LOCKED

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​​The smoking area door opens, the creak piercing the careful silence we’d been maintaining. Mitch sticks his bearded head around the door, “right lads, yer grand, door’s locked.”

We pour back into the pub behind him, reclaiming our seats and stools.

“Pint of Beamish when you’re ready please, Mitch, and whatever you’re having yourself”, Brian tells him, skinning up. He’s just burned through one during the wait but smoking at the bar is a novelty he never tires of.  

Ham has the ear talked off the Yank already. She’s supressing a yawn that pins the sides of her mouth back along her teeth, looking like a smile. Ham’s misread it as such, thinking he’s making great progress.

He’s called Ham tonight. Declan Manning dubbed him ‘Hammer-Hands’ at the lock-in a few weeks ago, owing to how he hammers out the tunes on the guitar. He plays the same chords a ceílí band pounce meekly on piano, but Ham really hammers them out with gusto - the engine of the session, he drives the tunes, faster than they were probably ever intended to be played.

Ham is one third of ‘Makin’ Maggots’, the trad band that plays a gig here every Thursday evening. Apparently, it’s a midlands-mammy expression for when you’ve too many layers on in warm weather, “will you take off the coat, ya must be makin’ maggots.” I’d never heard it before.

They’re great musicians - himself, Olly Mahon on uilleann pipes and whistles, and Warren McGrath on piano accordion. You don’t see many piano accordions on the trad scene these days, the button-variety squeezebox a more common sight. It’s similar but has small-piano-like keys instead of the buttons. Warren is a Master of it, makes it sing. Manning has taken to calling him ‘micro pianist’ of late. He’s trying to make it stick.

Ham’s surname is ‘Hand’, which made ‘Hammer-hands Hand’ fun to say, but ultimately it was too long. ‘Hammer-hands’ became simply ‘Hammer’ after a couple of weeks. Last week it was abbreviated further, affectionately I think, to just ‘Ham’. It’s very fitting tonight, though, as I watch him make a most ham-handed attempt at seduction.

She’s Beverly, from Wichita, I heard her tell Ham earlier. Everyone did. It prompted Mark Molloy, the self-appointed jester, to quip “I wouldn’t mind a climb on Beverly’s Hills, I tell ya”, as he flung the arm around her shoulder, exaggerating a punchline ogle at buxom Beverley’s bosom and supping the frothy remnants of his Guinness. Beverly took it well in fairness to her, sticking the chest out and joining the laughter before nailing Molloy to the wall with a quip of her own.

“You know, a statement like that, when you’re good-looking it’s flirting, and when you’re ugly it’s harassment…” she turned to Mitch as she reciprocated an arm around Molloy’s shoulder, “barman, you’ve a patron harassing customers here.”

The pub celebrated Molloy’s comeuppance with cheers and laughter. It was this bit of theatre that earned Beverly her lock-in privileges.
 
The lock-in knock is heard on the side-door - five raps, a pause, two raps, a pause, then two more. Mitch opens it and welcomes Nula Ahern, Claire Rigney and Matthew Cash – flute, fiddle and mandolin respectively. They’ve been playing tunes up the street in another pub, bright mandolin tings the shiny lures attracting craic-hungry tourist footfall.

Matthew has a Beverley of his own in tow, another solo traveller in search of the authentic oirish experience.  I didn’t catch her name as Matthew introduces her to the Maggots, but she sounds Nordic to my ear, might be Dutch though.

Ham and Olly are beside me at the bar, ordering a round for the seven of them and getting sorted out with payment for the gig earlier. Mitch hands Ham a small wad of fifties and a receipt book to sign. Ham signs it ‘Elvis Presley’. Last week he was Billie Holiday. He has the taxman looking for dead musicians all over the place.

Three raps, a pause. No more. Usually the incorrect sequence is ignored, lest they persist, but Mitch recognises something in the metre of the knock and opens the door.

It’s TJ Malone, the owner, and two cronies I’ve not seen before. They’re in from a day at the races.
Whatever elegance their expensive suits loaned them at ten o’ clock this morning is long since spent; the buttons of their untucked shirts struggling against their ever expanding bellies, soil-stained leather shoes, muck-infused water, and likely a fair amount of piss, climbing up their trouser-legs, Half-Windsors tugged unkempt from now grubby collars in track-side angst - the gaudy ties that on another, less fortunate day could well have formed the knot of a noose on the napes of their necks.

One of the strangers props his head up on his fist, elbow fused to the bar. He doesn’t even try to keep his eyes open.

The other is short and stout, nearly as wide as he is tall, the personification of gluttony. He pulls the unfortunate stool a good three yards out from the bar, and his arse starts to swallow it.

Malone comes around the side of me. “Well, Séamus, Olly”, he says brightly to the lads, his breath flammable. He bats Ham’s hand bearing a fifty away as their seven drinks begin appearing on the bar in front of them. “I’ll get that. Did ye get sorted for playing, ye did?”
“We did yea, thanks for that, TJ”, says Ham. Malone takes out a thick roll of crisp green hundreds from his pocket, peeling off three of them.
“Will ye play a few more tunes for us, ye will?”, he asks, squashing the notes into Ham’s fist-in-bloom.
“Jaysus, you had a good day at the races I gather so”, says Olly as Malone vanishes the dough back into his pocket.
“I surely did”, slurs Malone, “King Arthur’s Nag came in Long Odds, I’d a good tip and a good feeling…”.
 “Any tips for tomorrow?”, Ham asks hopeful, already thinking how to spend the easiest ton he’s made in a while.
“No, that’s me now, I’ll not have another bet until this time next year”, Malone responds, palms up and fingers spread as if halting the truth.

It’s gambler’s conceit. Whatever he won today, I know he’s lost multiples of it before.
 
If he had waited ten minutes, he’d have saved himself the three hundred quid. The six musicians always meet here on Thursday for the lock-in to play tunes together. They’ve been playing all evening and night, but they’ve a shared aversion to the microphones and speakers of their gig economy. Here, after hours, they enjoy playing for themselves rather than the audience. It becomes a sphere of innovation where they resurrect, share, and learn tunes, devoid of the commodified Celtic-kitsch of putting on a show with a setlist.  It’s a beautiful thing to witness, knowing your presence makes no difference to them.

It’s pretty obvious Malone has won big. Just how big, we’ll know momentarily. He’s instructed Mitch, inaudible from here. Mitch swings the head around, estimating his reach. He’s a good stretch of a man, I’d say six foot four if I’d to guess, and a fair length of arm on him. He’s going for the little BEKVÄM two-step Ikea stool though. Malone’s doing a quick head count. Mitch is reaching top-shelf, carefully clutching hold of the Redbreast 27-year-old, blowing the dust off it. Malone counts out nineteen glasses. He’s one shy. Maybe he forgot to include himself. Or maybe he won’t bother his sleeping friend to waste expensive whiskey on. 
 
Brian rolls another pinner beside me as Mitch and Malone hand out glasses of the Redbreast. I feel bad for it, having spent as many years as I have lived confined to bourbon, sherry and ruby port casks only to end up cascading across uncultured tongues.

Whiskey virgins follow Mitch’s lead, sticking snouts into the tumblers and inhaling. I know nothing about good whiskey either, but it smells divine from here - like someone blended berries with burnt bog and added a dash of hot Lilt. I wouldn’t say that out loud though, I’m aware how disrespectful of the whiskey it’d sound.
Swirling the concoction and taking an admiring sip, Brian offers his poetic assessment as the deep-copper coloured nectar eases down his gullet.  

“Delightfully smooth, a friendly hint of the burn. This is different indeed, rich and full of summer, followed by a sweet and spicy kiss, and then a horny slap of earth. It complements the Beamish nicely, and the sativa”.
He and Mitch acknowledge the treat that is the Redbreast with their eyes. Brian passes him the pinner.

“Two Heineken and a G&T please when ya can, Mitch”, the Sergeant orders. He’s Michael Delahunty, retired detective and long-serving local of this establishment.
 Using his eyes, Mitch asks Brian’s permission to pass Delahunty the pinner. Brian authorizes it with his. 
“Here, Sherlock Homo”, Mitch says through exhaled smoke, holding the pinner out to Delahunty who gleefully accepts.

Delahunty is here with his boyfriend and sister. I remember the night he and Casper met, they were on the very same stools they’re sitting on now, albeit with a distance of two or more metres between them. It was back during the first Covid pandemic. I remember Delahunty saying something like, “If it wasn’t for this feckin’ virus, I’d probably kiss ya”, and Casper replying “If it wasn’t for your wedding ring, I’d probably let you.”

Delahunty still wears his wedding ring. His husband fell off a horse six years ago and suffered a brain injury. He wasn’t the same man the Sergeant married after that; he lost the capacity for affection. “The cuddly part is gone forever, he just wants to be on his own now”, Delahunty put it when explaining to Casper that night. He still wears the ring though, still visits him every day in the care home, with Casper too.

Himself and Casper resolved that night to isolate individually for fourteen days and meet up back here in the pub for a safe snog. I think Casper thought he was messing, but the Sergeant gave him access to track his iPhone so he could check at any point in the two weeks that movements were being restricted as promised. It was quite romantic.     
 
The six musicians are tuning up their instruments.

“Tighten your G-String, Matthew”, shouts Molloy.

The Whiskey is getting to him. He’s trying on Rebecca Fossett’s faux fur coat.

Olly wails a low ‘A’ note on the chanter of his pipes, satisfied it’s close enough to the ‘A’ of Warren’s piano accordion and the fiddle. Molloy howls out like a wolf to the moon in unison. He’s wearing Margret Casey’s glasses now.

Olly plays the Sally Gardens air on the pipes, accompanied by his drones, the flute and fiddle. It’s gorgeous. They play it once over only, Olly extending a final ‘F’ note before a ‘G-roll’ into Jim Ward’s Jig, Ham lashing the guitar into it, followed swiftly by the accordion and mandolin.
“Kesh”, shouts Olly as they drive into the Kesh Jig in perfect sync, feet tapping and legs pumping. They’ve all their eyes closed. Olly soon opens his as does Warren, searching for a prompt for the next tune.
“Morrisson’s” calls Warren, and they all hop onto the third and final jig of the set.

We applaud emphatically.

Ham sings ‘Building up and tearing England down’ while the others smoke or visit the jacks.

“That’s how I made my fortune”, says the wide stranger when the song ends, “Construction. I was in London ten year, came back then and set up my own firm. Mine was the only firm allowed to remove asbestos here in the eighties and nineties”, he continues, talking to nobody in particular.

He takes off his wristwatch, reaching it out as close to Brian as he can.

“Here, young lad, have a look at that.” Brian is caught off guard and does as he instructs, out of politeness.
“That’s a genuine Rolex” the plump patron says. This is as lost on Brian as the Redbreast was. He feigns interest, again out of politeness. “Seventeen grand that cost me”. 

Brian leans to hand it back to him. He beckons him to pass it on to the next man to marvel at. That’s Ham, who was enroute to remind Beverly of his existence, her having escaped him and now conversing with Delahunty’s sister.

“Seventeen thousand”, the stout stranger shouts at Ham. Ham seems as impressed as Brian was.

Molloy arrives beside him, still in the fur coat and glasses. He holds his left wrist up, looking at his own watch - a plastic, near-thirty-year-old, made in China, pound-shop watch, the face in faded green, white, and gold with ‘USA ’94’ in the white centre.
Molloy glances from his watch to the glistening Rolex in Ham’s hand and back to his own.

“You’re never gonna believe this”, Molloy says with genuine concern that makes everybody listen.
A pregnant pause.
“What?”, the rotund Rolex-owner enquires.
“The same time is on both of them”, Molloy says, inducing a collective fit of laughter in us all.

You’d be vexed with yourself for letting Molloy lure you in like that, anyone who knows him knows he can’t go five minutes without playing the canat.  I often wonder does he wake up naked on Fridays with a dose of the fear, when that seemingly impenetrable clown costume is but a pile of fabrication on his bedroom floor, smelling of last night’s eejiting.

Ham returns the ludicrously expensive watch to its embarrassed owner on his way to annoy Beverley.

Molloy invites himself to sing a song. Last week he sang ‘The Bad Touch’ by ‘The Bloodhound Gang’, you know the one, “You and me, baby, we ain’t nothing but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel…”, but in imitated Sean-nós style, drawn out and nasally, full of ornamentation and emotion. It was ridiculously good. I wonder what he has for us tonight.

He introduces the song as that of “a young man dreaming about a girl, his distant love back in Ireland” and surprises us with what appears to be a sincere rendition of Spancil Hill. He’s doing it justice too. He does have a lovely singing voice in fairness.
The motive behind the sincerity becomes apparent in the last couple of lines, though, which he has altered to: “…me cock, it grew in the morning, it grew both long and hard, and I awoke in California, in a tent that pitched a yard.”
We should have known.
 
Beverley is busy taking selfies, embracing the novelty of her first Irish lock-in to decorate her Instagram feed. She’s taken two with Brian already, even though he’s not actually said a word to her yet. The second captioned ‘Mighty Craic’. Part of me hopes she’s having a poke at him with that one.

For the Beverleys each week, the lock-in is indeed mighty craic, but the whole affair is tinged with melancholy.
“We’ll finish up early tonight lads”, suggests Mitch, “I assume we’re all going tomorrow, we are?”, as he scans the bar, receiving wordless replies in the affirmative.

“Where are we going tomorrow?”, Beverly asks Brian in a hushed tone I wouldn’t have thought her capable of, I suppose she sensed the sudden sorrow on the place.

“Memorial for a friend of ours. He died a year ago tomorrow. This was his stool here beside me”, Brian informs her, placing his hand on my seat, “we keep it empty at every lock-in since.”

“Oh, I’m sorry” She offers, sincerely. “Was he old, or sick, or did he have an accident or something?” she enquires further, probably stretching the liberties granted her a little.

“No”, Brian replies.
 
“Right, have yis all got a sup of beer left?” Mitch asks.
“No”, Molloy cries, approaching the bar in big strides as he’s necking the bottom half of his pint, handing the empty glass to Mitch to partially refill.
They all gather at the side of the bar, except the sleeping beauty at the far end and the portly man.

“To Darren, and all the dead homies”, calls Mitch, the mop in one hand, his glass raised in the other. They all spill a drop on the floor and guzzle the rest. Molloy spills his drop as far from the rest of them as he can, just to annoy Mitch. It’s the same every week.

“That’s beautiful”, Beverly says.

Many sessions or lock-ins that end in song tend to go to ‘The Parting Glass’, the traditional Scottish ditty. Not ours though. Once Mitch has called Molloy a dickhead, he leads us into our song, the Cheers theme tune.

“Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got,
Taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot,
Wouldn’t you like to get awaaay...
sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your naaame…”

Claire plucks the dum, dom, dam, dim, out on the neck of her fiddle
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“…and they’re always glad you caaaame...”
 
   
 

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