The door had been locked for three hours when a hurried knock came from the outside, and a hush fell over the crowded pub.
“…who’s there..?” asked the barman gingerly.
“It’s me, it’s Harriet,” came a voice from the other side, “I know he’s in there!”
“…no he’s not…” replied the barman, who was by now well versed in the inner workings of his punters’ private affairs.
“Look,” said Harriet sternly, “he told me he was coming here for one pint after work and that he’d be straight home, and that was ten hours ago! Now you send him outside this instant, or I’ll round up the wives of every man in there and march them all to this very door!”
The barman looked at O’Hara with terror in his eyes, “You’d better get out there, I don’t think she’s bluffing…”
“I’ve been – hic- married to that woman for twenty five years, and – hic – I know when she’s bluffing and I know when she’sh sherioush, and this one -hic – ain’t the latter,” whispered O’Hara, his speech slurred from the effects of too many pints, “I – hic – know what to do.”
Balancing himself between the bar counter and a stool, he made his way over to the door, and affecting a woman’s voice, he said, “Harriet? Harriet ish that you? Your hushband ishn’t here, he’s gone to church…hic…”, and he turned and winked at the barman, closing both eyes in the process.
“Seamus, open this door right now!”, said Harriet enraged.
“Schit…it didn’t work…”, said Seamus O’Hara, his mind desperately racing to come up with a plan. “Alright, my darling, I’m – hic – coming out…”
Harriet hears the lock slowly turn, and the door creak open. Seamus cautiously peers from behind it, slightly cross eyed, blinking slowly, his mouth puckered in an attempt to look innocent. He steps out from behind the door and onto the street, with his hands up and his trousers down, and he waddles over to his wife.
“Alright Harriet, letsh go home…”
This was the extent of his plan.
Taking one look at her husband, Harriet felt a rush of anger and pity. He smiled at her on the main street as the cold early morning sun slowly chased last night’s shadows away. This man who stood before her, barely conscious with his trousers round his ankles, was still the man she married. He may be a buffoon, but he was her buffoon.
She smiled.
“Do you know how long I waited up for you to come home?” she asked him as they walked together, his arm around her shoulder for balance.
“…no”, said O’Hara, “and frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn…”
The punters in the pub gathered at the windows and out the front door, watching as Harriet O’Hara battered her husband in the street, with a sense of sorrow for their fallen friend, but also a gentle relief that, at least this time, it wasn’t happening to them.