by Roddy Doyle
They sit down.
—Killed by breasts just before the breast cancer gets me, says Carmel.
—Ah, stop, says Denise.
—Will you have to have a – I can't think of the name, says Paula.
—Mastectomy, says Carmel. —And, yeah. I will.
—God. When?
—We're not sure yet.
—Is the waiting list long?
—We're in the VHI, says Carmel. —Plan E. The best.
Only Carmel could make a boast out of breast cancer.
—Yeah, she says. —Mastectomy. That's the word, Paula. I've been reading all about them. I can even spell it. And radiation. And chemotherapy.
She sighs.
—I can spell that one as well.
—How did you find out? says Paula.
—A lump, says Carmel. —Just, in the shower, you know.
—What did you do?
—Nothing, says Carmel. —I pretended it wasn't there. It was easy. We're covered in fuckin' lumps, aren't we, really? I hoped I'd wash it away. And it wasn't sore or anything. So —
—How long — ?
—Months, says Carmel. —If I'm being honest. But it didn't seem long. But I kept at it, to see if it was gone. Like brushing your teeth when you have a toothache, you know. I couldn't ignore it.
Paula wants to examine her own breasts. They're sweaty, and itching; they're horrible.
—I thought you'd be too old, says Denise.
Carmel laughs her angry one.
—What? she says.
—Well, says Denise. —I read it somewhere. I thought only younger women got breast cancer.
—I'll tell that to the specialist when I go in to him next week, says Carmel. —For fuck sake, Denise.
—I'm sorry, says Denise. —I just thought —
—Denise, says Carmel. —Ask me what's the biggest risk factor when it comes to breast cancer.
Denise looks at the grass. She takes her battering.
—I'll tell you, Denise. Increasing age. And if that's a bit complicated for you, it means growing old.
—Sorry.
—Yeah; me too, says Carmel. —Sorry, Denise. Where would I be without you?
It's Carmel and Denise. It always has been. Paula's the sister in the middle. She's never really liked Denise. She loves her, but she doesn't like her. Carmel does. Denise's thickness has always irritated Paula but Carmel has never minded it. In a way, it suits Carmel. Denise is Carmel's sidekick. Paula never would be. But Carmel has told them both at the same time. Paula's grateful. It's strange, but that's how she feels.
—You haven't noticed, girls, says Carmel.
They look at her.
—No ashtray.
—You've given them up.
—Yep.
—Why? says Denise.
—Ah, fuck, says Carmel. —It seemed like a good idea.
—Well done, says Denise.
Paula stands up again. She bends down to Carmel and puts her arms around her. She puts her chin on top of Carmel's head. Carmel's arms are around Paula, pulling her nearer.
—Where d'you hide your fat, Paula? says Carmel.
They laugh.
—It's a secret, says Paula.
Carmel grabs a wad at Paula's waist.
—Found it.
The shampoo smell is in Carmel's hair. Strawberry, or bubblegum – it's a kid's smell. Paula puts her hand on the back of Carmel's head. It's getting a bit awkward. She's standing, Carmel's sitting. Paula has to bend her legs and keep them bent. It's as if Carmel knows, and she won't let go. Paula's legs are killing her. She's falling over, onto Carmel. She is – there's something happening. Carmel's moving, collapsing under Paula.
—The fuckin' chair.
They're falling together. The chair isn't an old one, like Paula's. It's newer, light metal. It's falling to the side and Carmel and Paula go with it. Paula can't stop it. There's nothing to grab, she can't stand straight. She's going over, and Carmel's hanging onto her. She's on top of Carmel, on the grass. Her face is near the ground. She'd forgotten what grass really looked like.
The chair is on its side. Carmel is on her back. Paula is lying across Carmel, stomach on top of stomach. From the air they'd look like a fat X. They're both laughing.
—Get off, says Carmel.
But she doesn't want her to. She slaps Paula's arse, twice. She laughs again.
—There's a bit of a wobble there, all the same.
—Fuck off, you.
Paula's face is close to Denise's ankle and the chain. Denise's heel has actually cut into the ground. Paula can see it, like a bird's beak in the grass.
—How much was it? she says.
She leans out – she's still on top of Carmel – and she holds it gently.
—What? says Denise.
—This, says Paula. —Your chain.
She feels Carmel's stomach growing under her; Carmel is laughing.
—I can't remember, says Denise.
—Did he buy it for you?
—No.
Carmel is shaking; she's choking.
—You'll have to get off me, Paula, she says. —I'm dying.
—Don't say that, says Denise.
She's angry. Paula can hear it.
—Hang on, says Paula.
She heaves herself up. She feels her sore hand hop as she presses it into the ground. It's her wrist. But it's not too bad. She's on her knees, off Carmel. Carmel doesn't move.
—It's nice down here, she says. —It's damp, though. You can feel it.
She rolls onto her side. She smells the ground. They hear her; she wants them to.
—I might as well get used to it, she says.
—Carmel, says Denise.
—Don't worry, Denise, says Carmel.
She's on her knees now too, beside Paula. How will Paula explain the grass stains on her knees to Leanne, if Leanne's in when she goes home? She wants Leanne to see the stains. She wants the slagging. She wants the crack. She was always there for me.
—I'm not dead yet, says Carmel.
—Good girl, says Paula.
—I'm not really seeing him any more, says Denise. — An'anyway.
—Jesus, says Carmel. —That came out of fuckin' nowhere.
—Just so you know.
—Thanks, Denise. Can I have him?
Denise is crying.
—What happened? says Carmel.
—It's not that, says Denise. —It's you.
—Fuck that, says Carmel. —It's only a tit, Denise. I'll be grand. What happened with your fella?
She leans on Paula as she gets up. There's a lot of Carmel; she's taking the shoulder off Paula. She stands, and sits in Paula's deckchair. Paula doesn't bother with the chair that's on its side. She sits beside Carmel on the ground. Fuck the damp. She'll have stains on her arse as well.
—So, go on, says Carmel.
—He was getting a bit boring, says Denise.
—Did you dump him? says Carmel.
—Yeah, says Denise. —There was no point in taking it further.
—Taking it further, says Carmel. —What's that mean, Denise?
Denise doesn't answer.
—How was he boring? says Paula.
—Ah, says Denise. —He was only interested in his children. It was all he talked about.
—That must've been hard for you.
—It was no escape, an'anyway, says Denise. —It wasn't what I was looking for.
—That's fair enough, says Carmel. —There's no point in going to all that bother if all you do is end up chatting about each other's kids. What about the sex?
Denise shrugs.
Paula laughs. She's not mocking Denise, or angry. It's admiration. She doesn't know Denise.
Denise crosses her legs. Paula watches the heel come out of the ground. There's a big bit of muck still stuck to it.
—The ocean's full of fish, says Denise.
They laugh.
—For fuck sake, Denise,
says Carmel. —Have you looked at some of the fish?
—Some of them aren't that bad.
Paula leans over to Denise. She holds Denise's foot, the one dangling over the ground. She lifts it slightly. She flicks the dollop of muck off with her finger. They're gorgeous shoes. She lets go of Denise's foot.
—There.
—Thanks, says Denise.
—Did you tell him he was boring? says Carmel.
—Ah no, says Denise. —That wouldn't have been nice. He didn't kick up, anyway.
—Maybe he thought you were boring as well.
—I don't think so, Carmel.
—You're lots of things, Denise, says Carmel. —But you're not boring. Not these days, anyway.
—Did I used to be boring?
Denise looks at Carmel over her sunglasses. She drops her head. She pulls the glasses down on her nose. Paula hears her bracelets banging into each other as they drop down on her arm.
—No, says Carmel.
Her knee presses Paula's back. Paula leans back onto it.
—How's Star? she says.
—She's alright, says John Paul.
He's sitting in front of her. His elbows are off the table. He's looking straight at her.
She's brought him to the cafe. She hasn't seen her pizza fella since, the man whose arms she'd fancied. It's just as well, she thinks. She's relaxed here. They smile when she comes in. She smiles back. She's a customer. She's welcome.
He walked with her from the house. He said nothing on the way. It's another of those weird days. It's sunny and warm, then it's suddenly dark and there's torrential rain that makes the windows wobble.
It's raining now, belting down. She can see it hop on the ground outside. They're sitting at the window but John Paul has his back to it.
—How're the kids?
—Good; yeah.
He nods. He doesn't smile. His coffee is the same as hers, one of those lattes, in a glass. It looks strange in front of him. Too feminine. He hasn't touched it yet.
She sips hers. She tastes the coffee coming through the milk.
—Lovely, she says.
He picks up his. He drinks. She sees him swallow. She hears it. He puts it down. There's some milk on his top lip.
He wipes it off.
He nods.
—D'you want a cake or something?
—No, she says. —Thanks; I'm grand.
She points at the glasses.
—And I'm paying for these, remember.
—Okay.
She picks up her glass again. It wasn't a good idea, coming here. It might have been better at home. Easier. All she wants is to know him. Even a bit. He came to her. He rang her doorbell, nearly two years ago. But he's still the same stiff stranger.
—How's Leanne? she asks.
He moves. He sits back. He's nearly touching the window. His head must feel the cold from outside in the glass.
—How d'you mean? he says.
—Well, says Paula. —She seems to be getting on – I don't know. Fine. And I know you're in touch with her. So —
—She's in a good place, he says. —Today. You know, yourself.
She believes him. There's something about him. She's in a good place. He knows the bad places. He doesn't waste words.
She nods. She starts to smile – the tears grab her face. She's glad she's not facing the rest of the cafe. She quickly wipes her eyes. She swallows back a gulp. She wipes her eyes again.
He says nothing. He does nothing.
She picks up her coffee.
—Sorry, she says.
She puts the glass to her mouth. She's not sure she'll be able to swallow.
She's fine.
She puts the glass back down.
—I've been worried, she says.
He nods.
She wants to cry again. It isn't good. She's letting it fall. She won't be able to come back here.
—She's strong, he says.
She nods.
—Like you, she says.
He says nothing to that. He doesn't move.
She wants to run. She wants to hide and die. She wants to free him, and Leanne and Nicola and Jack.
—How — ?
She stops.
—What? he says.
—No, she says.
She smiles. It's good; she can.
—D'you not want to – I don't know. Kill me?
—No, he says.
—Are you not angry?
—Sometimes, he says.
She makes herself; she looks straight at him.
—It's for me to deal with, he says.
—I'm sorry, she says.
—Yeah.
He nods.
—How? she says again. —How do you stay so calm?
—I don't, he says.
—You do, John Paul. Look at you. You're like a statue. I don't mean in a bad way. But you know what I mean.
—I do the yoga and that.
—Is that all it takes?
—No.
—So?
—I've no big answer.
—Give us a little one.
If it was a film he'd put his elbows on the table. He doesn't.
—I think a lot, he says. —I plan. Make sure I know what I'm doing.
