Graham raised his eyebrows at my mention of the D word. Surprised at my openness, he appeared uncertain whether to comment that he was even aware of the situation.
‘I know you know about the divorce, so don’t be polite. I asked John to tell you everything, to be open from day one.’ I had no problem talking about it.
‘Ahh, well in that case, I might speak freely then, if I may?’ he said, in a light tone. I got the feeling he was going to speak freely, regardless.
‘Of course.’
‘It sounds to me like you’ve had a hard few months, maybe even years, but things are on the up now. Trust me,’ he said, nodding at John. ‘He’s got it bad.’ He winked at me knowingly and I felt this could be the start of a firm friendship between us, seeing exactly where John got his rock strong solidarity from.
They were good country people, straightforward, no bullshit. There was something very refreshing about them. John was right.
‘Who wants to play pool?’ I saw the table was free.
Surprise lit in John’s eyes. ‘Sure, you might break a nail, sweetheart,’ he mocked me.
I laughed, rubbing my hands together in delight as he set up the balls for the game. We had a pool table in the garage as kids and used to play all day every day when we weren’t at school.
‘Mind if I break?’ I chalked my cue.
‘Be my guest.’ His tone harboured a hint of arrogance. He was so sure he had it in the bag.
More locals entered the pub. Everyone seemed to know one another, acknowledging each other with a friendly insult. Itseemed in Ireland the stronger the insult you issued, the more highly you thought of the person.
I bent over the pool table, deliberately allowing John a view of my butt in the tight jeans I had on. If all else failed, a distraction technique always helped.
I broke, expertly potting two reds with the first strike. John raised his left eyebrow in question. I went on to pot each and every red ball in turn, much to his surprise and mine. It had been years since I played. I just couldn’t get a clear shot on the black, so reluctantly, I had to let him take his turn.
‘You’re a dark horse,’ he said, potting four yellows in a row. ‘What other hidden talents could you be hiding from me?’
He missed the fifth yellow and handed me the cue again. I potted the black, winning the game.
‘Best of three?’ He frowned, unused to losing.
‘Maybe later?’ I knew it would irritate the life out of him, being left on the back foot. I couldn’t be confident I’d beat him again. Better to quit while I was ahead.
Several drinks later, I had a long hard object in my hand, and it wasn’t what I had been expecting only a couple of hours previously.
‘Give it a good hard swing, Baby Bear.’ I’d been nicknamed in the first half an hour. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of,’ Papa Bear (he too had been nicknamed), egged me on rubbing his hands together before clenching his fists in excitement.
Hugh nodded encouragingly as John stood well back and watched without comment.
The stick I clasped in my two hands was apparently called a hurly stick. I raised it above my right shoulder and swung it with everything I had, knocking three drinks over and almost giving John a nose job in the process.
‘Holy fuck, John, don’t piss this one off! By God, you’ll know about its son.’ Graham seemed impressed at my effort, nevertheless.
‘Sorry guys, so sorry about the drinks and the glasses.’ Mortified, I headed to the bar where Mama Bear was pouring two more pints of Guinness having witnessed the disaster I caused. She pointed me in the direction of the toilets.
I entered one of the three cubicles, wobbling slightly as I went to sit down.
I was drunk.
I needed to go home.
I laughed at the irony of it. Home.
I’d only been here a few hours and the Irish lingo was rubbing off on me.
I liked Ireland, but if John lived in Saudi Arabia, I’d have gone there too. Bar the fact I would be breaking every rule in the country, between my old fondness for a glass of wine and new fondness for the extra-marital activities he’d introduced me to this afternoon.
