Paula Spencer

by Roddy Doyle

  Three years. Near enough.

  There's no For Sale sign. There's no sign of anything.

  She has the key.

  She could move in.

  She feels like she's been sacked. It's not fair.

  It's a good story though. She'll enjoy telling it. She won't add anything. It's weird enough.

  She needs the money. Sixty euro a week, always on the table.

  There's no table there now.

  For fuck sake.

  She still has the key, and the alarm code.

  She gets away from the wall. She looks up the road. She can see as far as the wooden bridge. No bus.

  She walks back to the house. It's not far. Just around the corner. She walks up the drive. It feels strange, now that she knows the house is empty. Like she's doing something she shouldn't be doing. Her feet on the gravel. She gets to the door. She takes out the keys. She puts them through the letterbox. She hears them hit the floor.

  Leanne's asleep. She's quiet. She's not snoring. She's on her side. Her head is on the pillow.

  Paula leans over, a little more. She kisses Leanne's temple. She feels the warmth, and the slight wetness. The sweat she'd had when she was a little girl, after running or dancing. Not drops, just a glow.

  She straightens up. Her back is at her. She goes across to her own room.

  She looks at Nicola. She doesn't look great.

  She does. She looks lovely. But behind it, the face she wears when she's out in the world, she looks very tired. There are small wrinkles at her eyes.

  Paula's the mother of a child with wrinkles.

  —Did you get my message? says Nicola.

  She has that voice – you're going to disappoint me. Paula could do without it.

  —No, she says. —I forgot the mobile this morning. It's up beside the bed.

  Nicola sighs.

  Paula knows. She's expected to say Sorry. But she's not going to. It's only a fuckin' phone, and she has wrinkles of her own.

  —What did it say? she asks.

  —I just wanted to know if you'd be here.

  Nicola hangs her bag from the back of the chair.

  —Well, there's no need for me to leg it upstairs, so.

  —No.

  Nicola sits down.

  —Are you alright, love?

  The edge is gone out of Paula. It's a long time since she looked down at Nicola's head. It's a long time since Nicola let her.

  —I'm fine, she says.

  —You don't look fine.

  Nicola looks at Paula. She looks up at her.

  —You look tired, says Paula.

  —I'm always tired.

  —I know, says Paula. —The kids, your job.

  Nicola shrugs.

  —It's life, she says.

  —You're right, says Paula.

  She pulls back a chair, so she can face Nicola. She sits.

  —Anything else?

  Nicola shakes her head, once.

  —No.

  She doesn't look away. She looks straight back at Paula – go no further.

  Paula smiles.

  She's not to be trusted. Nicola looks after Paula, not the other way round.

  She puts her hand on Nicola's. Her hand is cool, beautiful. She squeezes gently.

  She wakes up. She's out of bed. She's downstairs. She's picking up the kettle. It's a ton – she feels it in her wrist. It's not even that, the pain in her thumb, her hand, beginning to eat further along her arm.

  It's not that.

  It's —

  She doesn't know.

  She doesn't sit. She has to move.

  It's a day to skip. But that's no cure – go back to bed, go back to sleep, wake up feeling better. It's on her already.

  It's drink-pain. Half-seven in the morning. A drink would help. Just the one.

  That's the worst part. The honesty of it. A drink would help. There's no arguing. Thirteen months, two days – she can feel die certainty.

  Leanne wakes up.

  —What're you doing? Ma?

  She's looking under Leanne's bed. She's stretching, hoping her fingers will touch a bottle, a can.

  —Ma?

  Her fingers expect it.

  She hears the creak. She doesn't look or stop. Leanne's getting out of the bed. She has to step over Paula.

  —What are you doing there?

  She feels the hands on her shoulders. She shrugs them off. She pushes an elbow back. She pushes her other hand further under the bed. Her face is pressed into the side of the mattress.

  —Mammy?

  She feels something. It goes from her fingers. She's pushed it away. She stretches further. It hurts. Her face cuts into the bed frame. She has it. A can. She has it.

  She has it.

  She pushes back, against Leanne's legs. She makes space for herself. She puts the can to her mouth. She knows, but she does it.

  It's empty.

  She can taste it, dried, on the lip of the can. She can taste – it's nothing. Nothing there to lick.

  She pushes back, into Leanne. She wants to hurt her, to knock her over. Get her throat, get at her eyes.

  —Have you anything else?

  —No.

  —Fuckin' liar.

  —I don't.

  She grabs Leanne's legs. She feels them bend, Leanne's weight falling on her. She's shouting. No words – she's grunting. Leanne falls over her head. She's stuck between the bed and Paula, half on Paula's lap. She's hissing, gasping. She's terrified. The bitch. The selfish —

  Light.

  A change; the angle.

  The door has moved.

  It's Jack.

  She tries to stand. Paula's stuck. Leanne is on her lap. Her feet under her arse – they're twisted, and numb.

  It screams through her now.

  Jack —

  It's always there but sometimes – now – the shame is enough to kill her.

  She hits Leanne. She thumps her; she feels it in her hand.

  —Get off me!

  He's outside, on the landing. He might be – he is.

  She pushes.

  The shame.

  She pushes Leanne off her lap. There's no weight in Leanne. She isn't fighting back. Paula doesn't care. She has to get up. And downstairs. She can start again. Put on the kettle. Start the day.

  She feels wet on her hand. She feels teeth.

  Leanne bites her. Nips her. Like a pup they once had, before Jack was born. Like a warning.

  The teeth are gone. Leanne is coughing. Paula can't see her. She's right under the bed.

  Paula puts her hands on the bed and pushes back. She gets her feet from under her. She watches Leanne crawl out. She can't see her face.

  She leans to the side. She can see out to the landing. Jack isn't there. There's no shadow or breath.

  —Jack?

  God, God, let him be asleep. He's such a deep sleeper. If a drink was put in front of her now she wouldn't want it. She wouldn't take it.

  She's over it. She's grand. She's embarrassed – Leanne is sitting up – she's mortified. But she's grand. Her breath, she's puffing – she's sweating – her forehead is soaking, her neck. Just give her a second chance.

  They're knee to knee, like two little sisters, playing on the bedroom floor. It's ridiculous.

  —Sorry.

  —Okay.

  —Sorry.

  She means it. She thinks she does. She'll get up in a sec. She'll look into Jack's room. He'll be asleep. She'll go back downstairs. She'll put his waffles in the toaster. She'll make her coffee. She'll make tea for Leanne.

  The can is beside them on the floor. A can of Dutch Gold. The shine is off the tin. She can see a dent. It's been empty a long time.

  —Are you drinking again? says Leanne.

  Again.

  Paula hates that fuckin' word.

  —No, she says.

  —But — ?

  Leanne nods at the can.

  —You got there before me, love, says Pau
la. —Thanks.

  If that sounds malicious she couldn't care less. She knows what's happening.

  Her mammy's protector. Leave my mammy alone.

  Can a child ever stop? Paula can't face it. It's so fuckin' horrible. The shame; sweet Jesus.

  Leanne will stop drinking now. She won't touch another drop, so she can look after her mammy. She has Paula where she wants her. Where she knows her.

  The house isn't big enough for two alcoholic women. One needs to look at the other, from a height, from a depth. They both need the love that's given to those who hate themselves. Jesus, it's poison. It's only beginning.

  She breathes in. She breathes out.

  Is this the way she'll save Leanne? Find a bottle and put it to her mouth. Pull back her head. And Leanne will be saved.

  —Leanne, she says.

  —What?

  —I'm not going back.

  Leanne says nothing.

  —You woke up in time, says Paula.

  —It was empty, an'anyway.

  —I'd've kept looking. I'd have gone out.

  —There's nowhere open at this hour.

  —You know what I mean, love.

  —Yeah.

  —It's not going to happen.

  She wants to see Jack.

  She stays where she is. She makes sure her knees are touching Leanne's.

  —Mad, wha'.

  Leanne nods.

  —I'm grand, says Paula.

  Leanne nods.

  —Thanks, says Paula.

  Her legs are killing her. She hasn't sat like this in years.

  —I'm fine, she says. —Do you believe me?

  What happens now?

  Leanne nods, two sharp nods.

  Will Leanne go on the rampage? Jesus, the shame. It swims through her all day. A shark. Waiting for blood. Relaxed and smug, never hungry for long.

  —I have to get up, says Paula. —My arse is killing me. Jack must think we're mad.

  —Nothing new there, says Leanne.

  It hurts. It's not meant to, but it does. Jack knows. Jack knows. Jack has grown up knowing. Jack smells her breath, every day. Every morning, every lunchtime. Jack checks. Always on his best behaviour, always at the ready.

  —Anyway, says Paula.

  She gets ready to stand.

  —Jesus.

  She can't get up. One of her legs is dead. She's so confused, she doesn't know which one. She laughs; it's not funny. She puts out her hand.

  —Give us a hand.

  She feels Leanne's hand. She feels the pull, the strength, the rough skin.

  She's on her feet. She shakes the leg. The left. She laughs.

  —Yoga, Leanne.

  —What about it?

  —What's it like?

  —How would I know?

  —Would you be into it?

  —Don't know, says Leanne. —Maybe.

  —There might be classes, says Paula. —Will I find out?

  Leanne shrugs.

  —I suppose so; yeah.

  —Mad, isn't it? says Paula.

  Leanne nods.

  —One minute I want a drink. The next, I want to go to fuckin' India.

  —I'm sure there are classes nearer than that.

  —Will I put the kettle on for you?

  —Yeah; thanks.

  —This is mad, says Paula. —I can't cope with it. Pretending. I'm sorry I hit you. I'm sorry.

  Leanne gets it right. She says nothing.

  —Can we talk about it later? says Paula.

  Leanne nods.

  —Okay; yeah. Will I stay at home?

  —No.

  —Okay.

  —I'm grand.

  Jesus. She's grand. Nothing to it.

  —See you downstairs.

  —Okay; yeah.

  Jack isn't asleep. He isn't in bed. He isn't in his room.

  He heard it all. He must have. She can still feel Leanne's skin in her hand.

  She hears a footstep. He's in the kitchen.

  —Hiya, Jack.

  —Hi.

  He's having his cornflakes standing up. He doesn't look at her. The elbows of his jumper are nearly gone. She can see the white of his shirt.

  —D'you want your waffles?

  —I'm grand, he says.

  Jesus Christ, they're all fuckin' grand.

  —Won't take a minute, she says.

  Please, please God.

  —Okay.

  He's in no hurry to escape. He mustn't have heard. The day has started. She'll run to work. She'll run all the way.

  But there's no work. It's Tuesday. That empty house in Clontarf; it's not hers to go to. She doesn't have a new one yet.

  She takes the waffles from the freezer. There are eight left in the box, and three more days to payday. She's two waffles ahead. She'll leave them to Jack in her will.