by Roddy Doyle
Charlo and Richie Massey went to a house in Malahide. The house belonged to a bank manager, Kevin Fleming, and his wife, Gwen.
Paula's been there, where the house is. She went out on the bus, just to see. To kind of – she doesn't know. She's never been really sure why she went. Mr Fleming was fifty-three when it happened. He's probably retired now, maybe married again. Living in Spain, or somewhere. That's why Paula went that time. To see that life went on, that her husband hadn't torn it away completely.
They pushed their way into the house, with a shotgun and balaclavas. It was eight o'clock in the morning. Richie Massey and Mr Fleming then went in Mr Fleming's car. They were going to Mr Fleming's bank while Charlo held Mrs Fleming, with the shotgun.
He shot her. He killed her.
The Guards were onto them. There was a roadblock waiting for Richie Massey. And they came over the back wall of the house, for Charlo. He shot her. He ran. He ran to the stolen car Richie Massey had parked across the green from the Flemings' house. He jumped in. He remembered – did he? Was he that thick? It dawned on him. He couldn't drive. He tried to get out of the car. Holding the shotgun. Aiming it. They shot him.
She sits at the table. She takes out her notebook. Soap, washing liquid.
She sees her children in a list. Jack, Nicola, Leanne, John Paul. In that order, down the page. It's wrong. It's reasonable, but it's wrong. What she wants to do is change the list. The names in the same order, but across the page. That's how she wants it. Like a horse race, about to begin. Starter's orders. But there'll be no winner, because the race won't start.
Can she do that?
Yes.
No.
Yes – she doesn't know. She wants to. More than anything. That's true.
But today. That's where it's hard. Where it's horrible. She dragged them all through shite, for years, all four of them. So there's a kind of equality there. But today she can point at Jack and she can say, That's my son. And she can point at Nicola and say, Over there. That's my daughter. You should see her children. See the car? It came with her job. She passed the test the first time. Paula could go on for hours. You wouldn't think it, would you? She's my daughter.
Paula gave birth to Nicola. She's her mother's daughter. It's thrilling. Despite the circumstances, the drink, the beatings, a big part of Paula survived – there, every time she sees Nicola. And Jack. It's not just love. It is love. She loves them; she loves herself. She made them.
She was walking past a kids' clothes shop, a few weeks ago. In one of the shopping centres. She went with Rita Kavanagh. She didn't buy anything. She'd no money. Thirteen euro, sixty cent was what she had. They were walking past, and they stopped. They pointed at what they liked, what they'd like to get for their grandchildren. But what hit Paula was the name of the shop, Pride and Joy. Those words, together. It was exactly what she felt when she saw Jack or Nicola.
They didn't go into the shop. Rita knows the story. They were just there to look.
—It's the first thing I noticed, Rita said that day. — The first sign that the country was changing.
—What was that? said Paula.
—The clothes shops for kids, said Rita.
Paula nodded.
—They were the proof, said Rita. —People had more money than they needed. It's great.
Paula nodded. She agreed.
—I noticed them before all the new cars, said Rita. — And the talk about house prices. Even all the cranes.
—Jesus, Rita, said Paula. —All I noticed was the price of vodka going up.
She can say that to Rita. She can joke and be serious.
The kitchen's done. She's turned off the radio. Marian Finnucane is over. Pat Kenny was talking to Des Cahill, about the sports. Two men trying to outdo each other. It's too early in the day for that.
She'll finish her list, then get going on the bedrooms. Butter, plain flour, eggs. She's making pancakes for tomorrow's tea. Tomorrow's tea. She's thinking ahead. Chicken pieces – for Jack's sandwiches. Bananas, apples, carrots. Salmon steaks – she'll have a look at them. Mince – for Leanne. She loves spaghetti bolognaise. Spaghetti, tin toms, onions.
Can she point at Leanne and say, That's my daughter? Or at John Paul. That's my son.
Pride and joy. Shame and fear.
She has to put the biro down. She rubs her hand. It's hurting her. She thinks of her mother's hands and swollen legs.
She loves her children.
That's easy to think. Easy to believe and say. Of course, she does. She loves them.
But she has to be able to point. That's my daughter. That's my son. There has to be pride.
Who'd want to point at Paula and shout, That's my mother? There's no reason why any of her kids would do that. She has no right to expect it.
She doesn't expect it. It's the world that goes on in her head. The conversations she has, the situations she makes up. It's in her head she needs to say, That's my daughter. To someone she might not know, who might not even exist. She needs to feel the honesty, when she's alone. It's herself she has to fight against, not Leanne or John Paul. They're innocent. Leanne doesn't have to pass any tests. She doesn't have to do anything. Leanne is Leanne. That's what Paula has to accept and love. The Leanne she'll meet later today. Or the Leanne who might not come home. Leanne tomorrow morning. That's my daughter.
Maybe Leanne has John Paul's strength. Whatever it is that John Paul has. He's been talking to Leanne; she knows that. Two years ago – last year – she'd have thought he was supplying her with heroin or something. She doesn't know him.
She's changed all the beds. She's put the first wash into the machine. Dympna's well ahead of her there. Her washing machine is much better than Paula's. But that's not saying much. Paula's should be on top of the dump, in County Meath or wherever they throw those things. Dympna's is a space-age job. It's almost silent. And the powder doesn't congeal in the tray. Dympna's dryer is the real thing though, even better than the washing machine. It knows when the clothes are dry. It keeps going until they are. And it's always right. Paula has tried to catch it out. She threw in a wet pillowcase, just when the other bedclothes were dry. The machine kept going, the pillowcase was dry when it stopped and Paula took it out and ironed it.
That's my daughter. That's my son.
They're fighting, and losing. They're fighting and winning. Like Paula.
Leanne loves bolognaise. The salmon can wait. Paula will do bolognaise for tonight. She'll leave it for Leanne. She'll leave a note with it.
Love, Mammy.
Love, Paula.
X, Mammy.
X x, Paula.
Xxxxxxx, P.
Something like that. Just a little note. Dinner's in the pot. I'll eat with you, if you can wait till I get home. If not, fire away.
Xxxxxx, P.
Leanne sitting at the kitchen table. Ruling her page with a red biro. Only a red biro would do. She wouldn't make do with a blue one or a pencil. Paula had to give her the money to get one. About twenty pence back then. The line was perfectly straight. Behind all the giddiness, the restlessness, that was Leanne. Slogging away. Working hard. Concentrating. It was funny and lovely. And brilliant. That was Leanne.
That's Leanne.
That's my daughter.
—Mammy says you don't drink.
—Does she?
—Yeah.
—Did she tell you that?
—No. I heard her.
—Did you?
—Yeah.
—Who was she talking to, pet?
—My daddy.
—Grand.
—Do you not?
—Do I not drink?
—Yeah.
—No. I don't.
—How do you not die?
—Oh. I drink. I drink plenty of things.
—What?
—Water and coffee and —
—Coke?
—Sometimes.
—I seen you drinking Coke.
—I'm sure
you did, love. Do you like this one?
—It's alright. I don't like the colour.
—I thought all girls loved pink.
—Not all pink. It's alright. It's a bit not nice. Gillian's.
—What?
—You drank her Coke.
—This one then? It's nicer.
—No. Why did you drink it?
—What?
—Gillian's Coke.
—At the party?
—Yeah. Gillian's party.
—I drank Gillian's Coke at Gillian's party. I shouldn't have, should I?
—No. You didn't ask.
—I just took a little bit. There was loads more left.
—You didn't ask.
—I'm really sorry.
—It wasn't mine.
—Will I say sorry to Gillian?
—Yeah.
—Was she upset when I drank it?
—No. She didn't know.
—Ah well —
—I seen you.
—Fair enough. I must have been thirsty. Grannies are, sometimes.
—Why did Mammy say that?
—Well —
—I know.
—I knew you would, Vanessa.
—You don't drink beer and that.
—That's right.
—It's called alcohol.
—That's right.
—I knew.
—Of course, you did. What about this? It's nice, isn't it?
—Yeah.
—Do you want it?
—No.
—Why not?
—Don't like it.
—Okay. Your choice. Some people shouldn't drink beer and alcohol.
—Why not?
—Because it's bad for them. They become addicted to it. D'you know what that means?
—Yeah.
—Of course, you do.
—You can't do without it.
—That's right.
—You become ob-sessed.
—Oh, very good.
—Like chocolate.
—A bit like that.
—Yeah. Some people are addicted to chocolate.
—That's right.
—And sex.
—What?
—I seen that. A man in a programme.
—What?
—They said he was addicted to sex.
—Oh. Before you ask, Vanessa. I'm not.
—Addicted to sex?
—No.
—Sex is stupid.
—Bang on. But I am addicted to alcohol. That's what your mammy meant.
—I know.
—I love you, Vanessa, d'you know that?
—They all do.
—They're alright. It's a nice feeling, I'd say, is it?
—It's alright.
—Tell us. Do you know everything?
—Yeah.
—Everything?
—Yeah. Nearly.
—Look it. I want to buy you something. It's getting late. Choose something.
—These.
—Socks?
—They're brilliant.
—They're only socks.
—I like them.
—Okay.
—That's stupid.
—What is?
—What you said.
—What did I say?
—They're only socks.
—Why is that stupid?
—Socks aren't supposed to be anything.
—Except socks.
—Yeah.
—You'll go far, love.
—Where?
—Oh, anywhere you want.
—Australia?
—Yeah.
—I don't want to go there.
—Wherever.
—Granny? Will Gillian come as well?
—If you want.
—And Mammy?
—If you want.
—And Daddy?
—If you want.
—And Hairy Bear?
—If you want.
—And Mister Pig?
—If you want.
—And you?
—If you want.
She leans against the wall. It's cold.
She's waiting for her bus.
The house was empty. The minute she opened the door, she knew there was something wrong. The door didn't drag across the rug.
There was no rug. There was nothing. Everything was gone. Everything.
She'd kept going. Down to the kitchen.
This is Paula's Tuesday house, in Clontarf.
There wasn't a trace of anything. The emptiness was spotless. The thought hit Paula. They'd had cleaners in, to clean up after them. The fuckers.
Gone.
It's that time of day. The buses seem to hide. She wants to get home.
It's cold.
They didn't owe her anything. It's not that. The money had been on the kitchen table for her last week. She hardly knew them. She hardly ever saw them. She was American, the wife; that bouncy type of way about her. She'd never seen the husband. But she'd ironed his shirts and sorted his socks.
