Free Tales From a Hen Weekend by Olivia Ryan Page B

isn’t really a laugh, and mutters something into her wine glass at just the same moment that the singer suddenly leaps to his feet, grabs a violin from under the table, and is joined by another guy who’d been sitting, apparently half asleep, at a neighbouring table, who produces a tin whistle out of his pocket. Without seeming to pause for breath they immediately launch into a frenetic Irish jig, swaying together dangerously, fingers moving like sparks of electricity on the whistle and the fiddle, tapping their feet and nodding their heads in time to the music but never passing a smile or even a blink towards each other. The explosion of this music into the bar is so dramatic and unexpected that we’re all sitting up, staring, open-mouthed, for a good two or three minutes, before a couple of people at the back of the room start clapping in time, and amazingly, someone else produces a mouth organ and begins, still sitting at his own table, to join in with the tune.
    ‘This is bloody great!’ exclaims Emily. ‘I can’t believe it!’
    ‘You’d never get this down the White Hart at home on a Friday night!’ I agree.
    It’s probably about another five minutes before I think to look back at Mum again. And by then she’s finished the glass of wine and started on the next one.
    ‘Hey! I thought you said you were going to take it a bit easier today!’ I laugh.
    ‘No, Katie, I didn’t. You said I was going to,’ she says, taking another mouthful.
    ‘Well, OK – come on, I didn’t mean anything. I just didn’t think you were quite used to it, so be careful. You’ll get drunk again really quickly cos you’re just topping up from last night.’
    The look she gives me is something I’m going to remember for the rest of my life.
    ‘I have had a bit too much to drink once or twice before in my life, thank you very much,’ she says very calmly.
    Hearing this, Auntie Joyce stops swaying and tapping on the table and leans across to touch Mum on the arm and whisper to her:
    ‘All right, Margie. That’s enough, isn’t it. No need to…’
    ‘No need? What, I’m not allowed to talk to my own daughter, now? When she’s getting married in a few weeks’ time?’
    ‘Let’s just eat our sandwiches, Mum!’ I laugh, feeling embarrassed. ‘Sorry I said anything about the wine. OK?’
    ‘I like a drop of wine,’ she says a bit huffily by way of agreement, taking another long swig.
    I watch her warily. Whatever she says, this is taking social drinking a little too fast. Joyce, obviously thinking the same, leans across again and asks her quietly:
    ‘Are you all right, love?’
    ‘Of course I’m all right!’ she retorts. Her glass is empty. This is bothering me. ‘Who wants another drink?’
    A sea of surprised faces turns towards her. We’re all still holding full glasses.
    ‘Margie,’ says Joyce firmly, laying a hand on her arm, ‘Don’t do this, love. Not today. Don’t spoil the day for Katie.’
    For a horrible moment, I think there’s going to be a row. Mum shakes Joyce’s arm off, picks up her glass and starts to get up. She’s going to the bar to get another drink.
    No, she’s not.
    She slumps back in her seat, hangs her head for a moment, and when she looks up she’s wearing a very false, very bright smile.
    ‘Thank you, Joyce,’ she says. ‘You’re quite right. Of course I don’t want to spoil things for Katie. My little Katie.’ She turns to give me a lopsided smile. ‘My baby girl – all grown up and getting married! M arried! ’
    ‘All right! No need to cry about it!’ I say. It’s a feeble attempt at a joke. Mum looks as if she is going to cry.
    ‘Cry? You’d cry all right, girl, if you were marrying someone like I did!’
    This isn’t really what I want to hear. ‘Come off it, Mum. You and Dad were happy enough at the beginning, weren’t you. Fair enough, it didn’t last, but…’
    ‘Happy!’ She shakes her head, snorting with mirthless laughter. ‘If only you knew,