I'm Still Standing

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘Wow,’ whispers Ruby. Her eyes are glued to the stage, just like mine. Just like every other pair of eyes in the room.

  Singing his own material, for the first time without his brother, in front of a brand-new crowd is something I never expected. It’s something I would never have asked him to do. Stepping up that way, taking such a risk, revealing the most vulnerable, raw side of himself to a room full of strangers, the drunk, the crazed and the critical amongst them, is one of the most amazing things anyone has ever done for me.

  I’m shaking my head, unable to get it into my mind that this man is willingly mine. He’s perfect and caring and beautiful and talented and good and… And just as all this is running through my brain, he looks at me. Our eyes lock, and I don’t look away. He’s smiling, but I’m frozen in shock.

  Ruby shoves me in the shoulder. ‘The band are here. What do I tell them?’

  ‘Tell them to get up on that stage and bring the house down.’

  And that’s exactly what they do.

  ‘What a night. Seriously, what a NIGHT!’ I usher out the last revved-up customers, who are singing our praises and promising to spread the word. I bolt the door behind them and collapse into the corner seat.

  ‘Leave the rest of the clean-up until the morning,’ I tell Danny as he collects the last few bottles from the counter. ‘After a night like that, I think we deserve a rest.’ I tip my head back and take in the new smell hanging in the air. It’s heavy, tinged with sour beer and body heat, and I breathe it in in gulps. Because that’s the smell of our grand opening success. That’s the smell of a packed house and a busy bar and a raucous, dancing, laughing, jumping-up-and-down crowd who spilt their drinks on the floor and wrapped their arms around the sweaty necks of their friends.

  To me, Rosie Munroe’s has never smelt so good.

  Danny cracks open two cold bottles of beer for us and slides in beside me. ‘It was incredible. And check this out.’ He flicks a business card over to me. ‘Supanova’s agent asked us to give him a ring with some new dates and they’ll work around us. They’re touring big-time at the moment, UK and Europe for the next two months, but after that they want Rosie Munroe’s to be their home-town gig.’ He takes a sip of his beer and settles back into his seat. ‘They loved it all – the acoustics, the ambience, the old-school intimacy. This is huge. He’s writing a glowing review of the place for their website tomorrow, so expect the word to start spreading. They’ve got a massive following.’

  He raises his bottle to me. ‘Congratulations, Evelyn, you did it. We wouldn’t be here without your vision and your bossy, ballsy, go-hard-or-go-home attitude.’

  ‘We did it. The two of us, together.’ I clink my bottle to his.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your song. Did you write that?’

  He nods. ‘I always saw me and Rory as two halves of the same person, and I guess I’ve drifted a lot without him. Not really knowing what direction to go in, not trusting what I should do next; I’d always just followed his lead. So until you came along, I guess I was just hanging out at the crossroads, literally playing my guitar on the corner, stalling and trying to get out of making any decisions. But I’ve got to make those decisions now. And being on the stage tonight by myself, singing my own song, I guess that was another step towards that.’

  He swallows a moment and then nudges my elbow.

  ‘And then this crazy country girl shows up with plans and visions and checklists. And that’s how it happened.’

  I shift up in my seat and meet his gaze. ‘Every time I think I’ve started to figure you out, you go and do something that completely surprises me.’

  His fingers tiptoe towards mine. And keep stepping up across my wrist, along the soft inside part of my arm, right up to my necklace. He traces his fingertip along the thin silver chain, my skin quivering under his touch.

  ‘Fancy a sleepover?’ I ask him.

  He leans towards me, takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips. He closes his eyes and brushes his lips against my fingers, then, holding my gaze, he presses his cheek against my hand.

  ‘You sure that’s what you want?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my breath catching. ‘It’s what I really, really want.’

  And we scramble out of the double front doors of Rosie Munroe’s as fast as if the place was on fire.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I’m awake but I don’t want to open my eyes yet. Danny is still asleep, right beside me. I lie on my back and I can feel his breath on my skin, one of his arms behind my neck, the other wrapped around my waist. If I open my eyes, I might rush this moment, push it forward too fast and lose all its gorgeous, warm, sexy deliciousness.

  The scent of him, like soap and salt on these fresh white sheets. I just want to stay here, bask in this. I listen to the rhythm of his breathing and feel the warmth of his skin against mine.

  Last night was the best night of my life.

  ‘Evelyn,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘You’re real. I didn’t want to open my eyes in case it was a dream.’

  ‘Me too.’ I smile. ‘Shall we open on three?’

  ‘Okay. One, two…’ and we both blink our eyes open, turning to each other, smiling our most heartfelt smiles. He gently presses his thumb against my temple, smoothing a stray tendril of hair. ‘You are lovely. Last night was…’ he blows out his cheeks, ‘lovely.’

  I nod my agreement. Having only ever been with one man in my entire life, I was nervous, but there was no need. Nothing short of excitement and elation took over. Danny is a kisser. He kissed every inch of me, soft and wet and long and hard. After all this time, after wanting him and watching him and resisting him for so long, to give in, to give myself over to him came as such a liberating relief. I felt that freedom, the openness, with every nerve in my body – with every kiss, with every whisper, with every shudder. And when the time came for us to get even closer, it felt the most natural next step in the world. Like darkness fading into light, like the shoreline meeting the water, like a bird taking flight, at long last.

  He checks the clock by the bedside. ‘It’s just gone nine. If we head in to do the clear-up in an hour or so, we’ll be ready to reopen at midday. Sound good, boss?’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ I tell him.

  ‘And how about coffee, or tea? Bacon, eggs, pancakes?’

  ‘Breakfast in bed? Even more surprises, Danny Foy.’ I nuzzle in to him and run my fingers through his hair. ‘Is this what life’s going be like if I stick with you? Surprises every day?’

  He smiles. ‘Really? You want to stick around a smelly old busker like me?’

  I push myself up on my elbow. ‘Don’t do yourself down.’ I lean forward and kiss him on the forehead. ‘You are a beautiful man. A beautiful, generous, talented man and a hell of a kisser. I think I could get very fond of sticking around you.’

  He raises a playful eyebrow. ‘Well I can’t say I’d object to waking up to this little pep talk every morning.’

  And with that he slides his hands over my body with a look in his eye that makes me want him all over again.

  And again.

  And maybe again after that.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  If Danny’s playlist reflects his mood, then I think I must be doing something right. It’s mellow and easy but also sexy and new; high, happy notes with lyrics full of love and cheery playfulness. And it suits me to listen, to bask in this sound as my days play out. I could listen and watch him and sneak kisses in the cellar and brush behind him and make jokes and hold his hand and work alongside him, touching distance from him, in our beautiful bar every day of my life. He is the best partner I could have. He’s super-organised, knows exactly what stock we have, keeps on top of the orders, the invoices and receipts; and he is brilliant with the customers – he greets everyone with a smile, and people often stay for much more than one drink if he catches them in conversation.

  We�
�ve attracted a bit of a cult following. Tara managed to get Rosie Munroe’s a mention in the ‘Must Visit’ section of the inflight magazine, so pretty much every passenger who’s taken the time to read it has popped in for a drink. Even Mum’s going to come and stay for a few days once her parish trip to Rome is out of the way. We’ve had to take on new staff and our music calendar is now fully booked for the next six months. The live gigs every Friday and Saturday more than cover our expenses for the rest of the week, so all the midweek trade is profit.

  Colm’s not visited for a while, which is a positive thing because he is using his new-found time to read and visit old friends and look after his health a bit more, walking and sleeping and eating decent meals. Christy still sits at the bar every day; he’s in his element giving informal history talks to the tourists. He loves recounting the old stories, showing them photographs, answering their questions. It’s been good for him too, because it’s made him lay off the whiskey. Says it fogs his memory and makes him slur his words; no good for a social historian! Instead I leave a pot of coffee warm for him on the side, so if he gets the urge, all he has to do is lean over the counter and help himself. So far, so good. For me, seeing the place transformed from an unloved little pub to a thriving social hub has brought enormous pride and satisfaction. I want to stay here like this forever.

  The clock strikes eleven and I throw the double doors of the new and improved Rosie Munroe’s open wide. I turn back in the doorway with my hands on my hips, watching the sunlight flood in, gorgeous buttery sunshine reflecting off the mirrors, the shiny brass fixtures and the varnished darkwood floor. The stained-glass panels give a dappled quality to the air, and the fresh scent of hot roasted coffee and grilled maple bacon fills the air. Some customers have started to file in already; the office crowd will follow soon after that, and then we’ll not get a chance to sit down until we ring the bell and call closing time.

  I carry the chalkboard outside. Usually I don’t know what I’m going to write until I crouch down in front of it, but today is different. Today is my father’s birthday, so in memory of him I’m going to share his heart, his thoughts and his advice with the world. I inscribe carefully in my best handwriting:

  ‘Set your sights on the sky and reach for the stars.’

  Quote courtesy of the late, great William Dooley

  I hear Danny calling me from inside, so I stand up, send a little kiss skywards and return behind the bar, where I belong.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The new day begins with a text from Mum.

  Stay dry, bad weather promised in Dublin. Saw it on news. Storms here. What letter are we up to now with the storms? G? H? We’ll be looking for new names again soon at this rate. Hope all well besides. Love you xx

  She’s not wrong. It’s pouring down with rain this morning, and I’m drenched when I get to the pub despite the umbrella Danny insisted I take with me.

  It doesn’t take me long to finish off the rest of the clear-up from the night before, and soon I settle into my own lovely landlady routine: kettle on, music on, strike up the fire and get ready for the day ahead, whatever it may bring.

  As I sit in front of the fireplace with my warming mug of coffee, I feel a funny kind of shiver and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I snuggle down into my sweater, throw another log on and double-check that all the windows are sealed shut as the rain lashes down even harder outside.

  Today might be quiet due to this weather; people may choose to stay indoors rather than brave the elements. Or it could be the complete opposite: droves of people shaking their wet hair and shopping bags might run in for respite as they make their way from place to place. Just like I did on that very first day, when I took a turn through that double doorway, frazzled and tired, not realising that I was stepping into the place where I feel I belong more than anywhere else in the world.

  I hold my coffee up to my face, breathing in its milky warmth. How lucky I was to turn that corner. How grateful I am to be here. Never in my wildest imagination did I think that this was the way my story would unfold. If I hadn’t acted on my unhappiness with James, I’d never have set out on my own. If I hadn’t acted on Tara’s offer, I’d never have made it to Dublin. If I’d never convinced Colm to give me a chance, who knows what I’d be doing. And that makes me so happy and proud, because without the changes that happened in my life, I’d never have learnt what I could do, and what I really want. Throwing everything up in the air and watching it fall back into place has renewed my faith in myself, in my own capabilities, and maybe even in Colm’s idea of there being a master plan after all.

  Kneeling down at the hearth, I prod at the fire with the big ancient poker and wait for the tinder to really take light and fill the room with a great big crackling blaze. A cold, whistling wind blows in again, but I can’t work out where it’s coming from; there’s no sign of a draught that I can see. Someone’s walked over your grave, my mother would say. Well I think I can rule that out, considering the week I’ve had. I couldn’t possibly feel more alive. I didn’t know it could be like this, I didn’t know I could feel this way. My heart twists in my chest and I shake my head. I can’t believe I was afraid of getting into something new. Something new was exactly what I needed. And it feels wonderful, like I’m really on my way.

  I hear a tap on the front window and look up to see Danny waving at me from outside. He’s soaked to the skin, which must mean that he gave me his one and only umbrella. I rush to open the door for him and give him a peck on the cheek, then set about making him a coffee too.

  By the time I look up at the clock, it’s past midday, yet there’s no sign of Christy. In all the time I’ve been here, he’s marched in through those doors, paper under arm, by twelve every single day.

  But not today.

  Danny emerges from the cellar with a new barrel to change over.

  ‘It’s odd that Christy’s late. Do you think he’s okay?’ I ask.

  Danny twists the seal and attacks the pipes. I’m so grateful he does this job, as I hate the cellar; it gives me the creeps.

  He shrugs. ‘It’s really wet out there; he might have just decided to wait until it eases up before he comes down.’

  Almost on cue, the front door flings open with the force of the wind, and there is Christy, breathless, hunched and soaked through to the skin, leaning on the door frame.

  We run to him and Danny throws his arms around his back to scoop him in as I pull against the wind to shut the doors behind him. We sit him by the fire, take his wet coat and cap and drape a blanket over his shoulders. I make him a hot whiskey with lemon, cloves and plenty of sugar. Christy doesn’t say a word.

  This is not normal. I dart a look at Danny and he pinches his lips together. Something has happened to the old man, and whatever it is, it has knocked him for six. He hasn’t even looked up yet, so deep is his shock. There isn’t any sign of injury or bleeding, so I’m certain he hasn’t fallen or been hit by a car. So what is it? What’s so terrible that it has rendered him a ghost of himself?

  Danny turns down the music and we sit either side of him.

  ‘Are you all right, Christy? Has something happened?’ I ask gently, tilting my head to try and meet his eyes.

  He shuts his.

  I reach for his hand and feel his long, bony fingers in mine. He places his other hand on top and raises his head, looking straight into the fire. ‘Colm.’

  I nod and wait, glancing over to Danny. He is biting his bottom lip; he knows that whatever comes next isn’t going be good news. Fresh tears pool in Christy’s eyes.

  ‘Colm’s dead. He had surgery, kept it quiet and told no one, thinking he could just check himself in and out, no fuss. But his heart wasn’t strong enough and he went under but never woke up.’ He closes his eyes and dips his chin to his chest. I squeeze his hands, but they stay rigid in mine. ‘Never regained consciousness. That’s what the doctor said.’

  I look to Danny; he stands and bolts the lock on the fron
t door.

  We sit and try to shoulder the weight of the news. The suddenness. The finality. I knew Colm wasn’t well, but I never expected this. I don’t think he expected it either. And why would he? He thought he was going in for a straightforward operation. My efforts to keep a dignified silence collapse as the sheer shock of the whole thing makes me dissolve into tears.

  ‘Oh Christy, I’m so sorry. Poor Colm. Anything you need, we are here for you. If you need us to contact people, make arrangements, take care of you or anyone else – we are here.’

  I look up to Danny, conscious that I’ve just spoken on behalf of both of us, committed him to a level of help that he might not want to give. But he steps up to Christy and places his hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Anything, Christy. I lost my brother. I know there are no words for the pain. If we can help you, let us.’

  For the first time, Christy’s watery eyes leave the fire and he looks up.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you both. This place is all I’ve got left.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I hate funerals.

  Hundreds of people show up to say goodbye, to pay their final respects to Colm. As he had no family left, it falls to Danny and me to stand either side of Christy and shake the mourners’ hands, thank them for coming, accept their sympathies.

  A crowd a hundred deep follows the wreathed hearse through the street. When we reach Rosie’s, the car stops. We all stop. And in a moment of collective silence, we somehow let Colm say goodbye to his place in the world. The place where his life began and ended, where he spent every single one of his years on earth. And now he is gone, just like every one of his predecessors. But still the building remains, the pub stays as it has done through the ages, surviving despite deaths and wars and recessions and constant change and fluctuation. Rosie’s still stands, a testament to his life, to his friendships, to his memory.