On the other side of the wall was a huge pile of manure running parallel to the wall for almost the whole length of the field.
‘Ugh.’ Izzy pulled an I’m-about-to-be-sick face as Hannah blinked rapidly.
‘That’s gross,’ said Jason, pulling his sweatshirt up over half of his face. ‘Quick. Let’s get past this stinking pile of shit. Why would you leave it there?’
None of them answered; they were all too busy pinching their noses and hurrying past the offending piles of manure. For a moment Hannah wondered if this was more of Moss Murphy’s doing. It seemed like exactly the sort of thing a troublemaker would do.
‘And that’s why I don’t live in the country,’ said Jason, as they made the final descent down the path.
There was no missing the pub that nestled at the side of the road just along from the track they’d come down. Its walls were sunshine yellow with a pair of toucans rather incongruously painted on either side of the door.
‘The Guinness toucan,’ exclaimed Alan. ‘There’s an Irish pub in Soho called The Toucan.’
‘What?’
‘Iconic advertising from the 1930s which has survived. Incredible.’
‘I can’t see what on earth a toucan has to do with Irish beer,’ sniffed Fliss as they all trooped into the pub.
‘I think that was the point,’ explained Alan. ‘So it stuck in people’s minds and was used for years afterwards. As an aside, the crime writer Dorothy L. Sayers was a copywriter on the Toucan Guinness ad copy.’
‘How on earth did you know that?’ Meredith asked, her eyes crinkling with approval.
‘I’m a mine of useless information,’ he said with a grin, looking rather pleased with her obvious admiration.
Inside the low-ceilinged pub, photos lined the walls and behind the bar, an eclectic mix of commemorative plates, brewery glasses, and memorabilia including yellow Australian road signs, models of camper vans, and old calendars was displayed. In pride of place was pinned a big black T-shirt featuring the capital letters FBI in yellow with smaller text beneath that read: Foley’s Bar, Inch.
Hannah couldn’t help smiling as they slid through the Friday-night released-from-work crowd towards the bar. There was that universal sense of relief that tomorrow was Saturday and a comfortable noise of rising chatter enveloped her. There wasn’t a sound like it, she decided; that mid-level buzz of voices, punctuated with laughter and happiness. Tourists and locals rubbed shoulders in casual shirts and jeans, drinking and talking with no one vying for attention or the limelight like they might do at one of the trendy bars in Manchester. The barman hailed them as they approached. There was an altogether more laid-back atmosphere without the familiar trying-too-hard-to-have-fun overtones that she’d noticed back home. The Irish, it seemed, knew how to kick back and enjoy themselves.
‘Evening, folks. What’ll you have?’ And there was the universally friendly welcome that she’d noticed everywhere she’d been so far.
‘You have to have a Guinness,’ announced Alan, taking a rare lead. He was a quiet, watchful man, gentle and attentive. Hannah had noticed that he was always ready to help everyone else in the kitchen but wasn’t pushy about it. ‘It’s always better in Ireland.’
‘Ugh, I once tried it,’ said Meredith. ‘Tastes like earwax.’
‘And how do you know what earwax tastes like?’ asked Alan with genuine curiosity.
‘Well, you know,’ Meredith with a half-laugh. ‘I haven’t tried it again and it was a long time ago.’ She scrunched up her face under his smiling gaze. ‘Tell you what, I’ll have a half to show willing.’
Izzy and Hannah both chose to have a half as well, but in response to Jason’s teasing that she wouldn’t like it, Fliss ordered a full pint.
‘Bet you can’t down it in one,’ said Jason.
Fliss looked down her nose, a sudden twinkle in her eye. ‘How much?’
‘Ten euros.’
‘I’d have thought you’d want to keep your money. You’re putting enough in the swear jar at the moment.’
‘Tenner.’
‘Children,’ interjected Meredith but they were like a pair of cowboys staring each other down.
‘Bet you I can down it faster than you,’ said Fliss picking up her glass and tossing her hair over her shoulder.
‘You’re on.’
The two of them lifted their glasses while the others looked on. To everyone’s amazement, Fliss drank hers down in several smooth swallows without any sign of discomfort or difficulty, slamming her empty glass down before Jason had spluttered his way through a third of a pint.
