Tension-headache
gathered at her temples as she approached the pub. The thick panel door gave a
squeak as she pushed through. The interior hadn’t changed much. Predominantly
brown, a small entryway led into a lounge, a barroom and toilets. Nancy continued
into the lounge. Old yeast and burnt chips had stamped a bouquet into the fabric.
Aged photos spiced the walls; racehorses, farm scenes and dogs. Bon Jovi’s Living’ on a Prayer played out on the
stereo. Three men sat drinking at a table near the bar. Nancy ground her molars
and ambled inside. Behind the bar, Danny wheeler’s dad, Albert Wheeler wiped
beer glasses. This was Sheila’s world, the heart of Sheila’s life, a life that
Nancy didn’t understand.
As
Nancy approached, Albert, wall-eyed and pot-bellied, stacked the beer glasses
in a rack. He smiled amicably as Nancy rested her bag on the top. ‘Good
evening,’ he grunted, ‘what’ll you fancy?’
She
could feel the eyes of the three men behind her. Sheila had done this countless
times. Why couldn’t Nancy? She squared her shoulders. ‘Gin and tonic please,’
she replied with a small smile.
‘Good
lass, comin’ right up.’ Albert grabbed a glass and pushed it beneath an
overhead dispenser. A shadow drifted over the bar. Guinness wafted over her.
Nancy didn’t turn but retained her small smile.
‘Are you who I think you are?’ came a Back
Country baritone. Albert deposited her gin and tonic onto a mat before her.
Nancy paid up.
‘Yous
Sheila’s daughter, aren’t you?’ the baritone persisted.
Nancy
turned to find a man who could’ve been Bono’s dad standing next to her, only
shorter and stouter. His broad grin rendered his mouth lipless.
‘Yes,
I am,’ Nancy replied.
Albert
cut in with a throaty chortle. ‘By Christ! I’d forgotten she got a daughter!
How have you been, Pet? I’ve not seen your pretty face here for quite a while.’
Nancy
shrugged at this. ‘I’ve been…busy.’
Bono’s
Dad hollered over to his table of two, ‘Hey, Ralph, this is Sheil’s daughter!’
A
skinny man with an oversized goiter lifted his beer to her. ‘How you doin’
Sheil’s Daughter?’
Nancy
merely nodded, her smile growing thin.
Albert
stuck her change in the till. ‘I’m…er sorry about what happened to your mum,
Lass. I called the ambulance as soon as I realised what happened.’
Bono’s
Dad plonked his Guinness down after taking a nip. ‘Don’t you fret, Lass, she’s
a belly of iron, has our Sheila. She’s a party girl. Some of us are just made
that way. It’s a gift. Here…’ he slid Nancy’s gin and tonic towards her. ‘You
ain’t touched your drink.’
Nancy
fondled the glass. In the next room, a vending machine fanfared a five-note
bar. She lifted the glass and pressed her upper lip against the rim.
Condensation tickled her tongue. She licked the ice as it clinked against her
teeth. For once, she challenged an inner resistance. Nancy would go the other
way; she would try to appreciate and to understand.
