I'm Still Standing Read online

  ‘My art teacher says I’ve overworked it.’ She points towards the temples, under the eyes and the cheekbones. ‘I should have stopped but I kept adding more and more, and well, less is more so I can’t use it as my exam piece now.’

  As I lean in close to the portrait, studying the texture of the paint, I have an idea. I root around in my bag and take out a tiny make-up palette. I’ve watched Tara transform herself from a bleary-eyed, yawning bedhead to a flawlessly glamorous stewardess enough times to know my way around the camouflaging tricks disguising everything from hangovers to jet lag

  ‘I think I can salvage this, you know – what do you think, shall I give it a go?’

  She raises a perplexed eyebrow.

  ‘You trust me?’

  Ruby nods. ‘You can’t make things any worse.’

  With my little finger, I start by dabbing concealer under Mona Lisa’s eyes, restoring the flattened matte effect. I continue gently dabbing and smudging all over the left side of the face, using a bronzing blend to darken the natural hollows until the dimension comes back and the depth is regained. To finish, I brush an arc of highlighter along the brow bone, and that is it – Mona Lisa back from the dead.

  I hold it at arm’s length underneath Moira’s tasselled lampshade to give Ruby a clearer view.

  ‘Holy shit. That is amazing. I mean, you’ve just saved me like forty hours’ work.’

  I remember another handy Tara tip and rummage around in my bag again for a mini can of hairspray. ‘This will set it, seal it and give it a sheen.’ I spray the refreshed Mona Lisa and hand the painting back to Ruby. ‘All fixed!’

  Ruby’s chest puffs out and she lets out a huge sigh, examining the image and shaking her head. ‘Thanks, Evelyn, this is great. Just a pity everything else can’t be fixed so easily, right?’

  I stay quiet, unsure of what to say. Ruby’s hand strays back to her hair, her fingers scratching behind her ear.

  ‘Sorry. I don’t even know why I said that. Nobody wants to hear about someone else’s problems.’

  For a moment we both sit in silence, the weight of her words hanging in the space between us. Then I turn to her and place my hand gently on top of her folder.

  ‘That’s not the case, Ruby. You can tell me if there’s something bothering you.’

  She pauses for a moment before it all comes pouring out. ‘I hate school so much. I just need to pass my art exam and I can do a foundation course next year. Nan doesn’t want me to do it, she thinks it’s a pointless course that’s a waste of time and money.’

  I listen as she describes the tension, the difficulty in going against other people’s wishes when they think they know what’s best for you.

  ‘I would encourage you to be as honest as possible,’ I tell her. ‘Try to help her understand why it’s so important to you. I know that’s easier said than done; even at my age, I’m not always so good at being honest with my mother.’

  Ruby sits up and crosses her legs on the couch, searching my face, concentrating on every word. She doesn’t interrupt or dismiss anything I’ve said, which is quite unusual for a teenager at odds with the world. I can see so much despair in her eyes, but also a real desire, a determination to find a way out, to learn and listen and try to gather enough crumbs of advice to help her on her way.

  ‘Ruby, I know all about putting the dreams of other people ahead of your own, and it makes perfect sense, because you don’t want to let them down. You get worn down constantly arguing, fighting, so much so that you may even start to believe that your dream was a stupid idea in the first place. But giving in and doing what other people want you to do, that’s not even the hard part.’

  I swallow and realise something that I haven’t seen so clearly before. ‘The hard part comes afterwards. The hard part is keeping it up, trying to live that dream – that dream that isn’t yours – convincingly over years and years and years. Ultimately, we can’t: it’s unsustainable, it’s too hard over too long. If we could all pretend that well, then we’d all be Oscar winners.

  ‘So what should I do?’ she asks me, her eyes glassy with intensity.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Ruby. That’s one for you to figure out. But it’s not as hard as it seems; I bet you already know deep down what you should do. No one expects you to make perfect choices, but if you make a mistake, let the mistake be yours, because then the lesson will make sense to you. If you make a mistake because of pressure from somebody else, you don’t come away with a lesson, you come away with anger and blame.’

  We both reach for another slice of pizza and settle back into Moira’s tiger-print cushions. And as we munch away quietly, I realise that I’m not entirely sure which one of us I’m talking about any more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He hasn’t been outside at his usual time in his usual spot on the corner in almost a week. I’ve wanted to text him about it, just something bright and breezy. Where are you? Missing the music… your music… missing your music and you. No, I couldn’t. That would come across wrong. If I do, it’ll seem like I’m looking for something – which I am not. I’m positively not looking for something or someone. Even if it is someone like him. Even if it is him.

  ‘Hey.’ Ruby walks in through the pub door, her folder tucked under her arm. That must mean it’s four o’clock. I’ve never known the day to go so fast. I used to yearn for the clock to strike four so I could take a moment to gather my thoughts, to have a quick coffee and freshen up before I was summoned to management meetings or parents’ evenings or governor presentations or professional development workshops. It was never being with the kids, with the music that bothered me – I loved that, lived for it. But all the other stuff. That’s what made me bite my nails to the knuckle and woke me up in the middle of the night, gasping for great big gulps of air as I’d dream I was being sucked under a giant wave. It happened so often that eventually James moved out into the spare room.

  At least then I could stress myself out without the stress of stressing anyone else out. But not now. Now I sleep like a baby.

  Ruby places her folder on the counter and pops up on to a bar stool beside Christy.

  ‘How was school today?’ I ask her.

  ‘All right, actually.’ She slides over her report card. Distinction is written at the top in green pen, with the comment Well done, Ruby! Great concept, love the use of make-up as a medium, very post-modern.

  ‘I have never ever got a distinction before. And my teacher said this is a tough module and it sets me up nicely for my overall grade at the end of the course. So yeah, I’m chuffed.’

  I crack open two bottles of sparkling water and we toast like it’s a momentous victory. Because I think it is.

  ‘Here’s to you, Ruby, another step closer to your glittering future.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she says.

  Colm shouts his congratulations from the snug, where he’s reading his paper, and Christy raises his glass too, applauding her.

  ‘So what’s today’s homework then?’ he asks.

  ‘Art history.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Boring. And not exactly my strong point.’

  Christy straightens his back and feigns mock offence.

  She shrugs. ‘What? It’s old news, it’s gone, over with – nobody cares any more.’

  He considers her point for a moment. ‘You’re right and you’re wrong. Depends on the history – I agree that some things are best left in the past, but let’s not get carried away. Read out what you’ve got to do.’

  Ruby presses a nail-bitten finger to the small lettering and takes her time reading out each word as carefully as she can. ‘“Cultural heritage is…” I don’t know what this says.’

  Christy slides it over and bends down to take a closer look. ‘“Cultural heritage is the legacy of physical artefacts and the intangible attributes of a group or society inherited from past generations, maintained in the present and bestowed for the benefit of future generations. Cultural heritage includes tangib
le culture such as buildings, monuments…’

  Ruby rolls her eyes. ‘See? Doesn’t even make sense.’

  Christy beckons to her. ‘Come and sit here and we’ll have a think together. I have a few ideas that might do the trick.’ He scans through the assignment. ‘It says here you need to complete a five-minute multimedia presentation on the topic. You must include factual content, visual images and video, and conduct an interview.’

  Ruby pokes two fingers down her throat in response. ‘I hate history so much. And this teacher is a complete control freak. If it’s not perfect, he’ll fail me. He’s like a robot – work, work, work… I’m definitely going to fail this one.’ Her chest sinks, deflated.

  ‘Evelyn, coffee over here, please. We’ve got some very important work to do.’ Christy pulls his glasses down the bridge of his nose, grabs a pen from Ruby’s pencil case and starts drafting their presentation.

  And that’s when I hear it. With a flutter in my chest at the idea, at the possibility, I hear the familiar opening strum, the seamless chord change, the voice – mellow and gentle, but crackling with hope, with despair, with something I just cannot put my finger on. But that I can’t get out of my mind.

  I move to the front bay window, hidden from Danny’s sight, and close my eyes, searching the sound, searching that voice.

  And then, mid song, it goes quiet. He stops. The silence hangs in the air as if someone has pulled a plug, or cut the note he was singing in half. What’s happened? What’s going on? Is he okay? I rush out of the door and on to the street outside.

  He’s still there. He nods at me with a grin, brown eyes dancing. Then he taps his guitar, shuffles his feet and starts to bounce up and down. He looks back down at the guitar, spins on his heel and starts strumming. It’s a song I haven’t heard him play before, but one I recognise…

  ‘Come on Eve-lyn.’ He throws back his head and starts singing with gusto.

  I let out a huge breath. Until this moment, I didn’t realise how much I’d missed him. A stag group gathers in around him, kicking up their legs like can-can dancers to the beat. ‘Come on, Eve-lyn.’ They start to dance and hook arms, singing at the top of their voices. ‘Too ra loo ra too ra loo rye aye…’

  Ruby slides in beside me at the door. ‘He’s so good.’

  ‘Yeah. He really is.’

  ‘He’s hot, too. And I don’t even like gingers.’

  I suddenly become defensive. ‘His hair isn’t ginger, it’s auburn.’

  ‘Nope, that’s definitely ginger,’ she says, twirling her pen in her fingers. ‘Not like carrot-top orange, more a dark ginger…’

  I nudge her in the arm. ‘That’s enough, you, focus on your assignment, please. Christy is a cultural history guru; you’d do well to take some notes.’

  ‘I wonder if he’s single,’ Ruby says.

  Danny calls out to me. ‘Come on, Eve-lyn!’

  Ruby’s hands fly to her face. ‘Oh my God, he so likes you!’

  I shake my head and give her a bemused look.

  ‘He knows your name.’

  ‘That’s not a big deal.’ I shrug, because it isn’t a big deal. Honestly, no big deal.

  ‘Yeah, well if it’s no big deal, why are your cheeks bright red?’

  Danny strums down the last chord, and the crowd high-five and whoop around him, emptying their wallets and pockets into his cap on the ground. He waves and smiles across at me.

  Damn it. I don’t know if it’s his smile or his voice or his eyes or the way he looks at me and seems to change the landscape, the light, my mood… My stomach flips.

  I need to keep myself in check with this guy. Especially if he keeps surprising me this way, because I am a complete sucker for surprises, and brown eyes with a mischievous little twinkle…

  Chapter Fourteen

  The moment I arrive for my shift and push through the double doors, I can tell something is wrong. Christy is early; he’s got an opened bottle by him and it looks as though he’s on his second whiskey already, sitting grave and sunken at the counter. Colm is behind the bar, leaning against the cash register, his brow furrowed with worry.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I ask as I hang up my coat and tie my apron around my waist.

  Colm gestures at a stool. ‘You’d better take a seat a second, Evelyn. I’ve had some bad news – a meeting with the bank manager.’

  Christy slams his glass down on the counter, muttering obscenities.

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, Colm, you’ve lost me.’

  He steps forward and places both hands on the counter to support his weight. There’s a veil of sweat on his forehead, more than I’ve ever seen before; things must be bad.

  ‘Over the years, I’ve borrowed a lot of money, remortgaged several times against an outstanding loan, and I’m not able to make the repayments. Now the bank has caught up with me. The long and short of it is this place is haemorrhaging money. I’ve not turned a decent profit in donkey’s years. I have three months to clear the loan or they take the pub. So I’ve no option but to sell up.’

  Christy splutters into his hand, padding along his waistcoat for a handkerchief. ‘There must be a way to get more people in. Look at the difference Evelyn has made already. The custom is still there. Have an open-mic night, a quiz, start doing some hot meals… You can do it, Colm.’

  Colm raises his bandaged hand in the air and shakes his head.

  ‘No, I can’t. Physically, I’m not able. Hand on heart, I’m exhausted and ready to give it up. I’ve done it the one way all my life and I’ve not got the fire to learn a new way. Young people these days want so much, all these trendy bars in town. There’s no way I can compete with that craic. Rosie Munroe’s time is up – sometimes you’ve just got to admit defeat and call it a day.’

  No. I can hardly process what I’m hearing. I slump on to a bar stool and try to steady my thoughts. This can’t be happening; we’ve just got under way. No way am I ready to call it a day. I want this job. I need this job! If this place closes, I’ll have to go back to that creepy teacher-recruitment guy. And even then there’s no guarantee of a post because he’s never called me back. Not one of the recruitment agencies has. Worse still, without a job, I’ll have to go home to Ballybeg, back to living with my mother and even back to Mrs O’Driscoll with a tyrannosaurus-sized tail between my legs.

  I run my hands through my hair, trying to think of what this actually means for me.

  No more pub, no more Dublin, no more independence or adventure or possibility or hope. I hear the strum of the guitar start up outside. And no more Danny. I put my head in my hands. Maybe in time that could have led to something, but now I’ll never know; everything that was just starting to emerge has been cut short, unplugged, shut down… I can’t help feel like something special was brewing, and this makes this blow even harder to accept. Even if I stay in Dublin, get a job in another pub, it’s not going to be anything like here.

  I run my hand over the counter, here where history was made. Where Rosie’s vision for a better future took root.

  ‘You can’t just give up like this, Colm,’ I beseech him. ‘We’ve got to fight This place can’t just close. There’s too much history here. You say you can’t compete with the trendy bars, but you don’t need to; you are in a totally different league. They are all the same, copy-cat kits rolled out onto every high street in every major city in the world. We’ve been really busy the last few weeks; every single day we get more and more customers through the door. Word is spreading! There is nowhere like this place, drenched with character and tradition and an atmosphere that you simply can’t create in a soulless franchise. There is no other pub like this in the whole world, and there never will be. That’s what makes it special. Makes it worth fighting for.’

  Christy looks up. ‘She’s right, you know.’

  He stands up from his stool and struts into the centre of the floor, swinging his handkerchief over towards the top corner table.

  ‘Oscar Wilde wrote volum
es in that corner, always sat beside the fire. Too tight to pay for his own heating, they say. But I think he was earwigging, on the lookout for material.’ He pivots on his heel back towards us, pointing beyond the bar. ‘And out back there, in the old dance hall, that’s where the rebels and the revolutionaries gathered – Wolfe Tone, Daniel O’Connell. That’s where they had their secret meetings. They knew no one worth their salt would ever give them up. If they did, they’d have nowhere to drink.’

  He raises his chin to the mounted vinyl on the walls, his eyes glinting at a signed Thin Lizzy sleeve. ‘Many a famous musician climbed up to the roof garden after hours and spent the night under the stars with their favourite landlady. Rosie was very… hospitable, shall we say. The hostess with the mostess. And didn’t she know how to run a cracking bar; for a magical time this place, these walls, these seats, this space held the heart and soul of this city.’

  Colm is nodding, the mist of nostalgia in his eyes. ‘It’s true. Hard to imagine now, but it was like that once. Back in the day, people didn’t sit in their homes; they went out and socialised every night of the week. Way back when the English landed, they used to wonder why the Irish were happy despite the poverty, and it was because we had this rich sociability in our lives. A sense of connectedness. Coming together in a welcoming space gave us the chance to really know each other, to tell our stories. In many ways, the pub is the cornerstone of our culture. A culture of the spirit, the music and the imagination.’

  ‘And the best Guinness in town,’ I chime in. Colm smiles at me with sadness in his eyes.

  Christy helps himself to another slug of whiskey, then walks with it to the fireplace, taking a seat in the chair he ascribed to Oscar Wilde. ‘We can’t just hand hundreds of years over to a greasy-fingered banker. You need to fight harder than that, Colm. What would Rosie Munroe do if she was here?’