Page 43 of Road Trip
The walls and sloping ceiling of the dining room were covered in yellowing framed photos of local soccer and cricket teams, soccer pennants, and dog-eared posters advertising horse races and rock concerts.
When the server arrived, she ordered fish and chips and a Guinness, then sat back to take in her surroundings. Unlike the pub attached to the Tarrymore Inn, this place seemed to be a watering hole for the working-class locals.
The television mounted on the wall behind the bar was playing a soccer match. Three middle-aged men dressed in jeans and sweaters were watching the game and offering a spirited play-by-play. Therese’s only knowledge of soccer was what she’d gleaned from watching three seasons ofTed Lasso, and she quickly got bored with trying to keep up. A group of younger men dressed in some kind of delivery uniforms were playing darts and trading insults with one another.
There was a pool table toward the back of the room, and an older woman with wildly unkempt white hair was shooting against a man with graying porkchop sideburns who looked twenty years her junior. She was the only other woman in the pub. Both the pool players were smoking, and for a passing moment, Therese experienced a brief desire to join them. But a second look at the woman, whose skin was wrinkled and weather-beaten, reminded her why she’d (mostly) quit in her early twenties. Unless she was experiencing moments of extreme duress. Like Mary Helen’s funeral.
When her food arrived she devoured the hot, perfectly crispy fingers of cod and the salty chips, washing the food down with sips of beer.
Unlike the darts players, with their loud trash-talking, the pool players were intently focused on their match. The woman was dressed in ill-fitting jeans that sagged in the ass, and a long-sleeved navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up to reveal ropey, age-spotted forearms. Her partner was similarly dressed, with a flat newsboy’s cap pushed to the back of his head and a graying ponytail trailing halfway down his back. He rested his chin on the end of his pool cue as he watched his partner lean over the table and coolly call her shot.
“Four ball in the corner pocket.” She lined up her cue, drew back, and sent the balls spinning across the felt and into the pockets. “How d’ya like that, Reggie boy?” she said, with a loud cackle.
“Feck off, Esme,” her opponent said, slapping money on the pool table.
Esme? Therese wondered if she’d heard right. Could the grand dame of Tarrymore actually be hanging out in a place like this, shooting pool with a guy who looked like he could be her chauffeur?
She wished again for her phone, so that she could do a quick Google image search.
Instead, she sipped her Guinness and picked at the chips, which were already growing cold, as she contemplated her next move.
The pool game concluded, the woman plonked down onto a chair at the next table and lit up another cigarette. Seconds later, a server appeared with what looked like a gin and tonic.
It was only then that Therese noticed the dog who’d been sitting quietly on the second chair at the table. She guessed he was a spaniel of some sort. Mostly brown, with three white socks and a small patch of white under his chin that resembled a goatee.
Now the dog sat up, wagged his tail, and gave a short, happy bark of greeting. The woman ruffled his long, feathered ears, then reached into her pocket and brought out a treat. She tossed it at the dog, who caught it neatly in midair.
“What a beautiful pup,” Therese said, beaming at the spaniel. “What kind is he?”
“She,” the woman said, “is an English cocker. And her name is Sinead.” Her accent sounded posh, even to Therese’s unschooled ears.
“As in, O’Connor?”
“Close. O’Cocker.”
“Forgive me, I don’t know a lot about this breed. Is Sinead a hunter?”
“Allegedly. But Sinead here’s hunting is mostly confined to hunting for treats and the occasional slow-witted mouse.”
The woman regarded Therese over the rim of her glass. “You’re an American, I take it? Do you own a dog?”
“I wish. I travel a lot for my work, so sadly, no pets for me.”
“A shame,” the woman said. “Sinead here is better company than most humans.”
“Lucky you.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Therese, by the way. From Savannah, Georgia.”
The woman stared at Therese’s outstretched hand, then took it gingerly, squeezing once before releasing. “Esme. Quite a large Irish-American population in Savannah, correct?”
“That’s right,” Therese said. “My mother’s people are actually from this area.”
“And have you been able to dig up any of your family roots?” Esme gave her a slightly patronizing smile.
Therese hesitated. Should she tell Esme that she and Maeve had traveled to this corner of Ireland, and specifically to Tarrymore, to discover the truth about their portrait?
She decided to proceed with caution, which was totally unlike her. But the stakes were too high to bungle this first encounter.
“We only just arrived this morning, but we did take the tour of Tarrymore House,” she said.
