The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

by Roddy Doyle

  —You're not showing your teacher that, I say. —No way.

  But she knows I don't mean it. It's my way of saying I think she's great. She concentrates and smiles; I can hear her brain working. Everything's neat; straight margin, red biro, lovely writing dead on the line. I wonder where she got the brains from.

  Maybe from me.

  I have to be out of the house by half-four. I feed them first. I have to leave Leanne in charge until Nicola gets home at half-five. I don't mind it too much; I trust her — I have to — and she's great with Jack. She does the dishes for me.

  I'm off. Into town to my little office job. Paula Spencer, queen of the Pledge and J-cloth. I go in on the DART. There's a gang of us; we take up half a carriage. We make more noise than the kids coming home from school. They're a gas shower, some of them. I like Mona a lot; I'd nearly call her a friend. She was very good to me after Charlo. Mona's seen me drunk and covered in my own vomit and she still sits beside me. I'd know her better only her husband can't stand the sight of me; I can tell. Still, the trip into town with Mona and the rest, it's like a tonic; it's like a fuckin' good drink. I miss it at the weekends. There's Gwen and Fran as well. Fran's like me, a widow-woman. She's eight years younger than me, with five kids. She's always laughing but you can see what's behind it; you can see it in her face, her eyes go red, her mouth stretches. Her laugh comes out like a scream. She loved John, her fella; he fell in front of a train. He jumped. He fell. The train hit him bang on. I remember, before her husband fell onto the tracks, we were all going into town together. It was before Charlo died. I'd thrown him out. Fran always slagged Charlo, for the crack. She knew I liked it.

  —Seen your Charlo again last night, Paula.

  —Her ex-Charlo, said Mona.

  —In the Chinese again, said Fran.

  Gwen joined in.

  —He scored a hat-trick on Sunday. Isn't that massive now?

  —He bought a curry chips, said Fran. —And a spring roll as well.

  —Oh, I love them, said Gwen. —They're lovely.

  —No meat though, Paula, said Fran. —He won't score many more hat-tricks if he doesn't eat his meat.

  I nearly cried I was so happy. I felt close and even wanted. Just for as long as the trip into town. What can I say now to poor Fran? He didn't jump; he fell. I look at her. She's miles away but she's still there in the seat in front of me. I can see her mind skidding back and forwards, here and gone, here and gone; valiumed up to her hairline. She looks as old as me now; she's passing me by. It gives me no pleasure.

  Mona has one of her kids going to college. I haven't a clue what he's doing; some college up in Dundalk. He's there two years now. He comes home at the weekends with a bagful of washing. She hangs up his knickers like they're flags. I'm not being bitchy; I don't blame her. She never boasts about it.

  Leanne and Jack will go to college, a real one in Dublin.

  Now now, Paula.

  And they'll do their own fuckin' washing.

  I get off at Tara Street. The rest go on to Pearse Street.

  —Go easy with the Pledge, Paula.

  —Don't worry.

  I don't mind the cleaning, except for the time of day. I should be at home, like everyone else. There's something inside me fighting. I like the idea of me working. It's not glamorous — Dolly Parton won't be playing me in the film — but it's my job. I do it; I earn money for my family. It's just the time of day. I'm knackered. And guilty — I should be at home. The building is so empty, except for the noise of other hoovers. It scares me a bit sometimes. I'd like to see the offices when they're being used and full of people and noise. They'd look completely different. It's not like cleaning a house. When you're doing a house there are places that you look forward to getting to, because of the way the sun comes through the window or because it's the kitchen and the kettle or because it's a kid's room. It's like travelling through a small country; every bit is different. It's like being a spy or reading a book.

  The floor I clean — the offices — they're nice; some of the rooms hardly need cleaning at all, ever. But it's very, very, very boring. There's the odd photograph of children, and gonks stuck on top of the computer screens, and sometimes a pair of socks in a drawer — I have a root through the open drawers now and again — but that's all. You're pushing your hoover through square feet of carpet that have nothing to do with people — when you should be at home with your family, putting your feet up or going out or anything else. It isn't natural. It's a fight.

  It's easy. But my back gets at me. I know I shouldn't bend over when I'm hoovering; there's no need for me to do it — any specks on the floor are more than willing to be sucked up. It's a habit, shoving the hoover through the floor; you're not doing it properly if your hands aren't numb. There aren't many real walls. It's open-plan, all partitions. I wouldn't be mad about it. I prefer a wall; you need something to lean against. It must be hard to concentrate when you're working, everybody screaming down the phone, charging around the place. It's an insurance company, something like that; it's hard to tell from the papers left on the desks and in the bins. The company name is no good, just three surnames; no hints there. It's strange really, not knowing who you're working for. There's me, a vital cog in the machine, and none of the other cogs have ever seen me. I don't really know any of the other women, the cleaners, except Marie. She's the boss, the supervisor — but she has to clean as well, the floor above me. She comes down to my floor for the break. She has a caravan in Courtown, the same as my sister Denise, but they don't know each other.

  —There's more caravans than people sure, Paula.

  —You'd know her if you saw her.

  —Yeah; probably.

  That's typical of our conversations. Chats about nothing, round and round. The price of food, the weather, the telly; that's us. I watch Coronation Street now — I tape it — because Marie watches it and we can talk about it. We never go too far, say anything that might embarrass. I'd love to, I have to admit; I think Marie would listen. I'm an alco, did I tell you? My husband killed a woman, did I tell you? Then he got shot by the Gardai, did I tell you? I cry at night. I lock the bottles in the shed and throw away the key. It wouldn't be fair though. She has problems of her own; I'm sure she does. There are things she never mentions. She has five kids but she's never talked about the oldest one — never, not even a name — and the youngest is mentally retarded. We'll never get to know each other. We go our separate ways. I go home on the DART. She goes home on the bus; I don't know what number. She gives me my pay on Thursday.

  —Don't spend it all in the one shop now, Paula.

  —It'll be gone before I get to the shop.

  Home.

  I don't like walking back to Tara Street. Not just the dark, it's the emptiness; there's no one on the street at that time, along the river. It gives me the creeps. All the traffic comes from behind me. It's not a long walk but I hate it. It's better when I get to the station. There are other people, all like me, going home. Some of them with a few drinks in them after work; you can tell from their faces and the serious way they walk. Up the plastic tube to the platform. I stay near the escalator. I don't go too far down the platform. I sit and hum. I get ready for the rest of the evening. I get rid of the cleaning ache and the drink ache takes its place. Yes yes, says the girl. I get up when the light turns green. I like to watch the train coming into the station, sailing in, the lights on, quiet and smooth; I love it. I always get into the same carriage, the first one. The same seat; it's usually free at that time. Some of the same people. I lean into the window and watch. Over the river, past the Customs House, the Irish Life building — I can see myself in the glass; I'm looking well from mat distance — over Talbot Street, into Connolly. I've fallen asleep once or twice. It's always the same; you wake up just when it's too late. The train's stopped, the doors are open, it's your stop. You get up, you stagger to the doors, the doors shut. Too late, a little jolt, the train crawls out of the station. Shit shit shit.
People looking at you. Nudging one another. Shit shit. It's such a waste of time. You smile. Ha ha. I did it on purpose. Ha fuckin' ha; such a waste of time. The first few weeks I could hardly stay awake; tiredness and the train, they both had me sliding down onto the floor of the carriage. It's not so bad now. I'm a veteran. I'm a scrubber, first class. I've won medals. I read a magazine if I find one in an office bin. I never take them off the desks. I've found books in the bins a few times. I couldn't believe it the first time. A book! Thrown away. A big fat five-hundred-pager. Danielle Steele. It was shite, but I loved it. I've seven of them now in my bedroom, in alphabetical order. All saved from the bins. Catherine Cookson is my favourite. I've two of hers. She's very good. Both out of the same bin.

  Home.

  It's a ten-minute walk from the station. A safe walk. People know who I am; I know them. I know the paths and the bumps. I know what goes on. I don't care much. I'm not curious any more. I like it here. I went through a lot. They saw it all. I'm still here. People are gentle. They left me alone. They smiled; they went out of their way. They had a whip-round for me. You don't expect to have to pay for your husband's funeral; it's not one of the things you plan for when he's forty, especially when he hasn't lived with you for over a year. People were good to me. This is where I belong. I wouldn't move. A few palm trees would be nice though, and maybe a lake.

  In the door; yippee. Home. Ten past eight. The telly's on. Leanne and Jack are in with Nicola. They've been fed. The kitchen's clean. I don't have to look. Sometimes Jack is in his jim-jams. He still wears a nappy for bed. I left it off for a few nights but he had his bed soaked by the time I was ready for bed; I'm not ready for the fact that he's a wetter, like Leanne and John Paul were; it's too tiring. Soon. Anyway, I love the shape the nappy gives him under the jim-jams. It makes him look cuter and two years younger. (I wet the bed myself. Just once. The shock; the fright. Jesus. The shame. The relief that Charlo was dead and not beside me. That was the blackest time, the five minutes after I felt the cold and recognised it. Realising that I could do that. That I'd done it. The temptation to just throw the sheets on the floor and get back under the dry blankets. My head throbbing, too dry for tears. Those dry sobs that always seem phoney. But I got up. I managed. I brought the sheets down to the machine — at four in the morning. I turned the mattress over. I flipped it over like it was toast. It hadn't soaked through.) I sink into the couch beside Leanne. Jack climbs up. Nicola's there; she's glad to see me. Half a smile. My children.

  Three of my children.

  Baywatch.

  —There's something wrong with those women.

  —There isn't, says Nicola.

  —What? says Leanne.

  —They're gorgeous, says Nicola.

  —What's wrong with them? says Leanne.

  —Nothing, says Nicola.

  I just say it — or something like it — to get them going.

  —Their shoulders, I say. —Look it.

  —That's just from the swimming, says Nicola.

  —What's wrong with them?

  —They're enormous.

  —That's only from the swimming.

  —Steroids as well.

  —No way.

  —Must be; look at them, Nicola.

  —They're only shoulders.

  —They're like boxers' shoulders.

  —It's the swimming.

  —How do steroids work?

  She gets annoyed, Nicola; she's very loyal to the things she likes. I stop.

  —How do steroids work, Mammy?

  —I don't know. Injections.

  —I like injections, says Jack.

  —Do you, love?

  —Yeah.

  —Did you have any injections today?

  —Yeah.

  —How many?

  —Seven.

  —Were they sore?

  —No.

  How many injections did John Paul have today?

  Jesus.

  It's too much.

  The ads come on.

  —It's over now, Jack. Bed.

  —It's not over. It's the ads.

  He's right. I want to kill him.

  —Bed, I say. —Come on.

  Nicola looks at me. She knows.

  It's the rule: I don't drink till he's gone to bed. He's going to fuckin' bed. Loads of tears — another look from Nicola — but I don't care. I do care. I'm lying, I'm cheating. I'm mistreating Jack. I know, I know. But I'm doing it anyway. It's not a life or death thing, I'm only sending him to bed early, I need a fuckin' drink! It's not fair, it's not fair. It's been a long day, I've been very good. Now it's my turn. I won't drink till he's in bed so that's where I'm bringing him.

  I don't cheat on that. I go up the stairs with him. He leads the way; we go at his pace.

  —I'll read you a story, don't worry.

  Not just because I feel guilty either; I read him a story every night. Every night. No matter how desperate I am, shaking, in pain — I won't be able to find the key, it'll be too dark — I read Jack a story. No short cuts; I read every page. Jack knows every word. He stops me whenever I'm wrong and makes me start the sentence again.

  —The milkman's bottles were clunking —

  —No; clinking.

  —Clinking. That's right. — as he —

  —You start again.

  —The milkman's bottles were clinking as he —

  I can hardly see the words. Sometimes. My eyes are glueing. I have to scream. My joints are stuck. I'm in agony. I'm made of sore cement. I want to hit him, he's so fuckin' vigilant. Waiting for mistakes; the story means nothing to him. He doesn't care about me.

  But I finish. I always finish. I never cheat. I'm not let. I close the book.

  —That's that, Jack.

  —Another one.

  —No, love; not tonight. I'm going to bed myself. I'm very tired.

  —You've had a busy day?

  —Yeah.

  I kiss him. He kisses me.

  —Night night, love.

  —Night night.

  I turn the light off.

  —Leave the door open.

  —Sure.

  —Go.

  —Okay; night night.

  —Go now.

  —Night night.

  I go alright. I nearly fall down the stairs. I step out in front of me. I don't care how I get there. I can take any pain on top of what I have. Let me out; I'm suffocating. Down the stairs. Down the hall. Through the kitchen. Pull back the curtain. I need the light for my search. Unlock the door. One of my terrors: the key will break in the lock. Out. I know where to look. Out. I cheated today. I followed the key to check where it landed. I knew I'd be like this. I've been good; I don't have to suffer. I could stop it if I wanted to. Anytime I want. The grass is wet. When I'm not so busy. I'm not wearing my shoes. I don't care. I won't die. I know where the key is. Just the light from the kitchen. Resting on top of the grass. It was this morning. Unless a bird got it. Or a dog or a hedgehog — I saw one once. I can't see it. I'm in the way of the light. It's not there. Some cunt of a rabbit's after running away with it. The key the key. I won't break the lock. I will. Calm down. I won't break the lock. I'm in control. No more vomiting, no more blackouts. I got rid of that. I'm on my knees. It was there this morning, exactly there; I counted the steps. It was here. I can go to the off-licence. No money no money. I could stop tonight. I'm pulling the grass. It's not here. Break the lock. I'll get a new one. Just this once. I'll start again. I'll pour the rest down the sink. I will. It's only a lock; it's not the law. Just this once. The key! I've got it! I'm in control. I'm crying, I'm shaking. I can't get the key in. Stop, calm down. You'll drop the bottle. I'm blocking the light. Done it. Open. The bottle the bottle. I close over the door. I can't be seen. Off with the top. Up to my mouth. Head back, down. I hate it I love it I hate it I love it I hate it I love it I love it I love it. I'm younger. I'm fit. I'm slim and warm.

  No more pain.

  Back into the kitchen.


  My feet are freezing.

  I hate it. I can think now. I'm loose. I'm warming up. I can give up. Anytime I want. I'm going to. I'll go into the girls now. No shaking. Into a glass. Glug glug. I'll always love that sound. There might be something on the telly, something worth watching; I'm not really fussed. I keep my orange juice hidden. I have to do it; they'd drink it if I didn't. A brand new carton up on top of the press, well back. Can't be seen. I've checked.

  In to the girls.

  Up to Jack first. I leave my glass in the hall. I don't need it now. I'm calm. Up to Jack. I love him so much. I want to see him. Fast asleep. His fists over the cover. His little face; his fringe. I can cry looking at him. Fast asleep. Wish I could sleep like that. In the Land of Noddy-nod.

  Back for a refill, into the kitchen. I'm grand now. All relaxed; nice and lazy. A nice way to end the day. I deserve it.

  In to the girls.

  —Hiyis.

  They know.

  No, they don't.

  I don't care.

  Nicola might but not Leanne. I don't care. No one's perfect, I do my best. They've nothing to complain about. Don't know what they're watching. It doesn't matter. Music and people running. Kissing. More running. The usual shite. I'm not following it.

  Back in for a refill. Hugging the wall. Take me to the kitchen. I'll fill it again while I'm here. Save myself a journey. Glug glug glug. The sound of music.

  Jesus Jesus.

  Where am — The kitchen.

  Room for more if I make some.

  God, I hate myself.

  Alco. Alco. Paula the alco.

  I'm smiling into the kitchen window. I always look good in the kitchen window. I know it's me. I close the curtains. I lean out and miss the curtain by a foot. That's me finished. I can control what I'm doing. I know when to stop. I won't be making chips. I don't want to break anything.