Chapter 38
CHAPTER 38
Bernie
Maura and I meet outside Clerys clock on O’Connell Street. She’s wearing cream corduroy slacks. They suit her, I think, and I tell her so. She’s not wearing a scarf over her head as she usually does, and her golden hair is longer now than when we first met, pushing past her shoulders. It falls naturally straight and silky. Her brown boots have a block heel, and she has on a jacket made entirely of denim. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Men certainly think so. Countless heads turn as we pass. Maura seems oblivious to their admiration, which, if anything, only makes her more alluring. She links my arm and she’s giddy tonight. I am too. It’s refreshing to be out of the house after dark. I check my watch. The film starts in ten minutes. Thankfully, we’re only a couple of hundred meters from the ticket office at the Savoy cinema. But Maura begins to walk in the wrong direction. She’s turning away from O’Connell Street and onto Henry Street.
“Where are you going?” I say, coming to a stop.
“You’ll see,” she says, gripping my arm a little tighter and encouraging me to go with her.
“But the film starts soon. And we still have to queue for tickets yet.”
“We’re not going to the cinema.”
I can’t hide my disappointment. I’m no James Bond fan, but I quite fancied an evening in front of the big screen.
“Then where are we going?”
“Trust me.”
I trust Maura. She’s my best friend in the world, next to Dan, of course. And so, a tad reluctantly, I begin walking again and we leave O’Connell Street and the Savoy cinema behind. Henry Street is sleeping. All the shop shutters are down and we are among very few other pedestrians. Cars pass every so often, their bright lights blinding us, and I curse aloud when I walk into a parking meter and batter my hip.
“Damn thing,” I say, rubbing where it throbs.
“There you are,” someone says in the distance.
Maura unlinks from me to stretch her arms wide and hug the woman waiting under the glow of lights from Jervis Street Hospital on the corner. I recognize the woman as Maura’s friend whom we met last Christmas, but I can’t for the life of me remember her name.
Maura unwraps herself from around the woman and says, “You remember Ger, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” I say. “Hello. How are ya?”
“Hello,” Geraldine says, with a wave. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Yes. You too. Very nice.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence before Geraldine says, “Jaysus, Maura, you scrub up well. What the devil are you wearing? Slacks? I like it.”
Maura spins on the spot before giggling sheepishly. “Trying something new,” she says.
“Well, it suits you. Keep it up,” Ger says. “Right. Are we getting a drink or what? My tongue is hanging out. It’s been a long day.”
I look at Maura, hoping for an explanation about what’s happening, but all I get is a nod and a smile before we start walking again, following Geraldine. After a while we turn away from the busier streets of central Dublin and into quieter, more residential areas. I catch Maura by the hand as we veer farther and farther away from familiar areas and whisper, “Where in the blue blazes are we going?”
“No idea,” Maura says, “but isn’t this fun?”
I shake my head. I just wanted to go to the pictures.
Finally, Geraldine stops walking and announces, “Here we are.”
I look up at the neon Guinness sign hanging on the wall and I nearly choke on my words. “A pub? What are we doing at a pub?”
“We’re going for a drink?”
“Are you mad?” I say. I’m speaking to Geraldine but I’m looking at Maura, waiting for her to back me up.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Ger?” Maura says. “They’re hardly going to welcome us with open arms now, are they?”
“Jaysus, ladies. It’s a pub, not a torture chamber.” Geraldine steps closer to the door.
“Since when are woman allowed in pubs?” I say.
She shrugs. “My brother is the barman. He’ll serve us. Don’t worry.”
I grab Maura’s hand once more and give her a look that asks her to stop this madness. “They’ll laugh us out the door,” I say, sweating just thinking about it.
“C’mon, Bernie, don’t you ever want to bend the rules a little?” Ger says.
I do. Sometimes I want to bend the rules until they snap.
“But a pub…”
“There’s beer inside. And I want beer.”
“Oh Lord.”
Maura looks at me, takes a deep breath, and blesses herself. “We’re going in,” she says, but her voice cracks and I can tell she’s as nervous as a skittish kitten.
“It’s not too late to go back to the cinema. We’ll have missed the start but they might still let us in,” I say.
Maura shakes her head. “I’m sick of being a good girl. I’m damn well sick of it.”
“Have you ever had a beer in your life?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“No,” she says. “And I’m sick of that, too.”
“And what if Christy smells it off your breath later, what will you do then?”
Maura shrugs and I’ve never seen her like this before. Broken. Emotionless. Frivolous with the consequences.
“I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” she says. “I can’t win with that man. So I’ve decided, what’s the point in trying?”
“Ah, Maura.”
“Are you coming in or what?” Geraldine says. “I’m bleedin’ parched.”
Maura looks at me once more. This time, I don’t see a scared, broken woman. I see a friend begging for support as she takes a bold step. I just wish we were stepping somewhere else.
Geraldine is first through the door. Then Maura. And lastly, I force one jittery leg in front of the other and I step inside. It’s dimly lit, and the cigarette smoke is as thick and blinding as fog on a winter’s morning. Gray-haired and bald men sit on high stools next to the bar; they’re alone, most with a single pint in front of them. Younger men sit in small groups playing cards, smoking, chatting. Their deep voices fill the air and they chuckle every so often. I don’t know what I expected to find inside the four walls of a pub, but this is not it. It’s all rather unremarkable. Even boring, dare I say.
Geraldine approaches the bar with confidence as Maura and I lag behind, linked arm in arm again.
“Oi,” one of the elderly men nearest to Geraldine says in a voice much too loud for indoors. “What you doin’ in here? Get out.”
“It’s all right, Murph. Calm down now. Ger’s my sister,” the barman says. He approaches with his hands raised above his head as if Murph might take a shot at any moment.
Murph rolls his eyes. “Bloody women, don’t know their place no more,” he grumbles and then lifts his pint with a shaky hand, dribbling some down his chin as he drinks.
“What are ya having, Ger?” the barman asks.
“Three pints of Guinness, please?”
My stomach heaves just thinking about it.
“Sit yerselves down. I’ll bring them pints over to ya.” He points toward a booth in the corner. “Might keep this lot happier if yer out of sight, eh?”
Ger huffs, but she pulls some money out of her pocket, passes it to her brother, and then says, “All right, all right, we’re going.”
“See,” she says, turning toward Maura and me with a satisfied grin. “I told ye we’d get served. You just have to be confident.”
“The barman is your brother,” I say. But deep down I am secretly impressed. I wonder what Dan will say when I tell him I’ve been inside a pub. His face will be a picture, no doubt.
We slide into the booth and soon there are three pints of black Guinness with frothy cream tops lined in front of us. The barman, who introduces himself as Timmy, passes us three packets of Taytos, too.
“Them crisps are on the house,” he says.
He winks at Maura and I doubt he knows she’s married.
“Right, first things first,” Geraldine says, lifting the pint to her lips and guzzling. “Ah,” she gasps, satisfied, as she lowers it back down. “C’mon, you two. What ye waiting for?”
Maura is first to drink. She coughs and splutters and shakes her head. Geraldine laughs. I’m next and I’m surprised by the taste. It’s sharp and bitter, and oddly, I think I like it.
“See?” Geraldine says. “It’s good stuff.”
Soon conversation begins to flow. Geraldine and Maura chat about the latest fashion in Switzers and which of the staff has recently got engaged. I don’t have much to say, but I enjoy listening. I don’t admit it out loud, but there’s something liberating and pleasant about sitting in the pub. When Maura has managed to drink almost half her pint, she sits back with glassy eyes and folds her arms.
“So, did you bring the paper?” she says.
Geraldine’s face lights up and she lifts her bottom off the bench seat to pull a newspaper from the waistband of her slacks. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She passes Maura the paper, which is rolled up and secured with a brown elastic band. Maura slides a finger under the elastic, ready to slip it off, when Ger grabs her hand and whispers sharply, “Jesus, what are you doing? You can’t open that in here. Are you mad?”
“I… I…”
It may be murky and gray in the room, but I can tell Maura’s cheeks are red and glowing.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” Maura says.
“It’s the Guinness,” Ger says. “It makes the mind a little looser. But we’re pushing our luck enough sitting in a pub of an evening. We don’t need getting caught with this. Don’t worry, they’re in there. Timmy promised.”
“How many?” Maura asks.
“Ten. Maybe a few more. I didn’t count.”
“Oh wow. That many. Wow.”
Maura opens her handbag and takes out some money. She stuffs the money into Geraldine’s hand and Geraldine’s fingers quickly curl tight around it.
“Can he get more?” Maura asks. “If they work. How many can he get?”
Geraldine drains the last of her pint. Then she sits poker-straight and says, “Oh, they work all right. And so long as you don’t tell nobody, Timmy can get as many as ye like.”
“Get what? What is going on?” I ask, suspecting that whatever it is, it might not be legal.
I glance at Timmy behind the bar. He’s drying glasses with a tea towel. He looks like an ordinary man working an ordinary job. Then I turn my attention back to Maura and Geraldine as they sit next to me, huddled in a dark corner of a dark pub where ordinary women are rarely seen and clearly don’t belong.
“I think we should go home now,” I say, a wobble creeping into my voice.
“What about your Guinness?” Geraldine asks, pointing at the glass I’ve barely touched. “Don’t you like it?”
“I like it plenty. It’s this place I’m not sure about. I’m sorry. I mean no offense, but this whole evening has caught me off guard. I thought we were going to the pictures, you see.”
Geraldine nods. “None taken. I get it. The first time is always the toughest. But when you bend the rules once, it gets a little easier the next time. Hell, it gets necessary.”
I nod as if I know what she’s talking about.
Geraldine leans across the table, getting closer to me, and she whispers, “Them French letters are going to change your life, Bernie. You’ll see.”
My eyes widen and the smoke burns them. I glare at the newspaper rolled up in Maura’s hand.
“You do know what a French letter is?” Geraldine asks.
“Of course I know.”
At least, I think I know. I’ve heard mention of them before—accoutrements that cover up a man’s nethers and stop a woman from getting pregnant. I’ve no idea what they look like and even less idea how they work, or even if they work. But I know they are downright illegal.
“If men had to birth babies you can bet your luck French letters would be sold in every shop in Ireland,” Geraldine says, forgetting to whisper. “It’s nineteen seventy, for fuck’s sake. Women are done having countless babies.”
Geraldine grows more passionate and louder by the word. I place my finger on my lip to shush her but she ignores me.
“I’m sick of hushing up. I want to shout it from the rooftops.” Geraldine gets to her feet and raises one arm in the air. “Women have rights. We deserve better.”
I tug her sleeve and pull her back down, almost tumbling her over, but it doesn’t shut her up. “Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all. We want our bodies back.”
Murph turns around, wobbling and almost falling off his stool. “Yer no ladies with filthy mouths like that. Shame on you.”
Something about the old man with slurred speech, droopy eyes, and a fresh pint waiting in front of him sets a fire in me. I’d ask what gives this drunk the right to judge us but I already know the answer. Maybe Geraldine is right. Maybe bending the rules gets easier over time. If French letters give my husband back to me, then illegal or not, I think I’m prepared to take the risk. I lift my pint and slug the rest until my glass is empty and a loud belch follows from somewhere inside me.
“Whoop!” Geraldine stands and punches the air. “Bernie, you are some rebel.”
I’m woozy and wobbly on my feet. But I like it.
Maura stands last. She lifts her jumper and tucks the rolled newspaper under her waistband. Her fingers tremble but her determination never falters. She turns back for her pint. “To rebels,” she says. Although she struggles, she drinks the majority of it.
Outside, Maura gets sick. I jump and shriek when a garda car passes with its siren blaring. Geraldine laughs and I’ve no doubt that Maura and I have lost our rebel badge of honor already. Geraldine leaves us with a hug each and the reassurance that we know where to find her. Maura and I start the long walk home without a word between us. We part ways at Clerys clock and Maura passes me the newspaper like a teammate passing a baton. She helps me hide the newspaper as best I can under my clothes. Nerves make me clammy, and I’ve no doubt I’ll have a face like a tomato by the time I reach my front door.
“Thank you,” I say, suddenly overcome with emotion.
Maura smiles. “When we first met, you said we were going to be great friends.”
“I did. I did. I remember.”
“You were right. This is what friends do. They help. You and Dan are a great couple, Bernie. I want you to be happy. You deserve to be.”
I take her hands in mine and I wish I could say something similar to her. But I know her bed is so much harder than mine. Instead, we share a look. A look that says sometimes you go above and beyond for the people who matter to you.
“Now go,” she says. “Go on. Surprise that husband of yours.”