Herself

by Leslie Carroll

  A sign over the huge gilded mirror reads WORK IS THE GREAT REALITY, BEAUTY IS THE GREAT AIM. “Quite a crowd you’ve got to night,” I say to the bartender, an attractive guy who I’d peg to be about my age.

  “What’ll it be, miss?”

  I had been operating under the impression that Irish bartenders were the embodiments of conviviality. This one is an anomaly, all business, a taciturn fellow in a sea of mirth.

  “Guinness…I guess,” I reply, hoping I don’t require that shot of black currant. This pub feels like the right place to sample my first pint of stout.

  “Coming right up, then.” He pulls my pint and places it in front of me. I leave a few euro on the bar.

  “Is it always this busy in here?”

  “Most nights.”

  “When isn’t it, then?”

  “When we’re closed.”

  I feel like I’m talking to a salt-and-pepper-haired New Englander instead. “Forgive a stupid, and rather forward, question from an American, but I was wondering…do you like your job?”

  “Now, why do you ask that?”

  “Well…” I gesture behind me. “Everyone seems to be having such a blast, and you don’t much look like you are—and the bartender is kind of the host of the party, isn’t he? Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

  “Fish, if I had me druthers. I’m not one for the small talk, miss. If it’s sparkling repartee you’re after, it’s my brother Jamie you’re wanting to meet.”

  The foam is soft and sweet on my lips as I taste my first pint of Guinness on its native soil.

  Suddenly a voice just next to my ear says, “I bet you expected it to smell like sweat socks.”

  I turn around to encounter the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, twinkling like emeralds on a rajah’s sarpech. I could swear they weren’t there a second ago. “Excuse me! Smell like what?”

  “Sweat socks. That’s what all American women say about Guinness. Uneducated palates, all,” he tsks-tsks.

  “And how did you know I was an American?”

  Green-eyes smiles. Damn those Irishmen and their dimples. Venus was right. “The way you took that forst sip. Tentative. Only Americans do that. And you confirmed my suspicions with the very forst words out of your mouth.”

  Now I’m smiling too. “Are we that predictable?”

  “Nah, not really. It was your accent,” he confesses. “It’s charming.”

  “My American accent is charming?”

  “Irresistible. In fact it’s what made our Da fall arsey-farsey over our Ma. Isn’t that right, Niall?” The bartender nods acquiescently. “So you’ve met my brother, Niall. Not much of a talker he is, but he can’t help that. Have yiz seen John Wayne in The Quiet Man?”

  “I have, in fact.” There’s something about Green-eyes that makes me want to laugh—in the best way. Just because it feels good to do it.

  “Well, our Niall here is the original Quiet Man. But like I say, it’s not his fault: forst-born runs the family business, no matter whether he wants to or no. That’s Doyle primogeniture for yiz. Forst-born takes over the pub, second-born—that’s me—is the fisherman—though I have to say I can’t abide the smelly critters, and it’s lonely as shite sitting in a little boat all day with nothing but the mermaids to flort with.”

  “Oh aye, if you’re going to flort with the American, yiz might as well begin by introducing yerself, Jamie,” mutters Niall, as he sets up the glasses to pull three pints at once.

  “Ach, I must have left me manners in my skiff.” Green-eyes extends his hand. “Jamie Doyle.”

  “Tessa. Tessa Craig.”

  “Craig?” He frowns. “Scots?”

  “It’s—was—I’m divorced for years now—my married name. My maiden name is Goldsmith.”

  “Ah, yiz are Irish, then!”

  “Actually, it’s Jewish.”

  “Many years ago a man walked in here on a St. Paddy’s Day—stood right where you are, in fact—and orders a pint from me great granddad, who looks ’im up and down with a wee bit o’suspicion. ‘Yer a stranger to Blackpools,’ says me grand-da. ‘Are yiz a Cat-lick?’”

  “I’ve heard that one,” I smile. “About an hour ago, in fact.”

  “Ahh, but it’s all in the telling,” Jamie replies with a wink. “Would you care to join me someplace a bit quieter? The snug does not appear to be occupied at present. Do ya know why snugs were built, Tess?”

  “A more private place to snog? Snogging in the snug?”

  “I like the way you think, woman, but I’m afraid you don’t win the cigar. What part of New York are ya from, by the way?”

  “Manha—how did you know? Manhattan.”

  Jamie graciously motions for me to precede him into the alcove, then slides in beside me. The glow through the stained glass panel separating the snug from the rest of the pub turns our little haven into a boozy cathedral, a truly spiritual experience. “Snugs were built so that a lady could have a quiet place to enjoy a pint or a dram without being considered vulgar for drinking in the company of men. How did I know you were from New York? Me ma, Maureen, grew up in Inwood. Do yiz live far from there?”

  “A few miles south. The Upper West Side.”

  “St. Luke’s Hospital. Do ya know where that is?”

  Suddenly I am reminded of David and wonder how he’s doing. Suddenly I miss being kissed. “Yes, I do. I live not far from there.”

  Jamie lights up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. “I was born there! Niall, too, two years earlier. But with the two of us still in nappies and a third’un on the way, our da, Eamon, decided that we couldn’t all survive in Manhattan, even in Inwood, on a cabdriver’s earnings, so we came back to the auld sod, as they say. Da’s a sixth-generation Dubliner.”

  “Wow. Did James Joyce drink in Blackpools? Brendan Behan?”

  “Gorl, there’s not a pub in Dublin that Brendan Behan didn’t drink in.”

  Jamie insists that I order the fish and chips, something I’d kind of o.d.’d on already today, having grabbed my lunch from Leo Burdock’s. “It’s all fresh every day, cortesy of yours truly. I’ll be personally insulted if ya don’t sample my handiwork. It’s a lonely job I’ve got, jouncing out there all day, but it’s how I earn me keep, so to speak, so if ya torn me down you’ll be guilty of seriously damaging my self-worth.” He winks at me. “I’m only half-kidding, though.” He gestures in Niall’s direction. “I get me jollies being around people all the time and tryin’ to make them happy. I would be in clover if Niall and I switched jobs, but Da would never hear of it; t’would give him a coronary. Now, yiz ever hear of Burdock’s? Most famous fish and chips in Dublin, yes? Or so say the guidebooks. Well, they might as well be McDonald’s compared to the fish and chips at Blackpools.” He waves at one of the waiters, a ginger-haired young man who almost has to push his way through the crowd to reach us. “Patrick, meet Tessa Goldsmith Craig. Forget the Craig part, she’s divorced, and I have yet to determine whether she’s a Cat-lick Jew or a Protestant Jew. Tessa, this is another one of me brothers; he and his twin, Michael, wait tables here when they’re not makin’ us all deef with their head-bangin’ din.”

  “We play in a local band…different pubs over in Temple Bar so far. Jamie’s an old dinosaur. Forty years old and he acts like he’s eighty-two. He doesn’t understand alternative music, Tessa,” says Patrick. “I take it yiz are forcin’ the fish and chips on her. Actually, it’s really good,” Patrick admits. “It’s just that I’ve smelled, eaten, and—well, never mind—it nearly every day since I was fourteen, and our ma and da set Michael and me to bussing tables and washing dishes after school. But don’t let me spoil your appetite,” he grins. “Can I get yiz a refill before I go?”

  “They’re on me,” Jamie says. “Mind if I have a taste of this?” he asks me, and I permit him to take a sip of my Guinness. “Just checking. Good gorl! Ya didn’t ask Niall for the shot of black currant. Oh, don’t look at me all shocked and surprised. We know all
your American tricks.”

  “It tastes a whole lot better over here than it does in the States, that’s for sure.”

  “No preservatives. Yiz didn’t take the Guinness Brewery tour yet, did ya? Cuz yer welcome to, of course, but they don’t actually make it there anymore. How long are you in Dublin for, then?”

  “A week. I just got here today, in fact.”

  “Where yiz stayin’?”

  “Boynton’s, over on St. Stephen’s Green.”

  Jamie’s eyes widen. “Very posh.”

  “That it is.”

  “Here on business?”

  “Pleasure. I hope. Expect.” Patrick returns with the next round, and I wonder if I can get through a second pint of Guinness, especially after the pint of Harp I downed over at Davy Byrne’s.

  “You’re traveling alone, then?” Jamie really takes me in for the first time.

  Looking back into his deep green eyes I sense that he can read me entirely: my thoughts, emotions, sensibilities. And I suddenly become exceedingly vulnerable, naked to this loquacious handsome stranger. “Are you all right, Tess?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, deliberately focusing my gaze on my beer glass. “Just now I felt like you knew a whole bunch of things I haven’t said yet.”

  “It must be the Vulcan mind-meld. My sisters think I can do that, too.”

  “Funny, your ears don’t look pointy to me. I could never get into Star Trek. Never understood the allure. ‘Star Drek’ I always call it. I had a friend who used to love it, but I couldn’t even get through a single episode.”

  “Those old episodes are classics, ya know!”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I just can’t relate to it—that whole Star Trek cult fanaticism thing.”

  Jamie places his hand on top of mine. “I’m afraid we can never be married, Tess,” he says solemnly. After a somewhat pregnant moment he briskly adds, “So tell me, what is it you don’t like about Star Trek, especially as you’ve never actually seen it enough to form such a prejudice against it.”

  “I suppose it’s all that polyester,” I muse. “All those cheesy jumpsuits. Now, with all the homegrown folklore right here, you tell me why you’re a Trekkie.”

  “You don’t know then? Polyester nothwithstanding, Star Trek offers a highly romantic view of the world. A very hopeful one. It’s idealistic about the nature of the human race, despite often overwhelming evidence to the contrary.”

  And then it all pours out. I tell him about my career as a speechwriter, my relationship with David, its abrupt termination, and the tipsy suggestion of my cousin and my former college roommate to decompress for a week in the land of leprechauns. I try not to feel sorry for myself, though I am indeed about to cry into my beer. Jamie offers me his handkerchief. Not only is it pristine, but it’s the first time a man has ever offered me a hanky.

  “That’s a very romantic gesture—for a Vulcan.” I dry my tears and clutch the cotton square to my chest.

  “Well, actually, I’m more like Deanna Troi than Spock.”

  “Who?”

  Jamie looks embarrassed. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have expected you to have hord of her.” He grows momentarily thoughtful. “I’m sorry you got hort, Tess,” he says softly. And just then, as he’s about to touch my shoulder to comfort me, Patrick arrives with the fish and chips.

  “Am I interruptin’ a ‘moment’? If you’re going to be makin’ the patrons cry, Jamie, I’m goin’ to have to toss you out on your arse,” he adds cheerfully, in an effort to lighten an awkward moment. “Is my brother bullying you, miss? We can’t have that at Blackpools. It’ll spoil our reputation.”

  “Be off with yiz, Pat,” Jamie says, sounding like the typical older brother. He scribbles something on a paper napkin which he carefully folds and stuffs into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry to be rude for torning away from yiz jist now. I was jist writin’ meself a note.”

  Blackpools’s fish and chips is indeed as advertised. Burdock’s was good, but bland by comparison. This is spectacular. Jamie watches me with evident amusement. I realize, though, that there is no way I will finish the second pint of Guinness. And boy, that stuff can pack a bit of a buzz. I don’t think I’ve drunk this much beer in a decade.

  Jamie insists on getting the check for the fish and chips—“particularly as I talked yiz into it.” He holds out his hand for me to grasp as I slide out of the snug, and I rise, only to feel as though the floorboards have turned to mush since we sat down, and that someone seems to be pulling them out from under me. “How were yiz planning on getting back to Boynton’s?”

  “The ssame way I got here, I ssuppose.” My s’s are slightly slurred. “Walk. I’ve got my trusty map. Though maybe I should have left a trail of bread crumbss. Bessides, I need air. Fresh air.” I also need the ladies’ room.

  I return to the snug, self-consciously placing one foot in front of the other, navigating the still-crowded room. No matter how earnest my efforts to conceal my level of inebriation, it is abundantly apparent to my supper companion.

  “May I see yiz home? If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, yer in no condition to be walking back to St. Stephen’s Green alone at this time o’night. You can ask me brothers to vouch for my gentlemanly character, if yer afraid I’m some kind of masher.”

  As a New Yorker, my radar is always alert for creeps, but there has been nothing in Jamie Doyle’s demeanor to set it off. Stepping into the night air, I stumble, and he catches me by the elbow. “Steady now. Look, there’s a cab right over there!”

  “That’s a hansom cab, Jamie.”

  “Yes, I know. Have you any objections to riding home in a carriage?”

  “Price. I don’t know what they cost here, but in New York, it’s ssomething like thirty-five dollars the moment you climb into it.”

  “This one’s free.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “I haven’t lied to you yet, Tess. It’s me younger brother Liam. Oi, Liam!”

  The carriage pulls up to Blackpools. “How many brotherss have you got?”

  Jaime counts on his fingers. “Niall you’ve met; he’s the eldest, then after me there’s Liam—the thord Doyle son is always a cabdriver. Remember, forst-born runs Blackpools, second son is the fisherman, thord-born is the hack driver—our da was one, but he was drivin’ the taxicabs in New York—and after that, God willing, we leave the rest to Providence! You’ve met one half of the twins, so that’s Pat and Michael, and finally there’s Seamus. He’s the youngest. He’s a student at Trinity College. Comparative Literature.” He hands me up into the open carriage. “But you haven’t asked me about the gorls. Mary Margaret is now a ma herself, with twin girls, Enya and Fiona, and Brigid is about to start the second year of her candidacy at the Sisters of St. Joseph.” He chuckles. “My littlest baby sister…a nun-in-training. And Molly Bloom is the dog. Are yiz warm enough, Tess? Y’are? Good, then. I wouldn’t want yiz to catch cold on yer forst night in Ireland. Boynton’s Hotel, Liam!”

  Liam clicks and the horse begins to trot out of the cul-de-sac. Though the night is still warm, Jamie arranges the mohair blanket around my feet. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting a tour guide for the rest of your stay?” he asks expectantly.

  “You mean Liam?”

  “No, no, not Liam. I mean me. I rise before dawn to hit the water, but by midmornin’ after I deliver me catch to the pub, I’m a free man for the remainder of the day. I’d be more than happy to show yiz the sights…that is, if yer wantin’ any company.” He jots down his mobile number on a Blackpools business card.

  I had intended to spend the week by myself, alone with my thoughts. And I have a lot of thinking to do. Big life questions about where I’m going now, who I am, what I want out of this thing called human existence. This trip is meant to be a journey of self-discovery. It’s tempting to spend more time with Jamie, and I would certainly get more out of the sightseeing aspect of it with a native guide. Yet I wonder if it’s possible to truly di
scover oneself in the company of another. So I am about to decline Jamie’s gracious offer.

  “As you barely know me from Adam, you’re welcome to think my opinion is worth shite, but sometimes it’s easier to find yourself when you’re not doin’ it all by your lonesome.”

  I look into the oddly omniscient malachite of Jamie’s eyes. “This Vulcan mind-meld thing is scaring me, you know,” I tease, and he understands in an instant that I’m only half-kidding.

  Liam pulls up in front of my hotel and halts his horse, which releases a complacent snort into the night. Jamie alights first, then lifts me down. Satisfied that I’ve got both feet steadily on the pavement, he presses my hand. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon.” Turning my hand over, he gently kisses my upturned palm. “Now order some orange juice from room ser vice and drink that, along with a big glass of water before yiz go off to bed, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle come morning. And get a good night’s sleep, Tess. You’ve orned it.”

  Ten

  Day 4 A.D. (the wee small hours of August 10)…having just accepted the offer of a cappuccino from Boynton’s late-night concierge, a nice young man from Barcelona

  I met an interesting man to night. His intelligent eyes blazed with an internal flame and he smelled a bit of fish. And I’m angry. Not that Jamie Doyle wasn’t pleasant…he was very nice, in fact, but he sort of wormed his way under my skin and robbed me of the ability to stand up for myself and express my needs. And that’s what this trip was supposed to be all about in the first place! I didn’t ask for a tour guide of Dublin. Don’t want one, really. I’d rather be alone and see less, or not even know why the hell what I’m looking at is important, than have someone steering me by the arm, leading me by the nose, telling me where to go and what to look at. I want to do this trip my way.