by Roddy Doyle
I have half an hour or so to myself — another cup of coffee and a think — then I'm off. Four days a week I have cleaning jobs, houses. On top of the office cleaning later on in the day. I don't do anything on Tuesdays and I don't like them much. I should clean my own house, I suppose, but I couldn't be bothered. We usually clean the house together when there's so much dust that it has no room to settle. It's nearly a tradition now, a game. Leanne loves it. She wrote in a story for school that one of her hobbies was cleaning. God knows what the teacher thought when she read it. I sit around on Tuesdays, listen to Gaybo — Gerry Ryan's too much of a smart-arse for me. Sometimes I go down to Carmel for a chat, before I go to pick up Jack. Carmel's not too bad in the mornings; she only puts her fangs in after dark. I like the morning cleaning. Don't ask me why. I'm doing something useful. I'm getting exercise. I'm getting paid. I like seeing into other people's houses. Funny, I hardly ever feel jealous. And I should, because some of the houses are incredible. Huge. Some of the stuff in them, I wouldn't want most of it myself but it must cost a fortune. Dark furniture, flat-screened tellies, CD players with tiny little speakers. I love music. There's one house I do on Mondays, in Clontarf; they've a great collection of CDs, all the seventies stuff. I got her to show me how to use the CD player. There was no problem. I like her, the owner. Miriam. We're the same age. We both went to the same dances when we were kids. I don't remember her. She married a doctor. I married Charlo. Mott The Hoople, Bad Company, Sparks, Queen — they have them all. I might get a tape recorder and tape some of their stuff. I love the CDs. They're very stylish; I love the colours. They look expensive. I love the way you just a press a button and get the exact song. I don't know how many records I scratched and ruined when I was pissed.
—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —
Charlo sang that to me, down on his knees.
—She's an angel of the first degree —
He'd just stood on a bee. We heard the crunch and started laughing; on the playground tarmac. I can't remember when; I don't think we'd been going together that long.
—I thought he'd get away, said Charlo.
—It might have been the queen, I said.
—Dead now anyway, said Charlo. — God love it.
—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —
I love Van Morrison.
—Just like honey baby from the bee —
I love the music. They have speakers all over the house and no children; the house hardly needs cleaning at all. The music fills the time.
—You can take all the tea in China —
Put it in a big brown bag for me —
My cloth swoops over the sideboard. The brush swings around the toilet bowl. Van's my man. A walk-man would be nice, for the other houses and offices in the evenings. I've seen cheap ones. And the train on the way home; it would be nice to close my eyes and listen and drift.
—You can take all the tea in China —
Things come back when I listen. The music drags out memories. That's one thing about my life; it has a great soundtrack.
Wooden floors are in; people don't seem to like carpets any more. Bare floors; pretending they're poor. I don't like it. I'd like to come home to carpet, get the shoes off, let the feet sink in; lie on it, lie back and float.
—Sail right around — round the seven oceans —
Clontarf, Sutton, Killester and Raheny; they're the houses I clean. Raheny is the worst. You're only in the gate, you haven't looked up at the house yet, and you know: kids. The kids make shite of the house all week and I arrive on Fridays and clean it up so they can start all over again on Saturday. I think kids should clean up their own messes. Mine always did. Even Jack, even if he's actually making a bigger mess when he's doing it. It's unbelievable. Marker and paint on the walls and fridge, dirty clothes on the stairs, crumbs and bits of stood-on sandwiches all over the place. They mustn't do a stroke during the week. They wait for me. I even have to put the videos and CDs back into their boxes because the room would look untouched if I didn't. She doesn't work; she leaves the house when I arrive. She kind of sneaks; she looks guilty. So she should, the bitch. She gets home just when I'm leaving. I saw her sitting in her car once, outside their gate on the road, waiting for me to finish; I saw her from their bedroom window. Waiting for me. She's left me short a few times. —I'll see you next week. I forgot to get to the bank. It's not fair; I have to remind her the next week. I need that fuckin' money. It's Friday. She has no fuckin' idea. It's the only house I feel jealous in; the kids have everything. I know; I pick it up.
I come home past the school every day so I can pick up Jack. I'm often early but I don't mind. There are others there waiting; nothing else to do, some of them. I like a chat while I'm waiting. For a while after Charlo died I couldn't stand still in the one place; they were all looking at me and away from me — I saw it. I made sure I never had to wait; I got there right on time or a bit late. The teacher didn't mind. She probably felt sorry for Jack, him with no daddy and a smell of drink off his mammy. I'm better now though. I don't get restless. People have got used to me, the woman whose husband was shot. Once the kids come out the door the chatting stops; it doesn't continue after we've claimed our kids. We all walk home on our own. There are a few fathers there as well. They don't talk, not even to one another. They're embarrassed. No jobs to go to. Women's work. You'd feel sorry for them. They're great with their children, gently pulling and turning them so they can get their coats on, holding their hands, hugging them. Charlo was never like that. He wasn't a bad father in some ways — especially when the kids were small. He was great at inventing games and rolling around on the floor. Flinging them up and catching them. Letting them drench him with water. Unless he had his good clothes on him. But he'd never have pushed a pram or a buggy. Unless I was with him; never by himself. And he never dressed them. He never taught them anything. Even tying their laces; I had to teach them. He never looked at their homework. I wondered was he illiterate, if he'd been fooling me for years. But he just wasn't interested. He'd never have collected the kids from school. It's only up the road. They know the way. I'm busy.
Facts, Paula.
There's one of the men I talk to. I feel sorry for him; I'm not sure why. He's nice. You never know. He might be on his own. He collects a little girl. I asked Jack was she in his class. He said she wasn't but that doesn't mean anything.
—-Are you sure?
—Don't know.
That's Jack.
I think he's younger than me, the man. (When do fellas become men? I never noticed.) He sometimes says hello first. He probably has a wife who works. He wears good shoes, strong black ones. He might work nights. (I have to admit it, I have a bit of a crush on him — like the crush I had on Mickey Dolenz from The Monkees. I wonder where mat word came from. I've looked it up in Leanne's dictionary. It just says Infatuation. I had pictures of Mickey Dolenz in all my schoolbooks and all over my part of the bedroom wall. I loved him. I cried in front of the telly when he came on. Saturday night. We all watched it. Daddy said it was rubbish and he lost his temper when we started screaming. But I'm sure he was messing. He never stopped us from watching it. He called us a gang of scrubbers. But he was messing. I was seriously into Mickey Dolenz, as Leanne would say. Holding hands, that was all, walking down a beach while he sang Take A Giant Step all around us. I'd run and he'd run after me; I'd let him catch me and it would be his turn and he'd run ahead and keep looking back at me trying to catch up with him and he'd laugh and that would slow him; we'd end up in the water and it would be lovely and warm, like bath water.
—And take a giant step outside your mind —
But he wouldn't have an erection, the water wouldn't make my nipples stick out — nothing like that. We'd keep walking, the sun would go down, we'd share a bag of chips. He'd leave me home to my caravan. His would be two doors down from mine.
—Good night, Paula.
—Good night, Mickey.
He'd stop at the corn
er of the caravan and turn and grin and wave at me, and wink. I'd see him again in the morning. We'd do the exact same thing, start at one end of the beach and walk home. I never figured out how we got to the far end first. I didn't like Mike Nesmith. He was too old-looking; he'd have wanted his feel. Peter Tork was stupid. Davey Jones was a bit too small; men had to be taller than girls. I had a crush on Blue Boy too, from The High Chaparral. I'd go horse riding with him and it would be like flying; I wouldn't feel the horse under me. Robert Kennedy — I used to watch out for him on the News. I walked on the beach with him. He never took his suit off. He explained things to me. Funny, I wasn't mat upset when he got shot; it didn't seem to matter. I kept walking with him until I left him for someone else. My mammy cried watching the News. I made up in my head that he was her cousin.
And I've had a few since I got married. Crushes. Stupid things. Nothing. No sex or adultery. Just things to fill the days really, although that wasn't what I felt at the time. There was a bus conductor I loved. I used to wait for his bus; I'd let the others go by. I found reasons to go into town, to buy things that I could just as easily have got in the shopping centre or even the local shops. The money I wasted on fares; Jesus. I nearly went mad trying to see if my conductor was on the bus before I'd get on it. I must have looked like a right eejit, sticking my hand out, gawking up, trying to see if he was upstairs, putting my hand back in my pocket because it wasn't him. They must have talked about me in the depot. The mad one. I couldn't help it. He was thin. He had day-old beard years before Bob Geldof invented it. I used to lie in bed worrying about him, if I thought he was on the late shift. He was lovely. He just took the fares and said Thanks, no smart remarks, no posing, no barrelling down the stairs like he was Starsky or Hutch. I imagined him, with his children, all boys for some reason. Bringing them places, cleaning up in the kitchen, watching Coronation Street, making a cup of coffee for his wife, not tea. Coffee that you had to make, not instant. Bewley's coffee. He never said anything to me except Thanks. All I said was One and two halfs into town, please. It didn't matter. I used to drag the poor kids in and out of town, in the rain and cold, just so he could take my money off me. Then, one day, I wasn't thinking about him any more.
I fancied a barman as well for a while. I saw him on Sunday nights when Charlo took me out. I don't know what it was; he wasn't particularly good-looking. He was so cool under pressure. He glided behind the bar. Black hair. He could hold three empty glasses in each hand, holding them under the taps. He didn't sweat much. I used to imagine that there'd be a knock on the door — or a ring or a buzz if the bell was working — and it would be this barman, Eamon. I could never think of a good reason why he'd be there. It annoyed me because I had to get him into the house. He'd knocked on the wrong door.
—Come in for a cup of tea anyway.
It didn't work.
He was looking for Charlo.
—Come in and wait; he'll be back soon.
That was better but there was a problem with it. What did he want Charlo for? They couldn't be friends; that would have ruined it. Charlo had left his jacket in the pub and Eamon was bringing it round for him. But Charlo went to the pub every day, so why couldn't he just wait? Because he wanted to see me. In one version, he tells me — later — mat he'd robbed the jacket so he could have an excuse to call.
He wasn't a barman. He'd turned into a plumber or an electrician, some job that gave me a good reason for letting him into the house — not a milkman or a postman — I was never a slut in these daydreams. I was always completely dressed when I opened the door.
Most of what we did was talk. We held hands after a while. He put his head on my shoulder. It got darker. I did all the talking; he listened. Sometimes we said nothing; we just sat in the dark. It was always warm. We never got hungry. I had it all worked out. I spent hours in the kitchen, when Jack was having his nap, or in front of the telly or on the bed, going through the whole story, the same story once a day for months, changing it a bit, trying to convince myself. The point of it was the two of us sitting there for ever in the hour before night in a warm room where you never had to get up to go to the toilet. The work went into getting us there, arranging it that I didn't have kids or a fucker for a husband and that a man maybe ten years younger than me would fall in love with me. In one version I met him at Charlo's funeral. I even looked out for him at the real funeral; I remembered it, that version, when I was walking out of the church.
I could make myself cry very easily. My eyelids would tingle and go spongy; I could feel my eyes getting red. I could stop it then but I often let the tears come. I made up dreams about sex as well. Anywhere, any time. Mad things came into my head — men, Charlo, bits of fruit, everything. Mad things. The smell of the kids' nappies, the feel of a school-bag, putting on my coat, opening a can, bending to pick up a sock — I'd be gasping. It took nothing. No plan or story or time of day. I'd store up the sexiness, keep it away; rub against a wall, then stop and wait, store it up. I was for the birds when I was like that; I didn't know who or where I was. I had to count the children, two girls, two boys. I sat the dinner in the sink instead of the oven. I locked myself out of the house on purpose. I went into town and forgot why. I had no control over it. I stored it up. It got higher and higher. Then, when I got Charlo, I let go; it poured out. I sucked him, I bit him. I pulled his hair; I made him mad. He loved it, he hated it. I was all over him. It was me. I fucked him, I fucked him. He had nothing to do with it. It was all me. I laughed. I hit him. I nearly died. When I was empty, soaking wet and lying on the bed or floor, when I could think again, I loved him. My Charlo.)
Jack and me have the house to ourselves for a while when we get home. He has his cup of tea, I have my coffee; we sit and chat. I let him decide, the kitchen or the living room. He inspects them and makes his mind up, I don't know how. He creases his face while he's thinking. It's beautiful.
—This way.
He leads me to the chair.
—Now, Mammy.
I sit first, then him. He sips his tea. From his Winnie the Pooh mug.
—Very tasty.
He tells me nothing about school. He won't. I don't mind. He makes things up.
—What did you do today, Jack?
—America.
—You went to America?
—Yeah.
—How did you get there?
—We went to there.
I love it. Another couple of years and it'll be lying. It's lovely now though.
—What did you see?
—Sweets.
—Lovely.
—Lovely sweets.
—Did you eat any?
—No.
—Why not?
—They were only the hard ones.
—No soft ones?
—No.
He started crying. I had to bring him down to the shops and get him some soft sweets. I read books with him; I've started doing that. I saw it in an ad. I never did it with the other kids; I never thought. I saw this ad, a picture in a magazine, for central heating or coal. A man and his son in a big armchair in front of the fire. The man was pointing at something in a big book on his knee. The kid was cuddled up and gleaming. I wanted to do that. And now I do. I love Winnie The Pooh. I get a bigger kick out of him than poor Jack does. I think he's fuckin' hilarious. The world it's all set in; it's wonderful. Christopher Robin is always giving parties. It's well for him, the little prick; he doesn't have to pay for them. So Christopher Robin gave a party for two heroes. Pooh was a hero for saving Piglet's life and Piglet was a hero for giving Owl a fine house. Everyone had a lovely party and the blustery day turned out to be not so bad after all. I know it off by heart now. So does Jack. I put in mistakes and he spots them and makes me start again. It thrills me, how quickly he catches them — he misses nothing. I take out Piglet's name and put in Jack's. He loves that. Sometimes, I'm very happy.
Sometimes I have to get out. I can't stand it. I can't sit. I have to get out of there. Yes yes
cries the girl, we all need a drink. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate the dirt and the emptiness and the stuffing coming out of the furniture, and nothing in the fridge. I can still smell Charlo in the house. I can't cope. The urge. The bottle. I have to get out.
—Come on, Jack.
We go to the park. The Hundred Acre Wood. We look for Tigger and Roo. Bouncy bouncy bouncy bounce. It's a long walk there and a long walk back. It kills the time; it keeps me away from myself. The air does me good. The key stays in the grass. We share a packet of crisps or Hula Hoops if I've the money on me. He feeds me, takes each one out on his finger and puts it into my mouth. He likes salt and vinegar; I prefer the ordinary. We leave a few in the bag for the ducks. Jack never objects; he never changes his mind. He tries to make sure that the ducks share. Talk talk talk, he never shuts up. He walks around every tree. I love watching. It makes me feel desperate; I'm aching with love and I'm dying for a drink. I tell the time by the light and the traffic. I can tell when it's time to go home. I'm like an Indian. I'm a squaw. My brave was shot by the Gardai.
—Home, Jack.
—Minute.
—Home love; come on.
I have to be home in time for Leanne. I won't give her her own key. I want to be there. I want her to smell food when she's at the door. I want her to be glad she's home. I know she is; I want to keep it that way.
I can still smell Charlo. Especially in the pillows.
I can't afford new ones.
I don't want new ones.
Facts.
Leanne does her homework. First thing when she comes home, I make her do it. Unless the weather is really lovely, then I let her out and she does it after her tea. She does it in the kitchen, under my eye. I didn't do that with the other two, Nicola and John Paul. I never thought of it really; they did it during the ads. Nicola did it during the ads she didn't like. Not Leanne though. I have to be gone by teatime and I want to make sure that she has everything done before I go. I had a good chat with her teacher about it. I love looking over her shoulder. Her stories are only brilliant; they're fantastic. She knows I'm looking. "They're very funny, full of cheek. The only thing Mammy doesn't burn is the coal.
