One Hundred Names (Special Edition)

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    The bookies, attached to the pub, was a small room that resembled a living room. On the right-hand side of the O’Hara pub was a newsagent shop, on the left was the bookies. Inside, two men were sitting on stools and watching a small television in the corner of the room. They were wearing tweed caps and suit jackets, and smelled like they hadn’t washed for a few weeks. Behind the protected glass was a man in his thirties. He looked up and when Birdie laid eyes on him she took an audible intake of breath. Kitty assumed she knew him and waited for a flicker of recognition to pass his face but it never came and Birdie composed herself.
    ‘My name is Bridget Murphy,’ she said, a slight shake in her voice, which definitely had more of a hint of her Cork accent than before.
    The two old men looked away from the television screen to stare at her. Edward put his hand supportively around his grandmother’s body.
    ‘Sixty-seven years ago I placed a bet with Josie O’Hara and I’m here to collect my winnings,’ she said.
    Kitty almost felt emotional hearing Birdie say those words. How often had Birdie said them to herself, as a teenager desperate to leave the town but equally desperate to prove she could come back, as a young mother, as she hit middle age, and then in her old age? How often had she thought of this moment, and now it was here?
    The young man stood from his stool behind the counter. ‘Have you got the slip?’
    She retrieved a plastic sleeve from her handbag and with shaking fingers slid it under the counter. Kitty wasn’t sure if the shake was from nerves or old age, but she hadn’t noticed it before. The young man studied the slip, looked back up at her, at Molly and Edward by her side, then back down at the slip again. He smiled, then he laughed.
    ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘Sixty-seven years ago!’
    Molly and Kitty grinned but Edward’s voice showed concern.
    ‘You’ll give her the money?’ he asked.
    Birdie’s not receiving the money had never entered Kitty’s mind. It had always been a question of how much they would give her with the changes in currency in all of those years. Her original bet surely no longer followed the ordinary rules.
    ‘A bet’s a bet,’ the man said, his smile large on his face. ‘You know, Josie was my great-grandfather,’ he sounded excited. ‘He died when I was young but I’ll never forget his … hold on.’ His smile quickly faded and he brought the old slip closer to his face. ‘One hundred to one?’ he read the odds, shocked.
    Birdie nodded. ‘That’s what Josie gave me.’
    ‘I’ll have to … I’m not sure I can … I don’t have the authority to … hold on just a minute, please.’
    He took the slip and disappeared out the door, leaving them standing there. One of the old men was staring at them.
    ‘Are you Thomas’s girl?’ he asked.
    Birdie turned and examined him. ‘I am.’
    ‘Jaysus, Sean, would you look at that, Thomas’s girl.’
    ‘Ha?’ the old man shouted.
    ‘She’s Thomas’s girl,’ the man shouted.
    The old man fixed his eye on Molly. He immediately distrusted her with her blue hair. ‘Is she now?’
    ‘Not her, the other one.’ He waved his crooked finger. ‘You’re the sick girl,’ he said.
    Birdie’s cheeks flushed and Kitty could see that still the stigma lived on.
    ‘And who are you?’ Molly asked, protectively.
    ‘Paddy Healy. Una and Paddy’s son.’
    Birdie’s eyes narrowed as she thought about it, her mind casting back all those years to a time lost or forgotten, deliberately and some naturally. Suddenly her eyes stopped moving from left to right and lit up. ‘From down the road?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Rachel’s baby brother.’
    ‘That’s me.’
    Kitty took in his appearance and found it hard to imagine this old man as a baby brother to anyone.
    ‘Rachel and I were in school together, the times that I was in school.’
    He softened. ‘She passed away some ten years ago.’
    Birdie’s smile quickly faded. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
    The door behind them opened and they heard a loud voice coming from their side of the glass.
    ‘We’re not giving you the money,’ the voice announced. The source was an old lady in her eighties but time had not been as kind to her as it had been to Birdie. She was badly hunched over a cane, and her hair was almost woollen-looking it was so thick and dry. Dog hairs covered her smock and her swollen legs and ankles had been stuffed