THE NEXT day both Hannah and Aunt Gwendolyn were gone when I woke up. They left a note on the refrigerator that said Both of us working. See you tonight. Well, I couldn’t expect them to put their lives on hold because I was there.
I set about making breakfast, reveling in the silence of the home. I could hear the sound of birds chirping outside, but that was it. There wasn’t the constant drone of cars driving by, or the sound of honking horns when drivers didn’t match the speed expectations of the other drivers. It was the silence of a small town.
I loved every moment of it, soaking it in as I put marmalade on a piece of slightly burnt toast and crunched away. I sat around the kitchen for a bit after I ate, staring absently out the picture window at the sky. It was mostly slate gray, with no sign of the late-spring sun I’d seen the day before. I wasn’t entirely surprised; one of the running jokes about the UK—and by proxy, the Republic of Ireland, since most Americans assumed Ireland was part of the UK—was how it always rained and was never sunny.
I didn’t feel in any rush, so I unpacked my luggage, putting the clothes away mostly in the dresser, though I did hang a few of my nicer items in the tiny closet. When I finished that, I returned to the kitchen and sat in front of the picture window with the book about Dublin, determined to get some reading done.
The book was easy to read, and I quickly became absorbed in the telling. I’d had no idea just how much history Dublin had, and learning about it was like discovering a piece of myself that I never knew I was missing. I sat there and read until my neck began to ache from being bent over the book for so long.
When I looked up, my stomach gave a loud growl. Surprised by my own hunger—I’d just eaten breakfast, after all—I glanced at the clock over the sink. It was already nearly half past one! I’d been so lost in the Dublin book that I’d wiled away the entire morning.
I closed the book, stuffing a napkin inside to mark my page in lieu of the actual bookmark I’d gotten with the book, which I’d forgotten to bring downstairs. There was plenty of food in Aunt Gwendolyn’s refrigerator, but I didn’t know what she had plans to use for dinner and such, and I didn’t feel like cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, so I decided to head out to find food at the pub on Main Street. I was excited about the prospect of my first time eating out here in Ireland.
When I opened the door to look outside, it was cooler than the day before and the air carried the sweet scent of rain, so I found an umbrella in the closet near the door. They hadn’t left me a key that I’d been able to find, so I assumed it would be safe to leave the door unlocked. Feeling prepared, I dragged out Owen’s bike from the shed and set off towards Main Street.
I was uncertain which side of the road I needed to be biking on. Should I bike towards traffic or with the flow of traffic? Which side would even be with the flow of traffic? I opted to just ride until a car happened to come by, and then I would make a choice—hopefully the right one.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to make that choice because I didn’t encounter a single car until I turned onto Main Street, and there was a sidewalk there for me to ride on. I rode past the bookstore until I reached the cozy little pub. The walls were faded brick, weathered and worn down. There were two small windows on either side of the door, tinted dark and sporting what might have been a layer of dust.
Could it be any more stereotypical?
I was most happy to see the sign said it was open from noon to eleven. My excitement—and my hunger—peaked, I locked the bike to a bike rack out front and hurried inside. I was surprised by how much the interior of the pub reminded me of a sports bar back home—albeit smaller and older, something that was more Cheers than Buffalo Wild Wings. Everything, including all of the tables and chairs, was done in a beautiful dark brown wood that I couldn’t place. The chairs were covered in fluffy cushions, and small low-light lamps rested on most of the tables. The walls were mostly unornamented, aside from a big clock and a painting of what looked like an Irish moor. Behind the bar ran a tall, long cabinet full of booze.
The air was thick with the aroma of beer and smoke and food, so many different scents that I couldn’t begin to distinguish one from another. No one sat at the bar at the moment, though there were people at several tables in various stages of lunch.
I started for an empty table in the corner, a smaller table where I could sit alone.
“Ronan?”
The voice was unfamiliar—who the hell did I know in Abhainn, anyway? I peered around, trying not to be too obvious about it, and spotted Fergal sort of half-standing, half-leaning on his table, waving his hand a little to get my attention.
A flush crept up my neck towards my ears, and I was grateful I’d inherited my father’s naturally tanner skin; it made blushing easier to hide. That didn’t do anything for the real question of why I was blushing, though.
I couldn’t just stand there looking like an idiot; the other people in the pub were starting to stare at me. Besides, the prospect of eating lunch with someone and not alone was appealing, and he’d seen me so it would look rude if I just went and sat on my own, wouldn’t it?
“Fergal, hey.” I made my way to the table he was sitting at. He had a mostly empty plate in front of him and a half-drunk pint of beer. “Oh, you’re already finished. I’ll just go grab a table by myself.”
“What? Don’t be silly! Go on, sit on down there. There’s a good lad.” He grinned at me cheekily as I sat. “Oi recommend the meatloaf today. It’s quite good.”
I took his advice and ordered the meatloaf when the waitress came by to see what I wanted.
“He’ll ’ave a pint too,” Fergal said as she walked away.
“I don’t usually drink during the daytime.”
Fergal looked scandalized. “Maybe in America it’s unacceptable, but ’ere in Ireland, yeh gotta have a pint with yer lunch at the pub. Them’s the rules.” He winked at me and then drained his beer in one long drink. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’ll try to adjust.” I cleared my throat feeling a little awkward in his presence, a feeling I attributed to the fact he was a stranger to me. “What brings you here? On your lunch break?”
“Nah, Oi’m done fer the day. Only worked till one. Figured Oi’d get some food ’ere, where yer uncle makes a damn fine meatloaf, before heading back to me flat. Oi’m impossible with cookin’—things tend to catch fire.”
The waitress brought me my pint of beer and placed the cool glass down in front of me.
“Really?”
“Oi managed to burn pasta Oi was trying to boil.”
I nearly choked on my first sip, trying not to laugh. His face was serious and his delivery deadpan, so I had no idea if he was joking or not. “That’s pretty bad,” I managed to say once I could breathe again.
“Yer tellin’ me. It was me last can of SpaghettiOs.” This time the twinkle in his eye made it plain that he was kidding, so I didn’t feel guilty for laughing heartily.
The waitress returned once more with my lunch—a big plate of meatloaf, a huge helping of potatoes, and baked beans. My stomach gave another loud grumble, and I set into the food immediately. The potatoes were cooked the way I liked them—the skins kept on when they were cubed, boiled, salted, and buttered. They were rich and creamy and practically melted on my tongue. The rest of the food was just as good.
“Good, right?”
I nodded, mouth too full of meatloaf to answer. Following Fergal’s advice really paid off.
I noticed a book on the end of the table for the first time. He must have been reading during his lunch. “What are you reading?”
Fergal held up the book, showing me the cover. It was a beat-up copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. “Yeh reminded me that this is a good book, so Oi decided to reread it.”
I was pleased that he took my recommendation so seriously. “See, you’re not the only one who can make good suggestions.”
“Have yeh made any plans to get into Dublin yet?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t really thought much about it, honestly. I’d love to make a trip there as soon as I can, though.” The truth was, I was itching to get into Dublin and see the city and maybe even go pay that visit to St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
“This weekend is supposed to have good weather,” Fergal said, drumming his index fingers on the back of The Picture of Dorian Gray. “Sunny and warm—well, warm fer Ireland. Oi don’t know if yeh’ve already made plans or anythin’, but if yeh needed someone to show yeh around Dublin, Oi’m free this weekend. Supposed to be rain Sunday, but Saturday will be clear—if yer not busy, Oi mean.”
One of the things holding me back from making plans about Dublin was the desire not to just wander the city with no real idea of where I was; I didn’t want to ask Hannah to take me there because I didn’t want to keep making her and Aunt Gwendolyn drop everything and tend to my wishes. Fergal offering to act as tour guide would make things much easier.
“Sounds great! I’ll bike into—”
“No, no, yeh don’t need to bike anywhere. I’ll drive out and pick yeh up from Ms. Gwendolyn’s. I ’ave a car, yeh know.”
No, I didn’t know, but now that I did, the idea certainly carried quite a bit of appeal. Before I could let myself give in and agree, I stopped myself. This guy was basically a stranger—meeting him once before for a few hours a friend did not make—and I couldn’t start imposing on him like that.
I think he saw the decision in my eyes, because he was frowning before I even spoke. “I can’t ask you to drive all the way out here just to drive back to Dublin and then do it again at the end of the day. Besides, my mother told me never take rides from strangers.”
“So I guess the bus is out, then?” A challenge flashed in his eyes.
I’d walked right into that one. “Fine, she told me never to ride in cars with strangers. She didn’t say anything about buses.”
“Do you know how to get to the bus stop in Ballymore Eustace?”
“It’s on the main road. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“Do you know what time the bus runs?” he pressed, leaning forward, his forearms pushing his now-empty plate forward on the table. The intensity of his persistence surprised me, but he was right. I didn’t know what time the buses operated.
“You have me there,” I said at last, finishing off my meatloaf, already wishing I hadn’t eaten it so fast. “But I’m sure a bus schedule wouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“No, there’s one posted right at the stop,” Fergal agreed. “The real trick is getting a bus driver that will actually follow the schedule.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering if he was just trying to be difficult or if he was serious. No matter how hard I looked into his eyes, though, I could read nothing; I didn’t know him well enough. “Fine, if it will make you happy, I’ll ride in with you. But I’ll catch the bus back,” I added firmly. I couldn’t be seen as too much of a weakling. “I’m not making you make the two-way trip twice in one day.”
Fergal slapped the table gently in his victory. “Ah, a compromiser, Oi see. Oi’ll take that.” He took his fork, leaned over, and speared my last potato before I had a chance to take it myself, his eyes twinkling. I gave him my most affronted look, but he simply smiled wider. It was a very keen weapon against my look, and I broke out into a matching smile of my own. “Well, Oi better go,” Fergal said at last, pushing to his feet and placing some money down on the table—way more than I imagined was necessary for a single lunch. Could this place really be that expensive?
Fergal must have seen me looking at the money, because he said, “Oi’m payin’ fer yer food too. Think of it as a welcome to Ireland lunch,” he added before I could voice a protest.
“Ronan, what are yeh doing here?”
I glanced up as Uncle Dick came out from the kitchen.
“I ’eard that a stranger was in here—knew it ’ad to be yeh!”
“I’m here for lunch, Uncle Dick,” I explained, gesturing at the food. “I ran into Fergal here, so I joined him.”
Fergal reached out and shook Uncle Dick’s hand. “Mr. Murphy.”
“’Ow are ya there, Fergal?”
“Doin’ just fine, Mr. Murphy. Just ’eadin’ on home.” Fergal gave me a polite nod. “See yeh this weekend, Ronan. Mr. Murphy.” Fergal slipped past Uncle Dick. It was all I could do not to crane my neck to watch him leave.
“Nice boy, Fergal,” Uncle Dick said, sitting down opposite me in Fergal’s now-empty spot.
“Uh-huh,” I said faintly. Something fluttered in my chest, a strange feeling I hadn’t felt in what seemed like years.
“He lives up in Dublin, yeh know,” Uncle Dick said. “Could probably give yeh a nice tour if yeh went up there.”
“Yeah,” I said, mind still focused on that feeling. “So I heard.”