The Pub Across the Pond by Mary Carter

This was more than a chance to start a new life, this was a chance to finally be free, to find out who she was without her father’s compulsions and her mother’s ghost. You can’t win if you don’t play, she heard the raffle man say. You can’t win, if you don’t play. Her unlucky streak had officially been broken.
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    They bounced rather than landed. A bit rocky, but all in one piece. She had arrived. She flew out of her seat, a wasted effort since she was in the very last row. The group of boys who drank and partied as if there was no tomorrow, the ones who constantly reminded her why it sucked to sit so close to the bathrooms, chose now to sleep. Maybe she should tell them about her pub; from the amount she’d seen them drink, one night of their presence and she could probably stay afloat for the entire year. But no, she only wanted classy people at her pub. These filthy boys would not be welcome. She watched them awaken and stagger out of their seats. Her seatmate managed to skip ahead, as if he wanted to flee from her happiness. Screw him. She was not going to apologize for being happy.
    Finally she was moving up. Just ahead there was a little old lady ever so slowly getting out of her seat. Carlene stopped so that she could go first. Good deeds! The flight attendant came down the aisle with the elderly lady’s walker. She set it in front of the woman and smiled.
    â€œThere you are, pet,” the attendant said. Carlene was behind the elderly woman when they’d first boarded as well. Life coming full circle. The flight attendant tried to get her to sit at the front of the plane, but the old lady refused, ranting and raving about survival rates being higher at the back of the plane, ageism, and lack of decent biscuits, which, from her tone, was clearly the worst of the lot. The old lady was trying to peer into the overhead compartments.
    â€œYou’re all set, luv,” the flight attendant said. The old woman stretched on her tiptoes and continued peering into the bin. She reached her hand up, but she could barely touch inside the compartment. She was so tiny.
    â€œLet me help,” Carlene said. Although she could clearly see it was empty, she pawed around the bin anyway. “It’s empty,” she announced. The old woman smiled. She was missing several teeth. Carlene wondered how she could even eat a biscuit. Finally satisfied she was leaving nothing behind, she inched her way up the aisle. There was an excruciatingly exact method to her exit-madness. First, grunting like a weightlifter, she heaved the walker in front of her, then she stopped and waited for it to hit the ground. Next she craned her head to the side as if listening for the thunk. Only then did she drag her faded yellow slipper up to meet it. Walker, lift, grunt, thunk. Slipper, shuffle. Lift, grunt, thunk, slipper, shuffle. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, grunt, thunk, thunk.
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    Carlene held her passport and work visa out and waited for the female immigration officer to take it. The woman looked as if she’d been rolled in flour, deep-fried, and stuffed into a green uniform three times too small. She had a slight reddish mustache. Carlene tried not to stare at it and absentmindedly touched her own upper lip. Finally, the officer took Carlene’s passport and visa.
    â€œReason for coming to Ireland,” she asked without making eye contact. Her voice could hardly be described as a soft lilt. Carlene cleared her throat. Just say you’re on holiday. The officer finally looked at Carlene, then leaned forward and shouted as if Carlene was hard of hearing. “Reason. For. Coming. To. Ireland?”
    â€œMy great-great-great-grandmother, Mary Margaret, was from Ireland,” Carlene said. “County Mayo.” The officer did not appear as if she was impressed. She’d heard this before. Everyone thought they were Irish. Wannabes. “Her father, I guess that would make him my