I'm Still Standing Page 9

  I stop walking, as I think I can hear Muffin whimpering in the background. I miss you too, Muffin! I step in from the footpath, away from the busy late-night traffic, so I can listen more closely.

  ‘… Six months ago you had a fine family house, a husband and a respectable job, and you’ve thrown it all away – for what? To sleep on your sister’s floor with a Mickey Mouse bar job. You gave up your marriage, your life for that? Enough of this nonsense. Just come back home, Evelyn. Now, this minute. Pack your bags and start your journey back to where you belong.’

  A siren passing makes it difficult for me to hear what she is saying.

  ‘… waste… disaster… out of your depth… from bad to worse…’

  As bad as I feel that Mum is upset with me, I don’t agree. I think my life is moving from bad to better. I need to give her a sense of how this is exactly the right thing for me now, so that she sees I’m doing okay and can stop worrying. I put her on speakerphone for a minute and text her the photo Agnes took.

  ‘This is me outside Rosie Munroe’s.’

  ‘Well, you look…’ There’s silence for a moment; this is the first time my mother has paused to take a breath. ‘I have to say that you look happy, delighted even. There’s a healthy flush to your cheeks and you look better than I’ve seen you in a long time.’

  ‘I am happy, Mum. The owner has given me lots of freedom, so I’ve taken it on as a little project, a challenge to myself to see if I can grow the business. I’ve started on the outside and I’m working my way in! You’ll have to come up and visit. It’s the real deal: original fireplace and flooring, the kind of place you walk in and immediately feel relaxed and welcome. I think you’ll love it, Mum.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, Evelyn. If you’re happy, then I’m happy. I’ll tell that Mrs O’Driscoll that you’re doing great. And by the look on your face in that photo, it seems you are.’

  Good. I’m happy with that. I don’t want her worrying herself into a frenzy. I think if she saw the place herself she’d fall in love with it too.

  ‘Send me some more pics. I enjoy seeing what you’re up to.’

  I’m standing on the pavement outside our house now.

  ‘No problem! I’ll send some tomorrow. I’ve got to go now, Mum. I’m doing well, I promise. Give Muffin a treat from me,’ I add.

  And we kiss our goodbyes across the invisible network that connects us from one side of the country to the other, across all the fields and hills and rivers and lakes that lie in between Ballybeg and here.

  I turn to go in through our gate, and what I see ahead of me momentarily roots me to the spot. I take a deep breath and squint forward, just to make sure that I’ve got this right.

  Sprawled on the steps like a horrible black spider is the goth girl from the pub. Waiting on the steps of our house. Waiting for what? For me? It can’t be… How could she have followed me home if she is here before me? I relax at the thought. It’s a coincidence, nothing more. Maybe she’s visiting someone. There is a studio flat on the top floor; I don’t know who lives up there. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. Maybe she can get a better signal for her phone here. I have no idea. The only thing I don’t want her to be here for is me. I touch my fat lip. She can certainly pack a punch. This is actually the first time in my life I’ve ever been hit. At all.

  I swallow hard, slowly lift the latch of the gate and brace myself for whatever is going to happen next. She’s a teenager; from what I saw today, a sad and troubled teenager. Not someone to run from, but someone who needs help.

  Her legs are stretched out in front of her and she is leaning with her back propped up against the railings. Her chin is tucked into her chest and she’s muttering lyrics to the music I can hear coming from her headphones. The blue light of her phone illuminates her face.

  ‘Hello?’ I venture. ‘Can I help you?’

  She shifts inside her baggy black hoody, and her charm bracelets clatter as she lifts her head towards the sound of my voice. She sweeps back a mass of dark hair from her squinting eyes, then drops her head again.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. My voice is just above a whisper.

  She doesn’t move.

  I lift my leg over her and try to step across her. ‘Sorry, but I need to get in.’

  She shifts again, and then slowly lifts her head to stare straight at my legs. Her eyes meet my knees, and her forehead furrows as she leans forward with a deep scowl on her face. She lifts a hand and pokes my knee with her finger, almost as if she’s never seen a knee before. She starts to giggle, high-pitched and dreamy, then she lolls her head backwards and her eyes roll back. And that’s when I realise that’s she’s pretty pissed. I fold down on my knees and start pinching her face.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Can you talk to me? What’s your name?’

  ‘Roo,’ is all she can manage, her voice slurred and loose.

  Is she drunk? Or drugged? I’m hoping just drunk. I move closer. I can definitely smell spirits – brandy, I think. Please, God, let it just be alcohol…

  I turn her onto her side to try and get her standing, and she pukes down the steps by my feet. Which is a good sign: whatever poison is in her stomach is ejecting itself.

  I bang on the door. No tentative knocking and waiting at a time like this; none of Moira’s avoidance tricks, hiding inside. ‘MOIRA! Come out here! I need you, it’s an emergency!’

  I hear the shuffle of feet on the landing, along with some belligerent muttering, then the sound of the latch lifting on the inside, and Moira, dressed in a satin kimono with a full face of powdery make-up, appears in the doorway. She eyes me curiously for a second, probably wondering why I haven’t used my key, then glances behind her.

  ‘I’ve got company,’ she tells me in a firm whisper and wide fuck-off eyes.

  I ignore her. ‘I need your help,’ I say. She slides her glasses down from her head, opens the door further and grimaces at me before darting her gaze down to the shivering black ball at my feet. Her eyes widen.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ruby, what the hell have you done to yourself now?’ She grunts with irritation.

  I thought goth girl was just some crashed-out teenager who couldn’t make it home, but Moira is acting like she knows this kid. Like she’s seen it all before and this is a regular occurrence.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ I ask.

  Moira folds her arms over her chest. ‘I’ll say. She’s my bloody granddaughter.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Once we get inside, we push Ruby and her jelly-like legs up the stairs, then steer her straight into Moira’s bathroom.

  ‘Nearly there now, you’re doing so well.’ I stroke the girl’s back as she retches over the toilet bowl. We establish that she’s not taken any drugs and I feel a huge wave of relief wash over me. Drink we can help with; anything more would need an ambulance. Somewhere in the background, I can hear Moira ushering her gentleman caller out the front door. It’s a wise move; it’s pretty difficult to conduct a romantic affair to the guttural soundtrack of teenage vomiting.

  Once Ruby seems to have completely emptied herself of brandy and spaghetti hoops, we lay her down on the bathroom floor, gently propping her head up with a cushion. She shivers, shudders momentarily, a reaction to the shock that her body is experiencing.

  ‘Moira, we need more towels – blankets will be too heavy; can you get me four towels?’ I ask, and Moira opens the hot press and takes them out, draping them on her granddaughter’s limbs and torso one by one. The shivering subsides. Ruby raises her hand above her face, feeling the space in front of her.

  ‘Where am I?’ Her voice is breathy and ragged, a hoarse whisper. I watch her body relax and loosen. Her eyes open slightly, red-rimmed and glassy. She is squinting at the light bulb above her. ‘Why are we here?’ She touches her hair, grabbing bunches as if feeling for knots.

  ‘It’s okay, you’re safe. It’s all okay. You’re at your nan’s place. You drank too much, but you’ve been sick so you’ll feel better soon
.’

  Moira tuts and leaves the bathroom, and a few seconds later I hear the front door shut. Looks like she’s left us to it. Ruby sits up and I wrap more towels tightly around her shoulders, then offer her a glass of water. She brings it to her lips and slugs it back. I get her another – she does the same again. She is running on empty, this poor girl; there’s nothing left inside her. She turns weakly and points a finger at me.

  ‘Why do I know you?’

  ‘I’m Evelyn. I’m staying downstairs with my sister Tara.’

  ‘Tara and Inez?’

  I nod.

  ‘They’re cool.’ She winces. She’s going to have a belting hangover after this. ‘Do you work at the pub?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I try to smile at her so she knows I’m okay about earlier.

  ‘Your lip looks like it’s split.’ She squeezes her eyes shut again and pinches her nose, as if trying to stem a memory. Or tears.

  I shrug. ‘Don’t worry about that, Ruby, it’s you we’re taking care of now.’

  I turn on both taps and start to run a bath. ‘Right, you hop in and get yourself cleaned up. You’ll feel a million times better afterwards. I’ll make some tea and toast. That always works. I’ll stick your stuff in the wash and you’ll be right as rain in no time.’

  I gather up her hoody and the towels. She reaches for the edge of the bath to lift herself up, and I support her by the elbow. She looks fragile and pale; she’s definitely going to need something in her stomach. ‘Butter and jam, or toasted cheese?’

  ‘Don’t mind.’ She shrugs.

  ‘I’ll do both.’

  I hover, ready to steady her. But she’s managed to get up and is on her feet now, a flush of pink dappling her cheeks and the faintest of smiles on her lips. She looks up at me and inhales a calming breath, then mouths the words thank you.

  Satisfied that she can manage, I make my way to Moira’s kitchen and start raiding the cupboards. There is barely anything in them beyond cans of spaghetti hoops. Same with the fridge. Half-open cans of spaghetti hoops. I’m well aware that it’s not my place to go poking my nose in, but I did notice Moira’s reaction… because there really wasn’t one. I can’t believe she’d just walk out on her granddaughter like that. I get that she is angry – my mother would go crazy if either of us turned up this drunk and puked on the stairs, but she’d never just leave us. She’d take care of us until we were well enough to get the robust bollocking that would no doubt come our way. This just makes me feel even sadder for Ruby and her situation. From the pool table incident it appears she doesn’t get on with her peers, and by the looks of this she doesn’t get on with her nan either. That’s pretty much your whole world when you’re a teenager.

  I call in a pizza delivery, as I’m not comfortable going through Moira’s stuff and she’s nowhere to be seen. Ruby definitely needs some looking after. Moira mentioned that she was seventeen, but still, she’s not ready to face the world all by herself. Considering the girl’s clothes all have a sour sick smell, I have little choice but to load the washing machine as well. If Moira has a problem with that, so be it. It’s out of the question to leave Ruby here by herself in this state, in this mess, without anyone to help her or any food to eat. I empty her pockets before I put her clothes in the machine: no money, just a tissue, some earbuds, a bus card – and a crumpled-up letter.

  I hear Ruby turn off the bath taps and splash into the water. Should I read the letter? The concerned teacher in me says yes, absolutely – it might give me some insight into what’s going on with this poor girl. Who is Ruby? Is there something I can do for her? The nosy barmaid in me also says yes, one hundred per cent. I’m the only one here and I need to know what on earth is going on.

  The balled-up paper is regular lined A4. The writing is smudgy, in blunt pencil. I try to iron the page out with my hand and make out the distressed handwriting – if I found this in a school, I’d immediately associate it with a kid in need and try to get to the bottom of it, try to figure out where the problem lies – home, school, peers? In a way, I am Ruby’s teacher, as Moira asked me to be her tutor, so that gives me a professional duty to find out as much as I can in order to help. This lost girl punches classmates in pubs at lunchtime and gets slaughtered on her own only to come back to an empty house. I need to know more.

  I glance over my shoulder one more time to make sure I’m alone and then begin to read.

  Deer Nan,

  I dunno waht makes me anser back at you.

  I need to get out. i always leave at the rong tmie anb make thngs even worse. then I try to befend myself and get into deeper trudle! I rilly try hard not to get into so mcuh trudle but it awlays hpauns. this is going to snoud well stuquid but I don’t want to be me anymroe. I cant spell as well as my frens or read as good. in fcat I htae reabing altogether it’s the wrost thing ever. The teechers are triyng to work on it with me but they are to bisy to do anthin about it.

  I wish one day smoetihng wud take it all away. I’d do a swap in my persnoalty fro me to be gud and us to get on. im sik of not bein as goob as evry one else in the wrold. I hjust wnt to draw and paint and foget all abut exams and scool. I hate scool so mch.

  its mus be rilly anoyin havin me as ur grandawter geting things the rong way round and messin up the hoel time.

  I don’t want to be stuk in this hoel. Im onistley sacreb of how meen and sad and angry I feel cos when I do cok up I think ther is no one ther to ctach me so I just keep falling, I keep arguing, tahts the way ive awalys bin and I dnot spose ill change. one day I garentee im gona blow up and do sumtin stuqid over this.

  Just wantd to get it of my chest strat away so we can make up qiukly and work on bein better at takin care of echother. onse yu’ve red this come finb me if you want, just tell me you get it, what im about.

  Ruby x

  I sink into the kitchen chair and try to process what I’ve just read. Where should I begin? How should I begin?

  I fold up Ruby’s letter and place it on the sideboard with the rest of her things. I remember what it feels like to be that young and feel that lost. To feel like nothing is ever going to work out the way you want it, the confusion with a world that seems chaotic and conflicting and cruel. But I was lucky. For a big part of my childhood, I still had my lovely dad, who would listen to me and talk through things and sit with me at the dining-room table until I’d learnt my spellings or figured out long division or could name all the rivers and mountain ranges in Europe. It wasn’t about the work really; it was about feeling hopeful, that we were working towards something, that I had a future and it was going to be bright and exciting and meaningful.

  I look around Moira’s flat and realise that it’s not easy here for either of them. Whatever circumstance has brought them together – with at least forty years’ gap between them – they could do with some help. I think I’m starting to get it, to understand what it is all about. And I think I know how I might make this a little better.

  I agreed that I would be Ruby’s tutor. That I would help her with whatever she needed. I’ll keep my promise, not because I have to, but because I want to. I want to make things a little better for her, bring some of that hope back into her world. Looks like now is as good a time as any to begin.

  I collect the pizza and plonk the box in the middle of the coffee table. I glance over at Ruby on the sofa, her head against the armrest, chewing on her bottom lip and squinting as if she’s trying to solve some painful puzzle. Boyfriend trouble? Parent trouble? Money? Relationships? Future? I think about how my problems and Ruby’s are probably very similar, despite the age gap between us.

  ‘Dig in! This smells amazing.’ I slide onto the couch beside her and lift an oozy pizza slice to my mouth. ‘Please eat as much as you want. If you don’t help me, I might scoff the lot.’

  Ruby turns around and shifts up in her seat, taking a slice. And then another, and another, until the colour starts coming back into her cheeks and she seems to have regained some energy. We drink
pints of water and chat about our favourite food, the best pizzas we’ve ever had, the worst. She’s a great kid. Chatty and engaging. We’re midway through discussing the merits of a stuffed crust when she reaches under the coffee table and slides a large black folder from the bottom shelf, resting it on her lap.

  ‘Thank God it’s here,’ she says. ‘I’ve been searching for this all week.’ She tightens her hold on it, an obvious wave of relief washing over her dark features.

  ‘School work?’ I venture.

  ‘Yeah, some of my art exam prep. I love art. I want to do it all the time; it’s the only reason I even turn up at school.

  ‘What do you like the best?’

  ‘Portraits,’ she says, her eyes flashing with excitement. ‘I love drawing people, especially faces.’

  ‘Is that what’s in there?’

  She nods.

  ‘You don’t have to show me, but I’d love to take a look.’

  Ruby pauses and rubs her hand across her neck. ‘Okay, but this isn’t my finished work. Some bits I’ve really messed up, so it’s not as I want it yet. It’s actually really embarrassing…’

  She hands me the portfolio and I lift the cover, struck by the intensity of the eyes staring back at me. It’s a close-up of a female face, a modern-day Mona Lisa – a snapshot like she is running, looking back momentarily. Her eyes are fearful but defiant, like she has accepted the threat and is now gauging her chances of survival.

  ‘Wow, Ruby, you’re full of surprises – this is great, I love the idea. We’re so used to seeing Mona Lisa frozen in time, still and almost lifeless, and here she is alive and contemporary, hooped earrings, cherry lips, smoky kohl eyes. I’ve been to a few galleries in my time and I would stop to take this in. I’m serious, I love it.’