Malarkey (15 page)

When I got back to the cottage, the kitchen was spic and
span, and Jay had heated soup. Dad took a long nap after lunch. Jay
worked at the computer. I read Trollope until it was time to cook
dinner. Life was just one damned meal after another.

When Maeve turned up, on time, in a battered van, she was
alone. No sergeant. I wondered if they had had words. She made no
reference to Kennedy, inserted Dad in the front passenger seat with
considerable charm, and went round to the driver's door. Jay and I
climbed in the back.

She slid in, slammed the door, and hooked her seatbelt. "The
Steins may be coming, too."

"Grand," Dad said.

I scrunched against the far side. There were two rear seats.
Jay and I sat in the narrower, middle one. Maeve explained over the
thrum of the engine that she used the van to haul her students back
and forth to excavations. It looked as if she had been carrying people
with large muddy boots.

Maeve's van trundled up the drive and back down to
Stanyon.

She went inside and returned within ten minutes. "They've
decided to take their own car. They're waiting on
la
Wheeler."

"Kayla's coming? Horrors."

Maeve made no comment. She engaged the gear, and we
chugged off. Dad asked about her current project, and she said her
digs usually took place in summer. She was surveying a tumulus out
of season because it lay in the path of a proposed highway ramp. The
EU were funding a motorway project to connect Wexford and the
French ferry with Dublin. The dig sounded rather dull. Maeve's voice
sounded dull, as if she were tired.

I hadn't yet driven through Killaveen so I was curious about
Kennedy's turf. It seemed like a pleasant village. One post office, a
Protestant church with a tall belltower and an aggressively modern
Catholic church, one tiny grocery, one bookie. I caught a glimpse of
the Garda station on a side lane as we whisked down the steep high
street. The station looked like an ordinary two-storey house, except
for the illuminated sign. A patrol car was parked in front and lights
shone upstairs.

Maeve turned into the lot of a large brick pub. When she had
parked and set the brake, she loosened her seatbelt and turned
around. "I brought you early so we can snaffle a table in the saloon
bar. The public's apt to get a bit noisy between sets."

Dad said, "Do they still divide the drinking space into public
and private bars? Surely ladies can be seen in the public these
days."

Maeve smiled at him. "They can, and upstairs and
downstairs and in their nightgowns into the bargain. Shocking I call
it."

Dad laughed, and we all got out.

The pub, the Stanyon Arms, had been tarted up, though the
gleaming oak bar looked like the real thing. Maeve said there was
quite a good restaurant upstairs. She led us around the long bar to
the small, dark saloon. We found a table free, though a multi-
generational family with at least two underage children were
chattering away around another table. They fell silent as we entered.
The children stared. Maeve gave them a big smile and went over to
greet a woman in the group.

My father held a chair for me. Jay scooted around to the
built-in bench where he could sit with his back to the far wall.
Typical. Dad sat on the bench beside him, and we waited. Eventually
Maeve returned.

"What's your tipple, Professor Dailey?"

"Whiskey."

She shook her head, sad. "They're not licensed for the water
of life, I'm afraid."

Dad's face fell. "Lager, then."

"There's quite a good selection of wines."

"White bordeaux?"

"Bordeaux it is. Jay?"

"A pint of Guinness."

"What else? Lark?"

"Smithwick's," I said firmly. Guinness looked as if it would
float an egg.

She wheeled and strode to the bar, and we could hear her
bantering with the bartender.

Jay got up. "I gather there's no table service." He made his
way to Maeve's side, and the two of them stood with their backs to
us. Evidently Maeve was introducing Jay, for the bartender set Dad's
glass of wine on a tray and shook hands before he began pulling
levers. Beer foamed.

The noise level in the public was rising. I couldn't hear the
bar dialogue over that and the chatter of the family party, but I
watched Maeve reach for her purse and Jay take out his wallet. A
pantomime debate followed and Jay prevailed. He paid while Maeve
carried the tray over to us.

"He's a golden-tongued devil," she said gaily. "I'll get the
next round."

"Ah, no," Dad said. "Let me."

I didn't offer to buy drinks, and I wondered how stiff the
drunk driving laws were in Ireland. Clearly the booze was going to
flow free.

I could see Jay and the bartender telling each other their life
stories. Maeve seated herself, took a sip of her wine—it looked like
sherry—and eyed the table. "Room for the Steins?"

"The Steins, yes," I said. "They're small. Kayla isn't."

"She can sit on the bench by your husband and pat his knee."
She winked at me. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I muttered and took a swallow of
Smithwick's.

Dad tasted his wine. "Ah, that's grand." He gave the
impression of a man determined to enjoy himself. I was glad he had
taken a nap.

Eventually the bartender turned back to his clamoring
patrons, and Jay returned to us. He sat and sipped Guinness and
looked smug. The first musicians were tuning up on a tiny platform
at the near end of the bar. I was going to be able to hear the concert,
but visibility was somewhat impaired by beer glasses dangling from
the bar overhang and by a large tweedy man who sat at the end with
his nose in a glass of Guinness.

I gave Jay a gentle kick under the table. "You and the
bartender must have hit it off."

Jay licked foam from his lip. "He was telling me about the
local trout streams. The pub owns fishing rights on that creek that
runs behind the place."

Dad sat up. "It's early for flies."

"True. He rents gear, though. And there's coarse fishing in
the pond outside of town."

Dad's eyes gleamed. Maeve listened to their fish talk with an
indulgent air. I swallowed Smithwick's.

The Steins and Kayla Wheeler did not arrive for the opening
set. The musicians, two thirtyish brothers with guitars and a friend
who played the pennywhistle, launched into a series of music hall
songs. Their voices were pleasant but ordinary, and the
accompaniment more rhythmical than interesting, but they sang
with rowdy enthusiasm and the crowd responded.

I knew some of the songs and not others. I was particularly
taken with a little number called "The Night before Larry was
Stretched," stretched being a euphemism for hanged. By the time the
singers got to "Finnegan's Wake," my mood had lifted. I applauded
enthusiastically as they bowed off the stage.

"Sorry we're late." Barbara Stein had slipped past the
tweedy man at the bar during the last song. "Alex is parking the
car."

"Where's Miss Wheeler?" Maeve asked.

Barbara rolled her eyes. "She's done a disappearing act. She
told us she wanted to come, but she vanished after dinner. We hung
around waiting for her. I even went up and knocked at her door. No
response, so we said the hell with it and came anyway. How are you,
George? Smoke getting to you?" Cigarette smoke hung on the air.
Irish smokers have no inhibitions.

Dad smiled at her. "I'm enjoying myself. Can I get you a
drink?"

"No, thanks. I'll wait for Alex."

Alex arrived as the next act, a fiddler of about ninety, was
tuning up. Dad went off to the bar and returned with red wine—
Barbara—and a Guinness—Alex. The fiddler swung into an impossibly
intricate jig. By the time he wound down, two men were dancing in
front of the stage, and the audience was thoroughly roused. Even Jay
smiled. The old fiddler was a true artist. We listened without trying
to talk. I wanted to dance.

At the end of the set, the old man called up his great-
granddaughter, a child of ten or eleven with braces and straight
brown hair. She was carrying a violin. They played a fiddle duel, the
old man leading. The music was clearly below the gaffer's talents and
a bit above the child's, but they brought the piece to a spirited end
and everyone cheered them off the stage. The little girl blushed and
looked up at her mentor with shining eyes.

Barbara said in a softened voice, "My mother is a violinist.
She and my Uncle Moishe and two of their friends worked up a string
quartet concert in our living room every winter. They weren't
professional, but they enjoyed themselves."

Dad said, "Perhaps we've lost our tolerance for amateurs in
the States. People used to participate in their own
entertainment."

Barbara gave him a wry smile. "And now our music is
digitally reconstructed."

Alex shifted on the hard seat. "You can't record spontaneity.
We've tried."

Jay sipped his Guinness. I wondered what he was thinking.
His idea of music is instrumental jazz of the Winton Marsalis class or
down and dirty blues. He is more musical than I am. I listen for
words.

Maeve said, "This group is popular with my students."

Three young men and a girl in a scarlet mini with blue hair
were tuning up. They sang in Irish. The
a capella
songs were
traditional, but a couple of the others sounded familiar. We listened
politely. I was straining to recall where I'd heard the last song when
my father snorted. I stared at him. He appeared to be choking.

Alarmed, I reached toward him but he patted my hand,
grabbed a bar napkin and wiped his eyes. The song ended and
everyone applauded, including Dad.

I leaned toward him. "What's the matter?"

"The song..." He chuckled and wiped his eyes again. "Do you
recognize it?"

Jay said, "It sounded familiar."

Dad laughed again. "Oh dear, I don't know why it struck me
so funny. It's a pop song from the fifties. You may remember it, Jay,
from your childhood. 'Jambalaya and a crawfish pie and a filé
gumbo...'" He chanted the words. Sure enough, the Irish song had the
same tune.

The Steins and Maeve stared. Jay grinned. "Authentic Cajun
Irish?"

I turned to Maeve. "Is that usual?"

She shrugged and smiled. "Not usual, but it happens. Young
people aren't always traditional-minded, and they're very fond of
American country and western music."

I sighed. "Cultural imperialism?"

"Perhaps."

"Country comes out of the same ballad tradition," Jay
offered. "Some Appalachian songs exist in English and Scottish
variants."

"I thought you hated folk music," I muttered.

He shrugged. "I don't find the music interesting, as a rule.
And the folkie milieu didn't appeal to me. I like this stuff, though.
Especially the fiddler."

Alex rubbed his shoulder as if it were sore, but his eyes
glowed. "We could do an historical disk—alternate versions of the
same ballad—and illustrate it with woodcuts."

Barbara groaned. "Geez, Alex, we're taking a break from the
business tonight, remember?"

He looked sheepish. By way of apology he bought another
round. I thought he moved stiffly when he walked to the bar.

The Cajun choristers were succeeded by a tenor with a
formidable vibrato who headlined at a major hotel in Kilkenny
during the summer. The tenor did "Kathleen Mavourneen," a song of
which I am not fond. It was followed as the day the night by "Danny
Boy" and "The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls." I thought the
applause was merely polite.

At eleven fifteen there was a break. People got up and
walked around, visiting. Alex looked at his watch and his wife. "I
think we ought to go home, Barb."

She made a face. "I suppose so. Kayla's probably surfaced by
now. She'll be mad as a yellow-jacket at a barbecue."

My father said, "May I hitch a ride with you?"

I felt a twinge of anxiety. "Are you tired?"

"We can leave any time you like," Maeve offered.

"Don't cut your concert short. I'll ride with Alex and
Barbara." He stood up and directed a courtly little bow at Maeve. "I
thank you for a most diverting evening. I don't know when I've
enjoyed myself more. I'm not tired yet, but I don't want to be, either,
so I'll call it a night."

Jay rose, too, and so did Maeve and I. In the flurry of leave-
taking Jay touched Dad's arm. "'Sonofagun,'" he said. "'Have big fun
on the bayou.'" Dad laughed and went off with the Steins through the
blue haze of smoke.

We stayed until midnight. A woman played the small Celtic
harp and sang sleepy songs in Irish. When a man brought in what
Maeve called uilleann pipes, though, Jay started to squirm.

Maeve and I exchanged looks, and she said, "Shall we wind
down with a nightcap at the Troutdale Hotel? The bar's quiet in
winter." It was not winter, of course. She meant before the tourist
season started.

"Sounds good," Jay said gratefully.

We slipped out between songs. Pipes are an acquired taste,
though these had a mellower tone than bagpipes.

The Troutdale lay on the N11 north of Arklow. Aside from
the morose bartender and a German couple, we were the only
patrons. I had drunk three glasses of ale at the Stanyon Arms, so I
used the loo. When I returned to our table, Maeve was adjusting her
lipstick, and Jay stood at the bar. He brought a sherry, a glass of ale,
and a cup of coffee. He took the coffee.

I slid onto the red leather banquette. "Is Joe Kennedy on
duty tonight?"

"We're not joined at the hip," Maeve snapped. She drew a
deep breath. "Sorry. We quarreled. We do that once a fortnight on
average."

Jay said mildly, "He can't discuss the details of a case that's
under investigation, you know." He must have tuned in on her
discontent earlier.

Maeve scowled. "I know it. You may omit the lecture."