Spin the Bottle

by Monica McInerney

  Her guests had barely driven away the next morning before she was on the phone to Eva.

  ‘They hated it.’

  ‘Hated it? Hated what?’

  ‘Where do I start? According to them, the rooms were musty and too hot. Too hot? I felt like saying this is an Irish winter – your room can’t be too hot. They said there was a funny smell. The only smell in the house was all the cleaning products I’ve been hurling around the past week or so, so they must have had very sensitive noses. The woman even made a mean remark about the wallpaper.’

  ‘They must have liked something. What about your breakfast?’

  ‘They especially hated my breakfast. He said the eggs were hard. She said the bacon was raw. She managed to eat the cornflakes but I heard the man say my muesli looked like something chickens eat.’

  ‘You didn’t actually serve them chicken food, did you?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. It was a special hippy brand I found in Dunshaughlin, all wholegrains or something.’

  ‘How did they hear about you, anyway?’

  ‘Coincidence. Their house in the north of England is called Green Gables, so it was a sentimental thing. Is that going to be my market, do you think – only people who live in houses called Green Gables around the world? Evil, fussy people?’

  ‘Lainey, this isn’t like you to be so upset. Are you okay?’

  No, she wasn’t okay, she was scared witless that she was going to make a bags of this. But she didn’t want to admit it – not to Evie, not to anybody. ‘Oh, just annoyed, I guess. Don’t mind me. They were unpleasant people. Probably as well to get the bad ones early, don’t you think? Of course everything’s going to be fine.’ She nearly convinced herself.

  Two hours later she was outside hanging up the sheets that Mr and Mrs Crabhead had slept in, feeling much cheerier. She had recited every statement of positive-reinforcement she could remember. She’d applied her brightest lipstick, styled her hair with gel and mousse and dressed in the brightest jumper she owned to cheer herself up. She’d put on her favourite compilation tape and played the songs at full volume – George Michael, U2, David Gray, Luka Bloom, Crowded House and Alex Lloyd blaring through the house while she continued her cleaning. She’d sung along as loudly as she wanted, too, safe in the knowledge no one could hear her screeches.

  As she pegged the sheets, doing her best to ignore the grey clouds covering half the sky, she clung tightly to her up-beat mood, batting away each doubt and worry as it came into view in her mind. She had made the right decision about Adam. This year was going to be fine. And she wouldn’t let a single pair of complainers defeat her, of course she wouldn’t. She would make a success of the B&B. She just had to see it as a challenge, the B&B as another venue needing a complete transformation. She’d organised hundreds of events in her life, after all. She’d turned ordinary venues into rooms of mystery and beauty, filled with people and music and wonderful food. This was just a small – all right, a biggish – house. Of course she could make it work. She could almost hear her brain click into gear and slowly start to turn for the first time in many days. So, then. What had been the first step in any major project she’d undertaken? An easy question. Some informal market research, generally starting with the people she knew and trusted best – colleagues, family, friends… Her fingers started to tingle as an idea came into her head. She left the washing where it was, ran straight inside to the phone and dialled the Dublin number she already knew off by heart.

  ‘Ambrosia Delicatessen and Café, good morning.’

  ‘Evie, my darling, gorgeous friend, it’s me again…’

  ‘Yes, Lainey,’ Eva said warily.

  ‘Did you tell me you and Joe go off around the country on romantic weekends all the time and stay in lots of B&Bs?’

  ‘We’ve been away a few times, over to Galway and that, sure.’

  ‘Were there ones that stood out for any reason? The most romantic? The cosiest? The most welcoming?’

  ‘Well, they’re always different to one another, but yes, there have been some lovely ones.’

  ‘Can I beg a big favour? Beg, borrow or steal a favour? Would you and Joe come down and stay a night here as soon as you can?’

  ‘I thought you’d banned us?’

  ‘I hereby lift that ban. Could you come soon? This weekend, if you haven’t got any singing gigs?’

  Eva sang in cover bands around Dublin now and again. ‘No, we’re free this weekend.’

  ‘Would you come, then? Pretend you are normal tourists who have happened to see this wonderful-looking B&B so close to the Hill of Tara that you simply have to stay a night?’

  ‘What, arrive out of the blue? Surprise you, do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I have invited you and I probably will recognise you both when you arrive, so it won’t be a huge surprise. But could you both just go through the whole place as if you were here as guests and then tell me at the end what was good and what was really bad? In a proper way, not in that mean-spirited, cruel and heartless way that other couple did it?’

  ‘You just want another chance to cook those bacon and eggs, don’t you? I know what you’re up to. We’re your guinea pigs.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’ Well, perhaps she would, actually.

  ‘Hold on, Lainey.’ Lainey overheard Eva have a quick conversation with Joseph. She came back on the line. ‘How about this Saturday night? Would you be ready for us by then?’

  ‘I’ll be climbing the walls in anticipation. Thanks a million, Evie.’

  Excellent, Lainey thought as she hung up. She was off and running.

  The doorbell rang as she was on her way upstairs to get Eva and Joseph’s room ready. A plump, middle-aged woman started talking even before Lainey had fully opened the door. ‘My name’s Geraldine Gillespie. You’re May’s niece, are you? I do some cooking around here. Your aunt didn’t care to try any, but I wondered if you might be interested yourself?’

  Lainey blinked. This must have been the Mrs Gillespie that Mr Fogarty had spoken about. ‘Hello. Yes, I’m Lainey. Would you like to come in?’

  The woman followed her into the kitchen, carrying a basket covered in a tea towel, talking all the while. ‘I make bread, scones – you know, the sort of thing tourists are looking for with their breakfast. I wondered, would you be wanting to order any of it? I bake it fresh. Here, have a taste.’

  Lainey took a bite of a scone, plump and white, dotted with currants, dusted with flour. It was fresh, light, full of flavour. ‘That’s delicious. Really nice.’

  ‘Here, try the bread.’

  Lainey fetched a plate and some butter and obediently cut a fine slice of the brown bread, which was still warm from the oven. She spread butter on it and took a bite. ‘Gorgeous,’ she said, her mouth full. It was, too – chewy grains, lovely texture.

  Geraldine smiled. ‘I love to bake. Cakes, bread, biscuits, rolls – everything and anything, really. I use recipes my grandmother gave me. The tourists like to know that. You know, that it’s authentic, not packet stuff. Would you be interested in perhaps buying some of my cooking now and again?’

  ‘I’ll certainly keep it in mind. I’m still setting up at the moment, getting myself organised, you know. But can I give you a ring sometime?’

  Geraldine left her number and the rest of the sample baking from the basket. As Lainey walked back to the house after waving her goodbye, her mind was working overtime. The home-baking could be a nice gimmick, an extra touch, not just with breakfast or with a cup of tea. Perhaps she could put welcome baskets in the rooms? Or maybe she could sell a selection for guests to take away with them? Authentic Irish food.

  Back in the kitchen, she made a big pot of coffee and took out her notebook, ready for a mini brain-storming session.

  Right, then, she thought, pen in hand. Who stayed in B&Bs? Mostly tourists. Why were tourists in Ireland? To experience Irish culture. Did they want real Ireland? No, not usually. They wanted film and TV Ireland. Ba
llykissangel Ireland.

  That was it. She could turn the B&B into a mini Ballykissangel. The breakfast room could be a replica of Assumpta’s pub. Though with much better wiring, of course. Then she decided against that idea. The TV series was set in Wicklow – there were probably already plenty of replicas. Something else, then. Something local to Meath. Of course! Pierce Brosnan was born in County Meath, James Bond himself. She could fill the place with James Bond memorabilia, hire Bond girl lookalikes to make the beds and cook the breakfasts. Then she dismissed that idea, too. There’d be licensing difficulties, surely.

  Forget films. Think of popular Irish books. Angela’s Ashes? Oh yes, that would be a fantastic B&B experience. No, I’m sorry, sir and madam, there are no blankets on the bed, we’re too poor. Sorry, no breakfast either, we’re too poor. What about Roddy Doyle’s The Commitments? She could picture it, loud soul music playing in every room and young Dubliners looking after her guests – ‘Do you feckin’ well want bacon and eggs, or not?’

  Perhaps not. Could she work with what she had, and create attractions out of the livestock? Pretend the chickens were special, highly trained Australian imports, capable of laying super eggs and doing tricks? Or could she make the food her main selling point? Go for the gourmet approach to B&B stays? Eva could come down from the delicatessen and give her a course in cheese and breads and olives. But would her guests want that? People stayed in Irish B&Bs wanting the full Irish breakfast, didn’t they? There was no point meddling with that formula, though she could take the organic approach – only free-range eggs and home-cured bacon. That was worth investigating. She scribbled a note. But it wasn’t enough. Think harder, Lainey, she told herself. You’re near the Hill of Tara, the ancient capital of Ireland. That’s your main selling point.

  That was it. She’d have to base it on the Hill of Tara, on Irish myths and legends.

  She was up at the Hill of Tara coffee shop within an hour. The notices and other bits of paper stuck to the noticeboard in the porch at the entrance flapped in the wind as she opened the door. When she had everything a bit more organised, she’d ask if she could stick up a flyer for Green Gables. Maybe even invite the people from the café down to have a look. Word of mouth could be as good as advertisements, she knew that from experience. The little shop was busy. There were German tourists trying on Aran jumpers and flowing capes, a trio of French or possibly Spanish teenagers peering into the glass cabinet of Celtic jewellery. There were little pottery Celtic crosses, Irish cottage music boxes, cassette tapes, hair slides, T-shirts, caps, all featuring Celtic motifs or the Tara circles. The café was nearly full too, most of the tables taken by small groups of tourists, the air fragrant with brewed coffee and the spicy warmth of fruit scones and cake. Lainey had a sudden longing to be a tourist for the day too.

  To hell with it, she would do just that. She was the boss, after all. She formally gave herself the day off. She’d explore the Hill of Tara as if she had never seen it before, take it all in bit by bit. As she made her decision she noticed several of the people check their watches and stand up, gathering their coats and scarves. A guided tour was about to begin. Lainey joined in as the group filed along the gravel path to the old Protestant church that was now the visitors’ centre. Lainey could remember being at Tara as a child on the occasional Sunday when it was still in use, hearing the bell ringing. It still looked like a church inside, with just a few rows of narrow pews, a large video screen above the altar. The group shuffled in, wriggling along the seats and making room for one another.

  The young guide introduced herself as Siobhan. ‘We’ve a short film for you, then we’ll go out onto Tara itself. You’ll see we’ve arranged for authentic Irish weather for you today.’ There were a few laughs. ‘That grass doesn’t stay green by magic, let me assure you.’

  The film began, a twenty-minute documentary about the history of Tara, the various excavations over the years and the story of the Lia Fáil. Lainey caught herself keeping a special eye out for Rohan Hartigan in the silhouette scenes at the end, before realising they wouldn’t have been edited yet. This was probably still the old film.

  She walked behind the tour a little way, trying to hear Siobhan’s commentary over the heads of the other tourists. The wind was swirling around them, sending clouds buffeting, changing the light from clear winter grey to dramatic purple in moments. It was the perfect backdrop to some of the stories she could hear Siobhan telling, even if the wind did keep breaking her paragraphs into short snatches of words. Lainey strained to hear. ‘… once the most powerful place in Ireland… thousands of years old… seat of more than one hundred and forty High Kings of Ireland… Celtic heroes such as Finn McCool, King Cormac Mac Airt… it was on Tara that St Patrick was said to have used the shamrock to explain the mystery of the Holy Trinity… in the 1840s more than one million people heard Daniel O’Connell, the great Irish leader, speak here…’

  An older woman standing beside Lainey put her hand in the air to ask a question. ‘Can you show us where the Tara brooch was found?’ Her accent was Canadian or American. ‘I have a replica here myself. My late husband gave it to me and we always promised to come here and see where the real thing came from.’ Lainey glanced over at the brooch pinned to the woman’s green woollen wrap. It was a beautiful gold piece – a circular band with a clasp across it, engraved with Celtic symbols and embedded with green and red stones that looked like they might be real emeralds and rubies. It was a lovely copy of the famous Tara brooch that unfortunately didn’t have anything to do with Tara. Lainey wondered how Siobhan was going to break the news.

  ‘I’m very sorry to say that the Tara brooch is one more of the mysteries about the Hill of Tara,’ she said. Lainey gave her full marks for that. ‘The original brooch was in fact found at Bettystown beach about fifteen miles from here. But we like to think that the Kings of Tara may have worn something very similar, so it certainly has a place here on Tara.’

  The old woman looked delighted, touching the brooch as she listened to Siobhan speak. Lainey was surprised to find herself moved at the idea of the woman travelling to Tara to honour a promise she’d made to her late husband. She stayed with the group a few more minutes before realising she was going to need more specific facts and figures about Tara than a tour like this could offer. She’d come back on a less windy day, she decided. In the meantime, there were other places to find information.

  She was in the local library by ten o’clock the next morning. As she waited to be served she flicked through a copy of the local paper lying on the counter. There were stories on local sporting clubs, a ruckus in the council, increasing traffic problems in the area. As she turned towards the back she noticed a familiar name above a column on Irish myths and legends. Rohan Hartigan. So he was a writer these days, not an actor. The piece was a retelling of the legend of the Children of Lir, the sister and her two brothers turned into swans and banished for nine hundred years by their evil stepmother. It was really well written, she noticed. None of the old wisha-wisha folky Irish that had turned her off as a child.

  The young woman behind the counter was very friendly. ‘Were you after anything in particular, Lainey?’ she asked after Lainey had supplied all her details.

  ‘I’m looking for books about Tara, actually. On Irish myths and legends.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve plenty of books on Tara. The trouble is, do we file myths and legends under fiction or non-fiction?’

  ‘Non-fiction, of course, Ciara.’

  They both turned around. A good-looking blue-eyed man with dark curly hair was standing there, smiling at them. ‘Hello again, Lainey.’

  It took a moment before she recognised him. ‘Rohan? You’ve shaved your beard off?’

  ‘That one was fake, I’m afraid,’ he said, briefly rubbing his chin. ‘They were trying to match me up with the actor I was replacing, so I got to try one for a day.’

  Now Lainey could see his face. The last time she’d seen it properly, he was fifteen, still boy
ish. Now he was a man, the jaw firm, the eyes more knowing.

  ‘I think I’d like you with a beard, Rohan,’ Ciara said with a flirty smile.

  ‘He looks even better in tights,’ Lainey said before she could stop herself.

  ‘Tights? Really? I’m sure he did. He’s a lovely pair of legs on him, haven’t you, Rohan?’ Ciara was smiling as she moved to serve some other customers.

  Rohan turned back to Lainey. ‘Thank you for that. It’ll do my reputation in this town the world of good.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell her I saw you out dancing.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine, then. I’m well known around town for my ballet skills.’

  For a moment they looked at each other. He was wearing normal clothing today, dark jeans, heavy boots, a blue jumper. His curly hair was damp with rain. He must have come in right behind her. ‘So, Lainey, how are you settling in?’

  She felt oddly self-conscious in her faded jeans and the warm jacket. ‘I’m grand, thank you. The weather’s taking a bit of getting used to again.’

  ‘You’ve been living in Melbourne, is that right? That’s got its own unique brand of weather too. Four seasons in one day, isn’t that it?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I was there for work several years ago.’

  ‘Touring with the ballet?’

  His lip twitched. ‘No, that’s just a hobby. I was there for a history and tourism conference. That’s what I do these days. I’m a tourism consultant.’

  ‘Specialising in Irish historical sites?’

  ‘I’ve worked all over Europe, really. You’re looking for books on myths and legends of Tara, did you say?’

  She didn’t say it was for research for the new-look Green Gables. ‘I am. I thought I should know as much as I can about the area, when guests ask me questions.’