The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

far from the village proper, when Betsy Clooney, with her car full of her children, stopped beside him.
    “Shawn, what’s happened? You’ve had an accident?”
    He smiled at her. She had a pretty brood of children, all of them fair of hair and blue of eye. The two in the back were squabbling, but the youngest, secured in her car seat, watched Shawn like a little owl as she sucked on a red lollipop.
    “Well, hello, Betsy. How’s it all going, then?”
    “Did you have a car crash?” She pushed open her door to hurry around to him, grinning as he was at her baby and weaving like a man who’d gone a hard round with the champ.
    “I didn’t, no. I’ve been walking.”
    “Your hand’s bleeding, and you’re bruised on the face. Your trousers are ripped at the knee.”
    “Are they?” He glanced down, saw the mud and the tear. “Shit, look at that, will you? Begging pardon,” he said quickly, remembering the children.
    But she was close enough now to see, and to smell, just what the matter was. “Shawn Gallagher, you’re drunk.”
    “I am, I suppose, a little.” They’d gone to school together, so he patted her shoulder in a friendly manner. “You’ve darling children, Betsy, but your oldest girl there is trying to throttle her brother, and doing a damn fine job of it.”
    Betsy merely glanced back and barked out one sharp warning. The children broke apart.
    “My mother could do the same.” Sheer admiration shone on Shawn’s face. “Half the time it only took a look to curdle the blood in your veins. Well, I must be going.”
    “Get in the back of the car, for heaven’s sake, and I’ll take you home.”
    “Thanks, but I’m for work.”
    She rolled her eyes, jerked open the car door. “Get in all the same, and I’ll drive you the rest of the way.” And let the Gallaghers deal with their own, she thought.
    “That’s kind of you. Thanks, Betsy.”
    The children were so entertained by drunk Mr. Gallagher that they behaved themselves until their mother dropped him off behind the pub.
    He waved cheerfully, then opened the door, tripped over the threshold, and as his balance was already impaired, nearly went facedown on the floor for the second time that day. He caught himself, hung on to the side of the counter, and waited for the pub kitchen to stop revolving.
    With the careful steps of the drunk, he walked over to the cupboard to get out a pan for frying, a pot for boiling.
    He was weaving in front of the refrigerator, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with what was inside it, when Darcy marched in. Fire in her eyes.
    “You’re near to an hour late, and while you’re lazing in bed, we’ve got two bloody buses coming in full of tourists and nothing to put in their bellies but beer nuts and crisps.”
    “Sure I’ll be dealing with that directly.”
    “And what, I’d like to know, are we to put on the daily while you—” She broke off, took a good look at him. His eyes, she noted, were all but wheeling around in his head. “Look at the sight of you. Dirty and torn up and bleeding. You’ve been drinking.”
    “I have.” He turned, gave her the sweet, harmless smile of the very drunk. “Considerably.”
    “Well, you knothead, sit down before you fall down.”
    “I can stand. I’m going to make fish cakes, I’m thinking.”
    “I’ll bet you are.” Amused, she pulled him to the table and shoved him into a chair. She took a look at his hand, decided she’d seen worse. “Stay where you’re put,” she ordered and went out to get Aidan.
    “What d’you mean, drunk?” Aidan said after Darcy hissed in his ear.
    “I think you’re familiar with the term, but if you need refreshing on it, you’ve only to go into the kitchen and have a look at our brother.”
    “Christ, I don’t have time for this.” The pub had only a scatter of customers, as the doors had barely opened, but within thirty minutes, there would be sixty piling in, hungry from the bus trip down from Waterford City.
    “Mind the bar, then,” he told her.
    “Oh, no, not for a million pounds would I miss this.” So saying, she followed him into the kitchen.
    Shawn was singing in his break-your-heart voice, about the cold nature of Peggy Gordon. And with one eye closed, his body swaying gently, he dripped lemon juice into a bowl.
    “Oh, fuck me, Shawn, you are half pissed.”
    “More of three-quarters if the truth be known.” He lost track of the juice and added a bit more to be safe. “And how