An Early Wake Page 6

  He looked at her then. “Maura, why do you have to know? What’s it matter? Twenty years ago Sullivan’s drew people in from all corners of the country, but nobody could say how. You’ll jump down my throat, I have no doubt, but I’d say there is something magic about it all.” Seeing the expression on Maura’s face, Mick hurried to add, “Leavin’ out the pesky details, it’s probably something like Billy spoke to someone yesterday, and that person told someone else, who knew someone, and eventually it made it to Niall, who after all was somewhere in the country, rather than on tour in Thailand. Ireland is a small island, you know.”

  “Yeah, but then what? Niall immediately dropped everything to drive here and see Billy? Why?” Maura said dubiously.

  “For the music, of course. It was always about the music.”

  “Will there be more people just showing up tomorrow?”

  “Count on it—if Niall’s here, and his old friend Aidan, there’ll be more.”

  Maura wasn’t sure what she thought about that. “Great. Like I said, send out an order to the universe, and your wish will be delivered the next day. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “It could do. You should be happy—tomorrow night we’ll be filled here. I’m guessing Tim will be a happy man by the end of the day.” Mick took a sip of his pint. “Was there something more yeh wanted to talk about?”

  “Yes, but I’m still thinking it through. I’ve been going through the numbers—you know, money in, money out—for this place, and it’s not pretty. We’re getting by, but there’s nothing left for improvements or upgrades or changes. Or raises.” Not that anybody had asked for one, Maura admitted to herself. “But after hearing today about how Sullivan’s used to be the place for live music from current bands, not just in this neighborhood but in the whole county, I’m wondering if maybe we can bring the music back if enough people remember. Does that make sense?”

  “Possibly,” Mick said thoughtfully.

  From the tone of his response Maura couldn’t tell what Mick was really thinking. “Thing is, I don’t know squat about the music scene around here—I don’t know performers, let alone what the competition is like, or what Sullivan’s could offer that they don’t. I mean, don’t we need a hook or something?”

  “A gimmick to draw them in? I see.” Mick thought for a few moments, in no hurry to answer. “There’s the places that do traditional seisiúns, and not just for tourists. There are plenty of players who enjoy getting together when they have the time. The groups aren’t fixed—whoever shows up with an instrument can join in. And there’s some clubs in Skib, but from what I’ve heard, they go more for quantity than quality of music, if you know what I mean.”

  “Loud?”

  “Bang on. The kids like ’em, but you could paint this old place pink and add neon all ’round and you still wouldn’t bring that lot in here.”

  Maura had to grin at the image of Sullivan’s tarted up with neon. “Ick. Like dressing up a pig, eh?”

  Mick smiled. “You could say that. What made this place special was that for a lot of the players who came here, this was just a back room to hang out in with the boys—and the occasional girl—and maybe play some tunes if the spirit moved them. They weren’t performances for an audience, like, although sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. You never knew who might show up, but they all played together and the music was brilliant. There were even some recordings made, although I’ve no idea where those might have gotten to. If they survived at all.”

  Maura digested what he had said. “Did the performers get paid?” she asked bluntly.

  “They’d have been insulted if yeh offered them money. They played for the love of it.”

  And maybe the free drinks? No, that was cynical: Maura figured she should at least try to believe that the music had been more important. “So the bar stayed open? There was some income from selling drinks?”

  “Of course. What is it yer gettin’ at, Maura?”

  “Mick, here’s the thing: we need to bring more people in if Sullivan’s is going to survive. If we had a rep in the past for good music, do you think we can do it again?”

  “With you knowin’ nothin’ about the music?”

  “You do. Don’t you?”

  “Are you askin’ me for my help in this?”

  Much as Maura hated giving up any part of her control over the pub, this was something she couldn’t do by herself. “Yes, I am.”

  Mick almost smiled. “Indeed. And what is it yer expecting me to do?”

  “I don’t know. Make that magic happen. Bring back the bands, and hope that the people will follow. And then they’ll buy drinks. And talk up the whole thing and bring in more people.”

  “And then that’ll fix all yer problems, eh?”

  “Don’t laugh at me, Mick. It’s a start. Otherwise Sullivan’s may just die a slow death. Is that what you want?”

  Mick gave her a searching look. “You want to keep this place going.”

  Maura thought long before replying. “I guess I do. I may not have been here for long, but I can see how people feel about this place and why they kept coming even while it went downhill. Part of that was out of loyalty to Old Mick, and obviously I’m not him. But he left the place to me, and I don’t want to see it go down without a fight.” It was the first time she’d put it into words, and as Maura said it, she realized she meant it.

  Mick slouched against the bar, looking vaguely interested. “Fair enough. So what’s yer plan?”

  “I don’t have one. That’s the problem. But if Niall Cronin is as important as you say he is, and he came, then maybe we’ve got an opportunity here. Maybe we could ask him to do a benefit concert or whatever you want to call it for Old Mick, and that could kick things off. Could that work?”

  “Maybe.” Mick fell silent, thinking. Finally he said, “Let me suggest this: see what tomorrow brings.”

  For some reason, that annoyed Maura. Wasn’t he taking this seriously? “You’re throwing stupid sayings at me?”

  “Not at all. I’m saying, give it a day. If what I think may happen does happen, and Niall and Aidan were just the first wave, then we’ll have a better handle on things by tomorrow night. Or maybe Sunday morning. If nothing’s changed, you can think again, and you’ve lost nothing but a day.”

  Maura considered. Mick had listened to what she’d suggested, and he hadn’t rejected it entirely. If he was right, tomorrow might be a very interesting day. If he was wrong and nothing happened, no loss, as he pointed out. Besides, it was late, it had been a long day, and there was nothing more to be done at the moment. “All right. We’ll wait and see what happens tomorrow.”

  Mick drained his glass, then rinsed it and set it to dry. “Right. That’s me off fer the night, then. I’ll be in tomorrow afternoon, although if they’re spillin’ out the door by midday, give me a ring.”

  “Just in case something magical happens?” Maura said with a smile.

  “Just so. Good night.”

  Chapter 8

  It rained during the night, and on Saturday morning when Maura opened her front door a sliver, she could see that the lane was muddy. Not exactly what she wanted to wade through to visit Bridget, but she wanted the older woman’s opinion about the ideas that were bouncing around in her head. On the other hand, a woman of Bridget’s age probably wouldn’t have spent much time listening to music in a pub. Had women gone to pubs at all a half century ago, when Bridget was young? Practically speaking, there would have been kids at home and chores to be done in the evenings, from which the men were often exempt, given that they’d spent their days outside dealing with cattle or sheep or crops, or some combination of the three. It must have been a hard life; the idea of trying to feed everyone by cooking over an open fire, not to mention just fitting mom, dad, and a bunch of children (maybe even an in-law) into a typical two-bedroom home with no plumbing, was daunting. Maura still had trouble wrapping her head around how people had done it. She lived pretty high on the h
og by those old standards: she lived alone in her four-room house and didn’t have to worry about an outhouse. Now, of course—or at least until a few years ago—rich Dubliners or people from England or even Germany had been snapping up cottages like hers and calling them quaint and charming (after they’d added plumbing and electricity). What a strange turn of events!

  Despite the mud, Maura squared her shoulders, grabbed her sweater, and marched down the lane toward Bridget’s house. No sign of Mick’s car this morning, so she was free to get Bridget’s opinion of her plans.

  She rapped on the front door, which faced the rising sun. Bridget opened it after a half minute and smiled up at her. “Fáilte romhat, my dear. I wondered if you’d be stoppin’ by this morning.”

  “Good morning, Bridget. I thought I’d let you and Mick have some time together yesterday. Have you talked to him since?”

  “About what yer plannin’ for the pub? No, he hasn’t said anything.”

  Maura laughed. “Hang on—if he didn’t tell you, how did you hear about what I was thinking about? Mick and I didn’t really talk about anything until after closing last night.”

  “From Billy Sheahan, of course.”

  Maura cocked her head at Bridget. “How so? That doesn’t make sense. I know Billy doesn’t travel around, especially at night. Does he have a phone I don’t know about?”

  “No phone—he says he can’t abide those tinny little voices squeaking in his ear. But Billy has friends, and his friends have friends, and the word gets around. Would you care for tea?”

  “Yes, thank you, I would like tea. And more of an explanation.” Maura walked into Bridget’s spotless home and closed the door behind her.

  “It’s made already. Help yerself and then sit with me.”

  Maura followed instructions, after making sure Bridget was also well supplied with tea. “All right, tell me: how do you know about my plans?”

  “Maggie Sweeney, who lives down the hill—she told me that her brother stopped by Sullivan’s yesterday. He lives over to Union Hall but he stops by regular, and he recognized Niall Cronin.”

  Unlike me, the clueless American. Well, at least it wasn’t voodoo that got the word out locally. “Have I met Maggie? Or her brother?”

  “You might have seen him at the pub, but he’s a bit shy so he might not have talked to you. He’s a fine man, though,” Bridget said.

  “I’m sure he is,” Maura said impatiently. “So he came in for a pint and recognized Niall, and he told his sister? Did he talk to Billy?”

  “He didn’t have to. He remembers back in the day when Niall and the lads would stop by of an evening and play the night away. Is that not what you’d be thinkin’ of, dear? Goin’ back to the way it was?”

  “Sort of. What do you think? If we started offering music again, would someone like Maggie’s brother come? Would his friends?”

  “Now and then, I’d guess. If you don’t make a big thing of it.”

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “No big push to get the word out. Just let it happen, the way it used to.”

  Bridget’s advice ran counter to anything Maura had heard about modern promotion: ads in print publications, radio spots—where was the nearest radio station? Cork?—invitations to everyone via some mailing list she didn’t even have, not to mention “social media” like Facebook and Twitter, about which she knew little and cared less. Oddly, Bridget’s suggestion not to promote at all would make things a lot easier, if she decided to go ahead with this thing. All Maura had to do was gather the musicians at Sullivan’s—although how she was supposed to make that happen mystified her—and the rest would apparently follow. Her only job would be to serve drinks and make nice. Could it be that simple? She shook her head, smiling.

  “You don’t think it will happen, do you, now?” Bridget asked softly.

  Maura sipped her tea, stalling. “Bridget, I don’t know what I think. It seems crazy, but I was there when Niall Cronin walked in. I’ve never heard of him, but I could see how excited Mick was to see him there, and Tim Reilly looked ready to explode. If there were enough people who felt like that, it could work, I guess.”

  “And who would this Tim Reilly be?” Bridget asked.

  “Oh, right. It seems like a whole lot has happened in the last day. Tim is a student at Trinity, and he’s looking into the music from the time when Sullivan’s was big. That’s why he was so excited to see Niall—it was like one of his heroes just walked in the door. Me, I had no idea who he was.”

  “Have you no liking for the music?” Bridget asked.

  “Everyone keeps asking me that. I guess I never realized that it was odd, but no, I’ve never been musical. We all had to play an instrument at school, but the music teacher figured pretty fast that I wasn’t cut out for it.” And then funding for the school district’s enrichment programs had been eliminated anyway, and the music program went away along with the teacher. “And I was never into buying CDs or downloading stuff. Seemed like a waste of money to me. I mean, songs are popular for a short time, and then everybody goes on to something else.”

  “You wouldn’t say that about Irish music. There’s a long history to it, even for the young ones playin’ now.”

  “So people keep telling me,” Maura replied, draining her mug. “Well, Mick said we didn’t have to decide anything until we see what happens today. Which may be nothing at all out of the ordinary.”

  Bridget smiled. “Wait and see.”

  “You sound like Mick. Or maybe he sounds like you. Want me to wash your cup?”

  “I’d be glad of a top-up instead, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem,” Maura said. She refilled the cup, added sugar and milk, and set it next to Bridget. “I guess I’d better get down to the village and prepare for . . . whatever happens. I’m sure Mick will fill you in later.”

  “He will that. Slán go fóill, my dear.”

  The sun had climbed over the hill to the east by the time Maura went back to her own cottage, then set off for Leap. This whole thing seemed absurd: some kid showed up from Dublin and suddenly she was talking about reviving a long-standing musical tradition she hadn’t even known about two days earlier? Maura Donovan, with the tin ear? It was a joke . . . wasn’t it?

  When she walked into Sullivan’s after parking her car, Rose was already there, polishing the top of the bar with unprecedented energy. Tim and Mick were moving chairs and tables around and didn’t even notice Maura’s entrance.

  “Uh, hello?” she called out as the men disappeared into the back room. “Anyone want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Good morning, Maura,” Rose said cheerfully. “Isn’t it grand?”

  “Isn’t what grand?” Maura demanded.

  “The old place is comin’ alive, isn’t it? There’ll be music here tonight.”

  “How do you know? When I left last night, Mick and I had kicked around a few ideas, but that was as far as we got.”

  “That’d be my doing.” Maura turned to see Niall Cronin slouching in the doorway. “I might’ve rung a coupla fellas last night.”

  “What’s a ‘couple’?” Maura asked.

  “Enough. I told your guys here I’d stop by and see to the equipment. What you’ve got looks old but sound. What can you tell me about it?”

  Maura looked blankly at him for a moment, trying to remember if she could even identify some of the items in the back room. “Uh, nothing? I didn’t even know there was equipment. Apparently there’s a lot I still don’t know about Sullivan’s. For example, nobody mentioned the music.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Ah, here’s Billy.”

  Maura spied Billy Sheahan making his slow way toward the door. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him at the pub this early—it wasn’t even opening time. “Good morning, Billy,” she called out when he came into earshot. “Is this more of your doing?” She gestured around the room; she could hear ominous thuds and clanks from the back room, where Tim and
Mick were most likely moving large, mysterious objects around.

  “I might have made a small suggestion or two. Ah, Niall, it’s grand to see you here again.”

  “Yeah, I’d almost forgotten what morning looks like. Look, I’ve been in touch with some of the lads, and things are looking good. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Can I get you something, Billy?” Maura asked as he settled himself in his usual chair.

  “It’s a bit early for the black stuff, even for me. Can you manage a cup of tea?”

  “Of course. Mr. Cronin?”

  Niall clutched his heart theatrically. “Oh, darlin’, you cut me to the quick! Am I that old? It’s Niall to pretty ladies like you. Tea would be grand.”

  “I’ll do it,” Rose volunteered, clearly starstruck.

  Maura leaned closer to Rose. “When’s your father coming in?”

  “He’ll be around directly, he said,” she answered, her eyes on the metal pot she was filling with boiling water.

  “How long have yeh been doin’ this?” Niall asked Maura, waving a hand at the bar.

  “Tending bar or running Sullivan’s? I’ve worked in bars maybe eight years, starting before I wasn’t exactly legal. I inherited Sullivan’s from Old Mick about six months ago. Why?”

  “I knew Old Mick, years ago. He was a force unto himself. Kind of magnetic. He drew people in to this place, against the odds.”

  “What happened? Why do you think it stopped?”

  “Time passed. We all grew older. Makin’ music isn’t easy, and most of us ended up with families and responsibilities, so we couldn’t go roaming about the countryside playing gigs here and there. Life moved on.”

  “You married?” Maura asked.

  Niall gave a short laugh. “You interested?”

  “Not right now, but I could add you to the list if you want,” she said, surprising herself. Well, he was an attractive man. Maura found herself wondering what he was like when performing onstage.

  “Wait much longer and I won’t be worth much,” Niall shot back, but at least he was smiling.