I'm Still Standing Page 5

  ‘You just miss the idea of him, of what you thought you had. You did the right thing.’

  ‘Really?’ I raise my eyebrows. Apart from the marriage counsellor, Tara is the first person to say this to me. Everyone else has made me feel like I’ve made a huge mistake.

  She takes both my hands in hers. ‘Remember when we were kids, you used to hold a festival, creating all those little shows, and then we’d sell tickets and you’d decorate the tree house with lights and bunting and every kid in the village would come, and there’d be music and dancing and tables stacked high with crisps and sandwiches. Dad would always sing.’

  I nod my head and smile. Dad loved a good old sing-song. The old folk songs especially – traditional Irish songs of love and history and working fields and crossing seas and, of course, loss. I rub my forehead, trying to wipe the memory away. Why are we even talking about this? I thought she was trying to cheer me up.

  ‘What’s the festival got to do with James?’

  ‘Exactly. Nothing. That was just you, Evelyn. Your dreams, your decisions, your destiny. Then James came into your life and kind of took you over…’ She rubs her hands together, careful about what she says next. ‘I guess what I’m saying is that you are more than Mum’s daughter or James’s wife or the local teacher. You are Evelyn Dooley – bright and beautiful and creative and organised and quirky and so, so kind. I want you to find your voice again, and you will, I promise you. And the second you find it, follow it with all your heart.’

  As much as it hurts, I know that what Tara is telling me is right. And I’ve got to own up to this despite how easy it would be to blame James. I let myself be taken over; I adored him so much and everyone was so happy about us being together that I slipped into the role of happy homemaker and shelved everything else. I stopped going out with my own friends, I stopped playing my instruments, I stopped travelling to the places I wanted to go and doing the things I used to love to do, and then of course I resented James or my job or the work on the cottage for that happening. But a lot of it was down to me. And I’m so sorry for that. I vow I will never let it happen again.

  I’ve cried a lot over the past couple of years. Always by myself, behind closed doors, into my pillow. And I thought I’d made a good job of hiding it, but now the tears gush forth and I just let them, not even trying to wipe them away.

  Tara takes my hands in hers. ‘This is the beginning of a brand-new story – this time one with a happy ending.’

  And as I let my little sister hold me, I feel happy and complete and excited for the first time in as long as I can remember. I know better than to break this silence, rare and unguarded as it is. I wrap my arms around her neck and listen to the gentle thrum of her heart – the kind of sound that can only be heard very, very close-up.

  Soon it’s time to turn off the lights, and we lie top to tail, just as we did when we were little girls and our heads were full of dreams. With Tara already snoring beside me, I gather the blankets in a ball under my chin and think about tomorrow, such a big day ahead. A day of chasing dreams and seizing chances and starting my brand-new story. And I smile, my heart settling in my chest as I gaze up at the glow-in-the dark stars above that are shining just for me.

  Chapter Six

  It’s only seven in the morning and already I’ve gone way too far. Long skinny lines, no shape, no curve. I survey the chaotic mess of my sister’s bedside locker: pens, Post-its, make-up-remover wipes, an impressive array of painkillers. And of course, Tara’s light-up tweezers. Definitely a duty-free impulse buy, which I had to impulsively try out, promising myself I’d exercise restraint and just go for a little tidy-up around the edges. What harm could come from a little brow-scaping before an important interview?

  Big mistake. Huge, giant, colossal mistake.

  I’m dressed in my best suit, and I’ve got all my qualifications in my briefcase. I’ve got a travel card, directions and spare shoes. I was pretty much ready to take on the world until I spotted the tweezers – my kryptonite. I just couldn’t resist a quick pluck.

  And once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  Now I’m left with these horrifically sparse, patchy lines where my brows used to be. People think it matters what you wear, how you speak, and apparent status symbols like your watch or your handbag. Nope. In my opinion, it’s hardest to charm your way out of lousy eyebrows. Eyebrows make a statement. If the eyes are the window to the soul, the eyebrows are the all-important signposts that arch over them.

  I shiver as I check my own poor emaciated brows. They will take at least a week to grow out. And I’ve got an interview! You only get one chance to make a first impression, and I really don’t want the recruitment consultant to think I’m auditioning to be a pantomime dame. Next week, I’ll be back to sporting my Cara Delevingne luxury brows; judge me then.

  I have little choice but to pull and feather my fringe forward to camouflage the entire top half of my face, before tottering down the cobbled path from our front door into the busy city street. As I dash past rows of cosy red-brick terraces, I breathe in the scent of fried bacon and buttered toast, which reminds me of my mother. She’ll be thinking of me this morning, lighting candles and muttering prayers to St Gerard under her breath. St Gerard, the patron saint of new beginnings; let’s hope he’s been listening.

  I flag my bus and the driver wishes me good morning with a big smile. I take the front seat and he agrees happily to let me know where to get off. I thank him and look out of the window as my new neighbourhood wakes up along with my own sense of excitement, the new-found sense of pride I feel rising up inside me. I’m here. I’m doing this. And I start to believe that today may be salvageable after all – even if my poor old eyebrows are not.

  Jumping off at my stop downtown, I am met at the office door by Gavin, the recruitment agent. Even though he smells of egg fart and industrial bleach, I smile at him while trying to breathe through my mouth. He slides my CV from my hand and wheezes all over it. Gavin looks somewhat the worse for wear, like he may be a bit hung-over, or indeed, still drunk.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Dooley – all shiny and new up from the country!’ He glances down at my details. ‘Ballybeg, now that is the back end of beyond. Well you are in luck, because,’ he leans in conspiratorially and cups his hand to his mouth, ‘we do like country girls like yourself around here. Hard workers, not afraid to put their backs into it, if you follow me.’

  I don’t follow him. Unless he means that he pays country girls less because they don’t know any better.

  ‘How’s life treating you so far in the big city, eh? We have people like you arrive all the time. Up to the big smoke, they think, ah sure, I’ll be grand. Dublin’s only a few hours up the motorway – how different can it be?’

  His smile slips from his face and he lowers his tone. ‘But then the reality sinks in. The expense, the competition, the crime, the anonymity, the loneliness. You may have been a big fish in a small pond before, but now you are not even a fish, Evelyn – you are plankton… in a filthy, filthy pond. Have you seen the River Liffey? Full of syringes and shopping trolleys. No joke, worst I’ve ever seen.’

  He takes me by the elbow and leads me to a seat. I can feel the heat of his sweaty palm through my clothes. Then he stretches back in his own chair.

  ‘So, some advice if you want to survive in this place, sweetheart. Don’t be out late at night on your own, keep your belongings close to your person at all times, and basically, don’t trust anyone. Especially drunks and recruitment agents.’ He nearly chokes on his own joke, then waves over to a guy in a suit by the water cooler. ‘Isn’t that right, Deano? Young teacher here up from the country; she’ll be eaten alive if she hasn’t her wits about her.’

  Deano, a sickly pallor to his skin, salutes with a shaky hand.

  Gavin leans over the table to me. ‘You know, I could show you around if you wanted… strictly professional, of course. We could go for a little spin in the company car and I could show you the areas
you want to work in, full of the beautiful people – I could see you slotting in there nicely. Give you a leg-up, if you know what I mean.’

  He pauses, but I don’t laugh. What kind of a place is this? It’s sweaty, it’s sleazy, it stinks of bad breath and booze. I realise now that that’s probably the reason why I got an appointment here so quickly: not because there is a desperate teacher shortage, but because this whole set-up is a complete joke. I decide to give it five more minutes, and if he can’t offer me anything worthwhile, I’ll just leave. Cut my losses and try another agency. Only thing is, there aren’t too many other agencies to choose from on this side of the city.

  Gavin leans back in his seat, waving a hand towards the window. ‘I’ll even show you the rough side of town. What would you think of that, Evelyn? All the dangerous areas that a good wholesome girl like you has never been in before. Probably never imagined in your wildest nightmares… Strictly professional, of course. What do you say?’ He runs a tongue over his bottom lip. And he stays that way, like a dazed dog.

  ‘Is that something you do with everyone who comes in here? Give them a one-to-one tour?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head, smiling at me. ‘No! Not at all! Just for very special clients – ones I think could use a little extra… orientation. I’m passionate about my job, you see. I imagine that you are very passionate too, am I right, Ms Dooley?’

  What a creep. I need to get out of here. I need to cut to the chase and stop wasting precious time.

  ‘Have you got any actual vacancies at the moment? I want to start work in a school as soon as possible – I really don’t mind if it’s considered a good area or not.’

  He raises his eyes at me like I’ve just said something cute but ridiculously naive.

  ‘Kids are kids, people are people, I’ll be happy anywhere. I just want to get started asap.’

  Gavin runs a greasy finger across the top of my CV. ‘Bad time of year for teachers – halfway through the term. In about six weeks’ time, there’ll be a glut of work, people moving jobs, school trips, maybe even a maternity leave… that’s when you’ll get something, but right now, there’s nothing. Bone dry. If you’ll excuse me.’

  He looks over to the water cooler and unbuttons his collar. ‘Feeling a bit delicate today; we celebrated Deano’s birthday last night.’

  I nod my understanding and watch him cross the office.

  Six weeks is a long time with no income. I have savings, but that won’t last long if I don’t have a job. I don’t know how long it will take to sell the cottage and release all the investment I’ve poured into that. Sometimes these things take forever, so I can’t risk spending money I don’t actually have.

  I definitely need something. Maybe Gavin has some jobs in more difficult areas that he thinks I won’t be able to cope with because I’m new to the city. Maybe he thinks I’m too inexperienced. I bite down on my lip. I’m here to begin again, and I want to begin now. I pick up my bag and follow Gavin over to the water cooler, where he’s leaning against the wall, eyes closed. He’s not a good colour.

  ‘Anything at all, I don’t mind where it is or what it is. Just something to tide me over until a more suitable post comes up. I can handle myself, I promise you that.’

  He shakes his head and fans himself with my CV. ‘As I said, bad timing for teachers.’

  And with that, he hiccups, both his cheeks blow out and his hands fly up to clasp his mouth. He runs to the bathroom, and I can hear from the splash and groan that he makes it just in time.

  I stand alone in the middle of the agency. The only person who is worse than Gavin at recruitment is the person who recruited him in the first place.

  I sling my coat over my shoulder and walk out into the swarming street outside. I’m jostled by people on every side, coming at me in all directions. People going to work. People eating breakfast, drinking coffee, talking on their phones, laughing with their colleagues, discussing their work, their homes, their relationships, building them, growing them. I’m struck with admiration, with respect for these people living their lives, making their plans, taking one courageous step after another. All these people on their way.

  Except me. I stand in the midst of them and wonder what I should do next. What I can do next.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from Mum.

  Lit candle for you this morning. Hope day goes well. Parish are going to Rome on a visit. I’ve put my name down. Want to say hello to the Pope in person. How’s job hunt going? Mum xx

  Even my mother is going places. Job hunt indeed. By the looks of it, I am going to have to hunt one down myself. Six weeks is a long time to do absolutely nothing but wait for Gavin to sort me out – if he’s even capable of doing that. Six weeks is a long time to be under your flatmates’ feet without role or purpose. Six weeks is a long time to be skint in a new place and not go out to pubs or clubs or theatres or even pay for a bus ticket home. I need to find something. Anything. Not in six weeks’ time, but now.

  Chapter Seven

  I spend the rest of the morning getting on and off buses, going in and out of every other teacher recruitment agency there is. On the one hand, it is a fantastic way to get around Dublin, to get to know my bearings and bus routes and the names of new streets and landmarks. On the other hand, it is complete shite because it appears Gavin was right – every single recruitment agent I meet says the same thing: wrong time of the year for teacher vacancies.

  I leave my CV with the last agency on my list and just start walking, following the river as it flows through the middle of the city. I walk along ancient cobbled alleys, past shop windows and the Molly Malone statue, back over the Ha’Penny bridge through Temple Bar and on towards Trinity, past castles, cathedrals and courthouses. I keep walking up Grafton Street with its flower sellers and street musicians, mime artists and buskers, until I reach the top and find a bench tucked away in a shady corner of St Stephen’s Green. A couple on a picnic blanket by the pond are laughing as they feed the ducks and share a punnet of strawberries.

  James and I were like that once, two people in love who laughed, made plans, made promises to each other. But then it fell apart. Nobody’s fault. Nobody to blame. Unforeseen limits to our capacities. On the inside, we could not know what was happening; it was so much bigger than us. Two immature kids who took on too much without enough of a solid foundation to build upon. We signed ourselves over to each other without giving a thought to finding out who we actually were. What I knew of love was what had been shown to me, and what I’d learned from all those saccharine big-screen fairy tales; neither model was very realistic. Even if we’d known what to expect, I don’t think it would’ve changed much. I hope he’s okay. I hope he’s still having fun. I hope the Ibiza scene is everything he hoped it would be.

  I pull out my hair from its tight bun and try to shake thoughts of the past, of James, of false steps and disappointments out of my mind. Enough, it’s gone, let it lie. What good is going over old ground? It dawns on me that my thoughts stray to the dark side when I’m tired, hungry or premenstrual. Right now I’m all three. It’s probably best I head home, call into Moira’s and try to learn a bit more about her granddaughter, do a bit of swotting-up before we have our first official tuition session.

  I get off the bus and head towards Tara’s street, stopping on the corner when I spot an old-fashioned pub. I’m sure this is where Tara and her friends used to drink when she started her training; I remember her crazy tales of late nights and lock-ins at Rosie Munroe’s. At the time, it made me slightly envious. I wanted to be with Tara as she improvised her own version of Riverdance or locked eyes with a smouldering stranger across the bar. Sometimes it left me with a sinking feeling that I might have settled down a little too quickly and missed out on the chance to meet new people and broaden my horizons. Missed out on the chance to find myself in a brand-new setting, without the safety net of the familiar.

  Sunlight splashes on the ornate white stucco, and pale green leaves creep up th
e walls and around the windows. It’s lunchtime, my feet hurt and I’m parched from all the walking and talking I’ve done this morning. So in I go to the pub with its peeling red and black sign. Tea, coffee, fresh hand-cut sandwiches is scrawled in chalk on the blackboard outside. Yes, I could definitely do with that. I’m starving.

  This pub is one of Dublin’s few remaining traditional drinking dens – no plasma screens showing news and sport, no blaring music, just a single one-armed bandit flashing gently. It’s nice in here, quiet and cosy. There are a few old flat-capped men sitting in one corner, bent over their pints contemplating life and tapping their calloused fingers along with the faint traditional music playing in the background. I settle at the end of the bar, gazing out through the stained-glass window, entranced by the way the sunlight lifts the greens and the reds, like in a church. I order a large coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich from a barman with a limp and a sling.

  ‘Coffee and toasted sandwich?’ He squints at me with despair.

  ‘Yes please, if that’s all right.’

  He holds up his bandaged fingers. ‘It’s a bit tricky with this, you see. And my part-timer has just called in sick. I had to fire my full-timer, and my emergency backup has had an emergency. So, would half a Guinness and a packet of crisps tide you over instead?’

  I nod. ‘That sounds lovely. Bit early for a drink, but I guess it’s not like I’ve anywhere to be.’

  He pours my Guinness, the flood of creamy white into black like a slow tide reminding me of my home by the ocean.

  ‘Nowhere to be? You look like you’re a lawyer or a politician or something.’ I shake my head and he looks over my shoulder and lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Or maybe you’re up in court?’