An Early Wake

by Sheila Connolly

  “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?”

  “I think so. These guys have been at it for ages, and I think they’re about ready to pack it up. I’ll have a word with them.”

  “Thanks, Mick.” Maura went back out front, where the crowd was already beginning to thin.

  Jimmy asked, “Last round?” Maura nodded. Some fifteen minutes short of Sean’s deadline, the patrons had trickled away, leaving only a hard-core few of the band members packing away their gear in the back.

  “You guys were terrific,” Maura said to the musicians, and she meant it.

  “Ah, darlin’,” Niall said, “we were just messing about, but I’m glad you liked it. Old Mick would be happy.”

  “Where are you headed now?” she asked.

  “We’ll find a place, no worries. Let me know if you’ve a mind to do this again. I’d forgotten how good it felt.”

  “I will. Thanks for coming, and for bringing everyone else with you.”

  “That wasn’t me, love—that was the magic of the place.” Niall turned away, and Maura went back to the front, in time to see Jimmy leaving with Rose. “Good night!” she called out. She wondered briefly where Tim had gone. She looked around at the darkened pub. At least Jimmy had done a fair job of tidying up. It might look worse in the morning, but not as bad as it might have.

  She wasn’t sure what to do next
. She was exhausted, and even the late open on Sunday wasn’t going to help much. She had to be here: people would want to talk about tonight’s event, and if she had any hope of continuing it, she should be front and center to talk it up. But she didn’t want to move. It was as if the lingering notes of the music and the voices still hung in the air, making the dark, shabby place look somehow more . . . she couldn’t think of a good word. More than it had been the day before, at least.

  Mick came in, carrying a bunch of used glasses. “You’re still here?”

  “I can’t seem to tell my feet to move. Thanks for making this work, Mick. I wouldn’t have believed it, but it really was something special. Even if there’s never another one, I’m glad this happened.”

  “Go home, get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

  “Shoot, we should clear out the cash register,” Maura said suddenly. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about that. I wouldn’t want to leave it here—this place is too easy to get in and out of.” She popped open the drawer and stared in amazement at the rumpled stacks of bills and the piles of coins. “Mick, look at this,” she said, almost reverently. “I don’t think I’ve seen this much total since I got here.”

  “You going to count it or just admire it?” Mick came up behind her and peered over her shoulder.

  “Shut up—I’m enjoying the moment. I’d better get it to the bank ASAP, but I’m guessing it’s a little late for that right now. What do I do with it? Take it home? Stick it under a floorboard?” She’d heard that Ireland was safe, but no way was she going to risk losing this pile of cash.

  “The banks won’t be open tomorrow, on a Sunday. Would you rather I took it with me?” Mick said.

  She turned to look at him. Did she trust him? Maybe. Probably. “Promise you won’t be on the first flight to Spain in the morning?”

  He smiled. “Tempting, innit? You’ll have to trust me on that.”

  She grabbed a plastic bag from under the bar and stuffed the bills into it; the coins could wait. Then she thrust the bag toward Mick. “Here. Take it home.”

  He looked startled; had he been joking about hanging on to it? “You don’t want to count it?”

  “No,” Maura said firmly. “Either I trust you or I don’t. So if you skim off a few bills, it’ll be on your conscience. Right now all I want to do is go home and go to sleep.”

  “Right so.” Mick folded the bag carefully and stuffed it into his jacket’s inner pocket.

  “You’ll close up?” Maura asked.

  “I will. Safe home.”

  “You too.”

  Chapter 12

  The next morning Maura slept in and awoke to sunshine. She stretched luxuriously in bed. The night had been wonderful. Surprising. Hard to explain, even to herself. She was no stranger to big events back in Boston bars, often loud, busy evenings that spilled over into the wee hours (and often ended in a fight, especially if a local sports team lost, which meant it was time to duck the flying fists and bottles). But she’d never been part of an event in a pub that was so happy, and focused only on the music, not even an advertised event—just a bunch of old guys getting together and playing songs they all knew, and people who’d come from who-knew-where to fill the place and listen. And had left happy. Had it been a onetime thing, or could she do it every month or so, with the same results? She didn’t know. It was risky to mess with magic, she was finding. Everything had come together this time, but there were no guarantees that they could re-create it. She’d have to talk to Billy and Mick and Jimmy to see how it compared to the old events and ask what they thought about doing it again. But no rush. Right now she just wanted to wallow in the good memories.

  Finally Maura climbed out of bed, threw on some old sweats, and went down the stairs to make herself some coffee. When it was ready she filled a mug and opened her front door, stepping outside to see what kind of day it was. She could hear the tolling of a church bell; it had to be the one at the church in Drinagh, because that one was on a hill only a few miles away, and the sound carried if the wind was right. She wouldn’t stop by to see Bridget this morning, because Mick often came by to pick up his grandmother to take her to Mass in Leap, or one or another of the neighbors would give her a ride and bring her home again.

  Maura shivered in the morning air and went back inside, closing the door firmly behind her. As she finished a second cup of coffee, along with brown bread (Bridget’s) spread with the black currant jelly she had become addicted to recently, she realized that somehow in the last twenty-four hours she seemed to have made a decision: she was planning a future at Sullivan’s. Six months earlier she had stumbled into Leap, still aching from the loss of her grandmother (her only family), made worse by the loss of the rented apartment she and Gran had shared (the only home she had ever known), and clueless about what the heck she was doing in Ireland. Gran had told her to go, and Maura had had no better ideas. No plan, no purpose.

  Now here she was with a house of her own and a business, likewise her own. It was mind-boggling. In the beginning she had been cautious about committing herself to anything, and she hadn’t wanted to make any changes to Sullivan’s because she didn’t know if she was going to stay. She’d also wanted to give people time to get to know her, an ongoing process but one that seemed to have been the right move—at least now they knew she wasn’t one of those infamous obnoxious Americans who thought they knew how everything should be done and shoved it down their throats. If anything, Maura was going backward: reviving a tradition that people seemed to have missed, even if they hadn’t realized it, and would be happy to have back again. Of course, Old Mick had created it in a different time, and there was no guarantee that it would work now, but if last night was any indication, it was worth a try.

  Suddenly she wanted to get moving, to go back to the pub and see how things looked in the clear light of morning. To count the cash they’d collected and see if they’d made any money after she paid the Guinness distributor and overtime for her staff. They’d worked hard last night and they all deserved it. Had she been careless, handing the cash off to Mick? She didn’t think so. She had to have faith in someone sometime, and he’d done nothing to shake her trust in him. In fact he’d proved plenty of times that he was trustworthy and dependable. Besides, if he took off with the cash, he’d earn Bridget’s wrath, and she was pretty sure he didn’t want that.

  Maura took a quick shower, dressed, and drove the few miles into the village. It was, not surprisingly, quiet—she knew there’d be a brief flurry of traffic before the noon Mass, but otherwise there were few cars on the road. She unlocked the front door and stepped into the pub, stopping on the threshold for a moment and listening . . . for what? Trying to catch any echoes of the previous night’s music? Don’t be daft, Maura, she chided herself. She liked the word “daft”—it was one her grandmother had used often. Anyway, the room held no echoes. Considering how many people had been in the place the night before, it was reasonably tidy, with only a few glasses on the bar waiting to be washed. She reminded herself to thank Jimmy again for taking care of that. He had seemed more committed to making the event work than she’d ever seen him. Maybe he was finally over his snit about not inheriting a share of the pub. And Mick had been a rock throughout, managing the music side of things. She couldn’t have done that, but under his watchful eye all the equipment had worked and the musicians had all played nicely with each other—in both senses of the word. Maura was looking forward to comments from the townspeople today, for surely they’d come by to contribute their two cents. Or however much that was in euros.

  She drifted toward the back room, which was a bit less tidy, but then, the musicians hadn’t cleared out until late. Mick had said he’d oversee this end of things. She couldn’t complain—whatever mess there was could be cleaned up quickly, and she didn’t mind doing her own washing up. She walked into the room, picking up glasses and trash as she went, but when she reached the far end and turned, she stopped. In one of the banque
ttes that lined the rear wall, someone was apparently sleeping. Maybe Mick hadn’t had the heart to wake him, or maybe he’d been forgotten by the crowd and left behind to sleep it off.

  Maura walked closer, then stopped again, her happy mood disappearing like air from a leaky balloon. Even from a few feet away it was clear this guy wasn’t going to wake up again—ever. Nobody turned that shade of gray and lived to tell about it. And his half-open, blindly staring eyes confirmed it.

  Worse, she recognized him: it was the man who’d come in Friday afternoon, Aidan something, the first one to show up at Niall’s invitation to join the fun. From her position a few feet away, Maura could see no obvious signs of injury. Maybe he’d had a heart attack or a stroke. But when? If it had happened during the music, why had nobody noticed last night? There had been so many people coming and going . . .

  All she knew was that he was dead. In her pub. Was this some sort of punishment from the gods for thinking maybe the place had turned a corner and might have a future? Ha! No wonder most of the country seemed permanently depressed, if this was what a brief glimpse of good luck brought about.

  Now what? Maura’s mind reeled. For one brief, hysterical moment she thought about disposing of the body herself, but that was a ridiculous idea. First of all, she had no idea what to do with it. Him. Sure, she could toss him into the harbor or pitch him into a handy bog, but how was she supposed to haul a body—and not a lightweight one, from the looks of him—out of the building and across a major road? Nope, not working. Bury him up the hill behind the pub? She owned the land, and nobody had touched it in decades, so who would notice?

  Oh, come on, Maura. You’re a law-abiding citizen and a respectable business owner. You can’t go around hiding corpses just to make your life easier. She went back to the front, where she’d left her bag behind the bar, pulled out her mobile phone, and called the garda station, asking for Sean Murphy, though she doubted he’d be in yet.