by Roddy Doyle
Ah, Jesus.
You've let me down.
She watches the steam from the kettle. She makes herself move. She goes to the sink. There's nothing to wash.
Nicola rings. It's later. Paula's on the bus. They chat for a bit. Nicola wants to say something. Paula always thinks that.
—How are the girls?
—Grand; yeah.
—Not long now to the holidays.
—Yeah; Jesus. Still more than a month, though. Look it, I have to go.
—Okay. Bye, love.
—Talk to you.
Paula puts the phone back in her pocket. She smiles at the Chinese young one who's looking across at her. She's upstairs. She likes what you can see from up here. Behind the garden walls, through upstairs windows.
It's three days. Joe hasn't rung her. That's grand. It's a bit disappointing.
The bollocks.
Her phone rings again. She looks at the name on the screen.
John Paul.
The jungle drums are out. He's going to give out to her.
She's sick of her fuckin' children.
—Hello, love.
—Alright?
—I'm grand. And yourself?
Calm down, calm down.
—Good; yeah. D'you want to come to the house?
—I'd love to.
—Cool. We've moved.
—Cool.
Did she just say that? She's falling apart, but this is lovely.
—Where to? she says. —I don't have a pen.
—I'll come and get you, he says. —It's not far from where we were. Sunday; yeah?
—Lovely, she says.
—Three o'clock, about.
—Lovely.
It's later; lunchtime. She's home again. She texts Leanne. What's the text for Sorry? Sy? Sry? She writes the full word. Sorry. Xx M. She fires it off. She waits for the buzz. The bitch won't answer. She leaves the phone on the table.
She hears the key. Jack walks in. He walks back out.
She puts on U2. She turns it up. She'll impress the Poles next door, although they probably won't be there. They come home late. They go off early. Sunday's the only day she really hears them. She sees them go out on the street, in their good clothes. They're the only ones heading off to Mass. She plays it loud anyway. It'll kill everything – the guilt, her deafness. She can go to the table and check her phone, because she can't hear it.
She picks it up. No text.
She's at the press, looking for sugar. She finds the packet of seeds. Empress of India. The flowers look gorgeous. Vibrant flowers on deeply coloured foliage. The planting instructions are on the back. She throws it in the bin.
She lies on the bed for an hour. She doesn't close the curtains. She isn't going to sleep.
She goes to work. It rains on her. She doesn't care. Only, her feet. They're cold – they're wet. There's a leak in her left shoe. More money she doesn't have.
Her back is fine. She's grand again. She remembers – her thumb. It's gone too, that pain. It's been gone for a while. She's been flinging the buffer around the place. She'd forgotten about it. She looks at the thumb, and she feels her wrist. There's no pain there now; nothing.
It's payday. They'll have a takeaway. Leanne could be home by now; it's after seven. She checks the time on her mobile screen. No text. She's not sure if Jack's working tonight. She could phone Leanne. She should. But it could backfire on her. Are you checking up on me? Leanne was going to the doctor. Paula could text her. Hw doc go? She's not sure. What's the rule? Can you text someone again if they haven't answered the first time? She'll have the Kung Po King Prawn. She likes that. Leanne always has the chicken curry, with chips. She hates rice. Tkaway 2nite? More checking up. One fuckin' mistake. One worry, said out loud.
She's not being honest.
She unplugs the buffer. She hears herself grunt when she bends. She winds the flex around the handle.
She was vicious. There was something there. She wanted to hurt Leanne, to let her know. I don't trust you. She wanted the smell on Leanne's breath. It would have been a relief. The inevitable, out of the way. It's what she expects, for herself. It's a matter of time. It'll happen to Paula. It'll happen to Leanne. She was always there for me.
She pushes the buffer to the lift.
She hates herself. It's true. She's shit. She's useless.
Fuck that. She can beat it away.
But it's true.
There's chewing gum on the floor of the Ladies. She'll have to get down on her knees. Some slut just dropped it straight out of her mouth. A woman in an office – for fuck sake. She gets it up with her house key. She drops the grey gum into her black bag. She washes the key. She washes her hands.
She's on the Dart. She holds her mobile. She's hungry. A man gets on at Connolly. Paula gets her knees out of his way. He sits across from her. He reads the Herald. He holds it up to his head. She sees the back page. Liverpool have won that European Cup. CHAMPIONS. They won it last night. John Paul will be delighted. She'll text him. He didn't mention it when he phoned earlier. And he obviously didn't go to Istanbul. But he'll be delighted. Flashing his tattoo. Euro cp, wll dne. XxM. She fires it off. At least some things are working out. She puts the mobile into her pocket. She can take it out when he texts her back. She needs the drama.
It's only in her pocket when it rings. The music from Miami Vice. Vanessa, Nicola's little one, did it for her – Paula hasn't a clue how. She looks at the screen. It's not John Paul. It's a private number.
—Paula?
—Yes.
—It's Joe.
—Hello.
She feels the heat in her face.
—How are you?
—Grand, she says. —On my way home from work.
—Were you working late?
—No, she says. —It's my normal time.
—Of course, he says. —I didn't think.
The train stops at Clontarf Road. The man with the Herald gets off. She can stretch her legs. She can slump.
—So, he says. —I was wondering. Should we meet? For a drink, perhaps?
—I'm an alcoholic, Joe, she says.
The train's moving again.
It's what she's wanted to say. It's all she's wanted to say. The carriage isn't empty and she couldn't care less. There's no shame.
—Are you still there, Joe? she says.
—Yes, he says. —I'm here. I've a glass in my hand, actually. I was looking for somewhere to hide it.
She laughs.
—There's no need, she says. —I'm fine.
—You're, is it, recovering?
—Yeah, she says. —Kind of.
—Good.
—I haven't had a drink in a good while, she says. — Well over a year.
—Good, he says. —A walk.
—Ah, look it, she says. —I work hard, Joe. A walk is too like more work.
—The pictures. Last offer.
—Lovely.
—There's a German one on in the UGC, about the last days of Hitler —
—I hope you enjoy it, Joe, she says. —I'm going to The Interpreter.
—Alright, he says.
—I like Sean Penn, she says.
—Fine.
—He reminds me of my husband.
The train's at Killester.
—Still there, Joe?
—Just about, he says.
—Just so you know.
The train's moving again.
—Sunday? he says.
—Can't, she says. —I'm going to my son's.
She loves the sound of that. And it's happening.
—Monday? he says.
—Grand, she says. —After work.
There's the little envelope on the screen when she stops talking to Joe. It's from John Paul. Ta. Jp.
The house is empty. The telly's off. She takes off her jacket. She goes upstairs. She has a look in Jack's room. His jeans are on the floor, and a T-shirt. He's gone to work. She goes to Leanne's doo
r. She stands there. She wants to go in. She wants to get down and look under the bed. Pull back the duvet, feel the sheet and mattress. But she doesn't.
She goes downstairs. She waits for Leanne.
She's walking up Marlborough Street. It's about four o'clock. She's on her way to see Carmel, in the Mater Private. Carmel had her operation yesterday. The mastectomy. Denise phoned Paula last night. Carmel was grand; she was comfortable.
She's a bit hot, walking. She comes to a Spar. She takes out her mobile. Nd anythng? She sends it to Carmel. But she doesn't wait. Carmel might be asleep. There'll be more shops on the way. She keeps going.
She gets to Parnell Street. She crosses, to Hill Street.
Comfortable. It means nothing. She's heard them say it on the News. It means that whoever's been shot isn't dead. She'll be happier when she sees Carmel. She's sure she will. It's gas to think, her sister's in a private hospital. She can't help it; she wants to see what it's like. She'll tell Carmel about Joe. She might. What is there to tell? They went to the pictures. They're going for a drive next Saturday, up the mountains. She can hear Carmel, if she tells her. Bring your condoms, Paula.
She'll tell Carmel. A bit of excitement. A bit of crack.
She's on Temple Street when she hears and feels the mobile. A text. She opens it. 1 tit. Hpy Brthdy.
She laughs. She won't delete this one. She can't wait to see Carmel now. She goes across Dorset Street at the lights – they're changing. She runs. A car honks, twice. She doesn't look. It's only some messer.
It's her birthday. She's forty-nine. She bought a cake earlier. It's in the fridge. They'll have it when she gets home.
Acknowledgements
The author and publishers are grateful for permission to reprint lines from the following:
'Vertigo', words and music by David Evans, Adam Clayton, Paul Hewson and Laurence Mullen. Reprinted by kind permission of Blue Mountain Music Limited.
'I Should Be So Lucky', written and composed by Stock/ Aitken/Waterman. Published by Mike Stock Publishing Ltd/Universal Music Publishing Ltd/All Boys Music Ltd (BMG). Used by permission. All rights reserved.
