I'm Still Standing Page 7

  I make a mental checklist of what needs doing. Resources are limited, so it’s more elbow grease than a complete refit. But even small changes will send out a new message, make the place more inviting. I remember when I took over my classroom when I started at St Mary’s. That was a tip as well. I thought to myself: how can I invite children here? How can I ask them to take pride in themselves and their work if they look around and their environment is dirty and unloved?

  So I spent the last few days of the summer holidays stripping the walls of minging old posters and unhooking furry blue sandwiches from behind the radiators and scraping ancient chewing gum from under the desks. I painted every wall dazzling white, as if to say: We are starting afresh. We are beginning with a clean slate. And then I strung up some bunting and created colourful display boards of inspirational people and motivational quotes. With just a little time and effort, the space was transformed from a horrid, oppressive cell to a happy, thriving place where the kids loved to be.

  Surely I can do the same with Rosie Munroe’s? I know the scale is much greater, but in principle it’s the same. I did it before, so I could definitely do it again. One thing is for sure, I couldn’t make it look any worse.

  I walk back in through the front door. I’ve gotten used to Colm now and I know he’s not always up for change, so I’ll have to approach this carefully. I want to help him, not tell him how things should be done. I slip into the snug, where he is poring over the newspaper. This is the perfect opportunity.

  ‘Colm, you wouldn’t mind if I did a bit of a tidy outside, would you? Wash down the windows, sweep up. Just a little spruce?’

  Engrossed in the article he’s reading, he doesn’t even look up. ‘Whatever you like, Evelyn. Sounds good.’

  And that’s all the permission I need.

  Three hours, five sponges and a shitload of elbow grease later and the ‘face’ of Rosie Munroe’s is gleaming. I throw a final bucket of hot sudsy water at the brickwork and painted wall to dilute the smell of all the bleach and vinegar I’ve used to remove the build-up of years of grime and dirt, greasy handprints and car fumes. It’s a job well done.

  With my jeans rolled up and my T-shirt sopping wet, I cross the road to take a look at the building, and I can’t help but beam with pride and satisfaction at the difference. Now this looks like a pub people might want to spend some time in. I’m already thinking flower baskets, a chalkboard of daily specials, even a bowl and biscuits for passing dogs. Muffin would certainly approve of that. My hands are itching to get stuck in, to take this to the next level. This is only the beginning, I can feel it.

  I watch a small group of office workers stop and look through the doorway. They pause a moment, then shrug, nod and step inside the pub. Looks like we’ve got some new customers already! A soft-faced lady from the café opposite steps out onto the pavement chatting to a red-haired man with a guitar strapped to his back, a takeaway coffee in his hand.

  ‘Great job,’ he says to me. ‘I’ve been watching you scrub all day. Tell you what, you haven’t half changed the look of the place; brightens up the whole street.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to see,’ says the café lady. ‘It’s broken my heart watching her get so run-down.’ She holds out her hand and introduces herself as Agnes. The guitarist holds out his hand too.

  ‘I’m Danny. I play around here most days, so I might see you when I call in and have a pint with Colm.’ As his eyes meet mine, I feel a sudden flutter in my stomach.

  Ah, this must be the busker who sometimes helps Colm out. What a nice guy. What a nice, beautiful guy. I rub my wet, wrinkly palms down my thighs and shake his hand. ‘I’m Evelyn. I just started, on trial, to see if Colm needs an extra pair of hands.’ I find myself rambling a bit, a little jarred at how unexpectedly attractive I find him. Big dark-brown eyes, hair curling softly at his neck, and such a sweet, almost shy smile. Bloody hell, he is gorgeous. I feel a rash of heat burning its way to my cheeks as I realise that I look like a washerwoman, I smell like drains and my wet white T-shirt is completely see-through. I can only imagine that my face and hair resemble an early Picasso. That Picasso himself would have subsequently binned. I make my excuses and point back over the road. ‘Drop in any time,’ I tell him.

  ‘Will do. Looks like Rosie Munroe’s is back.’ He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and disappears on his way.

  I take out my phone and ask Agnes to snap a picture of me and the pub. It feels momentous somehow. This is something I want to remember, because right now, I feel absolutely ecstatic. I’ve got a sense that this is a breath of new life, a second wind, not only for this old pub but also for me.

  Is Rosie Munroe’s back?

  I think it’s been there all along somewhere, waiting for the right person, for the right time.

  Just like me.

  At the end of my trial week, Colm breaks the news. As a result of my ‘little spruce’ of the outside, footfall has increased by just enough to warrant me securing a full-time job on minimum wage. I’m staying on! I pinch both Colm’s cheeks with my fingers and plant a kiss on his forehead. Christy creases up when Colm needs to take out his hanky to dab his poor damp forehead, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

  ‘Getting hot under the collar there, Colm? A kiss from a beautiful girl; you never lost it! Always one for the ladies,’ he teases. Colm rolls his eyes, a reluctant smile playing on his lips, and tells Christy he’s barred. And again, my two new old buddies nearly choke with laughter.

  When I get home, I climb upstairs and knock on Moira’s door as I do every night, trying to get hold of her to discuss whether she still wants me to tutor her granddaughter, but yet again, there’s no answer. Maybe they regularly go out for a meal, or to a show, or for a walk, spending their evenings doing nice things together. This time, I scribble a note explaining that I’ve now got a full-time position at Rosie Munroe’s, so if she wants me, it’s probably best that she calls in to the pub and we can catch up there. If I’m honest with myself, I’m half hoping that she reneges on the arrangement. I’m going to be rushed off my feet at the rate the pub is going, and already I’ve noticed that dealing with Moira is far from straightforward. I try one last time – ‘Moira? It’s Evelyn here. Just hoping for a quick word?’ – but nothing happens. So I shove my note under her darkened door, the only sound from the other side a screeching chorus of mewling cats, then, with my conscience clear that I’ve tried my best, race downstairs two steps at a time, bursting to tell Tara the wonderful news about my new job.

  Chapter Nine

  Almost on cue, the sound of a guitar floats across the street as I water the flowers and put out the new chalkboard. I don’t want to admit to myself that I take a lot longer than I need to, straightening the picnic tables and moving ashtrays just so I can hear him, catch a glimpse of him on the other side of the road.

  For the past two weeks now, every single day, Danny Foy the gorgeous guitarist has sat on an upturned wooden box outside Agnes’s café, singing and strumming away. His voice is spectacular. Soft and deliberate when he finger-picks the heartfelt time-worn traditional love songs, my favourite being ‘Caledonia’. The first time I heard him sing this, I had to hold my arms for goose bumps – such a sudden, overwhelmingly emotional response. Maybe it was the words reminding me of home, or maybe it was the memory of my own father singing this song as he tended the horses when I was little, but my eyes pricked and I had to swallow hard to hold in my tears. Despite the traffic and the relentless city din, I heard every note, every careful pluck of his strings.

  But he doesn’t just do traditional Irish songs. He’s pretty unpredictable. His set changes with his mood. If there are tourists about, he’ll bash out a spirited ‘Wild Rover’ or ‘Whiskey in the Jar’; sometimes he plays alternative covers of pop songs. The hen and stag parties love this, laughing and dancing to a fun, folksy take on Britney or Abba. He has a gift for reading the crowd, tuning in to what they want to hear, what they need to hear. Yesterday a sch
ool group was walking towards him, two rows of five-year-olds in their little uniforms, holding hands, their knapsacks nearly as big as they were. He stopped what he was singing and started up ‘Reach for the Stars’, knocking his knees together in a funny little dance to make them smile. They gathered around him, clapping along, singing the chorus with him at the tops of their voices, their sweet splayed hands raised over their heads as they reached up to the sky. It was joyous. I grabbed a box of chocolate bars from the stock cupboard, ran across the street and handed one to each of them. ‘This has been the highlight of the trip,’ said the teacher. ‘No museum visit can compete with a live performance and free chocolate.’

  I can tell it’s not just me that keeps a lookout for him. I’ve noticed a few other locals – Agnes from the café is a fan too, and Jimmy the grocer comes out to the front of his shop to listen when Danny’s playing – but I don’t think any of them are as loyal as I am. I am his number-one fan, no doubt about it. I don’t know how anyone could hear these songs, hear his voice, the subtle chord changes, the gentleness of his strum, and not crave them day after day. But then again, I’ve always had a passion for music, so maybe I’m just a little more infatuated and excited by his sound than anyone else. I’ve played the harp for as long as I can remember, and piano and violin and trumpet. I can have a go on most instruments, to be honest. Even the didgeridoo that Tara brought me back from Australia. But I don’t have the performance X-factor like he does. That’s a real talent in itself, and he’s got it in spades.

  Now he finishes a fun, rowdy singalong of ‘The Fields of Athenry’ with a jolly bunch of football fans and then launches into something I haven’t heard him play before. I’ve never heard this song anywhere before. I crouch down and busy myself at the chalkboard so I can buy more time to listen, hear what his new sound is all about. I watch how he’s closed his eyes in deep concentration, and the way he’s repeating the same chords makes me think he’s composing this song right here on the spot. I like that I’m witnessing this, especially since, after just a few chords, the stripped-back acoustic feel and the tender plucking of his strings mean the song is already my new favourite.

  I lean against the window box, rest my arms on the ledge and watch him, safe in the knowledge that whilst he’s immersed in his composition, his eyes are shut and he can’t see me. I can’t tear myself away, though. Some tourists strolling by stop in their tracks, nodding their heads and widening their eyes before they take their phones out to record him. I don’t blame them; anyone would want to watch how passionately this guy plays. The way he keeps his eyes closed the entire time, his long dark eyelashes fanning out in a beautiful crescent, focusing intently on every stroke against every string. He sits cross-legged with the guitar upright between his legs, and then he pulls it against his chest and plays it like a stand-up bass. It’s mesmerising to behold, so much so that I catch myself holding my breath, and I don’t even realise it until he plays the final note and I shudder, finally ready to exhale.

  It doesn’t help that he’s remarkably good-looking. Not in a way that Tara might agree with – she likes slim, Latin-looking types with polished caramel skin and no hair on their bodies. No hair at all. Good luck finding one of them in Dublin. Danny has dark auburn hair and porcelain skin, with a smattering of freckles across his cheekbones. He’s so different, and though I’ve barely spoken to him yet, I’ve watched and listened to him so often I feel like I know him already. And I really like what I see.

  A slow grin spreads across his face, almost as if he can hear what I’m thinking. I blush and busy myself with the cloth in my hand, pretending to rub down the picnic benches. My cheeks are flaming red and I chastise myself: Don’t be ridiculous, Evelyn, how could he possibly hear your thoughts? But I take a deep breath and turn to look at him again, just to make sure.

  A few regulars start to straggle into the pub, so I follow them in and start the service for the day. I’ve made and put out some sandwiches on the counter, and I’ve written up the lunchtime specials – basically a cheese or bacon sarnie and a drink for a fiver, as our kitchen facilities are limited – on the chalkboard outside, along with a daily quote. Today’s reads:

  Roses are red. Bacon is yummy.

  Poems are hard.

  Bacon.

  It is actually attracting the office crowd.

  Inside, I’ve kitted the snug out with a selection of retro board games, as people seem to like a light game of Connect 4 with their lunch. I’ve rearranged the tables so they are in a horseshoe shape instead of isolated little islands. At the back I uncovered a pool table, which I dusted off, and now we’ve got some older school kids coming in during their lunch break. They play a few games over soft drinks, crisps and the odd sandwich, which all adds up.

  But just as we seem to be taking flight and are steadily busy all day, Colm’s health has deteriorated. Christy noticed that he seemed even more breathless and tired than normal and convinced him to go and see the doctor, telling him that he needn’t worry about the place, it was in safe hands with me, so there was no excuse not to go. When he got there, the doctor referred him to the hospital to review his medication, amongst other things he wasn’t so willing to divulge. He did tell us that he has to have surgery on his fingers so he’ll be around a lot less, but this week I’ve hardly seen him at all. I’ve been rushed off my feet, but I don’t want poor Colm to worry, so I’ve told him that it’s all in hand and I can manage on my own until he comes back.

  In a way, being so busy suits me. From the moment I wake up to the moment I creep into the flat and collapse into my sister’s bed, I am fully alive, in the moment, thinking of nothing but what I am doing right here, right now. And that feels so liberating. Free from the regrets of the past and the pressures of the future. Just being here – just being – is more than enough.

  The clock strikes midday and like clockwork in walks my favourite customer, Liz, with her long black coat, dark glasses and cropped silver hair. She takes her seat at the bar with the Racing Post, looking out through the sunlit stained-glass windows. As I hand her her usual half a lager, she taps her pen on the counter, looking confused.

  ‘Are you all right today, Liz?’ I ask her.

  ‘As good as I can be, Evelyn. Hard to pick a winner these days.’

  I turn her paper round to have a look, running my finger down the list. I stop on Leap of Faith. ‘I’d go for that one.’

  ‘Forty to one; he hasn’t a chance.’

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t look at the odds, look at the trainer. Jimmy O’Hara doesn’t train horses to fall at the first hurdle.’

  ‘And how would you know anything about Jimmy O’Hara?’

  ‘My family had horses,’ I tell her. ‘We took care of them when they were injured or too old to race any more. My father liked the odd bet, and I guess I just picked it up.’

  Liz circles Leap of Faith with her pen. ‘Well, I think that’s worth a flutter. Thank you very much, Evelyn, and if I win at these odds, you can be sure I’ll be back in with a smile on my face and there’ll be a drink in it for you.’

  She raises her glass, lifting her light-grey eyes to mine across the bar. ‘This place used to be packed, people lining up around the corner to get in every night of the week.’ She points to the curtain pulled closed across the back part of the pub. ‘It was the heart of the music scene here in Dublin. Old Rosie, the landlady, was a great music lover – launched loads of bands, musicians, singers, songwriters. You could come from anywhere, show up with an instrument or able to hold a tune, and you’d be guaranteed a place on the stage, an audience, a hot meal and a bed upstairs.’

  ‘Wow. I had no idea.’ I didn’t even know there were rooms upstairs, never mind a stage. I look around and notice the elevated platform hidden behind stacks of spare chairs covered with a heavy dust sheet. I walk over with Liz and lift it up, dust flecks rising and dancing in the stained-glass-coloured sunlight. I cover my nose and Liz starts to cough, but before I fold the sheet down ag
ain, I notice the legs of a grand piano, and a guitar stand. ‘What happened to this place? Why did it stop playing music?’ I can’t imagine how something so important, so vital, so promising could just fall apart and fade away.

  Liz strolls back to her stool, swallowing the last of her lager down in one gulp. Her coughing stops. ‘When Rosie died, everything ground to a halt. She was the one with all the contacts; she had a relationship with the bands, the agents. They’d always make room in their schedules to play here because they wouldn’t want to let Rosie down. There’s a lot more to running a pub than serving drinks. You need to be a people person. You need to be interested in humanity. In sharing in its highest and lowest points. A baby is born, a new job, a chance meeting with an old friend, what do we do? We share it over a drink. A sudden death, you lose your job, your home, your partner leaves you, what do we do? We share it over a drink. For most people, it’s not about the alcohol. It’s about the sharing, the connection. And if you can do that, if you can help those who need to share, you’ll never be without business, because people’s need for connection is never going to go out of fashion.’

  She slides her paper over to me. ‘Right, Evelyn, thank you for this little tip. I’m off to place a bet. Leap of Faith… I like the sound of it already.’

  And so do I.

  Chapter Ten

  Quit talkin’ and start chalkin’!

  Pool table NOW OPEN!

  I watch Danny for longer than I should as I write up my chalkboard. I’ve already helped Liz pick her horse, and prepared the bacon sarnies for the late-lunchtime rush. The sun is shining, so the door is open, and the spring sunlight floods in through the stained-glass panels of the windows. As I step back inside, the jewelled light dances around the high vaulted ceilings and roots me to the spot in utter awe. How beautiful to be in such a serene, warm space right in the middle of a busy crowded city. How surreal. How wonderful. As I revel in this lovely moment, I realise that I’m not the only one to be moved by the scene.