1995
“Can I do it?” Rory asks. “I’ve always fancied pulling my own pint.”
I hand him a glass. “Let the first one run off. What’s in the pipes will be stale.”
“I can’t get used to this place being closed,” he says, tilting the glass as the creamy black liquid pours in, then letting it settle. He and I are together, alone, in the pub, the business that sustained our family for generations, now closed. Maeve and Donal and Ria left for Dublin this morning, after the reading of the will, and it’s been a long day here alone with the ghosts and memories.
So I was glad, I admit it, when I answered the doorbell and found Rory standing on the step, tie loosened, excuse for calling on his way home from work in place. The German buyers have been on, could he come in and let me know what the German
