The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

by Roddy Doyle

  The good life —

  For me —

  Mixed with the gravy. We were circling too fast, like in a ceili. It didn't suit the song. I was sweating and dizzy. But it went. The taste and the terror. I laughed. Charlo whooped. We stopped and swapped, me with Liam, Charlo with Dee. Liam pressed into me. He licked my neck. I didn't have time to be properly shocked. Then he stood away and laughed.

  —Indiana wants me —

  But I can't go back there —

  Me and his father.

  —Did you see the price of the drink in this place?

  —Is it dear?

  —Fuckin' desperate. Still though, it's only the once. Y'enjoying yourself?

  —Yes, thanks.

  —Good. It's your day.

  (I could never decide if I liked him or not. He came over to me at the funeral and held my hand for a while. Liam spat on the ground in front of me.)

  —By the time I get to Albuquerque —

  Me and my father.

  —Are you enjoying yourself? I asked him.

  —Yes, he said.

  —Great, I said. —Thanks; it's been lovely.

  Nothing back.

  —I'll never forget it.

  Nothing.

  (The man at the wedding has killed the other father I had, the one I had when I was a girl. I can't get at him any more. I can picture him, no problem, even smell him — but he isn't my daddy. He's another man. He's not real. I don't trust him or myself; I'm making him up. He couldn't be the same man who was at my wedding, the same man who wouldn't come to Nicola's christening ten months later because he had a cold, who wouldn't take her in his arms when she was handed to him, pretending he didn't realise what was expected.)

  Singing. It was dark outside. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down. The Men Behind The Wire. All Kinds Of Everything. Going Up To Monto. Charlo's da sang Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens. He became a chicken on the stage in front of the band; they couldn't cope with him. He was brilliant. I looked around to see if my father was watching. He wasn't there. My Auntie Fay sang Ave Maria. Charlo's brother, Thomas, sang Brown Sugar.

  —How come you taste so goo-wood —

  He was great.

  —Yeah — Yeah — Yeah — Woooo —

  His lips and his shoulders. Spinning and ducking. All the Spencers were great actors. They were queuing up for their turn. I sang Vincent. I closed my eyes and dragged myself through it.

  —Look out on a summer's day —

  Wrong notes all the way through and silence in front of me. I finished, mortified and wet. They clapped and cheered. I fell off the stage to get away. Then it was Charlo. He knew thousands of songs. He only had to hear a song once and he could give it back and fill in the gaps with words of his own, better words. He never sang the same song twice. (Then he stopped singing. About ten years ago.) Everyone watched him. It wasn't just a song; it was a whole show.

  —There's —

  No lights on the Christmas tree —

  Mother —

  They're burning Big Louie tonight —

  I knew the song. The Sensational Alex Harvey Band. Charlo loved Alex Harvey. He even looked like him when his hair wasn't combed. He had a few striped t-shirts like Alex Harvey's. He looked out over the microphone; he never looked at it. He stopped, pressed some words, and skipped over others.

  —There's —

  No elec-tricity —

  Mother —

  They're burnin' Big Louie tonight —

  The Spencers were in charge now. My crowd were huddled in corners, sipping their drinks and waiting for going-home time. The Spencers had taken over. They even took the instruments off the band, got in behind the drums and started messing with the knobs on the amplifiers. The brothers. Liam, Thomas, Gregory, Harry, Benny and Charlo.

  The wedding was over. I was married now, one of them. They were finished with my family. Not just the brothers. His mother and father, all his aunts and uncles and cousins. They took over the whole place. They kept on singing.

  —I'm in lurve — huh —

  I'm all shook up —

  My crowd started leaving. They crept along the walls. There were cousins whispering behind me; a fight going on in the men's toilet. Harry started bashing the guitar on the floor. The Virginians stood beside the platform, looking at the brothers wrecking their gear and pretending it was great gas.

  I went up to the room upstairs and sat on the bed. I wanted Charlo to come in now. Before it was too late. Before he got too drunk. Before he went off somewhere with the brothers. If he came in now it would become our wedding day again. I waited. I had my bouquet. I wanted to stand on the stairs and throw it and laugh. I lay down on the bed. It was cold. I got under the bedclothes without taking my dress off. I waited for Charlo. I listened to the noise.

  22

  I stood outside his house. In the drizzle. The house was in a swerving cul-de-sac, a lovely quiet place with a smell of the sea. I stood there for I don't know how long; a few minutes. I just wanted to see. I wasn't going to knock on the door, nothing like that. He was in there. There was a light on and his car was parked on the slanting drive. Pointing at the house, slanting down. A nice-looking car; stylish, silver-blue. My hair was like a cap on my head; the rain and drizzle had hardened it.

  I was standing outside Mr Fleming's house. I was by myself. I'd got off the bus in Malahide and walked the rest of the way because I didn't know how far from the town his house was. I asked the way, and walked. Past the tennis courts and the Grand Hotel — we'd been to a wedding there once — and Oscar Taylor's restaurant, all the places named in the newspapers. On along the Coast Road. The estate name was carved into a piece of stone on the side of the road.

  I didn't want to see him.

  But I did. I wanted to see him doing something; putting something in the bin, cutting the grass, something ordinary. Something to prove that he was getting over it. But I didn't think I'd be able to look at him; I didn't want him to see me. I couldn't have looked at him. It had nothing to do with me, I'd have shouted. He left me long before it happened. I didn't kill your fuckin' wife. He hit me too, you know. He hit me too. I'm sorry, I'd say. I'm sorry for your troubles. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

  I'd only seen him in photographs. At the funeral, with his hand over his eyes. Coming down the steps of the court during Richie Massey's trial; looking thinner and older. I'd never seen him on the telly. I'd made sure I hadn't. I saw nothing on the telly after the first night.

  I didn't see him this time. He didn't come out; I saw no movement inside. I was happier that way, but a bit unsettled, not ready to leave. Waiting. It wasn't a big house. A very neat red-bricked bungalow. It had a name, a wooden plaque beside the front door: The Haven. Charlo had stood in the porch down there, waiting for the door to open. The net curtains on the windows stopped me from seeing anything; I wasn't going to go down the drive for a better look. I wondered had she put them up or had he, after she died. They were good for closing him in; that was what he wanted. He was in there.

  The sea was behind the house. I couldn't see it from where I stood. All the houses blocked it; the row of little bungalows keeping the view for themselves — they'd paid for it. I imagined him looking out at the sea and the island, sitting back in a nice chair. A big window in front of him. Did it make him feel any better? Lambay Island. It really was a lovely place to live.

  It was so quiet. I'd never been anywhere so quiet. Even the birds were silent. Maybe it was the drizzle. Maybe there weren't any. Maybe they were waiting for me to go. They didn't know me. I wasn't wanted. I'd been standing there too long; I didn't know how long it had been. I didn't know why I'd come. Just to see. To fill something in.

  I walked to the end of the cul-de-sac. There were cars in front of most of the houses. People in; someone was looking — there had to be somebody. Looking at a wet woman in her daughter's jacket. There was a small park at the end of the road and another road at the other end of it, to the left. That
must have been where they'd parked their car, Charlo and Richie Massey. I wasn't going to go over there. (Does blood leave a stain on cement?) In front of me, to the right, over a bunch of bluey-green trees, there was a beautiful house, like a castle. A really beautiful thing with two round roofs shaped like cones. And windows in them. A gorgeous-looking place. People lived in that. There was a weather cock on top of the highest roof. It wasn't moving. I don't think I'd ever seen a weather cock before, or noticed one. Arrows pointing four ways. People lived in there, had bedrooms in that roof. The trees in the park were in round groups. They looked old but the place seemed brand new. No cracks in the paths, no dog dirt. I looked over at where I drought Richie Massey had parked the car. I could feel nothing. I wouldn't go over. There was a lane beside the castle. Steps down to a small road above the main road. I could see the sea and the sand now. I went down the lane; it looked open and public. Strange trees that made me feel that I wasn't in Ireland. Even with the rain. Even the daisies were different. They were bigger and fuller, absolute flowers. There was a smell of things growing and dying. I came to the end of the lane. The tide was out. It was lovely; miles of shining wet sand and a mist that was thin enough to make things look more interesting. Lambay was floating by itself. There was a town off to the left, maybe Skerries, shaped like an American city in the mist. There were dunes made for Arabs. The railings were silver and lit. Hardly anyone around; a few people in parked cars, looking out where I was looking. Maybe thinking what I was thinking, feeling the same way.

  I was happy. It made me happy to think that people lived here, in all this, with all this. In this quiet, with this view of the island and the sea and its fresh smell. Charlo had been here but he'd left nothing; I couldn't feel him anywhere. He'd been washed away. He was stuck to other places but not here. Mr Fleming was looking out his window. I decided that. He definitely was. He was looking out at the same view 1 was looking at. He was fine; lonely but fine. There was a woman in his bank who was in love with him, but he didn't know it yet. She was nice, mature; she'd be good for him, bring him out of himself, make him laugh. She'd respect his memories. She wouldn't compete. He stretched his legs and bent down to pick up his mug of coffee.

  There was a bus stop near but I walked past it, and the next two. I was glad now I hadn't seen him. It was better imagining him. It made more sense.

  23

  We went to Courtown for our honeymoon. My idea. We had a week and very little money. The day after the wedding; the train to Gorey and a taxi the rest of the way. We said hardly anything, both of us wrecked from the day before, side by side, leaning into each other.

  It had been the wedding day with no ending. There'd been no going-away. We were supposed to have changed into our outfits and pretended that we were leaving that night. I had a cream trouser suit; that's as much as I remember about it. There are no photographs of me in it. I think I had white shoes and a bag. Charlo had a jacket and trousers. It didn't happen. No down the stairs into the crowd of waiting friends and relations. No cheering. No kisses goodbye and dirty remarks. Charlo never came up to the room to collect me. I fell asleep. He came in at about three o'clock and blacked out before he hit the bed; I felt him landing. Our first full night together. No sex, no wrapped around one another. No synchronised breathing as we fell asleep together. I never threw the bouquet. It was the one thing I'd really been looking forward to. The triumph of it; I'm married and you're not, God love yis. I put the bouquet in the bin when I was tidying up the next morning, before we left for the train. Flowers first, stalks sticking up. I made sure it looked finished with.

  I didn't mind it too much. I was married now and that was the important thing. My husband was lying beside me in the bed. My other half. His breath spread over my back; the first time we'd really shared a bed. I didn't mind it at all. It would be like this every morning from now on. Warmth and no rush; belonging together. The church had been great, and the meal after — the pavlova; Jesus — most of the day. Charlo was always very funny whenever he had a hangover. The sore head and stomach used to inspire him. He was hilarious. I waited for him to wake up. I was starving. I was gasping for a smoke but I didn't really want one. I never smoked in bed then; I had to be up and dressed first. He groaned and sank deeper below the covers. He knew I was there; he was doing this for me, a performance all for me. He was asking me to forgive him for the night before. And I did. No bother; it didn't matter any more. It was a laugh.

  He sat up in the bed and looked around. He knew I was looking at him. He looked up at the ceiling, and around again. He closed his eyes, and groaned.

  —Where's the fuckin' floor?

  He pulled on his trousers, pretending at first that he didn't know what they were or how to get into them. He stood up, and dropped back. He went to the door and stuck his head out.

  —I don't want to live here any more.

  He left the door open. I sat in the bed and listened, his feet on the floor outside, heavier than if he'd been wearing shoes. He stopped, and I heard him, muttering for me.

  —Wrong fuckin' way.

  I heard him singing.

  —I left my arse in San Fran —

  Cisco —

  We didn't stay in a caravan. I'd have liked that, just the two of us in a caravan made for eight, in an empty caravan park. There'd have been no log fire to lie in front of but it would have been lovely, the rain smashing down on the roof — there's nothing like rain on a caravan roof — and us inside, the curtains drawn and the wind to rock us. But it wouldn't have been quite right. Caravans were family things; there was nothing sexy or romantic about them, disappearing beds and water tanks that had to be filled. It would have been a bit weird, a honeymoon in a caravan, difficult to explain. Mind you, there was nothing sexy or romantic about the Bed and Breakfast we stayed in either. It was grand — clean and everything else — but it was nobody's love-nest. Mrs Doyle ran it; she owned it. She was a widow. She told us that before we got up to our room. She smiled at us when she opened the door. It was dark and raining. I sat on our case, fixing my shoe; the strap was killing me. Our case; our clothes mixed in together.

  —You're a bit early for the sun, said Mrs Doyle.

  —We booked, I said, in case she was telling us that they were closed. —Mr and Mrs Spencer.

  —That's right, she said.

  She was delighted when I told her that we were on our honeymoon.

  —Ah lovely, she said. —Lovely. I could see you were a pair of love-birds. Not like some of the ones you get during the peak. Always shouting and roaring at one another and walloping the kiddies.

  She stopped on the stairs and looked back down at us.

  —I was married to Mr Doyle for twenty-seven years, God rest his soul.

  —Is that right? said Charlo.

  I was mortified. He was slagging her, I knew it; but she didn't notice.

  —That's right, she said back.

  She opened the door and stood back for us to go in before her.

  —Now don't worry about any mess you might make, she said. —You'll only ever have the one honeymoon.

  I liked her. She told me later in the week that she had a daughter married in Gorey — to a lovely little man — two sons, one in Dublin and one in London, both with good jobs in offices. She had seven grandchildren, and another little granddaughter who'd climbed into an old fridge dumped in a field near her house in Dublin and had closed the door behind her and suffocated.

  —She'd be seven now, said Mrs Doyle. —Her birthday's tomorrow.

  Charlo couldn't understand why I was crying. He put his arm around me and sat on the bed till I stopped but he didn't understand; I could tell.

  —She might be making it up, he said.

  —How can you say that!

  —Well, she might, he said. —I think she makes up half the things she says.

  He was right, but not about her granddaughter. Her birthday's tomorrow. You didn't make up things like that. It was too plain. Too simple. I've
never stopped thinking about it. Everytime I open the fridge; I'm bending to get the milk and it lights in my head; almost every time. A fridge in a field. The luxury of it as well, being able to throw away a fridge.

  I remember, I put all the underwear together in a drawer, Charlo's and mine, and then I changed my mind. I put his into one, and mine into the one under it. I put the case under the bed. He was lying on the bed, his hands under his head.

  —The life, wha'.

  I pulled back the curtain and saw myself in the window. I turned off the light; it was only three or four steps to the switch. I went back to the window and looked out; the back garden and next-door's back garden. I switched the light back on.

  —Well? said Charlo.

  —Well what?

  —What can you see?

  —The sea and boats, I said.

  —Very nice, said Charlo. —Only the best. Come over here.

  We lay there for ages in the dark and listened to the noises above and under us and outside. We heard feet.

  —The jacks, said Charlo.

  We waited. A door was opened and closed. We waited for a flush, waited to laugh. Nothing.

  —Haha; you were wrong.

  —Didn't flush it, that's all.

  —Hasn't come out yet either.

  —Nothing unusual there; give him time. He's in no hurry. He's on his holliers.

  —How d'you know it's a man?

  —Shut up.

  Nothing; no steps, no flush.

  —He's after dying.

  I switched off the light. It was cold. It was actually fuckin' freezing. I knew our breath was coming out like steam in the dark; I could feel mine spreading above me.

  —Happy?

  —Yep.

  —Very happy?

  —Yep yep.

  —Very very happy?

  —Yep yep yep.

  It was a wonderful honeymoon, start, middle and finish, all of it. We went for walks, we played the slots — we were the only ones in the arcade — we ate chips, we ate ice-creams — all in the rain. We had a few drinks every night — people began to nod hello to us — and we were up in time for the rasher and sausage every morning. We spent most of the time in bed — back up straight after breakfast. I worried about it a bit; I kept expecting a knock on the door or even Mrs Doyle barging in so she could clean the room. But she left us alone. And she always tidied the room. She must have been in a room somewhere, waiting for us to go out. She must have been listening. She always smiled when she met us.