Paula Spencer

by Roddy Doyle

—They're all kind of the same.

  —Which one?

  He points.

  —Legend. Babe. She certainly knows her popes. Jesus, Jack, you're a messer.

  She wants to hug him.

  —She certainly knows her popes?

  —It's all she's been talking about for weeks, says Jack. —Because of the election for the new one and that.

  He points at Legend.

  —That means she's a really good teacher. It's in loads of the comments for other schools.

  —And what about this one? says Paula.

  She points at Babe. She doesn't touch the screen.

  He doesn't answer.

  —Do us a favour, she says. —Write out all the comments you made on a piece of paper for me. So I can show them that you think they're all great and – Jesus!

  —What?

  —No; it's grand, says Paula. —I've just had an idea. I think.

  —What?

  He's worried; she can see it.

  —Can you change the comments there, if you want to?

  She points at the screen.

  —I'm not sure, he says. —I think so.

  —See if you can, says Paula. —Then change them.

  —Why?

  —Take out Babe. It's not nice, Jack. It's not appropriate. And change the one about Mister O'Driscoll. Make it something – just nicer.

  —But they've seen it already.

  —It doesn't matter, Jack. Do it. Trust me.

  Trust me. She believes it – here, now. Jack can trust her.

  —Look it, she says. —Tomorrow, right? They'll have it all printed out. I'll pretend I haven't seen it. They'll expect that.

  She keeps going. She doesn't look at him.

  —I'll ask to see it on a computer, just to understand it properly. Is there a computer in the Year Head's office? What's her name again?

  —O'Keefe.

  —Miss O'Keefe, Jack.

  —Yeah.

  —Is there a computer?

  —Yeah.

  —Grand. I'll ask to see it. They'll see the comments, changed. I'll say I know nothing about the changes. They'll believe me again. So, you did it. On your own initiative. Sorry for your sins and all that.

  She hops to the door.

  —I'll leave you to it, she says.

  The good days are always a surprise. She's a tactical genius. And Jack fancies his religion teacher.

  She goes downstairs.

  She takes her phone off the table. She finds his number.

  —Yeah?

  It's not John Paul.

  —Star?

  —He's not here, says Star.

  Where is he? she wants to ask. And what're you doing with his mobile?

  —How are you, Star? she says.

  What did Star see on John Paul's screen when she was picking up the phone? What's the name in his phone book? Ma? Paula? Hopeless Fuckin' Alco Bitch?

  —Alright, says Star.

  —How are the little ones? says Paula.

  —Good; yeah.

  —Lovely, says Paula.

  Star says nothing.

  —So, says Paula. —He doesn't have the phone with him.

  —No.

  —Will he be home?

  —Yeah.

  —Will you tell him to give me a —

  —Yeah.

  —Grand. Bye, so.

  —Yeah; bye.

  —Nice talking to you, Star.

  —Yeah.

  The phone's dead. Paula puts it on the table. She stands up. She's not doing too badly. She called the woman Star – three times, she thinks. She's getting there. Star doesn't like her, and she doesn't like Star. It's up to her to change it, not Star. If Paula shifts, so will Star – or she might. That's enough.

  Jack fancies his religion teacher.

  She finds Leanne when she gets home from work. She's on the couch, passed out.

  —Leanne, love.

  Leanne's on her side, face hidden by hair. In the dark. The curtains are drawn – it's not dark out yet. The telly's on, the sound down.

  She has to touch her – it's dreadful. What'll happen? What won't happen?

  She calls Jack.

  No answer.

  She calls as she moves to Leanne. She calls again –

  —Jack!

  She gets Leanne's hair away from her face. She feels the sweat, the wet heat on her fingers as she pulls Leanne's hair back. Her face turns from the touch, deeper into the couch.

  She's fine.

  Jack hasn't answered. She can't hear him upstairs.

  Leanne is stretching, waking. Paula sits down. She pushes gently for space on the couch.

  —Move over there, she says.

  She can feel her heart. She can hear it. She takes off her jacket and throws it over at the door. She puts her hand back on Leanne's head. She rubs her, caresses her, the way she used to. It's in her hand – the way she used to. From her temple to behind her ear, bringing her hair with her fingers. And again, and again. Leanne's awake, her eyes are open. She knows what Paula's doing.

  —I fell asleep, says Leanne.

  —Tired.

  —Yeah.

  —Me too.

  Leanne moves. She's sitting up.

  —Hungry? says Paula.

  —No, says Leanne. —A bit.

  —An omelette.

  She has the eggs. She bought them today.

  Leanne nods now.

  —Yeah. Nice.

  Paula stands up. She makes sure she doesn't groan. She's caught herself groaning when she bends down or stretches, especially at work. She hates hearing it, too late.

  —I'm hungry myself, she says. —Is Jack in?

  —Don't know, says Leanne. —I just kind of conked out.

  Paula walks to the door. She picks up her jacket. She doesn't grunt.

  —I'll just check, she says. —He might like one too. Back in a minute.

  She goes to the stairs.

  —Jack?

  He isn't there.

  He's at work – she remembers.

  —He's in trouble at school, she says in to Leanne as she walks past the door, to the kitchen.

  —What for?

  —I'll tell you in a minute, she says.

  She's in the kitchen. She hits the Pause button and listens again, where she left off this afternoon before she went to work. She hasn't listened to music this way since she was sixteen or seventeen. Getting into it. That was what it was called. Listening to the record, over and over. Are you into it yet?

  She's getting into Elephant. By the White Stripes.

  She gets the eggs from the fridge.

  This – this now – is as good as her life has been. That's true. She'd love a drink. But it's true. Life, now, is good.

  It'll all fall apart.

  She doesn't believe that. Not today. Tomorrow might be the same. It might be good. There's no reason why it won't be. And five minutes ago Leanne was dead.

  She gave up all cooking at one point. She's not sure for how long that was. When she gave up altogether. Months – she thinks. Leanne could probably tell her. Nicola definitely could. Then she started again.

  It was the sight of them all one day. One Saturday morning. She walked into the sitting room. Nicola was trying to change Jack's nappy. Really, he was too old for it. He wouldn't stay still for her. There was a stain under him, on the carpet. Nicola was crying. She couldn't do it. She was sixteen. Jack had a bit of bread in his hand. Paula saw the mould on the crust and she nearly got sick. She got down beside Nicola. She slapped her out of the way – she can feel it now. You're useless. She said that. She slapped Nicola's leg. She saw Jack's dirt on Nicola's jeans and hand. Her head – she remembers; she can feel the ache breathe in and out. And she saw Leanne. In the corner, pushed back against it, under the window. Big eyes, falling out of her face. Scratching her arms. Staring out, but not at Paula. She gave Nicola time to clean herself, then she sent her down to the shops for breakfast.

&nbs
p; Cheese.

  She'll ask Leanne if she wants cheese in her omelette.

  She presses the Pause button. It's track 6. She picks up the cover; she brings it right up to her face. She reads the name. 'I Want To Be the Boy To Warm Your Mother's Heart.'

  For fuck sake.

  She goes into the hall.

  She stops.

  Leanne is talking.

  She must be on the phone. Paula hadn't heard the ring-tone, that stupid frog thing she hears all the time on the Dart.

  She listens.

  —Okay, says Leanne. Oh-kay.

  Then Leanne's listening, to whoever – she must be. Then she speaks again. She's saying goodbye.

  —Okay, girlfriend. Talk to you.

  Then Paula hears her moving about on the couch, maybe pulling her legs up under her. She hears the mobile, she thinks, drop to the floor.

  Girlfriend.

  Something about it – Paula goes back into the kitchen.

  She's not really crying. It's a burst of – it is – happiness.

  Girlfriend. She's never heard it – the word – used like that. She has, in films. But not by someone real. And Leanne. She just sounded so —

  The tears don't flow. It's over, really, before it starts. Like a sneeze, from the eyes. She puts her hands to her face.

  She's fine now.

  She opens her mouth, stretches her jaw. She feels the skin on her cheeks stretch too.

  She wipes her eyes. She goes back out to the hall.

  It's the first really nice day. They sit out in Carmel's garden. They were supposed to go to Denise's, but Carmel texted Paula. My hse x C.

  Paula's been telling them about Jack, about her meeting at the school. He's been suspended for three days. She's still not sure why. Because he hurt their feelings. She doesn't really care. She has her story – I did this, and then I said that. The meeting went well. And the teachers weren't too bad; they were all quite nice. She stayed calm. She shook their hands. She's pleased with herself. She thinks she's entitled to be.

  They're down near the back wall, in a block of sunlight that's slowly getting smaller. She can feel the sun on her face. She moves her head, eyes away from the sun. She can feel the wooden frame under the canvas, under her temple. It's an old chair. The canvas smells a bit damp, but it's kind of nice.

  —We'll go back in in a minute, says Carmel.

  —It's lovely, says Paula.

  No work tonight; it's Saturday. She can hear children, somewhere. She loves that noise, and the birds.

  —We should have had a barbecue, says Denise.

  —Too much effort, says Carmel. —And we'd never be left alone. It's the only thing sexier than a sexy woman. A sexy woman cooking fuckin' sausages.

  Paula laughs. She feels a cloud get in front of the sun. She looks again at Denise's ankle, at the little silver chain that's hanging around it. There's something shocking about it, and blatant. And high-heels, in her sister's back garden.

  Paula's jealous. Fuckin' right she is. She'd love to see that chain on her own ankle, a man's hand on it as —

  She sits up.

  She looks for her glass. It's beside the chair, empty, on its side.

  —Fuck it.

  Carmel is looking at her.

  —There's more in the jug, she says. —I didn't forget about you.

  The jug is on the tray, on the grass.

  —Thanks, says Paula.

  She's deep in the chair. She has to climb, edge out, over the lip of the chair. She passes Denise's ankle on her way to the water.

  —Anyway, says Carmel.

  Carmel's been quiet, Paula thinks. She hunches down and fills her glass. It's a tumbler, nice and heavy, with a pink pig on its side.

  —I've a bit of news for yis, says Carmel.

  Paula sits down, but she doesn't sit back in the chair. There's something up; there's something wrong. She doesn't want to be here.

  She knows before Carmel says the word.

  —Cancer.

  —Oh Jesus.

  —Who, Carmel? You?

  —Yes, Denise.

  She's amazing, Carmel. She smiles at Paula – their thick sister. Paula smiles back at her. She leans out and touches Carmel's knee. Carmel puts her hand on Paula's.

  She's crying.

  Paula doesn't cry.

  —God, Carmel, says Denise.

  Carmel nods; she shrugs. She drinks. She coughs.

  —Lungs? says Paula.

  Carmel shakes her head. She can't talk. She shakes her head again. Then she manages it.

  —Breast, she says.

  —Why were you coughing?

  —There was something in my throat, Denise.

  —Sorry, says Denise. —I'm being stupid.

  —You're grand, says Carmel. —It should be the lungs, really. The years I've been smoking.

  —How did it — ? says Paula. —I mean, what happened?

  Denise has gone over to Carmel. She puts her arms around her. Paula hears Carmel cry. She can't see her now. Denise is in the way. She listens to them cry. She stands up. She has to. She feels too small sitting down. She's far away, and stupid. She puts her hand on Denise's back. Denise moves back, to let her in.

  —For fuck sake, says Carmel.

  She's shorter than the other two and she's sitting down.

  —I'm being smothered by tits here, she says.

  They laugh and give her room, and wipe their eyes and look at Carmel.