April, 1917
Grantham Arms had always opened its doors to the lonely and the loved alike, but the lonely were more often found there than the loved. It was small, no doubt, hardly a visage of the lively, crowded pubs of Ireland. But it had good beer, food and the promise of a friend to lean on in the late hours of the night.
Tom Branson had spent many evenings in the pub since November of the previous year. He was not an alcoholic, no, but found a certain companionship in the hushed chatter of the villagers around him. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes the imperial stout was close enough to a home brew of his youth, dry and heavy and bitter, and the room grew larger and became filled with the sounds of the bodhrán and fiddle and the steps of young couples as they danced with each other in small groups, their laughter drifting over the clatter of glass and the conversation. The image never lasted more than a moment, but it was enough sometimes to get him through those nights, when all he could think of was her and her smile and her laugh and her spirit and the way she had politely rejected him before she left to become a nurse.
"Last call, Branson," the barkeeper said, wiping a glass dry.
"Thank you, Johnny."
Last call, laughed Tom in the silence of his mind. Such a thing didn't exist in Ireland. The bars would stay open until the last man staggered out its door or fell asleep at the table and was dragged home by his friends to sleep off the whiskey. Officially, the pub might shut its door and close its windows at eleven o'clock, but the light inside never truly went out, and the party would continue.
Tom was homesick in that moment beyond any previous memory. He wanted the clink and clatter of The Fiddler and the Drum in Dublin, the laughter of his cousins. He wanted to see her again. To hear her laugh and see her smile and feel the rays of her spirited soul shining through the chinks.
"Of all the money that e'er I had, I spent it in good company," he softly sang. "And of all the harm that e'er I done, alas was done to none but me. And all I've done, for want of wit, to memory now I can't recall. So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all."
The three others at the bar fell silent and looked at Tom.
"Of all the comrades that e'er I had, they're sorry for my going away," he continued, slightly louder. "And all the sweethearts that e'er I had, they'd wish me one more day to stay." The entire pub began to quiet, listening to Tom. The two or three other people in the pub who could carry a tune hummed a chord, just barely enough to be heard. "But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise while you should not, I will gently rise and I'll softly call, good night and joy be with you all."
The words of the next verse brought pictures of her to his mind again, hiding in the crowd to see the vote counted, proudly displaying her new frock to her horrified family, her voice as she talked about politics. "If I had money, enough to spend and leisure time to stay awhile, there is a fair maid in this town that sorely has my heart beguiled." The next words seemed to stick in his throat, as images of her smiling face at the picnic almost three years ago flashed before him, her hand warm and soft against his own."Her rosey cheeks and ruby lips, she alone has my heart in thrall."
The entire pub finished with him, "So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all."
A/N: "The Parting Glass" is a real song, if you didn't know. My favourite rendition is by Mr. Nolan Ledewski of the band Kennedy's Kitchen. His voice is like good whiskey cream on top of a sundae. This will be the last song played at my upcoming-ish wedding, because that is the way my friends and I ended get-togethers. Listen to Nolan here: watch?v=LXqiLEMcjJA