‘You’re here. Since when is Ballybeg a stop on the Supanova tour?’ I smile.
He shakes his head. ‘Too wild for Supanova out here.’ He glances over his shoulder: fields to the left, waves to the right. A braying donkey is the only sound in the distance. ‘I thought I’d brave it by myself.’
He looks back at me, and I put enough space between us so that I can gaze into his eyes, drink him in. It’s been so long, too long.
‘What about the band?’
‘I missed you. They’re great guys, but… I like it when it’s us.’
I throw my arms around his neck and pull him close to me. He buries his face in my hair. I close my eyes and we hold on to each other as if we never want to let go.
I trace my finger over his jawline and kiss him slowly on the lips. ‘I missed you too.’
He reaches for my hand and places my palm on his shirt, just over his heart.
‘I had the test.’
Tears begin to well in my eyes. Is that why he’s here? To tell me that he’s only got a short time left? My hand flies to my mouth and I hear myself gasp and whimper. I need to sit down; if he says what I think he is going say, I’m going need to lie down, flat down on the dirt beneath me until it swallows me up. Right now, at this moment, I actually understand fully for the first time Danny’s fear. Because I am afraid of what’s going to come out of his mouth next. Actually, if I had a choice, I think I’d ask him not to tell me; I’d rather live in blissful ignorance, because finding out the truth is too big a risk. I hate myself for encouraging him to get checked out; what on earth was I thinking? Of course not knowing is better than receiving this kind of news…
‘Danny, I was wrong, so wrong and out of order, and I’m so sorry, I am so so sorry…’
He draws me close, then trails his lips up to my ear. ‘It’s okay,’ he whispers. ‘I’m clear. Heart of an ox. Not going anywhere for a long time.’
I move my hand to the back of his neck, pulling him to me with such urgency that I can feel the beating of his heart against mine, and I’m instantly aware that they are perfectly in sync.
He lifts a stray tendril from my cheek and loops it around my ear. ‘So thank you. I thought long and hard about what you said. And you were right. I was scared. Scared to die but also scared to live. And I realised that even if it was bad news, I’d be able to get through it if we were together. So can we?’
‘Can we what?’ I whisper, relief flooding through me. He’s here. And he’s okay. God, those words are precious. In this instant, I know how much he means to me, how much I want him with me always.
‘Can we be together? Tell me we can. Because that’s what I want do with my life: spend it loving you. Evelyn, I love you. I love you so much. I love everything about you. That you took a chance on me and that you understand me and that despite everything we’ve been through, you believed in me, no matter how much it hurt you. I love your courage and your selflessness, and most of all, I love that I’m the only one who gets to love all these things about you.’
I laugh, bowing my head towards my tummy.
‘Not for long.’ I take both his hands and place them either side of my belly button. ‘We’ve got company, Danny.’
He blinks, staring down at his splayed hands and then back up at me, a spark of realisation dancing in his eyes.
‘You can’t mean…?’
I nod. ‘Danny Foy, we’re having a baby. We’re having our baby.’
He drops to his knees, wraps his arms around my legs and presses his ear against my stomach. I can tell by the slight shudder in his shoulders that he is crying. And he’s not the only one. I wipe away the tears streaming from my own eyes. We’ve found it, we’ve made it. We are our forever family. It came true. It’s happened. It’s happening for us, for now and for always.
He kisses me over and over and over.
He’s a part of me now. And I’m a part of him. And this baby is part of us.
And neither of us has ever felt so much, so deeply, so suddenly all at once.
We never dreamt there was so much to feel.
Chapter Thirty-One
It is the day of the auction. I don’t know why Danny and I are dressed in our Sunday best, but we are. It’s not like they care about anything other than our money, but still, we are the first people here as we want to get the best seats, scout out the competition and make sure we are in with a fighting chance of walking away today as the highest bidders and the new owners of Rosie Munroe’s. We know it’s a long shot, but we also know that it’s worth shooting for the stars, because sometimes they may be closer than they appear.
Ruby is going to call in to say hello. Christy’s coming along also with some of the old regulars for moral support and probably just a bit of a nosy. It will be nice to catch up with everyone, and win or lose we’ll go for a drink and a bite to eat afterwards, and that will be worth the trip to Dublin from Ballybeg in itself.
We sit together in the back row, so that way we have a full view of everything, especially any potential competition that might try to bid against us. Danny squeezes my hand. It’s as clammy and sweaty as his.
‘What are you thinking?’ I ask him.
He blows out his cheeks. ‘I think we’ve got a great chance. The reserve is two hundred thousand, so considerably less than Christy estimated. We’ve got two hundred and forty between us, so even if someone tries to outbid us right from the start, we’ve got some wriggle room. We could scare them off quickly when they realise that we’re prepared to raise the stakes.’
I smile at him and curl my lip, ‘Big stakes, eh?’
He nods, and clenches his fists. I know he wants this just as much as I do. And now that we’ve got junior to think of, and Danny is planning for a life beyond tomorrow, our timing could not be more perfect.
Rosie Munroe’s, we love you. Just let us win. We’ll give you our forever, I promise.
Moments before the auction is set to start, the room starts to fill up. Serious-looking men in dark suits – developers, I’d say – stand around the sides of the room, phones in one hand and calculators in the other. Farmers in holey knitted jumpers shuffle into the rows as if they’re coming late to Saturday-night mass. A distinguished-looking woman in a fitted jacket with designer glasses perched on the end of her nose sits keying details into an iPad and taking photos of the updated catalogue.
I dip my eyes and reread the spec, trying to convince myself that none of these people are here for Rosie Munroe’s. What would that farmer want with a pub in the city? No, surely they must be here for the other stuff. Danny and I are here; we’ve got the cash. My perfect scenario would play out like this: the image of Rosie Munroe’s flashes up on the big screen, the room stays still and silent. I raise my paddle high over my head, nobody budges and the auctioneer gives me the thumbs-up just before he smashes the hammer down on the block and shouts, ‘Going, going, gone to the lady in the blue dress at the back. Next lot, please.’
Then we collect the keys and a beautiful new life begins. For all of us.
When I explained to Mum what we were doing, she said that she’d asked for some advice around the village and learnt that sometimes the bank is willing to take lower than the reserve just to cover the majority of the debt and cut their losses. So her advice was not even to bid straight away; to wait and see. She added that they might even lower the price. ‘You could walk out of there with the pub and a nice bit of cash left over if you play it smart.’
I thanked her, but there is no way I’d gamble that way. That strategy is too high-risk for us. We don’t want just any pub; we want Rosie’s, and we don’t care if it costs us our last cent if it means we win. So before the auctioneer even utters the words, I’m going to wave my paddle high above my head like an air-traffic controller.
A hush descends, and a tubby, red-faced gentleman dressed in a three-piece beige suit, with a toupee that looks like a squirrel’s tail, walks out onto the stage. He takes his place at the stand and raises
his hammer.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We have an exciting catalogue in house for you today. There’s been lots of speculative interest from overseas, so keep your hats on: this could be a tense experience for some of you. Without further ado, we’ll begin. Lot One: an eight-bedroom guest house on the Malahide Road, extensive gardens and period features. Ready for immediate occupancy with no major refurbishment required. We’ll start with the reserve price of one hundred and fifty thousand. Any bids at one fifty?’
He scans the room. I sit on my paddle. I’m delighted that we took seats in the back row. It would kill me to sit at the front and not know what was going on.
Not one paddle is raised in the air for the guest house.
Danny elbows me gently and gives me a wink. This is looking favourable for us. Perhaps all that overseas interest was just a ruse to put people on edge. I have to say, it nearly worked on me.
The auctioneer squints around one last time and returns to the paper in his hand. ‘We have instructions to lower the reserve in the case of no bidders. So let’s start at one twenty; any buyers at one hundred and twenty thousand? A fine property, tremendous amount of commercial potential or indeed a splendid family home, a stone’s throw from pubs, restaurants, parks and theatres.’
I’m starting to think my mother was on to something. Maybe there is a strategy amongst this motley crew.
But still not one single paddle. If anything, people seem to be keeping their heads down, avoiding eye contact altogether.
The auctioneer looks to the side of the stage, where four men dressed in suits sit, laptop and phone in front of each of them. ‘Online bids? Phone bids?’ he asks, but they all shake their heads solemnly.
I’d not really thought about overseas or remote competition in this regard. Who’d be tuned into an Irish auction in Texas or Mozambique or Japan? Why on earth would someone phone up to buy something they can’t be bothered to show up and view in person? What an easy job those men must have, sitting there not answering phones or receiving online bids all day.
I lean over to Danny and whisper in his ear. ‘I think this is a really good sign. That house is amazing, and much cheaper than Rosie Munroe’s. If they don’t like that, they are going to run a mile from an inner-city pub that’s nowhere near as posh and twice the price!’
We sit through the next few lots and everything goes at reserve price to the first and only bidder.
Perfect. Soon Danny and I will waltz out of here with the papers to say we’re back in business.
And then it is the turn of Lot Five. This is us. We shuffle up in our seats, trying not to look too keen but wanting to be in the best possible listening position.
‘Iconic inner-city pub north of the river, has undergone some recent renovations and substantial investment; music, food and drinks licence, potential for accommodation upstairs, parking at rear. Sold as a going concern. Let’s start at the reserve price of two hundred thousand euros.’
And before I even get to raise my paddle in the air, they are off.
‘Two hundred thousand to the gentleman on the left. Can I get two ten, anyone for two ten?’
I lift my paddle, but someone in the front has beaten me to it.
‘Lady in the front, two ten; do I hear two twenty?’
This is war. I stand up with my paddle and swing it from side to side as high as I can. Danny is ready to wolf-whistle if the auctioneer misses me.
‘Lady at the back in the blue dress, two twenty; does anyone want to go higher than two twenty?’
I’m muttering, ‘Don’t you dare, fuckers,’ but they do – they want to go higher.
‘Back to the man on my left, two thirty. Anyone for two forty?’
He’s jumping ten grand as if we were playing with Monopoly money. This is a HUGE sum of real-life money; a huge sum of blood, sweat and tears. Especially tears! I glance at Danny; this is our whole pot. He nods, and I wave my paddle frantically.
‘Lady in blue at the back, two forty. Anyone for two fifty?’
There’s a lull. I risk taking a breath, and Danny slides his hand around my waist. It’s a stretch, but I think we’ve done it.
‘Two forty, anyone higher than two forty?’ The auctioneer raises his hammer. ‘Two hundred and forty thousand, going once…’
The suited man is back, I glance over at him, his phone tucked into his neck. He raises his finger.
‘Two forty-five? We’ve got two forty-five…’
What a bastard.
I drop my paddle to the floor. Two hundred and forty-five thousand is too much. Anything over two forty we simply haven’t got.
I flop into my seat, disappointment coursing through my body. I take out my phone and text my mum and Tara.
No good. Gone to 245 :(
Mr Suited Developer has put his phone away now. He scans the room, confident that he’s closed the deal. The auctioneer raises his hammer.
Danny strokes my back. ‘It’s okay, we’ll find something else, don’t worry.’
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and then I feel a soft cupped hand curl around my ear.
‘Go another ten, Evelyn.’
I turn around. It’s Liz. Silver-haired Liz from the pub.
‘I owe you,’ she says. ‘You’ve given me some great tips.’
I’m breathless, I can’t process this fast enough. But another ten puts us back in the game. Maybe I could pay her back…
‘Going, going…’
Liz snatches my paddle from under my seat and raises it high in the air with a haughty nod.
‘Two fifty from the silver-haired lady at the back!’
I turn around. What on earth is she doing? But I don’t have time to thank her.
The developer won’t be outdone. He raises his finger. ‘We have two fifty-five, thank you, sir.’
Danny shakes his head.
‘Any advance on two fifty-five?’
My paddle is snatched from me a second time.
‘Two sixty from the distinguished gentleman at the back, thank you, sir.’
Before I can even turn my head, I hear Danny crying, ‘Christy, you legend!’
We are WINNING!
‘Looking to close now, folks, any last bids? Last chance. Any takers? Rosie Munroe’s at two hundred and sixty thousand euros. Going once… going twice…’
But then suddenly a hand shoots forward from the table at the side. One of the men sitting at the laptops is nodding, his eyes set on the auctioneer.
‘Internet bid at two sixty-five.’
And we are out. Again.
Nobody snatches my paddle now. I look around to Liz and Christy, their sorry, pinched expressions telling me there’s nothing left in the pot. I sit back to watch the last act of this theatre, watch the devastation of our dream play out till the end.
‘Gentleman on the left, have I got two seventy for one of the oldest pubs in the heart of Dublin, home to many a literary and musical icon… Have I got two hundred and seventy thousand euros?’
Mr Developer takes the phone from his ear and shakes his head. He’s out too.
‘Any more takers for Rosie Munroe’s?’ Everyone in the room is swivelling around now, wondering if anyone else is going to swoop in at the last minute.
I pick up my bag and check my phone, anything to distract myself from this slow torture. A text message from Mum. I imagine it will be full of commiserations, lit candles and prayers to the patron saint of last-minute miracles. I click it open.
I have 20k to add. Stick up that paddle and let’s bring this baby home!
‘Lot Five. Rosie Munroe’s at two hundred and sixty-five thousand euros. Going once, going twice…’
‘Wait! We have it!’ I leap out of my chair and beat my paddle against the air. ‘Two seventy, we have it!’
Danny looks up at me in complete confusion. But I give him a little wink, and then my dream scenario plays out just as I imagined. The room stays still and silent. I keep my paddle high over my head, n
obody budges, and the auctioneer gives me the thumbs-up just before he smashes the hammer down on the block and shouts, ‘Gone to the lady in the blue dress at the back. Next lot, please.’
And we collect the keys and a beautiful new life begins.
For all of us.
Epilogue
I am huge.
I stand, back arched, hands on my hips, filling the doorway of Rosie Munroe’s. The first buds of spring have started to push through the soil in our little raised flower beds. A gentle breeze stirs the cherry blossom trees that line the street, showering us with pink and white petals like confetti. In the sky directly above, I watch a green-emblazoned plane make its descent. That’ll be Tara, arriving in plenty of time for my ‘surprise’ birthday party tomorrow. Liz let it slip when she asked if she could bring anything. I’ve sworn to look suitably overcome. To be honest, that comes easy to me these days. I am overcome with gratitude and love and elation all the time. And frequently with hunger, too, particularly for peanut butter and crisp sandwiches.
I hear Mum’s laugh inside as she sits and chats with Christy at the bar over a fresh pot of tea. They get on like a house on fire; she loves hearing his stories and he seems very taken with her also. We held a traditional folk night here on Sunday, a proper ceilidh, and the two of them jigged and reeled until the early hours. It was so busy and well received that we’ve decided to add it regularly to the calendar, try to make room for it somewhere in between all the live gigs and open-mic nights we’ve got lined up.
I smile and pat my hands against my thighs as Muffin pounds down the street towards me. Martin follows him, the lead looped in his hand. Once Muffin reaches me, she brushes up against my leg and then nuzzles into the bowl of dog biscuits we keep under the picnic tables.
‘Glorious day,’ Martin says. ‘I’ll make use of the fine weather and try to build that sand box now, if that suits?’
I nod my agreement. ‘You’re a star,’ I tell him as he heads inside to climb the back stairs to the roof garden, where he lives in an amazing little wooden pod that he built himself. He’s our doorman and carpenter, our dog-walker, painter, decorator, sound man, back-up barman and general life-saver. After we signed on the dotted line at the auction house and Danny and I started drawing up our plans and thinking about staff, Martin was the first person I thought of. We found him still wrapped in blankets and cardboard by the bus stop. I explained to him that Rosie Munroe’s had given me more than a job and a home; it had given me a life and a family. And if he was interested, I’d love him to join us. He did, and now he is part of our little tribe, our life and our family.
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