by Roddy Doyle
When they were in bed or in school I could close down. I could curl up. After a hiding, after a fight, I'd curl up in a corner on the floor; I'd hum and concentrate on the humming until the aches became one pain, one pain that didn't change, that got no worse. I could feel the blood drying, becoming something else, something that didn't come from me. Then I could sink under the pain and there was nothing.
There was beautiful nothing, until I had to wake up and be myself again. The pain separated into aching limbs and muscle and I had to stand up and become Paula Spencer again. I had to straighten myself up and wash the dried blood from my face. I had to fix myself up and ignore the pain. I often woke up on the kitchen floor. The invisible woman. The woman who walked into doors.
—What made you do that?
Fuckin' doctors.
—What made you do that?
Stupid fuckin' bastards. What made me do that? Looking at my eye. Looking for my eye, behind the pulp. He didn't want an answer; he muttered, thought he was being nice. Silly you; look what you did to yourself. None of them wanted answers.
—A little bit of make-up will cover that up for you.
None of them looked at me.
—As right as rain.
None of them saw. Tut-tut-tut and another prescription. More pills to wash down. There was sometimes no food in the house but there was always valium.
—Do you take a drink, Missis Spencer?
Plenty of rest. Put your feet up for a while. Get your hair done; spoil yourself.
—Put this woman to bed the minute you get home, Mister Spencer, and bring her up a cup of tea.
—Yes, doctor.
The two of them, looking after me. Laughing at me. The woman who walked into doors. They didn't wink at each other because they didn't have to.
They were all the same; they didn't want to know. They'd never ask. Here's a prescription; now fuck off. The young ones were the worst, the young ones in Casualty. So busy, so important.
—It's people like you that waste my time.
I should have boxed her ears. A kid in a white coat, playing. Shouting at the nurses. A fuckin' little child with no manners. And I took it from her.
—Sorry, doctor.
—Next.
There'd be days when I'd wake up, when my head would be fresh and clear, when I'd feel tall and strong. My nostrils were long. I'd feel the air sailing up, cooling my head as it went. I tasted things. I wanted things. I'd hold onto the children. I'd feel them, look them all over. They grew in front of me. Their faces changed. They were good days. They'd climb up on me. I was awake. It was over. I'd clean. I'd wash. I'd try to catch up. I was doing it for him. To prove to him. I was worth it, worth loving. I worked and worked so the guilt couldn't catch up with me. I cut the grass. I made sure I knew what day it was. I worked. I washed. I cleaned the floor, the sink, the toilet. I washed sheets. I hung them out. I laughed when the wind whipped them back into my face. It was good to be alive. It was good to be in the back garden hanging up the washing. I made the beds. I ironed. I listened to the radio. I caught up. I brushed their hair. I sorted out their clothes. I made piles and filled the hot press. I put on lipstick and faced the world. I put in earrings. I polished shoes. I lined them up and polished them all. I tried to remember where they'd all come from.
He did love me. I know. He proved it again and again. Right to the very end. Even after I threw him out. It was just something in him. A bit of something that turned bad. Charlo was an angry man. The temper was always there, underneath. It was a good thing about him; he knew what he wanted, he got what he wanted. It was good to know that you were with him. Watching him, being with him. It was exciting.
If he'd been a bit different he would have been great at something — he'd have made a different name for himself. A businessman or a politician, or even an actor. He'd have been a star. If he'd had the education. If he'd had other work when all the building around Dublin stopped and there was nothing left for him to do. He would have put that anger to use. He wouldn't have been wasted. He'd have been a leader. I can see him. Managing a football team. Putting the fear of God into them at half-time. Standing up and speaking in the Dáil, tearing strips off the Minister for Social Welfare. Jumping out of a moving car — doing his own stunts. Teaching problem kids. They'd have loved him. Vote for Charlo Spencer. Co-starring Charlo Spencer. Written and directed by Charlo Spencer. Scored by Charlo Spencer. But he wasn't unemployed the first time he hit me. Beaten by Charlo Spencer. That's a fact that I can't mess around with. Robbed by Charlo Spencer. Murdered by Charlo Spencer. Charlo Spencer lost his job and started beating his wife. It's not as simple as that. He started robbing. He shot a woman and killed her. Because he didn't have a job, was rejected by society. It would be nice if it was that easy. If I could just think back and say Yes, that was how it was. Charlo Spencer lost his job and started beating his wife. I could rest if I believed that; I could rest. But I keep on thinking and I'll never come to a tidy ending. Every day. I think about it every minute. Why did he do it? No real answers come back, no big Aha. He loved me and he beat me. I loved him and I took it. It's as simple as that, and as stupid and complicated. It's terrible. It's like knowing someone you love is dead but not having the body to prove it. He loved me. I know it. But if he loved me, why did he hit me? Why did he hit me so hard and so often? The questions are never answered. They always torment me. And his love becomes a cruel thing, like a smile on a Nazi's face. You don't hit the people you love. You might, once or twice — it's only human. But not the way he did it, again and again. You don't pull back their fingers till they snap. You don't wake them in the morning with a kick in the stomach. You don't hold their face over the chip pan and threaten to dump their head into the boiling fat. You don't beat them in front of their children. That's not love. You can't love someone one minute, then beat them, and then love them again once the blood has been washed off. I can't separate the two things, the love and the beatings. I can't say that he was like that some times and like this other times. I can't make two Charlos. I can't separate him into the good and the bad. I take the good and the bad comes too. I lie in bed curled up thinking of the good and I can feel the bad chilling my back. I remember us moving into our brand new house with its lovely smell of paint; I remember bringing Nicola and John Paul around — he was only a tiny little fella — and showing them all the rooms a few days before we moved in; I remember that it was Charlo who was carrying John Paul and I was holding Nicola's hand. I remember that it was a hot day in the middle of a hot week and all the muck of the unfinished roads and gardens had turned into dust. There was no bus to the new estate — it didn't really exist yet. We had a long walk from the bus stop. There was still a farmhouse. Nicola waved at the farmer in his tractor; I told her to. The man waved back. We didn't know where he was going with his tractor. His fields were gone. There was a big chestnut tree that the Corporation had left standing at the top of our road. Charlo said it was left there because the squirrels had an uncle in the planning department. I remember being too warm and very excited. I remember Nicola twirling around and pulling the arm off me. Is this our new house Mammy, is this our new house Mammy? I remember being a bit shocked even though I'd been here many times before. It was all raw and bare, the edge of the world. I remember being worried. I suddenly wondered what the neighbours would be like. I wondered how far it was to the nearest shop. I wondered would the place always look like an abandoned building site. I couldn't imagine it changing, growing older and smoother. There was a cement mixer, turned over on its side, in the front garden two doors up. There were kids playing in front of the houses that were already occupied. I didn't like the look of them. They were rough-looking, even the girls, filthy language coming out of them. I didn't want Nicola hanging around with them; I looked at her looking at them. The old tree was at the top of the road, though. The rest of the estate would catch up with it; it would be lovely. All kids were loud and rough. Their mammies could never keep them clean wi
th the dust and dirt. Mine would be the same. And the house. I loved it. Finished and untouched, the walls bare and waiting. The smell of newness. This was it. Home. This was where we'd stay. (We'd moved flats four times. Too small. Too damp. Evicted because of the noise we were making.) The new smell of the new house would rub off on us. A new start. I remember: we'd brought the kettle, milk and tea, sugar in a paper bag. Charlo hummed the national anthem as I filled the kettle for the first time in our new kitchen. We got Nicola to clap when I turned on the gas under the kettle and it came on. Whoosh! It was a big day. I remember it all. How I felt, how I looked, Nicola's face, the smell of the house, the dust in the air, the taste of the tea.
—That's good water came out of that tap, Charlo said. —Only the best.
I remember Nicola loving the stairs, our own stairs — she didn't have to share it with anyone. She sat on them while we went from room to room. The sun reflected off Charlo's watch, a bright spot on the front bedroom wall. John Paul saw it and squealed and the two of them stayed there for an hour, playing with the light-spot on the wall, until the sun dropped away. Myself and Nicola went out to the back garden and decided what we'd grow there. Banana trees. I wasn't certain if bananas grew on trees. (I'm still not.) Nicola was positive about it. Potato trees. Orange trees. Gooseberry bushes.
—Trees.
—Bushes, love.
—Trees.
—Trees and bushes then. One for each of us.
It was cooler in the back garden; it was cold.
—I don't know if we'll be able to grow bananas on this side, love.
I remember everything about that day. (I don't remember actually moving in a few days later.) I remember it all. And I believe everything I remember. A new start. Warm on one side of the house, cold on the other. The taste of the tea. The packet of Kimberley biscuits. John Paul filling his little mouth with biscuit, and emptying it. Nothing to clean it up with. The smell of the house. The echoes. The toilet, using it the first time. Launching it, Charlo said. He left the door open while he went loudly on top of the water. Nicola sitting on the stairs, shuffling herself until she was nice and comfy. Scraping the tape off the new window in the kitchen with my thumbnail. Closing the door behind us when we were leaving. Not wanting to leave. Closing the door gently. Our new door. His hand on my back. Nicola's hands on my legs. John Paul asleep on Charlo's shoulder.
—I can't fuckin' wait, said Charlo.
I backed closer to him, agreed with him. We looked at the door, and up at the rest of the house. Then we went on to my parents' house — it was Sunday. Two buses. It started to rain. The four of us upstairs in the bus.
—Paddy on the railway track picking up stones, along came the train and broke Paddy's bones.
I remember everything; I'm sure I do. I remember it all, but I remember this as well: the pain in my arm where he'd pinched me the night before, the huge bruise that his finger and thumb had left. He'd made me follow him all through the flat, pulling me by the flesh of my arm. It was agony. He'd speed up and slow down, squeeze harder if I cried out or said anything. Because he wanted to do it. I don't remember the excuse. Because he could. The pain couldn't have been worse. What was the fuss; it was only a pinch. It was agony, out of nowhere. He dragged me for minutes. Until Match of the Day started. The music always reminds me. (There's still a mark there, on the inside of my arm, little red pinpricks left by his bitten nails.) I remember that Nicola wouldn't let him touch her. She was all over me. She never let go. I had to sit beside her on the stairs. She pawed me and held onto me all day. I remember being nervous. I remember being scared when it started to rain, that it would change Charlo's mood. I was worried that John Paul would get on Charlo's nerves. John Paul never rested when he was asleep. He squirmed all the time; it was impossible to get comfortable when you were carrying him. I remember closing my eyes when I saw the Kimberley biscuit and milk on the back of Charlo's shirt, deciding what was best, whether to tell him about it or not, terrified that somebody else would tell him first. Charlo wouldn't have cared, I know that, but at the time it seemed vital. I remember it. Everything was fragile and hysterically important. I was tired and gleaming from lack of sleep; my eyes didn't fit, my shoulders ached. I was sore from sex that I hadn't wanted. I remember I wanted to get away; I wanted to run. I couldn't stand any more. But I didn't want to run. I wanted everything to be perfect; everything was going to be great — I just had to be careful. I was responsible for it all. The clouds coming, I was dragging them towards us; my thoughts were doing it. I was ruining everything. It was up to me. I could control the whole day. All I had to do was make sure that I made no stupid mistakes. Don't walk on the cracks. Don't look at the clouds. It's up to you. A lovely day and I hated every minute of it. Every step was into a huge black hole; there was nothing underneath me. Nicola's tears, John Paul's snotty nose, spilling the sugar onto the floor — everything made me panic. Everything was heading into disaster. Our chance for a fresh start and I was going to wreck it. Something I'd do, something I'd say. Anything. It would be me. Me and my big feet or my big mouth, my butter fingers or my fat ugly face. It would be me. I'd ruin it before we could start.
Stop.
That's the thing about my memories. I can't pick and choose them. I can't pretend. There were no good times. I can never settle into a nice memory, lie back and smile. They're all polluted, all ruined. Nothing to look back at that isn't painful or sick. My tongue explores the gaps in my mouth and I remember how I lost my teeth. Every day, every time I move my tongue. I move my shoulder on a damp day and I remember. I see packets of Kimberley biscuits stacked up in the supermarket and I remember. The tiny old bruises on my arm. The scar on my chin. Leanne wetting the bed. The smell of old cigarette smoke. The taste if I put too much sugar in my tea. The empty fridge. The creak in the fourth step of the stairs. The bell. Match of the Day. The sun lighting up the kitchen at teatime in the summer. They all remind me. They all stab me. They laugh at me and never let me go.
Memories are made of this.
A taxi to the hospital. He held my hand and put his free arm behind my back to keep me steady, so my arm wouldn't bash against the door or the seat. He chatted with the driver. He was relaxed, in control, looking after me. They were talking about the Stardust; it had been a week since the Stardust fire. They both knew people who had died. They were sorting through them, trying to find out if they knew any of the same people. I listened to them. I knew people too but I said nothing. I didn't want to intrude. He was speaking on my behalf, for us both. His shock was mine, his opinions. I was always like that when Charlo was talking. I was happy listening to him. He had just pulled my arm out of its socket, less than an hour before, and I was listening to him; I was actually admiring him, proud of him. He'd run next door to get their young one, Ann, to babysit for us and to phone for the taxi. She thought we were going to the pictures. I was a mess but my coat was good.
—Which one are you going to see? she said.
—We'll see what's on when we get there, I said.
We saw the lights of the taxi pulling up outside.
—Are we off so? said Charlo.
—There's a bottle fixed up for John Paul in the fridge, I told Ann. —Remember to test it first before you give it to him, won't you. We won't be too long.
—Okay. Have a nice time.
It had been a long time since he'd hit me. I'd filled John Paul's bottle and screwed the lid on one-handed. I remember being interested in how I was managing. I'd opened the fridge door, gone to the table for the bottle and the fridge door had shut by the time I got back with it. I put the bottle on the floor and opened the fridge again. I remember thinking about Mrs Doyle from Courtown's little granddaughter dying behind the fridge door. I was doing everything left-handed. He'd pulled out my right arm. I don't have to remember that. That noise is always there.
He opened the taxi door for me and got me in.
—Careful now, he said.
Him and the driver swapp
ed names all the way, and stories of narrow escapes and tragedy. Charlo sounded like a spokesman for the area; the driver kept looking in his rearview mirror at him.
He always came with me. Always stayed at my side. Always brought me home after I'd been fixed up. Always looked after me. He gave the driver his money and tip before he got out of the car. Then he went round to my side and opened the door. The driver waited for me to get out. Charlo held onto my good arm. He bent down and spoke before he slammed the door.
—Good luck so.
He helped me into Casualty, almost did my walking for me. He sat and stood beside me all the time. He let me do all the talking and explaining. He smiled at nurses and doctors. He smiled apologetically when I told them that I'd fallen down the stairs. He was always there. I could see him on the other side of the curtain. I remember that night. I looked drunk and scruffy. My hair was greasy and flat — I still had it long back then. (I was still young.) Charlo looked well and smelt of the Old Spice my mother had given him for his birthday. You'd have felt sorry for him that night, being stuck with me. A drunken bitch who kept falling down the stairs and walking into doors. But he stayed by my side. He stood by me. He held my hand and patted my arm. He took full responsibility for me.
I'd been there before but it had been a good while. I knew some of the faces. I watched while I waited. I was in a daze, really. Drunk men and kids. A few women. I wondered why they were there. Waiting for their kids and husbands, I supposed. (Once, I heard a woman near me telling the nurse that she'd walked into a door, and I believed her. I felt sorry for her. Her eye was completely closed and in a state mat didn't really have a colour, awful to look at. I couldn't take my eyes off it. She was in a very bad way, shaking and gulping. It never dawned on me that she was lying, the same way I always lied. I believed her completely; she must have been running when she hit the door, chasing after the kids or something. There were always other women there when I was there, waiting their turn like me, wounded women. I never once thought that I wasn't the only one who'd been put there by her husband. Seeing them there made me feel even worse; they were there because of honest accidents. I was there because of my husband's temper, because I'd provoked him, because I didn't deserve him. I envied them. And sometimes I hated them. They didn't know how lucky they were with their real accidents.) I knew some of the nurses. They came and went, did different shifts — left, got married — but I recognised some of them. (Maybe some of them had husbands who beat them.) I liked the nurses; I liked watching them work. They ran the whole show, really. They stayed calm and busy without rushing, patient with everybody. They were the life of the place. I wished I'd been a nurse.
