Paula Spencer (10 page)

—I've been through Newry and Enniskillen, she said. —Ballymena, even feckin' Belfast.

But she couldn't get one.

Then Paula saw Tamagotchis, dozens of them, in a little shop on Talbot Street that looked like it might be closing down soon. There was that run-down look about it. She bought three of them, one for Marcus and two more for Nicola's pair. She was halfway down the street – she was on her way to work – when she stopped and checked her money and went back and got a pink one for Rita.

She's doing her best. She's trying to like it. She's trying to mean it when she wishes people a Happy Christmas. She even tries to beat them to it.

She's exhausted. She's nervous.

Jack wouldn't come with her.

—Your niece and nephew, she said.

That was cheap but she'd wanted the company. She doesn't like going to places she doesn't really know. It makes her jittery. John Paul's flat is in Rialto. He hadn't offered to pick her up and bring her.

Jack didn't even respond to that. He walked out of the kitchen – that was his answer.

She might miss her stop; she has to be careful. It's hard to tell on the South Circular Road. It looks kind of the same every time she looks out the bus window, especially on a pissy day like this.

They dashed at her, the last time she visited. They had the SuperValu bag out of her grip and they were grabbing at the goodies before she was even in the door.

—What's in it, missis?

She laughed.

—She's your granny, said – what was Paula supposed to call her?

Star.

Their mother. John Paul's partner.

—Oh yeah, said Marcus.

—Is she? said Sapphire. —Are you?

—Yes, said Paula.

They've been to her house since, five times. John Paul brought them. Star stayed at home. The last time, Leanne was on the couch, asleep. Little Marcus hit her with the crutch. She didn't wake up. Jack looked at them all, nodded and went out. John Paul put on cartoons for the kids and left them on the floor, with Leanne on the couch behind them. They didn't stay there. Paula could hear them upstairs, all over the place – she heard something break; she thought she did. They charged into the kitchen, charged out, back up the stairs. While Paula and John Paul tried to talk to each other.

She's off the bus. She knows the way now. She holds the bag close to her chest. Her hand holds it shut. She doesn't want the rain wrecking the wrapping paper.

John Paul's not a talker. He doesn't chat. He's in control; he can never let go. It's a powerful thing. But it's frightening. He manages every part of himself, like a sheepdog at the sheep. A loose hand on the table gets pulled back in. His lips never curl. He doesn't sigh. Every word is examined before it's let out. He's worked very hard. Wherever he got this strength, he didn't get it from his father. There are parts of John Paul that are Charlo, but Charlo was never in control. He could never have stopped and turned.

Paula did.

John Paul did. But, God. She even asked him.

—Are you religious, John Paul?

—No.

He said no more.

She was a bit surprised. It would have made sense. He's like some kind of a preacher, from an old film. A man in black. A preacher who doesn't say much.

There's none of the child in John Paul. There's nothing about him that brings a rush. He was a jumpy kid, always flying. Looking everywhere but taking nothing in. Adorable, because he was heading the wrong way. People patted John Paul, when they could catch him. He was a stupid kind of kid and she'd loved him more for that. She'd laughed. She'd shaken her head. She sat beside him as his stomach was pumped. She was drunk, and hating herself; they were some double act that night. He was fourteen. She learnt nothing. He was addicted to heroin; he was gone from the house before she started looking for signs. He was months gone before she really lost him. She moved through fat, yellow fog. Dead husband, dead son. Then this man rang the bell. Alright?

She thinks this is the corner. Then they're down a bit to the left.

It isn't that John Paul has become a hard, solid man. She doesn't think he goes to a gym.

—Have you been in jail, John Paul?

—No.

He doesn't have the powerful arms, pulling at his T-shirt. He always wears a black T-shirt. He's not as well-built as his father. A little different, a little less, and he'd be scrawny. But he holds himself up; he pulls himself out of his size. She's wondered if he's involved in anything bad. She can't help it. There's so much that makes no sense. Does he collect money? Protection? Is he even a bouncer?

—What do you do, John Paul?

—Work?

—Yeah.

—Drive a van.

—Oh.

—Mine, he said. —I've an ad in the
Herald.

—Oh.

—People moving. Want anything moved. I do it.

John Paul never shrugs.

She rings the bell. She hears it inside. The flat is half a house. The bottom half. She hears a door. She hears feet. There's no glass in this door. She'd like one like it. The door opens.

He smiles. He decides to smile. She's being unfair; she's a bitch. She's watching a miracle. She should be down on her fuckin' knees.

He stands back.

—Come in.

The kids are behind him, beside him, trying to get through. He uses his legs to block their way.

—Let her in, let her in. She's soaked.

He adores them. She can hear it. They're in and out of his legs. Sapphire whacks his arse, like that's what it's there for.

Suddenly, Paula wants to cry. She catches herself. She laughs.

—It's the granny-woman!

That's Sapphire again. Paula is the old woman who isn't her granny, but is.

The hall isn't theirs. They share with upstairs. There are two bikes and a buggy, and a hoover. Her leg hits a pedal as she gets past one of the bikes. The front wheel bends towards the wall but the bike stays up. There are marks, a line of them, all along the wallpaper, right to the back of the hall, where handlebars have scratched and stained. The hoover looks better than hers.

She feels hands on the SuperValu bag. She laughs but she holds tight and pulls it back. She follows them in, straight into the living room.

And Star.

Paula will never like her. She doesn't know how much it matters. The letters on her knuckles, they scare Paula. She's skinny and fat in the same body. Her legs are skinny, withered-looking. Paula has seen that when Star is sitting down. It happens to a lot of women, and men too, who drink for years. Their legs become like the legs on a wading bird, a stork or something. It didn't happen to Paula. And Star doesn't seem to have a proper arse. But she has a bit of a gut that hangs over the elastic of her pants. There's the red mark from the elastic whenever she moves; the pants are always sliding off her. She hitches them up. She's not an attractive woman.

But that's not it, although Paula would love to see someone glowing and gorgeous for John Paul. She's vain about her children. They're all handsome – or have been. Star frightens Paula, and it's not just the tattoos. She has another one, a little tear, under her right eye. And another just over her arse, where her arse should be, a triangular shape, kind of pointing down. It's what Carmel calls a fuck-me-here tattoo. Half the young ones in Dublin have them. Nicola has one. It looks nice on her. She has the figure for it. It's not just the tattoos.

She's there now, smiling. Star doesn't like smiling but she's trying. Her teeth are bad. Bits of the front ones are eaten away.

Paula is smiling. They don't like each other and they know it.

—Did you come on the Luas? says Star.

—Does the Luas go by here? says Paula.

—Yeah. Rialto.

—Or Fatima, says Marcus.

—I didn't know.

—Yeah; it's great, says Star.

The kids are hopping around Paula. They're trying to look into the bag. Sapphire pulls at the wrapping paper.

—Can we open it now, can we? Granny-woman!

—Lay off, says Star. —They're desperate, she says to Paula.

—They're lovely, says Paula.

Star doesn't look like a mother you'd run to. She doesn't look like a mother at all. Maybe that's it. Paula looks at Star and she sees herself. She's not good enough.

—I'll go back that way, says Paula. —That'll be nice.

—You can get the Dart from Connolly then, says Star.

—It's not running at the weekends, Paula tells her. — They're extending the platforms or something.

—It is, says John Paul. —It's running for December. For Christmas.

—Oh, says Paula. —That's great.

She feels stupid, and hopeless. She came all this way on the buses. She waited in the rain. And she could have come in luxury – Dart and Luas. She uses the Dart all week. How could she have missed that it was running on the Christmas weekends? One step off her path and she can't cope. She wants to tell them how hard she works. She wants to show them her lists, and the lines through all the things she's done.

Star looks like a junkie. That's it.

Paula doesn't trust her.

—Sit down, says John Paul.

Paula takes off her jacket. She looks for somewhere to put it. It's wet but not too bad. No one takes it from her. She hangs it on the door handle. No one else is sitting. The kids are moving in on the bag again. They'll win if it comes to a tug-of-war. Why doesn't she just let go?

Star grabs them and drags them into the kitchen. They grunt and struggle; she really has to pull. Paula can hear her wheezing. She closes the door over, not quite shut.

It's just her and John Paul now. There's a small sofa. It's the kids' bed too. Sapphire told her the last time Paula was here. There's a tartan rug thrown over it. There's an armchair, black leather. It's nice. There are two straight-backed kitchen chairs, against the wall. She feels like an eejit. Why can't she just sit? She doesn't know how to behave. She's never been good in other people's houses; she's never liked visiting. But this is ridiculous. This is her son.

John Paul moves. He sits on the sofa. She sits in the armchair. She pushes back into it. It's a bit cold, the leather. She's not sure she'd want it. She still holds the SuperValu bag.

—It's not all good, says John Paul.

She looks at him. What's happening?

—The Luas, he says.

He looks at her. He doesn't sit back. His legs aren't crossed.

—The landlord wants us out, he says.

—Oh no.

—He wants to sell.

—Because of the Luas?

—Yeah, says John Paul. —The value of the houses around here.

—They've gone up?

—Yeah.

—Like at home, she says.

She doesn't own her house. The Corporation – they've changed the name – the City Council owns it. Charlo laughed, the time she'd said that maybe they should buy it.

—With what? he'd said. —You fuckin' eejit.

—It's mad, she says now.

—Might be no harm, says John Paul. —Might get somewhere bigger, yeah?

He looks at her. Is there something he wants? Is she being thick? If she was any good she could offer him help. Is that what he's looking for? For her to give him the money, take out the chequebook and a pen that clicks. But it couldn't be that. He's looking for nothing.

What is it she has against him? It's there, the urge to sneer. She doesn't know why. She really doesn't.

—Will you look around here? she says.

—Maybe, he says.

It'd be nice to have him nearer home. She could have the kids around and spoil them. She could see John Paul more often. She could get used to him.

The door to the kitchen is given a shove. Marcus comes in. Sapphire comes after him. She's been crying. Her face is blotched. Her eyes are tiny and black. Did that skinny bitch hit her? She looks undernourished.

—Ah, she says. —What happened you, pet?

She shifts in the chair, to make room for Sapphire. But Sapphire stays back. She rubs her eyes. She pulls her damp hair away from her face. She points at the SuperValu bag.

—Mammy wo-won't let me open them, she says.

She turns to the kitchen door. She sees Star coming in. She stamps her foot.

—I
want
to!

It floods into Paula – it's lovely. Sapphire looks a bit like Leanne looked, when Leanne had the hump, when she was working her way to getting exactly what she wanted.

—She's like Leanne, she says to John Paul.

He leans out and picks up Sapphire. Her face is cross but she's happy to be lifted. He bounces her gently, just barely lifting his knee.

—She's her own woman, he says.

—She is, says Paula.

The blotches are gone. She's happy there. But she's still staring at the bag. Paula nearly laughs. She wants to give in. But she doesn't want to interfere. They have their own way of doing things.

But the Star one there. She has that look. That hungry, mean look. John Paul's the one holding it all together.

She's going to be sick.

—Alright?

It's John Paul.

She feels the hot wave flow across her face. That's how it feels – a wave. A sick wave that takes everything out of her. For a second or two. Just oily, white heat. She'll faint.

But then it's grand. She's fine. She can breathe.

But it's worse. She knows. She shouldn't be here. She can't cope. It's too much.

They look at her. The four of them.

She smiles. She can feel her face again. She can feel the leather around her. She holds out the bag to Star.

—It's just a few things.

Star takes the bag.

—Thanks.

There's nothing in the bag for Star. Paula can't believe that now. Not even a selection box. She wants to take the bag and run. But there's nothing in it for John Paul either. She couldn't think of anything to get him. She really couldn't. She doesn't know him.

—For the kids, just, she says.

—That's cool, says Star. —But yis aren't to open them till Christmas.

—It's Christmas now.

—Christmas Day.

—Ah, Mammy.

Paula watches Star go to the window. She walks like a much heavier woman. It's getting dark outside. It's dark in that corner. Star bends down and the Christmas tree is suddenly there. Star has plugged it in.