Conor will be thrilled to see little Shay. He can show him the chair he’ll probably be sitting on in twenty-five years. Or maybe not. Conor says he doesn’t want any of his kids to feel like they have to take over the business. He wants them to make their own choices. Have the life they chose. Unlike himself. Bottling beer is a far cry from discovering stars.
It’s a noble position for Conor to take, but we’ll see if he still feels that way when one of his own progeny decide they don’t want to play for Ballycall GAA Club and choose to play for an opposition team.
The road is narrow, lined with ditches and bramble. How the big trucks come in and out of the factory, I’ll never know. I’m finding it hard enough in my car, and it’s a big car.
Safer for the baby, Conor had said when I told him I’d rather have a small one. I was picturing myself parking in the busy city, nipping up and down to Dublin whenever I got the chance. But I had settled for what Conor wanted, because at the time, I thought he was nervous of cars because of his father.
The entrance to the brewery is closed and I don’t know the code, so I’m forced to press a big intercom button on a pillar. A voice crackles from the speaker and says something I don’t understand before a man appears, wearing a high-vis vest. I open the window, checking behind to see that Shay is still asleep.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ A middle-aged man with an evident love of calories, lowers his head to look in the window at me. A chin, darkened with stubble, ageing skin and green eyes full of life. He glances into the back of the vehicle before settling his stare on me. I imagine he was quite handsome in his day.
‘I’m Laura, Conor’s wife.’
‘Laura,’ he says, looking into the back seat again. ‘So this must be little Shay.’ His northern accent sounds as strong as the day he left school. No sign of the country lilt slipping into it. I wonder how long he’s been working here.
‘Isn’t he a grand wee thing,’ he says, ‘much like his grandfather.’ That answers my question. He knew Seamus.
‘And how are you getting on here in the wilds?’ He turns his attention back to me. ‘I hope Conor is looking after you well.’
‘He is.’ I smile, eager to move on. ‘Is he here… Arthur?’ His name is stitched onto his jacket.
‘He is indeed… hold on now.’
Arthur moves towards the hut and presses a button, releasing the barrier for me to drive through. I find a spot to park the car and prepare to unload.
Shay observes from the car seat that’s hanging on my left arm. I walk towards the entrance door. The building is old, with grey dash, weather-worn walls and lots of small steel-framed windows. Conor says he’d love to knock it down and start again. He has a habit of doing that. I hope he doesn’t apply the same principle to our marriage.
My right shoulder is strained from the weight of Shay’s bag. Nappies, wipes, bottles, a change of clothes, creams, tissues. A lot of ‘just in case’ stuff. My own necessities have been reduced to a purse and one lipstick. But it doesn’t bother me. I’m happy to be the perfect mother.
Unable to push the heavy door open, I drop the bag onto the ground and heave it, holding it open with my foot while I reach down to pick the bag up. I must look as graceful as an Olympic discus thrower attempting ballet.
Eventually my persistence pays off and I’m inside. The sweet grainy smell that permeates the air outside is a lot stronger in here. There are days the smell reaches right across to the village. Smell pollution. But no one complains, all happy to pocket the money this place brings to them through one channel or another.
Despite the building having a run-down look to the exterior, the inside is quite modern: a row of offices with heavy wooden doors; glass windows, coloured walls. There are signs too. Slogans. Callbrew: the best beer for the best cheer. And a display of awards, little stone plaques announcing how good the beer is year after year.
I’m dragging the heir to the throne down the corridor towards Conor’s office, when I hear a female voice call me. It’s Olive.