Continued from here for length
Once entrees had been made, bona fides verified, and rules of engagement agreed upon, Kimber Mac became immediately bored and went to the bar.
“Oi mate” she leaned over a bit to get the barkeep’s attention. “Two fingers a Jameson’s if ya please. Leave the bottle.” After giving her slim figure a double take, he nodded, opened a fresh bottle walked over with a glass and poured.
“Long night?” he set the bottle down and glanced at Reddington’s table.
“Yep.” Kimber popped the p and downed the drink. “They’ll be goin’ on abou’ business ‘alf th night.”
Just as she’d gotten comfortable in the bar seat, the band announced their break. She sighed. Really, quite long night indeed.
Refilling her glass she brought the bottle and walked over to where the group was sitting.
“C’n I buy you lot a round?” she held up the bottle with a questioning half smile.
“Cailín álainn, I’ve never had a better offer.” The gent, Callum, the lead singer pulled back a chair and started introductions as the bottle made it’s way round and back, considerably lighter. She praised their style and ability, they admired her pronunciation and accent, and hair. “There’s some of the homeland in yer line somewhere, Mac, I’d lay money on it.”
She nodded as she swallowed and put the glass down.
“It’s b'n said b’fore. So, if I were ta request a ditty from ya, wou'd another bottle be fair compensation?”
Callum squinted at her and angled his head.
“I’ll make you a counteroffer. You go on up there yerself an sing it, and if Molly here says you pass, we’ll take a request fer free.”
Kimber got ridiculously red in the face and looked down at her distressingly empty glass.
“I cou’dn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” she grinned up through the strands of hair that had escaped her attempt to corral them.
Blatant disbelief met her all round the table. Bertie the drummer leaned over the table and motioned for her to hand him something. A long minute dragged by until she finally rolled her eyes and pulled the penny whistle out of her inside jacket pocket.
“I knew this suit fit too tight.” she mumbled handing it to him. He dipped the mouthpiece in the whiskey and wiped it on a napkin and ran an aire through it. The tune flowed clean and clear through the whistle like an angel’s laughter.
Kimber grabbed the penny whistle and walked slowly toward the raised platform. Michael adjusted the mic for her as she sat on the stool and announced a fill-in while the band finished their break. She waved, the color still bringing out the freckles on her cheeks.
Clearing her throat, she decided to speak a little first to let the butterflies settle.
“I w's born in Wales an while I live in London now, I spent my school years in Eire. Soon as I walked in th’ door a th’ dorm an they saw my ‘air they said I w’s a Changeling finally come home to the Isle.” A couple light chuckles from the crowd. She smiled. “I w’s a bit young when tha’ wou’da ‘appened so...” she shrugged.
“Ev’ry Friday night, after a long week a schoolin’ the sisters wou’d le' us ou’ inta town. A group a us more music’lly inclined were drawn ta th’ pub. We’d enter quiet as church mice an’ sit. Those tha’ cou’d played along an’ soon enough we were welcomed in. Ev’ry Friday night we’d scurry down ta listen an’ play.
“When we were old enough we partook a some a th’ other entertainments th' pub had ta offer.” A bit of a laugh from the crowd. She looked up and smirked. “Quiz! Ya boozy lot. A course by my third pint it w's me agains’ th' res’ a th’ pub, bu’ tha’s a tale fer another time.
“There was a lovely ol’ tune we’d taken as our own. A Benediction a thanks fer survivin’ another week, as it were. An’ it’s tha’ I’ll be butcherin’ fer ya now.”
She straightened on the stool, brought the whistle to her lips and played a jaunty yet mellow introduction, seeing the light of recognition in most eyes around her. Then in a clear, true alto voice she sang.
Come guess me this riddle, what beats pipes and fiddle
What's hotter than mustard and milder than cream
What best wets your whistle, what's clearer than crystal
What's sweeter than honey and stronger than steam
What'll make the lame walk, what will make the dumb talk,
The elixir of life and philosopher's stone
And what helped Mr. Brunnell to build the Thames Tunnel
Sure wasn't it whiskey from ould Inisowen
So stick to the cratur' the best thing in nature
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys
And boys I half wonder, if lightning and thunder
Weren't made from the plunder of whiskey me boys.
The band at their table were hooting and pounding and stomping their feet as she finished, the audience applauded, and Kimber laughed her way back to the bar.
She put the whistle back in her pocket and waved for another bottle.
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THE HUMOURS OF WHISKEY Andy M. Stewart & Manus Lunny
2087
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