Paula Spencer (17 page)

Her hands are forgotten, the pain, the rubbing. They're on her lap. She's not an old woman. Not these days. She was only a kid when she was having her own kids.

—The snow and that, she says. —That would be lovely too. Chestnuts. Isn't it chestnuts they eat?

—Yeah, I think so.

—Did you ever eat a chestnut, Carmel?

There's nothing in her face. She's talking to Carmel; she's talking to Paula.

—No, says Paula. —I don't think I'd like them.

—No, says her mother. —It's hard to imagine. Conkers. Do boys still play with conkers?

She looks at the window again. She moves her head slightly, as if she's listening to children outside. Paula can't hear anything.

—No, says Paula. —I don't think so.

—Your Jack. He doesn't?

—He'd be too old.

—Would he?

—Yeah.

—I never see him, of course. Did you come in your car?

—I don't have a car.

—I thought you had a car.

—No.

—Who has the car?

Fuckin' everyone.

—That's probably Carmel.

—Yes. Carmel.

She doesn't look, to check who she's talking to.

—And Denise.

—Yes.

Your daughter, Mammy. She goes to hotels in her car and fucks men.

—And Wendy.

—Wendy's dead, Mammy.

—I know that. I know well she's dead.

The hands are moving again.

—She was the best of you.

Paula nods. She doesn't disagree.

The window's gone. Her mother isn't looking at it any more.

—Would you be interested in going outside, Mammy?

She's too late. She knows.

—For a few minutes, just? she says.

—They put their rubbish in the bin, says her mother.

—Who?

—The foreigners.

—What foreigners?

She doesn't know why she's asking. It keeps the flak off her. The foreigners can take their share for a while. She looks at her mother's legs. They're full of hard weight, right down past her ankles.

—They eat goats and all, says her mother.

—I'm sure they don't, says Paula.

—Her husband beat her.

It's like a slap. When Paula arrived with black eyes or splinted fingers, her mother never commented. Not once. All those years.

—You fuckin' oul' cow, says Paula.

—Beat her to a pulp, says her mother.

Paula's not sure if she spoke out loud. Her mother didn't notice, if she did. She's rubbing that knuckle. It's raw. She looks around, to see if her skin cream is near. What is it about the people close to Paula? They're all cracking open. They all have to baste themselves.

She can't see any. The place is filthy. Carmel comes over on Mondays, and Denise on the Thursdays, but they're fighting a losing battle – if they're fighting at all.

She looks, and her mother is looking at her.

—You're looking lovely, she says.

—Thanks very much, says Paula.

—You haven't had it easy.

—Ah. I'm fine.

—Good.

Her hands are on her lap again. That's her mother now, the woman sitting there.

—I always liked Charles.

—No, you didn't.

—Ah, I did.

—You didn't, Mammy. You were frightened of him.

—I don't remember that. Being frightened.

—We were all frightened of him, Mammy.

—Were we?

—Yes. Will I make us more tea?

—I'm frightened all the time, says her mother.

—D'you want more tea?

—I'll only have to go to the toilet.

She wants her mother, but not this version. She's here; she wishes to fuck she wasn't.

But she's here.

—What has you frightened? she asks.

And she knows. She sounds exactly like her mother used to. What has you frightened? What made you do that? But she looks at her now, and that's her mother. She loved her. She loves her. That's true.

—I'm afraid I'll fall, says her mother.

—You won't if you're careful, says Paula.

—It's not being careful, says her mother.

She hits her leg, hard.

—I'd love to be careful. I can't bloody well
move.

She groans. It's not pain.

—I liked getting old, she says. —Up until —

She rubs her leg where she hit it. She can hardly manage that. The side of her hand rasps against her skirt. The skirt isn't clean.

—It was lovely, she says.

Her hand is on the table now. It looks like something dead, a fish, thrown there.

Paula remembers her mother's hands. She remembers watching her work. Peeling apples, wringing clothes. Taking her rings off before she put her hands in the sink. Cutting bread, combing hair with the lice-comb. Paula remembers the feel of the comb, of her mother's hand on her neck. She remembers the newspaper on the floor, right under her face, the little tappy sound when anything landed on the paper. She remembers her mother laughing when Paula read the headline that was below her.

—Bishop Deplores Seaside Behaviour.

—The poor bishop, her mother said.

In this kitchen.

Paula looks down at the chair she's sitting on. It's the same chair. In the same place. It must be forty years ago. Even longer.

She'll ask her mother if she remembers it, the headline that made her laugh.

But she won't.

She'll visit more often.

—I can't manage the bin, says her mother. —With my hands.

—Never mind the bin, says Paula.

She hates herself as she listens. Her mother wants to talk about bins. So, let her.

—And they put the goats into it if I don't get it out on time. The bits they don't eat.

—That's terrible, says Paula.

—The girls are useless.

Paula nods.

She has one speaker on the floor, at the door, and the other at the window, as far from the sink as she can get it. She pushes the wire on the floor closer to the wall. She'll get tacks or something, to keep the wire in place. The player itself is where the bread-bin was.

The bread-bin is out in the hall. She'll put it up in the attic. It's an old tin one. She never used it. Jack used to put his little toys into it. He'd drag a chair to the counter and climb up with the toys, cars and Lego things, one at a time. He'd refuse help – always.

—It's my work to do.

It was like a fort, or a stage. She'd sit and watch him for hours, and listen to his little serious voice.

She's looking at her new stereo – €199. She got it in Power City. Rita Kavanagh drove her up. She took her time choosing it. She touched everything. She pressed buttons, watched doors pop up, slide open.

She went for the slider. Panasonic. A name she knows. A CD player and radio. It's silver. The speakers are wood, a nice light colour. They look great, like furniture.

She takes the plastic off her new CD. It's hard work, the packaging. It's fuckin' ridiculous.

There were bargain CDs in Power City. But they were all old stuff – Smokie, the Carpenters. That's not what Paula wants. Not yet. Rita bought five of them.

—You have to.

But Paula had already bought her first CD. She's had it for weeks.

She has the plastic off it. She needs to let her nails grow. They're nearly as bad as Leanne's. Anyway, she has it open. She loves the red and black circles on the disc. She takes it out. It resists a bit. The teeth things in the centre of the box are holding it tight. She presses the teeth down with her finger and the disc lifts. It's ridiculous, really. It's not the first time she's handled a CD. But it feels that way. Maybe it's just ownership. She bought this disc. She bought the player. She worked for these things. For herself. For the house. Jack will play his discs in the kitchen, if he wants. And Leanne – if she wants. Leanne doesn't play music. She has a blaster in her room. Paula got it for her, years ago – a birthday present. She was fourteen, and mad into Boyzone. She doesn't know if the blaster still works. She hasn't seen any CDs up there.

She presses a button, CD 1. There's a short whirr, and the holder slides out and stops. She lowers the disc onto it. It slides back in.

She's not even sure if she'll like it.

She presses Play. She barely has to touch it.

It was just, when she saw the cover, the four lads, not much younger than herself, but sitting together like teenagers, lads she'd like to see Jack with, if she was walking back from the shops or something. There was just something about the photograph, the sunshine, their shoes. But mostly, it was the four of them together, friends, pals at their age – nearly her age. She thought it was lovely.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.

She knows nothing about them. U2 – she's never liked the name. They come from her part of the city, but she missed them. She was being hammered, battered to the floor, while they were becoming famous. Nicola and John Paul weren't into them. Or Leanne, or Jack – she thinks.

She wants it loud. She wants to ignore the fact that her left ear isn't good. There's a dial for the volume. She turns it, clockwise, with just one finger, the way she's seen women in films turning cars, just one finger on the steering wheel. She's always loved the way they can do that.

And it's at her. The music.

She's grinning.

LIGHTS – GO DOWN. IT'S DARK.

It's exactly what she wanted.

THE JUNGLE IS YOUR HEAD.

It's modern. It reminds her of nothing. It's not an oul' one crying into her glass. It's Paula Spencer, looking ahead.

HELLO HELLO —

She'll fill the house with it. This is what will welcome the kids when they come home from school and work.

I'M AT A PLACE CALLED VERTIGO.

It's everywhere in the kitchen, with her.

THE GIRL WITH CRIM-SON NAILS.

She can spin in it.

HAS JESUS ROUND HER NECK.

That's how she feels. She could nearly spin. She knows, she'd go on her arse. But it's the way she feels, the way this music makes her feel. She's been brave. She's jumped right in.

She turns on the water. She bends down. She drinks straight from the tap.

They're alone. It's Friday night. Leanne is just in. She's eating. She has the plate on her lap.

Paula watches her.

She has the telly on, Sky News. The sound is down. She's been watching the pictures from Rome. She'd love to be there.

Leanne's putting away the food. Two sausages, two rashers, fried potatoes, beans. She'd phoned earlier. She'd had to work late, because someone had messed up an order. She was on her way home.

They're both trying hard.

Paula's only in, herself. She's home about an hour. She was getting stuck into a sausage sandwich when Leanne phoned.

—Have you eaten? said Paula.

—No.

—I'll do you something.

—Great.

—It'll be ready when you get here.

—Can't wait.

That's Leanne. That's the way she's always been.

Then there's the terror. Things change so quickly. Ten minutes is a long time. The phone is easy. Paula doesn't trust it.

But it's grand. Leanne came straight home. She wasn't hobbling. She's eating. They're talking.

Paula sacked someone tonight.

—Why?

—I had to, says Paula.

—Why?

—He was useless, says Paula.

—Can you sack people for that? says Leanne.

—Well, says Paula. —Yeah. You can.

—They're all useless where I am, says Leanne.

Leanne works in a furniture distribution place.

—Including me, she says.

—Ah, Leanne.

—Don't worry, Mammy. I don't mean it.

—How're the fried spuds?

—Best ever.

—I had the potatoes left over.

—They're great.

—From last night. I didn't want to waste them.

—Jesus, Mammy. They're beginning to taste a bit fuckin' dry. So you sacked this fella.

—Yeah.

—Was he good-looking?

—Leanne.

—Was he?

—No.

—He was. I can tell.

—You
are
useless.

—Told you.

Leanne wipes her plate with a chunk of that Cuisine de France bread. Paula got it earlier, when it was still hot. She looks at the telly. The same words go across the bottom of the screen. Breaking Story – Pope has lost consciousness.

—Were you on your own? Leanne asks.

—How d'you mean?

—When you sacked him.

—Oh. Yeah.

She'd been a bit frightened. She'd reported him a few weeks ago to Lillian, the supervisor. Lillian thanked her and told her that it was up to Paula to give him the good news. But she did nothing for two weeks. She chickened out, three times. She was going to sack him last night, but the bollix wasn't there.

—He thought it was his charm, she says now.

—What was?

—He thought – the Hristo guy.

—Where's he from?

—Romania.

—Is he a gypsy?

—No.

—How do you know?

—Actually. I don't. But it doesn't matter.

—Go on; sorry.

—You asked me was he good-looking.

—Yeah.

—He thought he was.

—Yeah; go on.

—He thought he had me, says Paula. —Where he wanted me.

—Sounds good, says Leanne.

Paula smiles at her. How many times has Leanne made Paula smile?

—The poor oul' one, you know, says Paula. —Putty in his hands.

He'd smile, the times he came in.

—Like you should be delighted to see him.

—Yeah.

—-We've one of them in work, says Leanne. —He's Irish but, God love him.

—It annoyed me, says Paula.

—So you sacked him.

—No.

—Yeah, yeah; maybe.

—No, Leanne. I didn't sack him because he was full of himself. He wasn't doing his job.

Leanne shrugs, the wagon. She nods at the telly.

—Is he going to die tonight?

—Yeah, says Paula. —So they're saying. It's sad.

—Yeah, says Leanne. —He's been Pope for ages, hasn't he?

—1978.

—Jesus. I wonder how John Paul feels.

—Why?

—His name, Ma; duh.

—Oh. Yeah.

—You gave it to him, remember?

—Yeah, I do, actually. I can remember that one.

John Paul was born a few months after the Pope came to Ireland. She'd been big and sick when she watched it all on the telly.

—I'll text him, says Leanne.

—What?

—John Paul, says Leanne. —I'll text my condolences.

Paula feels suddenly annoyed. She feels rejected. She pulls it back; she tries to.

—You get on well, don't yis?

—Yeah, says Leanne.

She looks at Paula.

—He's great.

Paula nods.

—I've some ice-cream in the fridge, she says.

—Nice one, says Leanne.

She nods at the telly.

—We can change the channel while we're eating it, she says. —We can't be eating ice-cream while he's dying.

Jesus, thinks Paula, she's amazing; she's so sharp.

She goes into the kitchen.

She hears the telly. Leanne has the remote.

She puts the ice-cream on a plate, and into the microwave. She blasts it for ten seconds, so she can get the bread-knife through it. She gets down two bowls. She's in front of the stereo. It's lit, even though it's not on. It's like an altar or something, the tabernacle. She keeps looking at it. She can't help it. There's a CD on the counter.
Lullabies to Paralyze.
By Queens of the Stone Age. It's Jack's. He must have been playing it when he got home from school, when she was at work sacking Hristo. She's delighted. She's not sure why. Leanne, Jack. The ice-cream.

It's a home. That's the feeling.

She cuts two good pieces from the block. She picks them up, one at a time, on the side of the bread-knife and drops them into the bowls. She puts the rest of the block back into the freezer. She gets a couple of teaspoons. They'll make the ice-cream last longer. She picks up the bowls and goes back in to Leanne.

—No change?

—No.

—Nothing else on?

—No.

—There you go.

—Thanks.

Leanne takes one of the bowls, and a spoon. Paula gets back on the couch. She holds her bowl well out, so the ice-cream won't spill as she settles into a corner.

Her feet are touching Leanne's. Leanne doesn't move them. She hears Leanne's spoon tap and scrape the bowl.

—It's only vanilla, she says.

—I noticed, says Leanne.

—There's more if you want it, says Paula.

—No, this is grand.

Paula watches her lean out, put the bowl down on the floor. She comes back up and leans back into her corner. She shifts her feet, pulls them nearer to her. She does it softly. She's not pulling them away from Paula. She puts her hand to her foot. Paula sees a hole in one of Leanne's socks, at the big toe. Leanne pulls at the sock. She stretches it, and pulls it back under her foot – like she's putting the toe to bed, tucking it in. She's looking at the telly.

—I wonder what all the John Pauls are thinking, she says.

—How d'you mean? says Paula.

—Like, they were all named after him and now he's nearly dead. It must be a bit weird.

—I never thought of it, says Paula. —When I gave him the name. That hundreds of others were doing the same thing. Did you text our John Paul?

—Yeah.

—And?

—He didn't get back yet.

Leanne flicks quickly through three channels, then back to Sky News.

—Was it just you that gave him the name? she says.

—Was your daddy involved, says Paula. —Is that what you mean?

—Yeah.

—Well, it was my idea. That one. I think Charlo wanted to call him Charles. But, yeah, he was interested, if that's what you mean.

—Charles?

—I liked the name when it was Charlo. But not the full name, Charles. Or Charlie.

—Does it bring it back a bit?

—Looking at this?

She has to be careful.

—It's a bit strange alright, she says. —But it wasn't all bad. Not then. It got worse.

She looks at Leanne.

—How about you?

—I wasn't even born, sure.

—But thinking back. About your daddy.

—I don't.

—At all?

—No.

They both look at the telly. Leanne is the first to speak.

—I'm going to bed if he doesn't die soon.

—Me too.

Rita talks about retirement. There's not much that Paula can say back. She's only starting. She has to work. She used to drink to sleep. Now she wants to be exhausted. She has to drive herself to it. The real work starts when she opens her eyes in the morning. It never stops. Her hand is killing her. She won't go to the doctor.

He'd tell her to rest it. She'll live with the pain.

Rita says We a lot. We're looking into early retirement. We were looking at a carpet last week. Her husband, Paddy, is a nice enough fella. Paula's not sure what he does. He's away a lot. She's seen him getting into taxis in the early mornings, with one of those wheelie suitcases. He doesn't wear a suit. Jeans and a zip-up jacket.

—We were watching a thing on the telly last night, says Rita.

But Paula knows that Paddy wasn't in the house last night. She saw him going off in his taxi yesterday.

But maybe that's what it's about. It's the feeling of being together that matters, not whether or not they're actually sitting beside each other, cuddled up, whatever. They can still think We, even if they're miles apart. She doesn't know. There was only ever Charlo.

But maybe it's just sad. Clinging to something that's not there. She hopes not. She likes Rita.

She'd be in trouble if she didn't work. It isn't just about the money. She doesn't hate her work. She doesn't like it either. It keeps her going. The buses and trains, the hours

The panic attacks, whatever they are, don't come if she's busy.

They do come. But not as often, not as badly. She can't go too mad if she has to go to work. She measures it out in steps. One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Whoever wrote that one hadn't a clue. A day is a fuckin' eternity.

Jack comes home with a note. He's in the house a good while, upstairs, before he gives it to her. He doesn't really give it to her. He puts it on the table.

—What's that about? she says.

—You've to sign it, he says.

—That's not an answer.

She's never spoken to Jack like that. She doesn't think she has. She doesn't look at him.

But she stops that. She looks. It's her guilt, not his. She looks at him.

—What's up? she says.

—I've been suspended.

He's looking at the table, at the note, or the letter – whatever it is.

—What? she says.

But she heard him. She wants to run to the school. She'll go at the throat of whatever bastard wrote that note.

She's been making more soup.

Fuck all that.

—Why?

He says nothing. She picks up the note and reads it.

—Jesus Christ.

She looks at Jack. She throws the note at the table. It slides off the table and lands on the floor. Jack bends down and picks it up.

—They just fill in the fuckin' gaps, she says.

She takes the page from Jack. She looks at it again.

—My name, your name, the date he wants to see me.

—She, says Jack.

She brings the page closer to her eyes.

—Is it even a proper signature?

—Don't know, says Jack.

—Who is it?

—Miss O'Keefe.

—Who's she?

—Year Head.

—Okay. I thought she was nice. I'm a great fuckin' judge of character.

—She's okay, says Jack.

—Does she not have the time to write a proper letter? Dear, fill in the blank, I am sorry to report that your son or daughter, fill in the blank. For fuck sake. It's serious. Why, Jack?

—Why is it serious?

—No.
Why?

She looks back at the note.

—It isn't even on it, she says. —Why are you suspended?

—I said something about a teacher, says Jack.

—Ah, no. What?

—I said he couldn't teach properly.

—Ah, Jack.

—He's useless.

—We're all useless, she says. —I don't mean that. But —

She looks at the note, at the date for the meeting – the order to appear.

—That's tomorrow, yeah?

—Yeah.

—Okay. Why did she take it for granted that I'd be able to go? Did she ask you for a time?

—No.

—Why didn't she phone?

—Don't know.

—Did you use bad language?

—No.

—Sure?

She puts up her hands.

—No, no; sorry. I believe you.

She gets her mobile. It's on top of the stereo.

—I was supposed to meet John Paul.

It's annoying. It's more. She wants to cry. One son drags her away from the other.

That's not fair. It's not Jack's fault. It
is
Jack's fault. It took ages for her to phone John Paul, weeks. To work up the nerve, the courage – whatever it is. Just to ask him to meet for a chat. But he'll understand. He's a father himself.

She holds the phone. She changes her mind. She won't text him. She'll phone him. She'll talk to him properly later.

—So, she says. —Okay. Now. Let's get ready for this.

She looks at him.

—What did you say to – who was it anyway?

—O'Driscoll.

—Mister O'Driscoll.

—Yeah.

—What did you say to him?

—I didn't say anything to him, says Jack.

—No messing, Jack. Please. Tell me.

Jack looks at her.

—You know ratemyteachers.ie?

—What?

—It's a website, says Jack. —You can rate your teachers. Like, give them marks and that.

—And is that what you did?

—Yeah.

—What's it like?

He kind of shrugs.

—You grade the teacher, he says. —Helpfulness, clarity, popularity.

—Is it legal?

He's surprised, worried for a second – he's thinking. Then he settles.

—Yeah.

—Sure, Jack?

—It looks like a report.

—Except it's for the teacher, says Paula. —Instead of the kid, like.

—Yeah.

—So, she says. —I don't get it. What happened?

—I gave him his grades. 1, 1 and 1.

—And that's bad.

—Yeah. Out of 5.

—Why did you do this, anyway?

—I just did, he says. —They were talking about it. In school, like. And, you know. I did it for all my teachers. I gave them all grades.

—All bad marks?