Paula Spencer (2 page)

She pulls back the blanket and sheets. She'd like duvets for the beds. They're on the list. She makes the beds these days. Hers and Jack's. She makes them in the morning. Before she goes to work.

She gets into the bed. It's a good bed. A good mattress. She's puked in this bed and she's pissed in this bed. She can think of that; she can remember waking up to it. She can think back now without curling up, or wanting to. She likes this bed. She remembers. Four years after her husband died, five years after she threw him out, she moved over to the middle.

She lies there. She knows. She won't sleep. Not for a while. Jack is down there. Leanne is out.

It's grand. She lies there. She's a mother. It's the job.

She doesn't feel bad. She knows that, suddenly. She's nicely tired. The heaviness is gone. The ache. Or most of it.

That's Jack. She thinks that. And the nap in front of the telly. But mostly Jack. And it would have been the same with Leanne, if she'd come home before him. Just the contact. It's enough. She believes that, most of the time. She believes it.

She's a mother. Still a mother.

She'd still get up. She knows it. If there was anything to drink in the house, she'd get up now and drink it. She'd knock it back and promise herself a fresh start in the morning, as it soaked the back of her mouth. She knows. She can taste it.

She'd do it.

But there's nothing to drink in the house. And that's fine. It doesn't hurt. The pain is safe, behind other things.

She listens.

Her alarm clock. Paula has an alarm clock. She bought it herself and it often wakes her up. She gets woken by classical music. The music itself is shite but it's a nice way to wake up. At half-seven. Five mornings a week. And sometimes too when Leanne works the weekends. She gets up, to be with her before she goes.

Still a mother.

Leanne often went to school with no breakfast or kiss goodbye.

It's in the past.

She knows that's shite. More than anyone, she knows. You can't leave things behind. They come with you.

You can manage. That's the best you can expect.

She manages.

Jack has pushed the sound up. But she can't make it out. She wonders what he's watching. Something he doesn't want to watch with her.

That's fine. It's okay. It's funny.

She knows she's smiling.

It's strange, about the house. About her life. New fridge, old blankets. Does anyone else around here still have blankets?

Plenty. There's plenty like Paula. Although it's changing, the whole place. One of the old shops is a cafe now, opened a few weeks ago. An Italian place, real Italians in it. Not chipper Italians. Selling bread and coffee and oil and other expensive stuff Paula would love to load up on. There's a fella that does the bread and pizzas. She's seen him in the window. A dark guy, not that handsome – something about his hands. She doesn't stop to watch. She can't. She can't be caught. She's a widow. She's a big girl. She can't be gawking in windows at middle-aged young fellas.

Hands.

Black hair on the fingers. The hands are on her neck. She feels the fingers. Rubbing gently. Pressing. Her throat is dry. She can't close her mouth. The fingers press harder. She can't cry out, move her mouth. It's dry. Dust, muck. She tries to shout – anything. Whisper, move. She can't.

She wakes. She's awake.

She bit her tongue. Badly. She tastes no blood. But it's sore. It's very sore.

The door.

She's been asleep.

She's awake.

Leanne's home. The door slammed. She doesn't know that. She bit her tongue. That's what woke her. She's awake now. And she heard the door.

Leanne.

She listens.

How long did she sleep? She looks at the clock. Jesus, does she need glasses now as well? She brings her face closer. An hour. A bit more than an hour.

Glasses.

God.

She listens. Leanne is in the kitchen.

Paula won't get up. Leanne would know. Her mother, the alco, checking up on her. Leave the girl alone. She's grand. She's fine. She's fine.

Paula listens. She hears nothing. No falling over. Nothing stupid. She needn't be worried.

But she is.

She listens.

She crosses the kitchen. She pulls back the curtain. A big blast of sunlight. It would have killed her a few months ago. Guilty! It's grand now, though. She loves a bit of sun.

She fills the kettle. She turns on the radio. The News is on – the European elections. Boring, Jesus. But she leaves it on.

Royston Brady. His posters are all over the place. Energy. Drive. His head is on every pole. She doesn't like that version of handsome. That Daniel O'Donnell look. The mammy's boy. The country's full of men like that. They do nothing for Paula. The Royston fella's in trouble. They're talking about it on the News. Something he said about his da being abducted by loyalist terrorists. She must have missed something – that's her life. It doesn't make much sense.

She'll be voting for Proinsias De Rossa. She hasn't voted in years. 1977, she thinks. The only time she voted. De Rossa's Labour, and his eyes are gorgeous. And he's nearer Paula's age. He'll be getting her vote, if she gets round to it.

The kettle's going.

She's forty-eight. Today.

She puts two spoons of coffee into the cup. She's thinking of getting a plunger – real coffee. Another thing on her list. Or one of those espresso makers. It would look great, near the window. She's seen them for sale in the new cafe, on her way past. She's not mad about espresso, though. It's too strong, too druggy.

Dangerous stuff.

She wants a drink.

But she's grand. She looks at her hands, the palms down. They don't look too bad. They look fuckin' dreadful but they're not too bad, considering. Her age, her work. Her life. They should be worse. There are badly mended bones in there. There's bad pain on the wet days.

She listens. No one's getting up.

She listens to the radio. They're still on about the elections. Northern accents, talking about Sinn Féin. She doesn't like Sinn Fein. Her husband loved all that hunger strike stuff. The black armbands, the armed struggle. He was going to march, support the hunger strikers. But he never did. How long ago was that? Years – it must be more than twenty. He didn't march. But he stood still for a minute in the kitchen, a minute's silence, after one of the strikers died. They all stood, Paula and the kids. A few hours after Paula had wiped her own blood off the kitchen floor.

She's seen the posters for their Dublin candidate. Mary Lou McDonald. A nice-looking young one. A big smile on her. She wasn't alive, probably, when all that happened.

Paula should have her own posters. Energy. Drive. She sits up straight in the chair. She reminds herself to do it. Straight-backed Paula Spencer.

She hears feet upstairs.

She wonders have they remembered.

It's Jack. She can tell – the time between each step. She imagines him, one foot up, like one of those birds in the water. Calm, waiting.

It's Jack alright, gone into the toilet.

She hears the flush.

She drinks more of the coffee. She can feel it push through her. She can feel it in the hair on her arms.

Jack is coming down.

Leanne is different. Leanne is another bird, one of those little frantic birds. Darting all over the place. Pecking at everything. Her steps are little punches to the floor.

Jack walks in.

—Howyeh, Jack.

—Hi.

—You're up early, she says.

It's June. He's on his holidays. He's usually still in the bed when she goes. She doesn't know when he gets up.

—What has you up?

He looks at the window, at the light.

—Don't know, he says. —Couldn't sleep.

He stands there at the door. His jeans are huge, dragging on the floor. They're down over his arse. She looks at his feet. One of them is off the floor. She smiles.

He moves. It's like he's been kicked, or goosed.

—Oh yeah, he says.

Now he walks in.

—I have a job.

—Ah, great. For the summer, just?

—What? Yeah. Yeah.

—What's the job?

—Lounge-boy.

—Where?

—Finnegan's Wake.

It's the local. Someone bought it a year ago. And the new name went up. Finnegan's Wake. After the famous book.

—What's it like these days? she says.

—Alright; yeah.

—The same crowd?

—Some; yeah. I don't know.

He opens the fridge.

He stood outside that pub when he was a little fella, waiting for her to come out. He stood in the rain. He often did it. She brought crisps out to him, and Coke with a straw. Like it was a treat. There you are, love. More guilt. On her birthday.

Fuck it.

—Would you like a rasher sandwich or something? she says.

—Cool.

She loves that. Coo-il. The way he says it. She looks at the clock. She has loads of time.

She stands up. She gets the pan from the press.

—How did you find out about it?

—What?

—The job, Jack.

—I went in.

—And just asked?

He shrugs.

—Yeah.

—Good man. Will you have a uniform?

—A waistcoat, he says. —Black trousers.

—Nice, she says. —With the name on the waistcoat?

—It's a bit cheesy, he says. —I've to buy the trousers.

—I'll pay for them.

—I'll pay you back.

—Grand.

She puts the heat on under the pan.

—Pass the rashers over to me, love.

He doesn't know it's her birthday. He hasn't a clue. It's fine. It's funny. She throws on the rashers. She steps back. They're spitting. She'll have one herself – it's her birthday.

Finnegan's Wake.

The whole area has changed. She's been here since the beginning. It was a farm a few months before they moved in. It was all young families, kids all over the place. Out in the middle of nowhere. No bus of its own. Near the tracks, but no train station. No proper shops, no pub. No church or schools. Nothing but the houses and the people.

—D'you want toast or ordinary?

—Toast.

—Stick it in the toaster, so.

Another present from Nicola. The toaster.

—And a couple of slices for me.

—Okay.

—Thanks.

It had been great back then. It had been so simple.

But that's just rubbish. She knows. It hadn't been great. It had never been great. It's all changed now, anyway, the area – the estate. Or it's changing. It used to be settled. It isn't any more. The cafe is a start. And the new name on the pub. There's two groups of people living here now. Those who call it the old name and still go in, and those who call it Finnegan's Wake and don't go in.

—What's it like inside? she says.

—What? says Jack. —The pub?

—Yeah.

—Alright.

—I haven't been there in ages.

He says nothing.

—Have they done much to it? she asks.

—Not really, he says. —Just pictures and that.

—The usual, she says. —You can't do much with a place like that.

She came out once and he was standing at the door, in the cold, only his shirt on. She went home with him. She put him into the bed beside her. She cried, once she knew he was asleep. And promised.

Jack knows.

But it's grand.

She doesn't miss it, the pub. Not at all. She hated it.

She hasn't been in a pub since the smoking ban. She wonders what it's like. It's good that Jack will be working smoke-free. She feels good for thinking that.

—D'you smoke, Jack?

She doesn't look at him.

—No, he says.

—Never?

—No.

—Ever?

She's no one to be talking.

—I don't like it, he says.

But she's his mother.

—Good, she says.

It's not too late. It's not meaningless.

—Here we go. Plates now, Jack.

He gets the plates. He takes dry ones off the rack beside the sink.

—D'you want butter on your toast?

—Cool; yeah.

—Good lad.

She goes to the fridge. Happy days. She has to move things out of the way to get at the butter. Real butter. Kerrygold.

They sit at the table. They say nothing. They eat their rasher sandwiches.

It's later now.

She's staring at the plate. She can't do anything else. She's afraid to.

She waits.

The house is empty. She thinks she heard the door slammed twice. Leanne and Jack. She doesn't know which of them went first. She thinks they're gone. She's not sure.

Leanne.

Jesus.

She screamed at her. Leanne did. She screamed at Paula. She hit her.

Leanne hit her.

She can still feel the sting. The shock of it.

She slapped her. Across the face. Said sorry.

—It's okay.

Jesus.

She's been sitting here for hours. She thinks she has. She thinks the house is empty.

Today is her birthday. Her daughter has just attacked her.

She won't let herself get corny. She has to be honest.

She stands up now. She looks at the clock. She took it down off the wall a few months ago. It had been stopped for years. She took out the old battery. She brought it down to the shops and asked if they'd any more like it. It was one of the old batteries, one of those huge ones, before Walkmans. But they'd had one and she bought it. She brought it home and put it into the clock. She washed the sides and the glass, and she put it back up on the wall.

She looks at it now.

She's been sitting there for half an hour.

She goes to the kettle.

It's been coming. She knows it has.

She empties the kettle. She fills it with new water.

Leanne is an alcoholic.

But Paula's not sure. She isn't certain. She's a bit of a reformed hoor. Everyone's an alcoholic.

She puts the kettle onto its stand. She presses the switch. She looks out the window.

Leanne came in after Jack. Paula'd heard her getting up. Jack was back up in his room, maybe back in the bed. Full of his rasher sandwich.

Paula listened, as Leanne moved around in her room. She heard her on the stairs. And she was frightened. Of what she was going to see. The signs, the face. Red, wet eyes and broken lips.

The kettle's nearly there. She hears it starting to rumble.

She's pleased with herself. That's odd, and kind of indecent. But it's true. She hasn't let the slap become the thing she can't get past. She's over it. She isn't – but she is.

The kettle clicks itself off.

She throws a teabag into the cup. She pours the water onto it. She watches the colour glide out of the bag. Like red smoke. She likes that colour, before all the water turns that way and darkens. It would look great in her hair. Just a splash of it. A streak down the side.

What does an alcoholic mother say to her alcoholic daughter? It's shocking. It's terrible. But Paula's not falling down on the ground. She's not running away or pretending it's not there, or screaming and making it worse. All the things she's done before and will probably do again.

I am an alcoholic.

She's facing it.

She drinks her tea standing up. She needs the energy that standing gives her, the alertness.

Leanne walked into the kitchen.

It wasn't just the early-morning mess. The mad hair and last night's mascara. It was the colour of her skin. The veins on each side of her nose. The look in the eyes that came straight at Paula, the anger and panic, terror, the whole lot coming at her. It was Paula looking straight back at Paula.

Help.

She understands. She knows.

She knows fuck-all.

It's there in her head before she thinks of it. The putdown. She knows fuck-all. But she does know. She knows hatred when it's coming at her. She knows how to duck it. And she knows the hatred comes out of herself. She needs no help from someone else. Paula knows her stuff. She's done her research.

Leanne walked into the kitchen.

—Jesus, Leanne.

Leanne didn't answer. She went to the fridge. She stood in front of it.

—Leanne.

Leanne stood with her back to Paula. She was waiting.

—Leanne, love.

Paula saw the anger. In the shoulders. Love. The word had nudged her. Like a spike.

—We have to talk about this.

—About what?

—Come on. Sit down. Leanne.

Leanne opened the fridge.

—What?

She talked into the fridge.

—No juice in this fuckin' dump.

—Stop that, said Paula. —Come here.

Leanne turned.

Her little girl. She's not being corny.

—What? said Leanne.

—Look at you, said Paula.

—Look at yourself.

Paula nodded.

—Fair enough, Leanne, she said.

—Fuck off, Ma, would yeh.

—Leanne.

She stepped towards Leanne.

—Leanne, love.

—Stop it!

Before she could get her arms to Leanne. The slap came at her – she could see it coming. But it was gone before she understood.

She sat down. She had to.

—Sorry.

She heard Leanne. She didn't look – she couldn't. She nodded. She managed that.

—Sorry, right?

Paula stared at the plate. And the piece of rind she'd taken out of her mouth a few minutes before. The crumbs, the bit of congealed butter that had dripped from the sandwich. She fixed her eyes to the plate.

It's good. She's confronted it. She's started. We have to talk about this. She's doing what she should do. It's good.

It's fuckin' sick. She's climbing over Leanne so she can feel good about it. Knocking her down to help her up.

But that's not true. It's not fair at all. Leanne's in trouble – Paula's fault. But that's not fair either. She's doing her best. She can't go back, to stop it from happening. She can't blame herself for saying Yes when her husband asked her to dance that first time. She can't blame herself for starting to drink. She can, but she won't. She's always blamed herself, for everything. It goes without saying now; it gets her nowhere.

She's doing something. She won't let it go away.

She never thought of Leanne as someone to keep her company. To drink with her at home. The two of them skulling the bottles. They're more like sisters, aren't they? She tried that with Nicola. She bought Nicola a bottle of vodka for Christmas. Wrapped it and all. Nicola was sixteen.

—Happy Christmas, love.

Paula shivers, just thinking about it – letting it in.

—Are you going to open that bottle? she asked her a few days later.

—I gave it to Tony's ma, said Nicola.

Tony was her boyfriend then. Her husband now.

—That was your Christmas present, Nicola.

—Weird present, said Nicola. —Anyway, it's gone.

—Bitch.

She still thumps herself, thinking about it.

It'll never go away. That was as low as she got. But she only knew that later.

It hasn't happened this time.

She's ready.

That's a fuckin' laugh. Leanne didn't lick it off a stone. She grew up with nothing else. And a few good months aren't going to change that. There have been good months before. Paula could count them. They won't add up to much more than a year.

Enough.

She'll do her best.

She puts the cup in the sink. She's late for work. She goes looking for her keys.

It's later again. It's after work. She cleans houses four mornings a week. And she has to work again later. She does offices, five nights.

She's doing the shop. She's going to get a cake as well. Jack and Leanne will see it on the table later, and then they'll remember. If Leanne comes home.

The supermarket hasn't changed. It's still a bare shell of a place. It has none of the fancy stuff that you'd find in Tesco's. It's changed names a few times but it's still the same. The same people go in and out the door at the back, where the offices are. The management team. The women on the check-out are nearly all foreign. That's the only real change.

Paula tried to get a job here once. They told her they'd let her know. A woman with ALICE on her badge interviewed her. She stood in front of Paula, blocking her way, telling her, more or less, to get out of the fuckin' shop.

It's a bare old place. It always has been. They just rip the tops off the boxes and pile them up, on top of each other. The only real shelves are around the sides, on the walls. The aisles are made of pallets and boxes. It's never busy. There are five check-outs but only one of them is open. She's surprised it still does any business. She walks on to Tesco's when she has the money. It's half an hour. But today she just wants the basics.

The basics. For fuck sake. She could tell you the number of times she's made it past the basics.

It's getting hot. It's been like this for a few days.

Her sisters both have mobile homes. Somewhere near Courtown, near the beach and that. They're always at her to go down. She'd like to. She went there once, when she was a kid. And she went there as well on her honeymoon. She'd love to go back to Courtown. But she feels a bit frail when she isn't at home. She doesn't trust herself. Yet.

Carmel and Denise spend most of the summer down there. Once their kids get their holidays, they pack up and go. She isn't envious – she really isn't. Jack's too old. And he has his summer job. He wouldn't go with her. Leanne went to Spain somewhere, last year. A whole gang of them. She's going nowhere this year. She hasn't mentioned anything. But it's early. It's only the start of June. That would be good. If Leanne came home with the holiday brochures. Last year she'd the whole thing booked before she went back to work after Christmas.

There's an African woman on the check-out. Nigerian, or one of the others. What other African countries do they come from? Paula doesn't know. There are wars everywhere; you could never keep up. It's the first time she's seen a black woman working here. Good luck to her. She's lovely. Her hair up in a scarf. Her long cheekbones. Lovely straight back.

What would Charlo think? she wonders. What would he have said about it? Charlo was her husband. He died before all these people started arriving. Before the Celtic Tiger thing.

She smiles at the African woman. The woman smiles back. Bread, a carton of milk. A half-dozen eggs – she fancies an omelette later. A few tomatoes, two big onions. Cornflakes. Coffee.

It's nice. She knows she has the money. She didn't have to do the arithmetic when she was filling the basket. The euros are in her pocket.

That job. There's nothing to it. Holding the things – the items – over the yoke. Swiping, she thinks it's called. You just swipe them over the little light thing. She'd be well up for that. The cleaning tires her out. It always has. She hates the hours, going to work when people are coming home.

—Please. Twenty euro and thirty-seven cent.

The black girl, the check-out woman.

Lovely voice.

Paula gives her a twenty and a five. She's beautiful. Charlo would have called Paula a lezzer for thinking that, for saying it. It's funny, she doesn't know if he was a racist or not. She hasn't a clue. She'd know these days quickly enough. They're all over the place, the foreigners, the black people. Is that racist? They're all over the place. She doesn't know. She means no harm. It's just a phrase. And she doesn't mind it. She likes looking at all the foreigners. Some of them scare her a bit. The Romanians, the women. They're a bit frightening – wild, like they've come straight out of a war. But most of them are grand.

The woman here gives her the change coin by coin. Onto her hand. Her nails are perfect; she's painted them white.

—Thanks.

—Thank you.

—Bye now.

—Goodbye.

Deep voice.

Paula has her plastic bag with her.

—Lovely day, she says.

—Yes, says the girl.

—You must like it, says Paula.

—Yes.

The woman smiles.

—Where you come from – your home.

—Nigeria, says the woman.

She smiles again.

—It is very sunny there, she says.

—Lovely, says Paula. —Bye again.

—Goodbye.

She stops at the noticeboard. There's nothing about jobs. There isn't much of anything. A dog minder. A little picture of a pup on the card. That wouldn't be for Paula. She's not mad about animals. Maths grinds. Ordinary and Honours Level. That's some teacher doing a nixer. It's a sheet of paper, with the phone number repeated at the bottom, and cut into strips, one strip for each number. It's a mobile number, 086. Paula tears one strip. She puts the little piece of paper in her pocket.

She has no idea why she did that. She has no intention of doing maths, at any level. It was just something small to do. To be involved.

She's collecting phone numbers.

The bag is biting into her fingers. She changes hands. The new Paula. Bringing a plastic bag. Thinking to bring it, a step ahead. She's rarely that skint that she can't afford the 15c bag tax. But she'd never have thought of it before, bringing the bag, before she left the house.

Little things.

The car park here is nearly empty. She'd love a car. She'd love a lot of things. The vegetable place is new. Garden Fresh. Not her garden. It's a wreck. It's another of the things on her list. Do the garden. Do what? She hasn't a clue. Borrow a lawn-mower, cut the grass. Get out into it. Find the time, find the energy, the interest. Become a gardener.

She looks in at Garden Fresh as she passes. It's nice, old-fashioned. There are boxes of fruit tilted on shelves covered with that artificial grass-looking stuff. She hasn't seen that stuff in years.

There's no one in there. No one guarding the stuff – the produce. A few years ago, they'd have been running off with all the fruit and some of the vegetables, the kids around here, her own included. There are hardly any kids now. They're like hers, grown up. A lot of the new people don't have kids. Young couples. Women on their own. Jack's school is nearly empty. There's only twenty in his class. There's a rumour they'll be closing it down. Carmel told her, the bitch. Her own kids went elsewhere. Carmel's buying an apartment in Bulgaria. So she said, this morning. Paula's second call.

—Bulgaria?

She told her after she'd wished Paula a happy birthday.

—Yep.

—Where's Bulgaria?

—Eastern Europe, Paula.

—I know. But where? Do people go there on their holidays?

—Yes, Paula.

—Is there not a war there or something? Orphans?

—Not at all. They're joining the EU in 2007.

She stops at Garden Fresh. She won't go in. There's fruit at the front, and she doesn't know the names. She wouldn't know whether to peel them first or bite straight in. Another day, she'll buy some of them, to try.

The chipper has changed hands, but it's still the chipper. There are two men outside the bookies, having a smoke. They can't smoke inside any more. It's gas. Clean air, paper bags, apartments in Eastern Europe.

She'll get an atlas. She'll buy one.

—What about Courtown? she said, this morning.

—What about it? said Carmel.

—Are you selling it?

—No. Why would I?