field, and she idly wondered how many cows it took to make a herd. Was this enough? They were black and white, a pretty contrast to the mostly green landscape, but Maura had no idea what breed they were.

  Someday, Maura thought, she should introduce herself to her other neighbors, beyond Bridget and these cows. There were other people living nearby who occupied nice houses that had been built when the Celtic Tiger was briefly thriving, although uphill the new houses alternated with older houses, now abandoned. Some of those looked to be in decent shape, like hers, while others had been left to fall to pieces, like the one directly next door. Why is nobody living on this farm? Maura had trouble imagining people just walking away from a perfectly good house in the country, although she knew that even in cities like Boston it happened quite a bit. But those places were usually owned by absentee landlords, who refused either to pay taxes and manage them or to give them up to the city (which probably didn’t have the money to do anything with them anyway). She sighed. Maybe she should ask Bridget for the history of the hill.

  Maura figured she might as well head for the pub, and when she pulled up in front of Sullivan’s, Tim Reilly was already there, leaning against the wall next to the door, hands stuffed in his pockets. He straightened up when he saw her. “I didn’t know what time you opened,” he called out when she opened the car door.

  “It kind of changes day to day,” Maura said. “Technically it’s ten thirty, but we don’t always follow that if there are no customers. Usually we’re open before twelve, at least, during the week.”

  “I can go away and come back later, if I’m in the way,” he volunteered.

  “You don’t have to do that—I’m happy to have company. I can offer you coffee, but nothing to eat,” she reminded him.

  “You don’t do food here?” Tim asked.

  “Not at the moment. The former owner didn’t, and I haven’t changed much since I took over. There’s a kitchen behind the bar, but I hear from other people who are doing it that it’s a real pain to meet all the European Union regulations these days, so I haven’t done anything about it.” Maura got the door unlocked and pushed it open. “Come on in.”

  Tim followed her into the empty pub. “Thank you. When will Billy be in?”

  “Whenever he decides to come in. He lives at the other end of the building, so he doesn’t have far to come. But he knows that you’ll be waiting for him, so I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Plus Maura suspected Billy knew Tim would be good for at least another pint or two. Did Tim have the cash to keep Billy—or anyone else he might interview—supplied with Guinness?

  “I like yer paintings,” Tim said, pointing to the large ones that flanked the fireplace.

  Maura went around turning on lights, and then she figured she might as well start the fire, take the edge off the room after a cool night. “They’re done by a local artist who lives nearby. You might see her in here if you’re around for a bit longer.”

  While Maura stacked turf in the fireplace, Tim wandered around the room, peering at the photos and flyers and even a few posters tacked or stapled or taped to the walls—growing more and more excited as he went. “Do you know what you have here?”

  “You mean, all that stuff? Not a clue.”

  “This is amazing! It’s like a history of music for the last few decades, all jumbled up with tourist shots and sporting events and who knows what. You mind if I take some photos?” He reached out a reverent hand to touch one of the posters, as if to make sure it was real.

  “Knock yourself out. Maybe when you’re done, you can tell me who some of those people are—the ones on the posters, I mean. Do you have a schedule for this project of yours?”

  Tim sat on a bar stool and continued to look around, his mobile in his hand. “Did you say something about coffee? As for the schedule, this is kind of an exploratory trip, you know? I mean, I didn’t know what I’d find here, if anything at all. All I had to go on were some comments from people, and I’ve seen a couple of references to this place here—Sullivan’s—in the newspaper archives. I kept finding not big articles or profiles, but more like a mention here or there in a music mag that folded ten years ago, that kind of thing. The name Sullivan’s popped up often enough that I got curious, and I thought I’d come see for myself. Now, even though me ma was raised near here, I’d never been to Cork, and I couldn’t figure how this out-of-the-way spot could pull in big names, since it looked kind of an unlikely spot for a music mecca, doesn’t it? Sorry—I don’t mean to offend you.”

  “I know it’s a dump, but apparently that’s the way some of my customers like it,” Maura said as she set a cup of coffee in front of him. “I’ve been taking it slow, because I’m afraid if I change anything I’ll drive away what few I have, and I need every one of them.”

  “You haven’t been here long?” Tim asked.

  “I told you, barely six months, which is why I don’t know anything about what you’re looking for. I haven’t even looked hard at that back room, because we’ve never had a big enough crowd to need it.”

  “It must’ve been grand back in the day,” Tim said dreamily, looking past her without seeing.

  “Why are you so interested?” Maura asked, making herself a cup of coffee as well. “You said your mother came from Clonakilty? That’s not far.”

  “Yeah, but once she got to Dublin she never looked back. Sh
e’s got no family left there.”

  “Was Sullivan’s unusual, or were there places like this all over Ireland? That brought in musicians, I mean—I know there are plenty of places to drink and talk.”

  “Ah, that’s the real question, Maura. And that’s what I want to understand. You have to remember how far back our traditions in music go, along with our poetry. We were often a people who were afraid to commit words to paper, even if we could write, so we committed the words to memory instead, and we passed them on. We’re a nation of poets, or bards, if you will, and that may be why the old forms have persisted, even in modern rock music. You must have heard enough of it to know that.”

  “Okay, I get that, Tim, but you didn’t really answer the question: what made this place special?”

  “To be honest with you, I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I want to talk to the people who were part of it, because maybe they can explain how it all happened. Or maybe we’ll never know. But it did happen.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

  “Ah, don’t worry yerself—there’ll be plenty who were around back then. Billy’s a grand man fer the stories.” He turned eagerly as Rose came in. Maura noted that Rose was wearing a sweater that she’d never seen before—for Tim?

  “Good morning, Tim,” Rose said brightly. “Did you find the hostel all right?”

  “I did, and they fixed me up for a bed,” he said.

  Something in his tone made Rose look more sharply at him. “Is it not to yer liking, then?”

  He shrugged. “I’m in a room with three Norwegian guys who seem to have visited every pub in Skibbereen yesterday. Even asleep they were loud.”