The summer evening had that almost balmy feeling to it, a rarity in Ireland but an occasional visitor, nonetheless. The dinner site was chosen for its coolness, the table pushed back into the corner of the kitchen away from the direct glare of the evening sun. One corner still was bathed in a golden glow and with a reluctance to block out ‘God’s lovely sunshine’ that was yearned for during the winter and hash spring Mary pulled slowly at the curtain inching the table into darkness. The dinner would be a light affair, not through necessity but for the fact it was too warm to eat. The coolness of the late evening would be the best time to attack it, but unfortunately for Emmet, Mary had heard on the radio that eating late at night was not good for the digestion and in an effort to preserve their union Mary had banned the consumption of food after nine. Thursday evening was the only exception and the reason for the exception was that Mary was not there. Emmet would covertly fry too many sausages for the Thursday lunch and secret them carefully in greaseproof paper in preparation for the night feast. He saw no harm in the occasional fall from and landing into grace. He strolled home on Thursday, there was no expected time for his arrival and if he was later than usual, he was neither worrying anybody or subject to investigation. Mary would have left at three, made the short walk to the end of the road where the town bus would pass at four. She always liked to be on time and in clear view so there would be no chance of not being seen by the driver. He was under instruction to only pull in if there was someone there. Mary would stand full and proud on the edge of the roadway so as there would be no ambiguity as to her need for transport. This was in light of the previous argument with the said driver who had whizzed by three weeks before, and when confronted by Mary the following week, invoked the power of the Bible, that he would never make it behind the wheel again, that if he was asked to swear, he was convinced she was picking flowers on the said occasion. Mary’s complete argument for the prosecution was that in all his days had he ever seen anyone picking flowers in Sunday best walking shoes and a new handbag. The driver was never going to win the argument and, there would never be a need for Mary to stand proud at the crossroads as she was utmost in the driver's mind as he approached for fear that he would ever leave her behind again. One argument with Mary he thought was as much as any man deserved in his lifetime.
Emmet had no such worries on Thursday evenings. He would stroll along the road from town, soaking in the greenness of the summer months. He had no need for transport, indeed if anything it would be a nuisance, for the fact that it drove by and did not stop at Fallon’s.
Joe Fallon had kept the place as his father had built it. A quiet pub that saw no great need for neon lights and cigarette machines, if the beer was of a quality that the local connoisseurs found palatable, he considered investing the profits a waste of valuable resources. To Emmet it was a menagerie, filled with uniqueness and bad taste. Seventies chrome barstools standing to attention in front of a bar that would hold its own in any retro city pub. The black vinyl of the seats so under nourished for the want of a cream cloth that it had cracked and split. The inner foam had tiny craters that had been picked by bored children who had accompanied their fathers on a rare treat or a change of scenery for the babysitting. The bottle of coke and the packet of crisps had long since been consumed and therefore the barstools had become the focus of their attention. Emmet always tried to make it there before seven. Seven o’clock was the cut-off point, any later and the hordes of returned workers would flood the place in their ones and twos. He liked the chair in the corner at the far end of the bar. Like anyone interested in self preservation it was the perfect spot. You had full view of the entrance and could scan the pub in an instant. And if you missed anyone, Emmet was sure that the old one-eyed fox in the glass box above his head would not. He often thought how he had lost his eye. Had it been before or after he was put in the box or was it the reason that he ended up there in the first place. Emmet gingerly brought his pint from the bar and placed it on the table in front of him. He sat in anxious anticipation as it completed its settling process, the blackness edging ever closer to the bishop’s collar. As soon as they met, it was whipped from the table like a salmon on a line and stood little chance of survival in the face of a six-day absence. The second would fare better and enjoy its time in the world for a little longer now that the ravenous edge had departed Emmets thirst. The third and fourth were enjoyed and savoured and interspersed by conversation with fellow punters and an unprogressive owner who bemoaned the onslaught of modern technology as weapon of mass conversational destruction. Joe Fallon buffered his argument with several ‘back in the day’ quips of how life was. Emmet often wondered back in the day of what? Back in the day of my father, back in the day of my mother, back in the day of fucking what? He cursed the Yanks for gifting us a phrase that just did not suit Irish people. He reckoned ‘years ago’ flowed much better from an Irish tongue and felt the Yanks should have had the decency to at least complete it before enforcing it upon us.
Four pints was always enough for Emmet, he was never a big drinker and the four gave him enough bravado and feelings of a rebellious nature to complete his Thursday task without a hint of guilt. The prepared greaseproof sausages were taken from their hiding place and placed on a low heat to gently warm themselves through. He had it down to a fine art. The heating of the sausages in a value of time was exactly equal to the buttering of bread and the boiling of water. The brewing of the tea bag was equal in time to the slicing of the sausages and the spreading of YR sauce. He often berated himself for not being nationalistic and sticking to Chef brown sauce but there was something about the tanginess of the Yorkshire Dales he found irresistible. Settling himself into the chair in the now cool room he savoured his feast. The mantle clock chimed for the tenth time and Emmet smiled at the illicitness of the sausages and regaled in his freedom of choice.