The winner of our current Short Story Competition is published in the May|June issue of Irish Country Magazine, out now. This story came in second place and was written by Ciara Martin
When Niamh dropped out of college, Mrs Gallagher reacted like she’d announced she was joining a circus, or worse, moving to Dublin.
“Saw you dragging that suitcase up the road,” the neighbour said, appearing out of nowhere like a magpie drawn to gossip.
“Back already? College not for you, pet? Sure, I always said them books are overrated. You’re better off here.”
“Just taking a break,” Niamh lied, wishing the ground would swallow her or, at the very least, Mrs Gallagher.
“Ah, well,” Mrs Gallagher continued, folding her arms like she had all the time in the world, “not everyone’s cut out for degrees and dreams. You’ll find something… eventually.”
With that unsolicited pep talk ringing in her ears, Niamh packed up her mismatched socks and existential dread, hopped on a Bus Éireann coach that smelled faintly of disappointment and crisps, and headed back to Donegal.
Home, where the roads were more pothole than tarmac and people knew what you had for breakfast, usually before you did.
Jobless and aimless, she stumbled into The Anchor, the local pub, on a Tuesday afternoon. Just for one pint, she told herself. Two hours later, she had a job and a shot of Jameson in front of her, thanks to Seamus, the owner, who’s hiring process consisted of, “Can you pull a pint and take a joke?”
She could. Barely. But that’s how it started.
Her regulars were an oddball group of middle-aged men who seemed glued to the corner table like an old beer stain. Liam, who claimed he “once almost met Enya.” Paddy, who spoke exclusively in sarcasm. Donal, whose conspiracy theories could fill a library (“I’m telling ye, sheep aren’t what they seem.”). And Mick, whose only hobby was sighing dramatically at the news on the pub’s ancient telly.
They adopted Niamh like a stray dog that had wandered in and refused to leave. She’d bring them pints; they’d dish out unsolicited advice.
“Don’t waste your youth,” Liam would say, ordering his third Guinness by 3pm.
“Invest in land,” Paddy added. “Unless it rains, which is always.”
“You need a fella,” Donal suggested one night.
“She needs a raise,” Mick shot back.
But they never judged. Not really. And there was something oddly comforting about their routine. The men had this Donegal-brand humour, dry as a stone wall and twice as sturdy. Any misfortune was met with a “Could be worse.”
Hungover? “At least you’re not dead.”
Heartbroken? “Plenty more fish in Killybegs.”
It wasn’t glamorous, pulling pints and wiping tables, but it was steady. More than that, it was human.
When customers complained about the music, Donal would quip, “If you want ambience, go to Paris.” And when tourists asked for “authentic Irish experiences,” Liam pointed to Paddy’s socks-and-sandals combo and said, “There’s your culture, pet.”
Niamh started to find herself again, in between spilled drinks and off-key singalongs. Friday nights became therapy sessions wrapped in laughter and
the smell of stale beer. The men taught her that perfection was overrated, and sarcasm was a valid coping mechanism.
Years passed. Life shifted. Niamh saved up, left the bar trade, and got herself a job in town, some fancy office gig with “targets” and “KPIs,” terms that sounded like ailments. Yet every Friday evening, like clockwork, she’d find herself back at The Anchor, corner table, surrounded by the same familiar faces, just with more grey hair and louder grumbles about hip replacements.
“You’re back,” Mick said the first time she returned after starting her new job.
“Couldn’t stay away,” she smiled.
“Or maybe,” Paddy added, “ye just missed our charm.”
“Charm’s a stretch,” she shot back, taking her seat.
Sometimes, life’s greatest friendships aren’t born in classrooms or childhood memories. They’re found in dusty pubs with men twice your age, who teach you how to laugh at yourself and pour a proper pint.
As Donal said, raising his glass one night, “Here’s to unlikely friendships, better than therapy and cheaper, too.”
And in that Donegal pub, with sarcasm thick as the head on a Guinness, Niamh wholeheartedly agreed.
You can read the winning story in the May|June issue of Irish Country Magazine, in shops now. Click here for details on how to enter our Jul|Aug competition.
