Page 56 of Road Trip
The bartender glanced at Donal’s empty glass.
“Sure, why not?” he replied.
“Band’s about to start their set,” the bartender said. “Put in your food order now, or not at all. The kitchen’s short tonight.”
“They do a decent burger,” Liam advised, so she nodded.
A wizened man with a shiny bald head stepped onto the makeshift stage. He cleared his throat and adjusted the mike, and the loud conversation around them turned still.
“All right then,” he boomed. “It’s the Hooligans, back like we promised. So shut yer yaps, will ya?” He turned and nodded at the band, and they swung into a tune that seemed, from the crowd’s enthusiastic reaction, clearly a favorite.
The lead singer was bare-chested beneath a black leather jacket and wore a stovepipe hat atop his flowing blond locks. He played guitar, and was backed by a petite brunette who played fiddle, another woman with what looked like a concertina, a burly bearded man who played what looked to Maeve like a cross between a flute and a pipe, and the percussionist, a middle-aged professorial-looking type in a button-down shirt, whose drum looked like a flattened bongo that he played by resting the instrument vertically on his knee, and flicking the drum head with both ends of a wooden stick.
“What kind of drum is that?” Maeve leaned in closer to Liam in order to be heard. He smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, and she had an almost irrepressible urge to rest her head on his shoulder.
“It’s called a bodhran,” Liam said, turning his face slightly so that his eyes looked directly into hers. “Sorta a bogtrotter bongo.” His gray eyes crinkled at the corners, and he brushed her cheek with his lips so lightly, she wasn’t sure whether it could technically be considered a kiss. Whatever it was, it left her longing for more of the same.
Just a few bars into the number, half the patrons in the bar were up and dancing, clapping and singing along.
Their food arrived in plastic baskets, the burgers nestled on a mound of still-steaming French fries.
“Eat the chips first,” Liam advised. “It’s a sin to let the Goat’s chips get cold.”
She did as advised. The fries were searingly hot, salty, and greasy, and before she knew it, she’d devoured all of them, half the burger, and all of her drink in an embarrassingly short time. When she looked up, the bartender was sliding another full glass her way. Donal, on the other side of her, had three empty pints on the bar, and was gesturing to the bartender to bring him another.
After another raucous, foot-stomping number, the band seguedinto a slower, down-tempo song, and the combination of fiddle and flute, and the girl singer’s high, plaintive voice made Maeve feel every note of the poignant ballad. Her eyes unexpectedly filled with unwelcome tears.
Liam put his lips to her ears. “‘The Fields of Athenry,’” he said. “Been hearing it all my life, yeah, and it still gets me here.” He touched his hand to his chest. “A real heartbreaker, it is. Young lovers separated when he gets caught stealing corn to feed his babies during the potato famine, he’s sent to prison, then shipped off to Australia.”
Donal, it seemed, had already had his fill of poignant. “Enough of these pussy sad songs,” he roared, heaving himself to his feet and pounding on the bar top with his now-empty glass. “Let’s have a banger!”
Liam rolled his eyes. “Steady, big fella. It’s just one song.”
“‘You’ll Never Beat the Irish,’” Donal yelled, and the crowd roared their approval. The song, seemingly a sort of unofficial anthem, prompted waves of fist-pumping and foot-stomping as the band tore into the song.
“And he’s off,” Liam said, pointing to his friend, who was now dancing an improvised jig with a silver-haired senior citizen who’d been seated nearby.
Maeve smiled and sipped her whiskey slowly. “Having fun?” Liam asked. “I realize it’s a bit wild, but it’s all good craic, y’know?”
“Craic?” Maeve asked.
“Fun,” Liam explained. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Maeve replied. “I’m sorry my sister Therese isn’t with us. She’d love all of this… craic.”
“We’ll bring her another night,” Liam said. “She can have a go at Donal.”
“Now that I’d love to see,” Maeve said, chuckling.
“Another round?” Liam asked, pointing at her glass.
“No thanks,” she said primly. “Therese warned me I need to keep my wits about me tonight—strange man in a strange country, you know.”
Liam lifted an eyebrow. “Me, strange? Besides, you’re Irish, so this can’t be a strange country to you, can it?”
“No,” she admitted. “I’ve only been here a couple days, but Ireland feels… right. Like a pair of shoes you’ve already broken in. Does that sound weird?”
“Not weird, but not very poetic, either,” he said.
