I'm Still Standing Page 6

  ‘Not at all!’ I laugh. ‘Recruitment meeting. But I need a job for six weeks until something comes through. Who hires for six weeks, right?’

  ‘Ah, you’d be surprised. What line of work are you in?’

  ‘I’m a teacher, a music teacher.’

  He holds out his right hand. ‘Colm Munroe, pleased to meet you.’

  I introduce myself and take the first delicious cold, velvety sip of my Guinness, licking the white moustache from my top lip. ‘After the morning I’ve had, this feels like a real treat. Much better than a coffee, so thank you.’

  Colm turns to the only other customer at the counter, a silver-haired man with a large glass of whiskey in front of him. ‘Do you know anyone who needs a music teacher, Christy? Evelyn here is looking for work.’

  Christy shakes his head. ‘Work is hard to come by these days, unless you’re into computers. Loads of jobs in that line. Music not so much.’

  ‘I’ll just have to hope something comes up.’

  ‘It will, just give it time. If it’s for you, it won’t pass you by,’ Colm says with a warm smile.

  I relax into my seat. ‘That’s a favourite line of my mother’s.’

  ‘Well your mother must be a very wise woman. I believe in it myself; plenty of truth in the old sayings. I know it’s not very modern to believe in fate or destiny, but I do.’

  Christy blows out his cheeks and raises his eyes to the heavens. ‘Colm, I swear you are getting dafter by the day. Destiny now, is it? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.’

  ‘Master plan written in the sky for us all, Christy,’ Colm tells him as he wipes the counter with his good hand.

  ‘Absolute nonsense. Everything that happens in our lives happens as a result of our own doing and a bit of luck. Or bad luck, as the case may be.’

  Colm shakes his head. ‘You’re wrong, Christy. That particular philosophy holds that we have control of our lives, or indeed our actions. And that’s another thing. Yes, you may feel like you woke up this morning and chose to spend the day drinking on that stool, but in fact it’s a false choice. Sure, you are wired to it.’

  Christy licks his lips and pushes out his empty glass. ‘You might have a point there. Top her up.’ He laughs.

  Colm pours out the last measure in the bottle. ‘I’ll need to go and restock the spirits. Will you keep an eye on the place?’

  We both nod and he disappears down a hatch into the cellar.

  Once Colm is out of earshot, whiskered Christy leans towards me and lowers his voice to a gravelly hush. ‘This place is too much for him now. He’s not well, not that he’ll admit it. See his hand? He fainted out the back lifting kegs and broke his fingers. I told him he needs to slow down, get some help in, but he won’t listen. Stubborn mule.’

  I look around. There must be seating for over a hundred in here, but other than the few old guys in the corner, there are no other customers. ‘I suppose he thinks he can manage,’ I offer.

  Christy nods. ‘Catch twenty-two. Slow business means skeleton staff, which means even fewer customers and less money to invest in the decor, in music nights and decent publicity, and then it’s just a downward spiral from there. This place could be a gold mine if only someone put some heart into it. Oldest pub in Dublin this.’

  ‘Really?’ I glance upwards to the shelving behind the bar, where assorted antiques and photographs remind me of my own father’s local back in Ballybeg. Vintage Guinness posters, battered hurley sticks and signed Gaelic football jerseys, old-style blue and white Delft serving dishes alongside horseshoes and sepia photos of smiling old men in flat caps playing tin whistles and accordions.

  Christy points to a framed photo in the corner. ‘Go in behind the bar there, Evelyn, and pass down that photograph.’

  I raise my eyebrows. Really? It’s a sacred space, like backstage at the theatre or the sacristy of a church. ‘I can’t do that. Surely behind the bar is authorised personnel only.’

  Christy rolls his eyes and waves his hand. ‘Not at all, Colm won’t mind. I want you to see that picture. Brilliant it is.’

  ‘Okay,’ I concede. I want to see this picture too, and I’ve never been behind a bar before. Spent plenty of time drinking, obviously, but never serving. I slip behind the old wooden counter and reach up on my tiptoes to fetch the dusty photo frame, handing it to Christy.

  ‘See here. Must be fifty years old now.’ He wipes the glass with his sleeve. ‘There she is. Colm’s aunt, Rosie Munroe herself. The infamous landlady. What do you notice about this picture?’

  I study the scene, recognising the bar, two women beaming proudly either side of this very counter. I run my hand across the wood, imagining Rosie Munroe standing in this exact spot half a century ago.

  ‘I’ll tell you the story of this picture. In the late sixties, women weren’t allowed to be served in a pub unless a man ordered their drink. And they were only allowed a spirit or a soft drink at that. If they ordered a pint, they were refused. So what did Rosie do? In 1969, she organised a pub crawl of thirty women and my own father. Growing up side by side, our families have been close for generations. He went with them from pub to pub, ordering thirty brandies. They were served. And they drank them. And then Rosie’d order a pint of Guinness, and she was refused. In every pub they went to, the same thing happened.’

  I’m fascinated. I’ve never thought about the restrictions on women in my own mother’s lifetime, the thought that she’d have to have a man order something as simple as a drink. Here I am, sitting on my own with a Guinness in the middle of the day and nobody blinks an eyelid. What a tremendous change in one generation.

  ‘I’ve never heard of Rosie Munroe before. What happened next?’

  Christy takes a long slug of his whiskey to lubricate his vocal cords. ‘Well, if Rosie couldn’t find a way, she’d make a way. She took over the bar here, put her own name above the door – the only pub with a woman’s name on the licence this side of the river – and did as she liked.’

  ‘So she just ignored the law and served women anyway?’ I ask.

  Christy shook his head. ‘Not at all, they’d have shut her down. The law said you couldn’t sell pints to women, but it didn’t say you couldn’t give them pints for free.’ He taps his finger on the photograph. ‘So this is what she’s doing right here. The first pint served and drunk at the bar by a woman in Ireland.’ He bangs the counter. ‘Right where we’re sitting today.’

  Colm shouts up from the cellar. ‘Christy, will you ask that busker outside to give me a hand. I need help shifting something.’

  Christy lifts up from his seat and calls back, ‘I can’t hear him out there today, Colm. No sign yet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I can help,’ I offer.

  Christy shrugs and says, ‘Why not? No point in talking about women’s liberation and then saying this is no job for a lady, right?’

  I smile. ‘Dead right.’ And I take the dark stairwell down into the cellar.

  I volunteer to do a few jobs for Colm to help him out, mostly running errands that involve two hands – loading and emptying the dishwasher, securing the optics and screwing in a new bulb just above the till. I change the barely audible music for him once the CD finishes and put a new battery in the little speaker. All simple jobs but ones I enjoy none the less. Since turning my world upside down, I’ve felt like I’ve been on the receiving end of other people’s help and kindness, so being on the other side of that, being in a position to help someone else, feels great, like I’m finally getting somewhere.

  As I wash my hands under the tap and get ready to make my way home, Colm turns to me. ‘You’ve been a great help to me today, Evelyn. I really appreciate it. I hope you’ll call in to us regularly. You are very welcome here any time.’

  The sentiment moves me deeply. To be invited back, to be considered a friend by these two seasoned Dubliners when I’ve only just arrived in the city, is so comforting. Despite all the harshness I’ve seen so far, here are these two discussing
destiny, celebrating equality and welcoming lone strays like myself into their little kingdom.

  Christy hands me the photo of Rosie Munroe. ‘You wouldn’t mind putting that back up before you go? I like to keep it in a safe place; it’s the only copy we have.’

  I take one last look at it. Rosie Munroe, what a brave and fierce woman you were. Imagine knowing your own worth so well that you’d risk everything to make sure you took your rightful place in the world. Standing here right now, in this bar, with her image in my hand, I can’t quite explain it but I feel more sure, more passionate, more fired up about myself and my life and my purpose than I ever have before.

  I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go job-hunting tomorrow. I don’t want to hand in my CV and try to sell myself and beg for scraps of work that may or may not come in. I’d rather be here. I feel I belong here.

  ‘Colm? I have a proposition for you.’ He looks up from stacking chairs one-handed by the unlit fireplace. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his hanky and tries to catch his breath, even though the heavy lifting is minimal.

  ‘What would you say about me coming to work here? A few hours every day. I could do any jobs you need – serve customers, give you a break if you need it, anything really.’

  Colm furrows his brow. ‘That can’t be right; sure you’re a qualified teacher. We couldn’t have you pulling pints and wiping counters. I appreciate the offer, Evelyn, but you’ve got a great profession – just give it time, something will come up. You can’t throw away all that training to work in a place like this.’

  I shake my head. Colm turning me down wasn’t something I was expecting. He is in such clear need of help, I thought he’d bite my hand off. But now that the idea has been planted in my head, I see it is exactly the kind of opportunity I hoped a big, bold leap into the unknown would deliver. I’d love to come here every day, spend time with these two, hear their stories, join in with their chat. This is the perfect place for me to have a bit of down time, a neutral place to think about my future and regroup without career stress or taking on too much responsibility. It’s at the top of the street from the flat, so I can walk here and back every day, and even a minimum wage will be enough to cover me alongside Moira’s tuition job.

  I can help make the place a bit better, maybe even attract some more customers in. Who knows where this might lead?

  But what I do know is that it feels right. I just need to convince Colm.

  ‘Give me a trial, Colm. I’ll do a couple of shifts, and if at any stage you think it’s not working, we’ll call it a day. How does that sound?’

  Colm is dabbing the handkerchief behind his ears, still sweating from overexertion on his light task.

  Christy slams his hand down on the counter, then looks upwards, blessing himself. ‘Sweet Mary, mother of God, I’m nearly beginning to believe in destiny myself! Help is at hand, Colm, staring you in the face! Take it, man; you’ll not get another offer like this any time soon.’ He holds out his hand to me, but I can see that Colm is still unsure.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I appreciate the offer, but can you even pull a pint?’

  ‘I can if you show me,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a fast learner.’

  ‘Destiny, Colm. There’s a master plan in the sky for us all – it was a wise man that told me that once.’ Christy winks at me.

  ‘A trial period, you say?’ Colm says.

  I nod. ‘Yes, and if it doesn’t work, at least we tried, no hard feelings.’

  ‘Right so, seeing as you’re keen, it’s worth a shot. Come in tomorrow at midday and we’ll start training you up.’

  Christy lets out a loud cheer and we high-five. ‘I have a good feeling about this,’ he says. ‘Welcome to Rosie’s, Evelyn.’ And he slaps me on the back.

  I have a job. Nothing like what I expected when I left the house this morning, but it’s still a job. A new, exciting, completely different job for me. And I don’t just feel relief that the job hunt is over for a while; I feel privileged treading the same boards as the late great Rosie Munroe. Proud to serve in her pub, to take her place behind the counter, to be surrounded by her legacy.

  It makes me feel a little bit invincible. And a little bit fierce and fearless and all-out fired up for all I can be and all I can do now that I’ve got a chance to prove myself. Destiny, self-determination or pure dumb luck, I don’t know which of them to thank for the way things played out for me today, but I feel like I’m on the cusp of something huge and I’m really bloody excited.

  Chapter Eight

  My first day in my new job is everything I hoped it would be.

  No. Correction, it’s even better.

  ‘Lesson one,’ announces Colm as we stand at the taps. ‘The ancient art of pulling the perfect pint of Guinness.’ He places a cold empty pint glass at a slant to the nozzle of the tap and begins a slow, steady pour. ‘Patience, you must have patience. Don’t ever rush this. Ever.’ We wait, with patience. ‘Leave two fingers’ width of space from the top.’ He settles the pint on the counter and folds his arms. ‘Now we wait again. We’ll be back in good time to put a head on it, and only then is it ready to go out to the customer.’

  We wait. Both of us arms crossed, transfixed by the swirl and settle of the ashen storm in a pint glass, lost in it, oblivious to anything else for a couple of moments.

  ‘Now,’ he says, just as the liquid darkens to pitch and stills. ‘Now we’re ready. The moment a perfect line settles between the creamy white and the black stuff. That’s the moment to add the head. Press the tap backwards, just enough so it reaches the edge of the glass – no spilling over, but don’t leave them short either.’ I nod my understanding. I’m the apprentice here and I take every word as gospel. ‘It’s got to be right, Evelyn. In the pub trade in Dublin, there is an expectation, a standard that must be honoured. You can set the place on fire, you can have people sitting on boxes instead of chairs and get them to eat from their laps. They won’t hold it against you. But serve them a bad pint and you’re finished.’

  ‘But what happens if you’re really busy? You can’t spend this amount of time every time someone orders a Guinness, right?’

  Colm shakes his head. ‘Even if you have a crowd ten deep, they’ll have to wait. And they’ll expect to wait, so don’t fret about that. Get a name for serving a bad pint and your business is gone. Get a name for being the busiest place in town and you’ll only get busier.’

  He hands me the pint. ‘There. Try that.’

  When your boss makes you drink before lunchtime, you know you’ve found the best job in the world. I take a long, slow sip. It is delicious: cold, creamy, with a dark, roasted bite to it. I smile over the glass. I think of Rosie serving all her girls big, filling pints such as these. Savouring the taste of rebellion, licking off their white moustaches with devilment in their laughing eyes. What a great way to fight a cause.

  ‘Worth the wait,’ Colm concludes. ‘Next up, how to change a barrel.’

  And so my pub education continues. And I must say, after all my years of school, Colm Munroe is the best teacher I’ve ever met.

  After a few days, I feel completely comfortable in my new role. Christy has kindly helped with my training by drinking any practice Guinness that I pour, giving me marks out of ten for each. My highest score is currently an eight, but that may be because he was half-cut by then. None the less, I’m glad to have somebody to test my new-found skills on. A few regulars toddled in mid-morning today and they’ve stayed in the snug drinking solidly, but other than that, the only customers have been a few tourists who came in to use the toilet then walked straight back out again. This place is a long way off being the busiest place in town.

  I push open the pub door and step outside. The street is really busy, jam-packed with people walking in both directions. A good mix of locals carrying groceries, visitors hefting backpacks, office workers with briefcases and uni students with school bags and laptops. Why are all these people walking past us day after
day? Our pub is perfectly located here on the corner of two major streets, the ideal meeting place for so much of this passing trade. As far as I can see in either direction, we have no competition. There are some cafés, a few restaurants, newsagents and a craft shop, but no other pub in the area. So why are we empty? Why is business so slow? I cross over to the other side of the street to gain some perspective, to view Rosie Munroe’s from the outside in its entirety.

  Right. I think I’ve got my answer.

  The place looks like a scruffy tip. The paint is peeling, great chunks of plaster are missing and the upstairs windows are so dirty they look as if they’ve been painted in.

  The sign itself is intact, but it’s tired, as is the surrounding whitewash. The creeping ivy needs to be cut back and the front area needs a good sweep; crisp packets, takeaway trays and general street litter has collected under the picnic tables, giving it a grubby, neglected look.

  But with a little bit of time and effort, it would be quite easy to fix. A cosmetic facelift, nothing structural. A power hose and a lick of varnish would see it transformed, gleaming even. And a gleaming pub serving the perfect Guinness at a major crossroads without any competition sounds like a very interesting project. I think of what Christy said, that this place could be a little gold mine; more than that, it could be a lifeline, a place of fun and sanctuary away from the pressures of daily living, a place where people could come to meet their friends, listen to music, offload their troubles and find a listening ear and an understanding smile.

  When I walked into Rosie Munroe’s just a few days ago, I felt that I was on the outside of my own life, trying to find a way in. One afternoon and the kindness of two old men with a willingness to hear me out changed all that. And even if I don’t last beyond my trial, already I’m starting to consider things I wouldn’t have done previously, not afraid to look further afield and move out of my comfort zone. I can pull a pint. I can change a barrel. I can hold my own in bantering with the regulars. Now I just need to get more people over the threshold, because once they are in, I know they’ll love it just as much as I do.