Paula Spencer

by Roddy Doyle

  The hall isn't theirs. They share with upstairs. There are two bikes and a buggy, and a hoover. Her leg hits a pedal as she gets past one of the bikes. The front wheel bends towards the wall but the bike stays up. There are marks, a line of them, all along the wallpaper, right to the back of the hall, where handlebars have scratched and stained. The hoover looks better than hers.

  She feels hands on the SuperValu bag. She laughs but she holds tight and pulls it back. She follows them in, straight into the living room.

  And Star.

  Paula will never like her. She doesn't know how much it matters. The letters on her knuckles, they scare Paula. She's skinny and fat in the same body. Her legs are skinny, withered-looking. Paula has seen that when Star is sitting down. It happens to a lot of women, and men too, who drink for years. Their legs become like the legs on a wading bird, a stork or something. It didn't happen to Paula. And Star doesn't seem to have a proper arse. But she has a bit of a gut that hangs over the elastic of her pants. There's the red mark from the elastic whenever she moves; the pants are always sliding off her. She hitches them up. She's not an attractive woman.

  But that's not it, although Paula would love to see someone glowing and gorgeous for John Paul. She's vain about her children. They're all handsome – or have been. Star frightens Paula, and it's not just the tattoos. She has another one, a little tear, under her right eye. And another just over her arse, where her arse should be, a triangular shape, kind of pointing down. It's what Carmel calls a fuck-me-here tattoo. Half the young ones in Dublin have them. Nicola has one. It looks nice on her. She has the figure for it. It's not just the tattoos.

  She's there now, smiling. Star doesn't like smiling but she's trying. Her teeth are bad. Bits of the front ones are eaten away.

  Paula is smiling. They don't like each other and they know it.

  —Did you come on the Luas? says Star.

  —Does the Luas go by here? says Paula.

  —Yeah. Rialto.

  —Or Fatima, says Marcus.

  —I didn't know.

  —Yeah; it's great, says Star.

  The kids are hopping around Paula. They're trying to look into the bag. Sapphire pulls at the wrapping paper.

  —Can we open it now, can we? Granny-woman!

  —Lay off, says Star. —They're desperate, she says to Paula.

  —They're lovely, says Paula.

  Star doesn't look like a mother you'd run to. She doesn't look like a mother at all. Maybe that's it. Paula looks at Star and she sees herself. She's not good enough.

  —I'll go back that way, says Paula. —That'll be nice.

  —You can get the Dart from Connolly then, says Star.

  —It's not running at the weekends, Paula tells her. — They're extending the platforms or something.

  —It is, says John Paul. —It's running for December. For Christmas.

  —Oh, says Paula. —That's great.

  She feels stupid, and hopeless. She came all this way on the buses. She waited in the rain. And she could have come in luxury – Dart and Luas. She uses the Dart all week. How could she have missed that it was running on the Christmas weekends? One step off her path and she can't cope. She wants to tell them how hard she works. She wants to show them her lists, and the lines through all the things she's done.

  Star looks like a junkie. That's it.

  Paula doesn't trust her.

  —Sit down, says John Paul.

  Paula takes off her jacket. She looks for somewhere to put it. It's wet but not too bad. No one takes it from her. She hangs it on the door handle. No one else is sitting. The kids are moving in on the bag again. They'll win if it comes to a tug-of-war. Why doesn't she just let go?

  Star grabs them and drags them into the kitchen. They grunt and struggle; she really has to pull. Paula can hear her wheezing. She closes the door over, not quite shut.

  It's just her and John Paul now. There's a small sofa. It's the kids' bed too. Sapphire told her the last time Paula was here. There's a tartan rug thrown over it. There's an armchair, black leather. It's nice. There are two straight-backed kitchen chairs, against the wall. She feels like an eejit. Why can't she just sit? She doesn't know how to behave. She's never been good in other people's houses; she's never liked visiting. But this is ridiculous. This is her son.

  John Paul moves. He sits on the sofa. She sits in the armchair. She pushes back into it. It's a bit cold, the leather. She's not sure she'd want it. She still holds the SuperValu bag.

  —It's not all good, says John Paul.

  She looks at him. What's happening?

  —The Luas, he says.

  He looks at her. He doesn't sit back. His legs aren't crossed.

  —The landlord wants us out, he says.

  —Oh no.

  —He wants to sell.

  —Because of the Luas?

  —Yeah, says John Paul. —The value of the houses around here.

  —They've gone up?

  —Yeah.

  —Like at home, she says.

  She doesn't own her house. The Corporation – they've changed the name – the City Council owns it. Charlo laughed, the time she'd said that maybe they should buy it.

  —With what? he'd said. —You fuckin' eejit.

  —It's mad, she says now.

  —Might be no harm, says John Paul. —Might get somewhere bigger, yeah?

  He looks at her. Is there something he wants? Is she being thick? If she was any good she could offer him help. Is that what he's looking for? For her to give him the money, take out the chequebook and a pen that clicks. But it couldn't be that. He's looking for nothing.

  What is it she has against him? It's there, the urge to sneer. She doesn't know why. She really doesn't.

  —Will you look around here? she says.

  —Maybe, he says.

  It'd be nice to have him nearer home. She could have the kids around and spoil them. She could see John Paul more often. She could get used to him.

  The door to the kitchen is given a shove. Marcus comes in. Sapphire comes after him. She's been crying. Her face is blotched. Her eyes are tiny and black. Did that skinny bitch hit her? She looks undernourished.

  —Ah, she says. —What happened you, pet?

  She shifts in the chair, to make room for Sapphire. But Sapphire stays back. She rubs her eyes. She pulls her damp hair away from her face. She points at the SuperValu bag.

  —Mammy wo-won't let me open them, she says.

  She turns to the kitchen door. She sees Star coming in. She stamps her foot.

  —I want to!

  It floods into Paula – it's lovely. Sapphire looks a bit like Leanne looked, when Leanne had the hump, when she was working her way to getting exactly what she wanted.

  —She's like Leanne, she says to John Paul.

  He leans out and picks up Sapphire. Her face is cross but she's happy to be lifted. He bounces her gently, just barely lifting his knee.

  —She's her own woman, he says.

  —She is, says Paula.

  The blotches are gone. She's happy there. But she's still staring at the bag. Paula nearly laughs. She wants to give in. But she doesn't want to interfere. They have their own way of doing things.

  But the Star one there. She has that look. That hungry, mean look. John Paul's the one holding it all together.

  She's going to be sick.

  —Alright?

  It's John Paul.

  She feels the hot wave flow across her face. That's how it feels – a wave. A sick wave that takes everything out of her. For a second or two. Just oily, white heat. She'll faint.

  But then it's grand. She's fine. She can breathe.

  But it's worse. She knows. She shouldn't be here. She can't cope. It's too much.

  They look at her. The four of them.

  She smiles. She can feel her face again. She can feel the leather around her. She holds out the bag to Star.

  —It's just a few things.

  Star tak
es the bag.

  —Thanks.

  There's nothing in the bag for Star. Paula can't believe that now. Not even a selection box. She wants to take the bag and run. But there's nothing in it for John Paul either. She couldn't think of anything to get him. She really couldn't. She doesn't know him.

  —For the kids, just, she says.

  —That's cool, says Star. —But yis aren't to open them till Christmas.

  —It's Christmas now.

  —Christmas Day.

  —Ah, Mammy.

  Paula watches Star go to the window. She walks like a much heavier woman. It's getting dark outside. It's dark in that corner. Star bends down and the Christmas tree is suddenly there. Star has plugged it in.

  —Oh, look at that, says Paula.

  They don't have a tree at home yet. She's only thought of that now. She sits back. She's feeling better. It's nice, not guarding the bag. She's glad she's here. She looks at Sapphire.

  —What's in them? says Sapphire.

  —Not telling, says Paula.

  —Ah, says Sapphire.

  Paula looks at Marcus. She winks at him. He stares at her. Who is she?

  John Paul came to her. He rang the bell. He wants her there.

  —D'you want a cup of tea?

  It's Star.

  Sapphire and the little fella are at the tree. He's trying to get around it. He's very small for his age. He's getting in behind the tree. She watches it shift and start to topple. He disappears behind the tree, and reappears on the other side. The tree's still standing. It's nicely done up.

  Star is standing at the door to the kitchen. It's tiny in there; Paula saw it the last time. They need more space.

  Paula looks at Star.

  —Tea? says Star.

  —Yeah, says Paula. —Lovely.

  —I know what's in them, says Sapphire.

  She's squatting down, examining the packages. She doesn't touch them. The tree's shaking again. Marcus is back behind it.

  She'll get a tree tomorrow. She'll make Jack come with her, to help her carry it home.

  —How's Leanne? says John Paul.

  She stops herself; she doesn't answer too quickly. She's grand, she's great. None of that easy shite. He'd know, and so would she. She thinks about it. She lets him see her.

  —She's up and down, she says.

  —Hard, he says.

  —Yeah.

  —She staying away from it?

  —No.

  He's seen Leanne. He's seen her on the couch.

  —It's not as bad, she says.

  Why is she saying that?

  —She's on and off. She's sometimes grand.

  She hears something fall. She looks, and sees one of the decorations bouncing across the floor and rolling. Marcus crawls out from under the tree. Sapphire is still on her hunkers, staring at the parcels.

  —Where do you hide their presents? she whispers to John Paul.

  He nods at the door to the kitchen.

  —Her ma.

  —Grand, says Paula.

  Her mother's an addict too. John Paul told her that, one of the first times they met. It's a hard thing to imagine, a granny who's a heroin addict. But John Paul got there before Paula; it was hard to imagine a granny who's an alcoholic. He wasn't being vicious. She even smiled.

  Star comes in with the tea. She has it all on a tray, three mugs, and two bottles of 7-Up. She walks slowly, carefully, staring at the tray. Her mother's been clean for years. So John Paul told her. Her father's been dead since Star was a baby. Why can't Paula like her? She's carrying a tray with tea for Paula. There's biscuits on it as well. They're on a plate and all. She's only a kid. Paula sees that. She's not much older than Leanne.

  She'll drag him down.

  —Here, Star calls to the kids.

  Paula smiles at them. They don't see. They grab at the bottles. Star holds the bottles up in the air.

  —Manners.

  Her skin is white. She's right beside Paula. Her top is lifted way up. White and kind of lifeless. It isn't a young one's skin.

  —We can't give them Coke, she tells Paula, after she's handed over the bottles. —Sure we can't, Popey?

  Her name for John Paul.

  —They go mental, says John Paul. —Should be banned.

  Star bends over the tray. The tray's on the floor. There's no table.

  Popey.

  She looks at him. All through those missing years, there was someone calling him Popey.

  —Well, says Sapphire.

  She's back over at the tree. She's staring at the presents.

  —One of them's a –

  She turns, to look at Paula. To judge.

  —Selection box.

  —Not telling, says Paula.

  She winks at John Paul.

  —She misses nothing, he says.

  Paula wants him in her arms. Fuckin' God, it hurts.

  Nicola's downstairs. Her voice has been there all day, right below Paula. She's taken over the house.

  Paula's sick. The flu – whatever it is. She came home from work two days ago and it hit her, bang. She's loving it.

  She's too sick to read. She has the radio on but she doesn't have to pay attention. She was listening earlier, to Joe Duffy; people who'd been at the Tsunami disaster, who'd witnessed the whole thing. There was a woman still out there, somewhere, talking about how she was sitting on a balcony, having her breakfast, when she saw the wave coming at her. It destroyed everything, except the building she was in. And a man talked about trying to get home, and his kids swimming in the hotel pool, while there were bodies in the streets outside. She listened, in and out of it. She didn't like it, that she didn't care. Because she did; she does care. It's terrible. But she's sick.

  It's just music now. She knows the song but she can't think of the name. It's Barry White – she thinks it's Barry White. Or it's Billy Joel. She'll find out from the DJ when it's over. It must be Ronan Collins. It's that time of day, she thinks – late afternoon.

  It's 2005. She's not sure of the date, but it's the second week of the new year. But the people on the radio keep going on about it. Resolutions, joining a gym, finding more time for yourself. All that shite.