Chapter 13
‘Thanks for picking me up, Dad,’ Grace said, remembering her manners.
She received a grunted acknowledgement from her father as she got out of the vehicle, careful not to further irk him by closing the passenger door with too much gusto. She hesitated, unsure whether he’d be inclined to fetch her case for her, but he was far too chivalrous not to, and she lagged behind him as he crunched over the gravel to the back door leading to the Kelly family kitchen. It was locked, and a tap yielded no result, so they made for the rear entrance to the pub.
Grace acknowledged the sweaty Lycra brigade whose bikes were propped up against the wall as they rewarded their efforts with a post-ride pint in the beer garden. It wasn’t what you’d call tropical, but it wasn’t cold either, with a dusky light and the bees in their hives at the bottom of the garden having settled in for the evening.
Her father’s surliness was dampening her enthusiasm at being home, Grace realised, pulling the door closed behind her. She hesitated, half tempted to turn around and leg it back outside at the thought of him banging about for the next two days. But the cheery greeting from Enda Dunne, who, as she’d prophesied, was propping up the bar, and Mr Kenny, who was now arranging himself alongside the old farmer on one of the wooden stools, changed her mind.
Grace moved into the warm timber cavern of a pub glowing with a cosy ambience thanks to the sputtering flames of the fire just ticking over this time of year and smiled back at the two gents, holding her hand up in a friendly acknowledgement as her dad loitered to mop up a sticky patch on the bar top.
Enda Dunne and Ned Kenny were the only punters in the bar, with most of the villagers and tourists who’d frequent the pub of an evening off having their dinner. That, of course, Grace knew from experience, could change in a heartbeat. A coachload of tourists seeking a taste of a traditional Irish pub and the chance to enjoy the craic with the locals for an evening had been known to pull up unexpectedly more than once. Her eyes flitted swiftly about the pub as she sought confirmation nothing had changed in her absence.
The photographs arranged any which way on the dark-green walls above the timber dado line in an ode to Emerald Bay’s glory days past and present were all accounted for. Her gaze scraped over the tables still arranged haphazardly and the booth by the windows looking out to the street where lovebirds, including her parents, had engraved their names on the tabletop. Behind the bar, the Guinness mirror, Smithswick Stout sign and bric-a-brac were still a duster’s nightmare at home amongst the clutter of bottles and glasses that, to the uneducated eye, would appear to have been arranged in no particular order, but Grace knew better. Her mam and dad could lay their hands on whatever their punters requested blindfolded if put to the test. Yes, she concluded, all was as it should be, and she waited for her dad to put the cloth down so she could follow him through to the kitchen.
‘What’s brought you home then, young Ava? Were you not suited to life in the Big Apple?’ Enda enquired, looking for the answer to his question in the bottom of his drained pint glass.
‘I’m Grace, Enda. I live in London, and it suits me very well.’ She scowled over at her dad, who was oblivious.
‘I knew that.’ Enda’s reply was gruff as he waved his glass at Liam, who now had one hand on the door connecting the family quarters to the pub. ‘A man could die of thirst here, Liam. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of Nora since she disappeared out the back a good ten minutes ago to check on your dinner.’
‘Hold your horses there, Enda. Chloe will be here any minute. She’ll sort you out.’
Without further ado, Liam banged through to the family quarters. The two old men at the bar exchanged startled glances, and Grace knew they were wondering what had their publican – who could usually be relied upon for his quick wit and good humour – in a foul temper. She lingered, flashing an apologetic smile, and was saved from pouring Enda a pint herself by Chloe’s timely arrival.
‘Ah, here she is.’ Enda’s reaction to the sight of Chloe breezing in was akin to someone witnessing the Second Coming. He knew his pint would be served as soon as she’d dropped her bag behind the bar. Nora and Liam employed the local girl to man the bar during the dinner hour so they could have a break and enjoy their meal in peace. Nora was often heard to say Chloe was a breath of fresh air with a sunny disposition and smile to match.
Grace swapped greetings with the younger girl and was about to leave her to it when Ned Kenny called her over.
‘Before you go, Grace, I’ve a petition I’d like you to sign your name to.’
‘Oh yes?’ This was what the flag was about, Grace realised, glancing at his scooter, which was parked alongside him. ‘What are you petitioning for then, Mr Kelly?’
‘To stop the finger of discrimination being pointed in my direction, that’s what, after living in this village all me life.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Would you believe there’s been a complaint made about my scooter here?’
Grace would, actually, but Mr Kenny was already speaking once more.
‘I’m sad to say there are those in this village that would like to see my trusty steed barred from the pub.’
Grace bit the inside of her lip, worried she might laugh at the graveness of his expression, which lightened as a full pint glass was slid in front of him. Everybody knew to get out of Mr Kenny’s way should he avail himself of an extra pint and suddenly get an urgent call of nature, but that didn’t mean people were always quick enough to do it. He was adamant he couldn’t make it to the little boys’ room in time with his walking stick, so he’d ride his chariot in there instead. It was more than one set of toes he was after running over in his time, and it seemed now he’d run over one pair too many. Still and all, Grace would be surprised if the mandate for the scooter to be left outside the pub had come from her parents.
‘And what do my mam and dad say to that?’
‘Ah well, now that’s where my petition comes in, young Grace. This whole sorry affair started with your sourpuss wan, Mrs Tattersall. She’s behind this smear campaign. She started a petition in the first place to get my scooter barred from the premises. So I did the only thing I could do, which was start one of my own. Your mam and dad say whichever of us gets the most signatures has the final say.’
That was a very diplomatic way of handling a delicate situation, Grace thought, already having decided to back Mr Kenny. She’d been on the sharp end of Mrs Tattersall’s tongue during her teenage years, as had most of Emerald Bay’s younger generation, and she didn’t doubt he’d come out on top over the old bite. Mind, it would take a braver woman than herself to turn her down if she waved her clipboard under her nose.
‘So will you sign it for me, lass?’
‘I will, of course, Mr Kenny.’
‘Good girl yourself.’
He handed his petition over, and Grace quickly scanned the lengthy list of signatures he’d already gathered. She recognised all of them and signed her own down the bottom with a flourish.
‘What’s it after saying on your flag there, Mr Kenny?’ she asked, handing him the board back.
‘Thanking you.’ Mr Kenny slipped it into the basket at the front of his scooter – then, gesturing to the flag, said, ‘“Toot for equal rights for mobility scooter riders.” My son’s after having it printed for me.’
This time, Grace couldn’t suppress her smile, imagining the ruckus of horns and the startled look on Mrs Tattersall’s face as she wheeled her shopping-bag trolley up Main Street.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was dinnertime, but before she ventured to the kitchen to try and snaffle a piece of Nan’s shortbread before her meal, she recalled Enda asking her what had brought her home. There was no time like the present to start spreading the word. Grace pulled up a stool and got straight to it.