– right, sorry!’ He could have retained his place by buying another half – might have done had it been Boadicea who hovered to serve him. Alas, she was away at the far end of the bar, so he picked up his glass and began to squeeze himself away through the throng, seeking another space from which to watch her. But there was none. Nor was there a way back: immediately he had moved, another rushed to fill his slot and that was the last chance Niall had of speaking to her for the remainder of his time there.
Still, by drawing himself up to full height, he could glimpse her golden head bobbing its way back and forth along the row of drunken patrons, whilst he sipped his drink and the crowd bawled in unison, ‘Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are ca-a-lling!’
The songs, the sentiments bequeathed by their grandfathers, were Irish, though the voices were not, the lyrics delivered mainly in loud Yorkshire tones as the participants sang of the old country that their ancestors had departed long ago. And in this alone, despite his Yorkshire name and his Yorkshire accent, Niall felt his Irish heart at one with them.
Inevitably, after stretching it out for so long, he was finally unable to drain another drop from the glass. Even so, he continued to stand there. Thwarted at having to share her with so many others, he was loath to depart – though not from this mob, who had grown increasingly drunk. How irritating it was to be amongst such a crush when oneself was sober. Look at them – how foolish they appeared as the maudlin tune gave way to a gayer refrain and set them jigging. No matter that it was crowded, one of their number was performing a strenuous dance, arms akimbo, lifting his knees in the air. The big Irish drover was well known in the area, usually good-natured, but boisterous in his cups. Niall could see what was about to happen – tried to warn the drunken buffoon that there was someone about to pass behind him with a tray of drinks – but his voice was lost amid the deafening entertainment. The drover hopped backwards, bashed into the man with the tray and there came the sound of shattering glass. A few heads turned, there were groans from behind the bar, but these were lost amid a cacophony of ivory keys and discordant voices. Nothing could still the dancers, who proceeded to crunch across the carpet of shards, singing to their hearts’ content whilst the poor fellow who had just paid for the drinks was left to stare in dismay at his empty tray.
‘’Scuse me!’
Niall looked on sympathetically as the victim tried to catch the attention of the big Irish fool who continued to dance about like a lunatic, eventually managing to tug at his sleeve.
‘You might offer to pay for them!’
But the author of the disaster stopped only briefly to weigh up the little fellow, and to demand with a contemptuous sneer and a thick Irish brogue, ‘What’re ye going to do about it if I don’t, Johnny-boy?’ Then he cackled out loud and went back to his dancing, flailing his arms and legs about like a maniac.
He was not to do so for long. His victim might be a foot shorter but he had a weapon in his hand. Lifting the tray, he dealt the Irishman an almighty blow to the back of his head, so hard that the tray instantly buckled and so did the man’s legs – but only for an instant, for he wheeled round in anger and was about to take a swing at the one who had assaulted him, when another grasped his arm.
‘I think you ought to pay for his drinks,’ demanded Niall.
Restricted by the iron grip, the drover turned his hostility on the one who held him and, wrenching himself free, threw a punch at Niall, which was easily parried. With this insufficient to halt the attack there was only one way to terminate it: Niall dealt a blow that knocked him to the ground.
The crowd, which had drawn aside like two separate curtains at the first sign of trouble, now swept back together, laughing and singing along with the piano player, who had not even missed a beat, whilst the avenging angel Niall rubbed his knuckles and looked down at the bully, who lay out cold on the glass-sprinkled tiles.
‘Sure, I wouldn’t want to be upsetting you!’ laughed an Irish voice close to his ear, a kinder female one this time.
It was Boadicea, come to try to sweep up the mess, though she was not allowed to do so until the obstacle had been removed by his friends. The piano player changed to a gentler tempo and the crowd took an interval from their dancing.
‘Sorry, I just can’t stand people like him!’ Niall increased his pitch against the raucous strains of ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’.
She wrinkled her nose and bent to her task. ‘Aw, he’s all right really.’ Twas just the drink talking.’
Realising this did not present him in a good light, Niall felt he should justify his action. ‘I’m not usually so quick to hit somebody! He gave me no option; it was him or me.’
‘Sure, I know that!’ She did not sound at all recriminatory. ‘He was asking for a few tours of the parade ground, as my old dad would say, and you were only looking out for the little fella. Your man’ll be regretting it tomorrow, so he will. Likely be offering to buy you a drink!’
‘That’s probably true,’ agreed Niall, still rubbing his scuffed knuckles, his attention more on Boadicea now, for it was suddenly and delightfully brought home to him that he usually only ever saw her from the waist up. Taking advantage of this new perspective – the young woman crouching unawares – he examined first the wide hips, then followed the line of a rather shapely calf in a tan silk stocking, to the finely boned ankle that protruded from the high-heeled court shoe. ‘They’re a strange lot, the Irish,’ he concluded.
‘Ye cheeky article!’
He was forced to tear his eyes from her leg as she came upright with a look of faked offence, and dealt him a dig with her arm.
‘I hope you’re including yourself in that remark?’
So, she had remembered what he had told her then, about being of Irish stock. This and the little nudge of familiarity pleased him no end, and he grinned at her. ‘Aye, well, there’s some’d say I’m nobbut strange meself.’
Boadicea grinned back, her eyes sparkling, but already her attention was being stolen by another who was thrusting a coin in her hand to pay for the spilled drinks, and soon she was set to return to the bar, her shovel piled with glass. Still, she included Niall in an afterthought as she left him. ‘Would you be after a refill an’ all?’
‘No, thanks, I’ve had my quota for the night.’
‘See you again then!’ called Boadicea, before being swallowed up by the revellers.
Aye, you’ll see me again, thought Niall warmly, her final smiling comment topping off the evening nicely for him, as he took one last covetous look, then went out into the night.
Friday’s episode being too boisterous for one of such a quiet disposition, he decided it was pointless to call in at the pub over the rest of the weekend, for he would see very little of Boadicea. But oh, the aching emptiness this involved … Being without her for two nights was as hard a separation as he had ever experienced, tearing at his gut in a way that was almost physical in its intensity. It was a crime in itself to attend confession and be forgiven for his sinful thoughts, when he had every intention of repeating that sin, but Niall went along anyway, if simply for the fact that his parish priest was one of the few to whom he could unload such a burden – though he did not name names, of course, but restricted the information to a generalised confession of impure thoughts. So long as those thoughts were not put to deed he could rely on Father Finnegan’s understanding; he was a man himself, after all.
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