14

The little pub had a familiar and comfortable feel to Cormac. It resembled the endless bars of Donegal in which Cormac had spent a significant percentage of his childhood holidays. His father, a long-serving and dedicated contributor to the Guinness family fortune, would drag them into the nearest pub within seconds of, and often before, the first spots of rain hit the front windshield of the barely roadworthy car that carried them from Killane every year. Cormac had quickly gone from dreading these regular visits to the pubs of Donegal to loving every part of the experience. Drinking Cavan cola and eating Tayto crisps until his stomach ached. Listening to the songs and stories of the characters they met along the way. He looked forward to meeting new friends whose fathers were also stalwart contributors to the Guinness fund. He would sit enraptured as his father regaled him with the history and meaning of every song that was sung. There was always the occasional old storyteller who could hold the audience transfixed for the price of a glass of whiskey or strong beer. The highlight of every visit was always his ‘apparently’ reluctant father’s rendition of ‘Dirty Old Town,’ in which he did his best impression of Luke Kelly himself and always, at least it appeared to the young Cormac, got the loudest applause of the day. His more recent experiences of pubs had either been the Members’ bar at Westminster or the deserted old place next to his home in Northumberland, where he and Annie would have dinner twice a week with only the disinterested landlord and a neighbouring alcoholic and pungent smelling farmer for company. It was often shut by 9:30 p.m.

This little pub was different. Cormac looked at his watch. It told him it was a little after 10 o’ clock. There was a gentle hum of lively conversation punctuated by the occasional sound of a guitar being tuned and what he hoped were pipes being readied. It was nothing more than a narrow track, mirrors and memorabilia along the left side of the single lane and a well-stocked bar on the right. At the entrance was an alcove that was crammed full of patrons who, at a glance, looked more middle-class, dressed down Dubliners than nostalgia-fuelled American tourists. Enclosed behind them were the various musicians that Cormac hoped had not just finished their session for the evening. He followed Harry to the bar, which was thankfully less populated. They found two stools and Harry ordered two pints of Guinness and started into an easy rhythm of conversation with the young barman, while they waited for their drinks to settle. Despite speaking for a living for most of his adult life, Cormac had never mastered the art of idle conversation, and on many an excruciating occasion, had spent a whole evening at some function or other in stunted silence, unable to make a connection with anyone else in the room. He envied Harry his ability to talk for talking’s sake. He listened in the hope of learning Harry’s art.