by Roddy Doyle
Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Also available from Vintage Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
Paula Spencer
THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO DOORS
Roddy Doyle was born in Dublin in 1958. He is
the author of seven acclaimed novels and Rory & Ita, a memoir of his parents. He won the Booker Prize in 1993 for Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.
ALSO BY RODDY DOYLE
Fiction
The Commitments
The Snapper
The Van
Faddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
A Star Called Henry
Oh, Play That Thing
Paula Spencer
Non-Fiction
Rory & Ita
Plays
Brownbread
War
Guess Who's Coming for the Dinner
The Woman Who Walked Into Doors
No Messin' With the Monkeys
For Children
The Giggler Treatment
Rover Saves Christmas
The Meanwhile Adventures
'He climbs into a woman's skin so brilliantly that you have to pinch yourself to remember this was written by a man ... Doyle triumphs in The Woman Who Walked Into Doors because he remembers what other male writers have forgotten – that his heroine is more than just a woman. Mainly, she is a human being.'
Sunday Express
'Doyle closes Paula's story with admirable delicacy, solving no problems and healing no wounds, but celebrating the wilful tenacity of a life.'
Scotsman
'This is a wonder of a book, full of mercy, but a real stab in the heart, too. Doyle is more than merely important, he's essential, and The Woman Who Walked Into Doors is his best work so far.'
Russell Banks
'Anyone looking for a great novel from a brave, brilliant writer should read this book. Read it, and weep. Read it, and learn something new. Read it, and care.'
Oregonian
'This wonderful novel reaffirms the achievements of Roddy Doyle ... It is hard to imagine any lover either of fiction or of life who could remain untouched by Paula Spencer ... Wonderfully written, with urgency and blazing compassion.'
Cleveland Plain Dealer
'Emma Bovary, Anna Karenina and now that foul-mouthed, lively, immensely endearing survivor: Paula Spencer, Molly Bloom's sadder and wiser younger sister.'
Los Angeles Times
'A stunning depiction of a woman's battered soul told with the indomitable wit and the lilt of Roddy Doyle's extraordinary voice.'
Mary McGarry Morris
'Compelling ... astonishing ... Paula's voice is wonderful... It is this mixture of spirit and grief that makes The Woman Who Walked Into Doors a painful and beautiful story, a tale where the sadness and despair are redeemed because they are never denied.'
San Francisco Chronicle
'Magnificently constructed . . . What seems to me extraordinary about Doyle's novel is not the awful story it tells ... but the places he travels through Paula's tough, genuine soliloquy...Doyle does a marvellous job. His Paula Spencer is irrefutably alive.'
Boston Sunday Globe
RODDY DOYLE
The Woman Who
Walked Into
Doors
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781407072838
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Vintage 1998
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Copyright © Roddy Doyle, 1996
Roddy Doyle has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 1996 by
Jonathan Cape
Vintage
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A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-4070-7283-8
Version 1.0
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO JACK
The author is grateful for permission to reprint lines from the following:
"Leaving on a Jet Plane" by John Denver © 1967 by Cherry Lane Music Inc., administered by Harmony Music Ltd, la Farm Place, London W8 7SX. "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" by Jimmy Webb © 1968 by Island Music Ltd. Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of the publisher. "All Shook Up", Words and Music by Otis Blackwell and Elvis Presley, © 1957 by Shalimar Music, Inc. all rights administered by Elvis Presley Music, Inc., New York, USA. International Copyright Secured. All rights reserved. "Brown Sugar" by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards © 1971 by ABKCO Music Inc., New York, USA. Used by permission. International Copyright Secured. All rights reserved. "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan" by Shel Silverstein © 1974 and 1980 Evil Eye Music Inc., USA. International Copyright Secured. All rights 'reserved. Used by permission. "Knock Three Times", Words and Music by Irwin Levine and Larry Russell Brown © 1971 by 212 Music Co/Forty West Music Corp, USA. Reproduced by permission of EMI Songs Ltd. "Take a Giant Step", Words and Music by Carole King and Gerry Goffin © 1966 by Screen Gems-EMI Music Inc, USA. Reproduced by permission of Screen Gems-EMI Music Ltd, London WC2H 0EA. "Everyday Housewife" by Charles Richard Cason © Full Keel Music Company o/b/o Windswept Pacific Entertainment Company, controlled in the UK and Eire by Windswept Pacific Music Limited. "Tupelo Honey" by Van Morrison © 1971 by Caledonia Soul Music Co. and WB Music Corp., USA. Warner Chappell Music Ltd, London W1Y 3FA. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd. "When you Wish Upon a Star", Music by Leigh Harline, Words by Ned Washington © 1940 by Bourne Co., USA, Warner Chappell Music Ltd, London W1Y 3FA. Reproduced by permission of international Music Publications Ltd. "There's No Lights on the
Christmas Tree, Mother" by Harvey/Condron and Talisman. Reproduced by permission.
Every effort has been made to obtain necessary permissions with reference to copyright material. The publishers apologise if inadvertently any sources remain unacknowledged.
At the age of 37—
She realised she'd never ride —
Through Paris —
In a sports car —
With the warm wind in her hair —
Shel Silverstein, 'The Ballad of Lucy Jordan'
1
I was told by a Guard who came to the door. He wasn't one I'd seen before, one of the usual ones. He was only a young fella, skinny and with raw spots all over his neck.
—Missis Spencer?
He couldn't have been more than twenty. He looked miserable.
—Missis Spencer?
I knew before he spoke. It clicked inside me when I opened the door. (For years opening that door scared the life out of me. I hated it; it terrified me. We had this screeching bell like an alarm that shook the walls when anyone rang it. It lifted me off the floor, the kids started bawling; it was fuckin' dreadful. You were caught, snared, caught in the act. You looked around to hide whatever you'd been caught with, things that Charlo had left in the hall, things he'd robbed and left there. He changed the bell, after I chewed his ear and nearly wet myself five or six times a day. Nicola, my oldest, wouldn't come round the back to get into the house. She wanted to come through the front door; it was more grown up. She rang the bell ten times a minute.
—Forgot me jacket.
—Forgot me money.
—Don't like these jeans on me.
I hit her — she was thirteen, or twelve, much too old to be smacked — the hundredth time she rang the bell one Saturday morning. I hit her the way a woman would hit another woman, smack in the face. I was a bit drunk, I have to admit. I regretted it, tried to stop my hand after it had smashed her cheek and come back. She held her hand up to her cheek. It was red where I'd got it. She was stunned; she hadn't noticed me getting more annoyed. They never do at that age — at any age. I was sorry for her but she'd deserved it. I was sorry I was drunk, ashamed, angry; I usually made sure that no one noticed. I couldn't cope; it was only a stupid bell. She said she hated me, slammed the door and ran off. I let her away with it. The new bell was a nice bing-bong one but it made no difference. I still died a bit whenever someone rang it. The Guards looking for Charlo, teachers looking for John Paul, men looking for money. It's hard to hide in a house full of kids, to pretend there's no one there. Bing-bong. Only bad news came through that door; my sister, my daddy, John Paul, Charlo. Bing-bong.) It clicked inside me when I opened the door and saw the Guard. It was his face that told me before I was ready to know it. He wasn't looking for Charlo; it wasn't the usual. He was scared and there was something he had to tell me. I felt sorry for the poor young fella, sent in to do the dirty work. The other wasters were out in the car, too lazy and cute to come in and tell me themselves. I asked him in for a cup of tea. He sat in the kitchen with his hat still on him. He told me all about his family.
2
I swooned the first time I saw Charlo. I actually did. I didn't faint or fall on the floor but my legs went rubbery on me and I giggled. I suddenly knew that I had lungs because they were empty and collapsing.
Charlo Spencer.
There he was, over there, leaning against the wall.
Fiona nudged me.
—There he is.
I saw him and I knew who she meant. It couldn't have been anyone else, after all I'd heard about him, after all I'd expected. He was with a gang but all by himself. His hands in his pockets with the thumbs hooked over the denim and a fag hanging from his mouth. It got me then and it gets me now: cigarettes are sexy — they're worth the stench and the cancer. Black bomber jacket, parallels, loafers — he was wearing what everyone wore back then but the uniform was made specially for him. The other boys looked thick and deformed beside him. Tallish, tough looking and smooth. In a world of his own but he knew we were watching him.
We'd been dancing together in a circle, our jackets and jumpers and bags on the floor in front of us, and I was sweating a bit. And 1 felt the sweat when I saw Charlo. This wasn't a crush — this wasn't David Cas-sidy or David Essex over there — it was sex. I wanted to go over there and bite him.
He took the fag from his mouth — I could feel the lip coming part of the way before letting go — and blew a gorgeous jet of smoke up into the light. It pushed the old smoke out of its way and charged into the ceiling. Then he fitted the fag back onto his lip and the hand went back to his pocket. He was elegant; the word doesn't seem to fit there but that was what he was.
The music. I remember it. Women always do. Sugar Baby Love. By The Rubettes. It was the perfect song, sweet and fast, corny but mean, high-pitched but definitely masculine. Charlo's theme song and he didn't know it. He had nothing to do with it; the D.J. had chosen it, just then and there. And it fitted; it was perfect. Looking back at it now. But I didn't know he was going to look at me. I didn't know he was going to move away from the wall and walk. I didn't know he was going to stand in front of me. I didn't even have time to dream it.
He was coming over. The cigarette went onto the floor; he flicked it away, didn't look where it was going. He was coming straight at me but he wasn't looking. I was shiteing; he was going to walk past me.
—D'you want to dance?
I let him sweat for a bit.
—Yeah.
His timing was perfect. The Rubettes stopped and Frankie Valli started singing My Eyes Adored You. He must have planned it. His arms went through my arms just as Frankie went My; his fingers were knitted and on my back by the time Frankie got to Eyes. He'd been drinking. I could smell it but it didn't matter. He wasn't drunk. His arms rested on my hips and he brought me round and round.
—But I never laid a hand on you —
My eyes adored you —
I put my head on his shoulder. He had me.
3
I knew nothing for a while, where I was, how come I was on the floor. Then I saw Charlo's feet, then his legs, making a triangle with the floor. He seemed way up over me. Miles up. I had to bend back to see him. Then he came down to meet me. His face, his eyes went all over my face, looking, searching. Looking for marks, looking for blood. He was worried. He turned my head and looked. His face was full of worry and love. He skipped my eyes.
—You fell, he said.
4
I had an older sister, Carmel, and two younger, Denise and Wendy, and three brothers, Roger, Edward and George, all younger — George is still only a teenager, the same age as my Nicola. Then there were my mother and father, Hilda and Roger. The O'Learys of 97, St Francis Avenue. No cats or dogs.
Wendy is dead. She was six years younger than me. She did a bit of babysitting for us; she was great — she'd get up in the morning with the kids and give them their breakfast so we could stay in bed. So I could stay in bed. She was lovely, a lovely figure, smashing black hair — like an ad. Nicola and John Paul were mad about her. They never minded when we were going out because that meant that Wendy was going to be staying for the night. Myself and Charlo really went out in those days, not just down to the local pub although we did that as well. We made an effort, went into town to the pictures. We even went back to some of the dances we'd gone to before we were married. For a while. I didn't drink as much then, only when we were out, on special occasions — I can't remember what they were. Wendy was the passenger on her boyfriend's motorbike and he drove it into the wall of a bridge in Wicklow, somewhere near Glendalough. In broad daylight. He lost control of it or something, skidded. He was going too fast, something like that; I don't understand motorbikes or driving. She'd only been going with him for a couple of weeks. Mammy and Daddy didn't know he had a bike. She'd never told them. The Guards came to their door. Eddie came to ours.
It was a happy home. That's the way I remember it. Carmel doesn't remember it like t
hat and Denise won't talk about it at all because, I think, it would mean that she'd have to take a side, mine or Carmel's.
I remember lying in my cot just below the bedroom curtain that v/as blowing in and out over me; the curtain had flowers on it. The sun was on the wall when the curtain blew into the room. There were noises from downstairs, the radio and my mammy humming and putting things on the table. I was warm. Carmel was asleep in her bed. Denise wasn't born. That's the first thing I can remember. I think it's all the one memory, that it all happened at the same time. I think it's true. I'm not sure but I think there's another part — my father in the coal shed scraping coal off the floor into the bucket, the screech of the shovel on the concrete. If it did happen then it must have been the weekend because the fire was never lit on weekday mornings. I don't trust that bit, because I always loved that noise, something about it, even now — maybe knowing that there was a lovely big fire coming. The cot was white, chipped so that some of the wood underneath showed. There was a picture of a fawn at the end where my head was. I thought it was a dog until years later when my daddy took it down out of the attic for Eddie. When I saw it again — I was eleven — it was a fawn. I checked the chips where the white was missing to see if it was the same cot. It was. When I think of happy and home together I see the curtain blowing and the sun on the wall and being snug and ready for the day, before I start thinking about it like an adult. I see flowers on the curtains — but there were never flowers on the curtains in our room. I asked my mammy when I was over there last week did we ever have flowery curtains and she said No, they'd never changed them, always stripes.
I told Carmel. The three of us, the three sisters, went for a few drinks — children's allowance day — and I told them, my first memory. She was sneering before I'd finished but it was too late to stop. It was the drink that made me tell it; otherwise, I'd never have told Carmel. She's a hard bitch.
