Authors: Roddy Doyle
—No, he says. —Mostly good. They're sound, most of them. It was on the News, about ratemyteachers. Something about the teachers' unions giving out about it. And Gozzer – you know him. John – you say he looks like that cheesy singer.
—Tom Jones.
—Yeah.
—He's lovely.
This irritates Jack. He's almost squirming.
—He looked it up and filled it in, like. And he told us about it, so I did the same. I just filled it in.
He looks at her now.
—There's nothing wrong with it.
—Did you sign it, Jack?
—No.
—So, says Paula. —I'm still a bit lost.
—You can put in a remark, says Jack. —For each teacher.
—Ah.
—So, I wrote that he was a useless teacher. He is.
—And did you sign that?
—No.
—It was all – what? – anonymous?
—Yeah.
She points at the note from school.
—What happened?
—The religion teacher, Miss Kelly —
—She's nice, says Paula.
She remembers a good-looking woman, in a black suit. Smiling, leaning across the desk to shake hands with Paula, at the parent-teacher meeting last month, the first one Paula had ever gone to.
—Isn't she? says Paula.
—She asked us about ratemyteachers and what we thought of it.
—She ratted on you.
—Yeah.
—The fuckin' wagon.
—Yeah.
—The cunt – sorry.
She sits up.
—So, let's get this sorted, she says. —You told her about what you'd written.
—Yeah.
—Did you write about her, by the way?
—Yeah.
He's really blushing now.
—Nothing dodgy?
—No. Just, she was great.
—I'd better see it.
—What?
—The ratemyteachers thing.
—Why?
—So I know exactly what it's about.
She stands up.
—And you're sure it's legal now, Jack?
—Yeah, he says. —Why wouldn't it be?
It's her turn to shrug.
—I don't know.
—The teachers just don't want it to happen. But it's okay. It's monitored and that. You're not allowed to swear or write anything too mental.
—Let's have a look at it.
—Okay.
They go up to Jack's room and, again, Paula loves the way Jack knows what he's doing, tapping away at the keyboard, like a bright kid in a bad film.
—That's the home page, he tells her.
—What's the home page?
—Kind of, the front. The contents.
—It looks nice, she says.
There's a group of students, some black ones and a gorgeous Chinese kid.
—Are they Irish? she says.
—Don't know, says Jack. —The idea came from America.
—It'll be an Irish picture soon enough, anyway, says Paula. —The way things are going. Are there any black kids in your class, Jack?
—One, he says.
—D'you like him?
—It's a girl, he says. —I don't really know her.
He's blushing again. She's standing behind him but she can see the colour in his neck.
She puts her hand on his shoulder. She leans nearer to the screen. She reads.
—Honest, Essential Critique. That's fair enough, isn't it?
—Yeah.
—Can you print this out for me, Jack?
—Don't have a printer.
—Oh. Yeah. Sorry.
Her defence is already in tatters.
—Doesn't matter, he says. —I'm buying one, myself.
—Are you?
—Yeah, he says. —I have half of the money.
—You're great, she says.
She squeezes his shoulder. He pulls it away. She takes her hand down. She has to keep learning. She never got this far with John Paul. He was gone when he was Jack's age.
She reads a bit more. A new world is upon us. Embrace it and thrive!
—That's a bit much.
She points at the words. She touches the screen.
He rubs the screen where she touched it. She wants to laugh; she wants to slap him.
—Let's see the evidence, Jack, she says.
He shifts the mouse. He clicks.
It's there. He scrolls down the list of teachers. There are little faces beside each name. Smiley faces and frowny faces. Most of them are smiley. He gets down to the end of the list.
—What's their problem? she says. —You all love them.
Jack shrugs.
—Show me the site for Mister O'Driscoll, says Paula.
—It's not a site.
—I'm trying my best, Jack.
—Okay.
He clicks. There's nothing there that makes much sense, at first. Jack touches the screen. She's tempted to wipe it with her sleeve.
—See? he says. —They're his marks. They're the comments, there.
—There's only four.
—Yeah.
—That's not many.
She reads the comments. She has to lean over.
—Sorry.
She reads out loud.
—We call him Dopey. No more info needed. Did you write that one?
—No.
He points at the third comment in the list.
—That one.
She leans down again. She reads.
—Useless.
She looks at Jack.
—It's not very nice, Jack.
—He is useless.
—Okay, she says. —Now I know.
She stands up straight.
—No, hang on.
She taps his shoulder.
—Show me Miss Kelly.
—Why?
—Go on. And the other teachers.
She hears no clicking.
—Evidence, Jack, she says. —You wrote nice things about the others, didn't you?
—Yeah; kind of.
—Come on, she says. —I'd better see it all. They'll have seen it, when I go in tomorrow.
He clicks. The screen goes white, and fills again. She leans down.
—Eight comments, she says. —She's popular. Which one is yours?
—They're all kind of the same.
—Which one?
He points.
—Legend. Babe. She certainly knows her popes. Jesus, Jack, you're a messer.
She wants to hug him.
—She certainly knows her popes?
—It's all she's been talking about for weeks, says Jack. —Because of the election for the new one and that.
He points at Legend.
—That means she's a really good teacher. It's in loads of the comments for other schools.
—And what about this one? says Paula.
She points at Babe. She doesn't touch the screen.
He doesn't answer.
—Do us a favour, she says. —Write out all the comments you made on a piece of paper for me. So I can show them that you think they're all great and – Jesus!
—What?
—No; it's grand, says Paula. —I've just had an idea. I think.
—What?
He's worried; she can see it.
—Can you change the comments there, if you want to?
She points at the screen.
—I'm not sure, he says. —I think so.
—See if you can, says Paula. —Then change them.
—Why?
—Take out Babe. It's not nice, Jack. It's not appropriate. And change the one about Mister O'Driscoll. Make it something – just nicer.
—But they've seen it already.
—It doesn't matter, Jack. Do it. Trust me.
Trust me. She believes it – here, now. Jack can trust her.
—Look it, she says. —Tomorrow, right? They'll have it all printed out. I'll pretend I haven't seen it. They'll expect that.
She keeps going. She doesn't look at him.
—I'll ask to see it on a computer, just to understand it properly. Is there a computer in the Year Head's office? What's her name again?
—O'Keefe.
—Miss O'Keefe, Jack.
—Yeah.
—Is there a computer?
—Yeah.
—Grand. I'll ask to see it. They'll see the comments, changed. I'll say I know nothing about the changes. They'll believe me again. So, you did it. On your own initiative. Sorry for your sins and all that.
She hops to the door.
—I'll leave you to it, she says.
The good days are always a surprise. She's a tactical genius. And Jack fancies his religion teacher.
She goes downstairs.
She takes her phone off the table. She finds his number.
—Yeah?
It's not John Paul.
—Star?
—He's not here, says Star.
Where is he? she wants to ask. And what're you doing with his mobile?
—How are you, Star? she says.
What did Star see on John Paul's screen when she was picking up the phone? What's the name in his phone book? Ma? Paula? Hopeless Fuckin' Alco Bitch?
—Alright, says Star.
—How are the little ones? says Paula.
—Good; yeah.
—Lovely, says Paula.
Star says nothing.
—So, says Paula. —He doesn't have the phone with him.
—No.
—Will he be home?
—Yeah.
—Will you tell him to give me a —
—Yeah.
—Grand. Bye, so.
—Yeah; bye.
—Nice talking to you, Star.
—Yeah.
The phone's dead. Paula puts it on the table. She stands up. She's not doing too badly. She called the woman Star – three times, she thinks. She's getting there. Star doesn't like her, and she doesn't like Star. It's up to her to change it, not Star. If Paula shifts, so will Star – or she might. That's enough.
Jack fancies his religion teacher.
She finds Leanne when she gets home from work. She's on the couch, passed out.
—Leanne, love.
Leanne's on her side, face hidden by hair. In the dark. The curtains are drawn – it's not dark out yet. The telly's on, the sound down.
She has to touch her – it's dreadful. What'll happen? What won't happen?
She calls Jack.
No answer.
She calls as she moves to Leanne. She calls again –
—Jack!
She gets Leanne's hair away from her face. She feels the sweat, the wet heat on her fingers as she pulls Leanne's hair back. Her face turns from the touch, deeper into the couch.
She's fine.
Jack hasn't answered. She can't hear him upstairs.
Leanne is stretching, waking. Paula sits down. She pushes gently for space on the couch.
—Move over there, she says.
She can feel her heart. She can hear it. She takes off her jacket and throws it over at the door. She puts her hand back on Leanne's head. She rubs her, caresses her, the way she used to. It's in her hand – the way she used to. From her temple to behind her ear, bringing her hair with her fingers. And again, and again. Leanne's awake, her eyes are open. She knows what Paula's doing.
—I fell asleep, says Leanne.
—Tired.
—Yeah.
—Me too.
Leanne moves. She's sitting up.
—Hungry? says Paula.
—No, says Leanne. —A bit.
—An omelette.
She has the eggs. She bought them today.
Leanne nods now.
—Yeah. Nice.
Paula stands up. She makes sure she doesn't groan. She's caught herself groaning when she bends down or stretches, especially at work. She hates hearing it, too late.
—I'm hungry myself, she says. —Is Jack in?
—Don't know, says Leanne. —I just kind of conked out.
Paula walks to the door. She picks up her jacket. She doesn't grunt.
—I'll just check, she says. —He might like one too. Back in a minute.
She goes to the stairs.
—Jack?
He isn't there.
He's at work – she remembers.
—He's in trouble at school, she says in to Leanne as she walks past the door, to the kitchen.
—What for?
—I'll tell you in a minute, she says.
She's in the kitchen. She hits the Pause button and listens again, where she left off this afternoon before she went to work. She hasn't listened to music this way since she was sixteen or seventeen. Getting into it. That was what it was called. Listening to the record, over and over. Are you into it yet?
She's getting into
Elephant.
By the White Stripes.
She gets the eggs from the fridge.
This – this now – is as good as her life has been. That's true. She'd love a drink. But it's true. Life, now, is good.
It'll all fall apart.
She doesn't believe that. Not today. Tomorrow might be the same. It might be good. There's no reason why it won't be. And five minutes ago Leanne was dead.
She gave up all cooking at one point. She's not sure for how long that was. When she gave up altogether. Months – she thinks. Leanne could probably tell her. Nicola definitely could. Then she started again.
It was the sight of them all one day. One Saturday morning. She walked into the sitting room. Nicola was trying to change Jack's nappy. Really, he was too old for it. He wouldn't stay still for her. There was a stain under him, on the carpet. Nicola was crying. She couldn't do it. She was sixteen. Jack had a bit of bread in his hand. Paula saw the mould on the crust and she nearly got sick. She got down beside Nicola. She slapped her out of the way – she can feel it now. You're useless. She said that. She slapped Nicola's leg. She saw Jack's dirt on Nicola's jeans and hand. Her head – she remembers; she can feel the ache breathe in and out. And she saw Leanne. In the corner, pushed back against it, under the window. Big eyes, falling out of her face. Scratching her arms. Staring out, but not at Paula. She gave Nicola time to clean herself, then she sent her down to the shops for breakfast.
Cheese.
She'll ask Leanne if she wants cheese in her omelette.
She presses the Pause button. It's track 6. She picks up the cover; she brings it right up to her face. She reads the name. 'I Want To Be the Boy To Warm Your Mother's Heart.'
For fuck sake.
She goes into the hall.
She stops.
Leanne is talking.
She must be on the phone. Paula hadn't heard the ring-tone, that stupid frog thing she hears all the time on the Dart.
She listens.
—Okay, says Leanne. Oh-kay.
Then Leanne's listening, to whoever – she must be. Then she speaks again. She's saying goodbye.
—Okay, girlfriend. Talk to you.
Then Paula hears her moving about on the couch, maybe pulling her legs up under her. She hears the mobile, she thinks, drop to the floor.
Girlfriend.
Something about it – Paula goes back into the kitchen.