The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (15 page)

He lost his temper. And he hit me. He lost his temper. It was as simple as that. And he hit me. He sent me flying across the kitchen. I hit the sink and fell. I felt nothing, only shock. And a spinning in my head. I knew nothing for a while, where I was, who was with me, how come I was on the floor. Then I saw his feet, then his legs, making a triangle with the floor. He seemed way up over me. Miles up. I had to bend back to see him. Then he came down to meet me.

—Y'alright?

His face, his eyes were going all over my face, every inch and corner. Looking, searching. Looking for marks, looking for blood. He was worried. His face was full of worry and love. He was scared. He skipped over my eyes. He turned my head and looked at the sides.

—You fell, he said. —I didn't —

I fell. He felled me. I'm looking at it now. Twenty years later. I wouldn't do what he wanted, he was in his moods, I was being smart, he hated me being pregnant, I wasn't his little Paula any more — and he drew his fist back and he hit me. He hit me. Before he knew it? He drew his own fist back, not me. He aimed at me. He let go. He hit me. He wanted to hurt me. And he did. And he did more than that.

I'm looking at it now but that isn't what I saw then. I couldn't have coped with it then, the fact that he'd hit me, plain and simple, he'd drawn back his fist and smashed me. Something had gone wrong.

I fell.

I'd been too near him; he hadn't realised.

He'd only been warning me.

He didn't know his own strength.

He had things on his mind.

Anything.

It wouldn't happen again. Anything. It wouldn't happen again. How could it? It had been a mistake. We'd laugh about it later. Remember the time.

We did laugh about it later. That night. And the time after that. And the time after that. Many other nights. Until I couldn't laugh any more. I wouldn't let myself. Nothing came out when I opened my mouth. Only pain.

What happened?

I said, Make your own fuckin' tea. That was what happened. Exactly what happened. I provoked him. I always provoked him. I was always to blame. I should have kept my mouth shut. But that didn't work either. I could provoke him that way as well. Not talking. Talking. Looking at him. Not looking at him. Looking at him
that
way. Not looking at him that way. Looking
and
talking. Sitting, standing. Being in the room. Being.

What happened?

I don't know.

Someone once told me that we never remember pain. Once it's gone it's gone. A nurse. She told me just before the doctor put my arm back in its socket. She was being nice. She'd seen me before.

—I fell down the stairs again, I told her. —Sorry.

No questions asked. What about the burn on my hand? The missing hair? The teeth? I waited to be asked. Ask me. Ask me. Ask me. I'd tell her. I'd tell them everything. Look at the burn. Ask me about it. Ask.

No.

She was nice, though. She was young. It was Friday night. Her boyfriend was waiting. The doctor never looked at me. He studied parts of me but he never saw all of me. He never looked at my eyes. Drink, he said to himself. I could see his nose moving, taking in the smell, deciding.

He told everyone. He even got to my mother before I did. I was pregnant. We were thrilled. Charlo was delighted. He couldn't sit down. He kept looking at me; he couldn't wait. And he told everyone. He was boasting, of course. Only just married and his mot was already pregnant. What a man. (We didn't know about sperm counts back then, or else Charlo would have had a magnifying glass out, counting his.) What an absolute man. It was nice, though. I loved watching him telling people. I was making him so happy. He'd put his arm around me. I'd feel his strength in that arm, and our future. We were going places, everything in front of us.

We were in our flat in Sherrard Street, just married and in love. We had it done up nicely, even though we knew we wouldn't be staying. The minute the baby was born we'd have our name down for a new house. That was what we wanted, kids and a house, a full house; we didn't mind waiting. It was nice, the flat — except for the smell when you came in the hall door downstairs, the warm, sweating smell of old cabbage and nappies. Even the damp patch in the living room had a pattern that made it look deliberate. Living room, bedroom, kitchen. We shared the bathroom and toilet with four other flats. There were some right dirtbirds and weirdos on our floor. I was always a bit nervous coming out onto the landing. There was one old guy living by himself at the back who really gave me the creeps. I remember the winter when I was pregnant with Nicola, the mornings; looking out the door to see if the toilet door was open, the cold dash across with the toilet paper; the freezing seat, wiping it first, other people trying the door; the dash back to the flat. The flat was different at first, almost exciting; I'd always lived in a house before. There was something cosy about it even though it was actually cold and there were neighbours above and below us as well as beside us; there was always someone coughing or shouting or shifting the furniture. And I liked living in town. We could walk down to the pictures in the Savoy or the Carlton. I loved walking down Gardner Street; I loved the view down to Talbot Street and the railway bridge. I walked and window-shopped. I made it as far as Stephen's Green once. I was glad to be away from my family, and his. We got the bus out to see them on Sundays, first mine, then Charlo's. I hated those Sundays, although I liked seeing my mother. Sitting there watching my father holding back his rage; wondering what would happen when we left. He never relaxed. Charlo always came and drank his tea, ate his biscuits and never said a word unless he was asked. My father never looked at him. We'd stay until six. We'd get up on the first bong of the Angelus and go up to Charlo's parents. It was different there but sometimes as bad. I'd have to wait in Charlo's with his mother, until he got back from the pub with his brothers and father. (He'd stopped bringing me after we got married.) We'd have to dash for the last bus back to town. I had to make sure I wasn't caught alone in the hall or bathroom or I'd get pawed by a brother. It was horrible; I was terrified Charlo would see something. I'd be blamed; I knew it. His mother was a strange woman. She'd say the odd thing but she'd never chat; the bare minimum.

—There's your tea now.

—Milk.

She'd shove a packet of biscuits across the table to me.

—Go on.

She wasn't being unfriendly. She just didn't know how to be friendly. Except when she was with her sisters and, sometimes, her daughters; at weddings and funerals. Then she was much livelier, in the middle of things. Then you'd hear her laughing. It was easier with the telly on; we didn't have to talk. A film. That's Life. And finally, Cyril.

The rest of the week was our own.

Charlo came home with paint and sandpaper and nails. He wouldn't let me help him. Not in my condition. A Thin Lizzy poster in the kitchen. We had a telly, a big old one with only two knobs on it that took ages to warm up. We only had rabbit's ears so we were stuck with just R.T.E. But we didn't mind; it was all temporary. (He tried to link up to somebody else's aerial, somebody up the stairs. He ran a wire out the window and disappeared for half an hour, but it never worked. It only had the two knobs, and one of them was only for the sound. You could only turn it on or off; there was no choice. He got annoyed for a bit and called whoever it was upstairs a dozy bastard, but it didn't matter. We'd soon have a roof of our own and we'd be able to hang an aerial off our own chimney. He only got annoyed because he thought he'd made a show of himself.) We watched telly; we went out for walks, the odd drink, the pictures. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Dog Day Afternoon. The Big Tree was our favourite pub, or sometimes we'd go down as far as the Abbey Mooney. I loved the high ceiling, the painted fruit and leaves in the corners; it was absolutely gorgeous.

—Stop staring at it. They'll charge us extra for the drink. We laughed a lot, all the time.

He always came home. He always looked like he'd run at least part of the way. He did a lot of overtime, especially in the summer months just after we got married. He'd come in late, but never with a smell of drink off him. Not that I was checking. I got a bit lonely, surrounded by other people's noises. I'd turn on the telly and the radio and make noise of my own. I'd hear the key in the door and my heart would explode. He'd come in tired and smiling, dirty from work and hungry. He'd have his dinner on a tray. We'd talk. We were very, very happy.

I was pregnant. Was I sick? I don't remember. I was proud; I remember that. I felt useful, like I was starting something important. Like I was working. I must have been tired and low at times, I must have been. I have clear memories of being exhausted and nauseous when I was carrying John Paul, and feeling and looking really good when I was having Jack. I remember crying when I knew I was pregnant with Leanne. I didn't want her at all; she wasn't welcome. I didn't want to go through it all over again. I can remember the exact feeling, seriously thinking about killing myself. But I can remember precious little about the first one.

I have a theory about it. Being hit by Charlo the first time knocked everything else out of me. It's all I remember now about that time, up to the birth. It became the most important thing. It became the only thing. One day I was Mrs Paula Spencer, a young wife and soon to be a mother, soon moving into a new house, in a new place, making my husband's dinner, timing it so it would be just ready for when he came in from work and had a wash. I was a woman listening to the radio. I was aware that my tummy was pressing into the sink as I was washing the spuds. I could feel the sun on my face, coming through the kitchen window. I had to squint a bit, squeeze my eyes shut; they were watering. I was a young, attractive woman with a loving, attractive husband who was bringing home the bacon with a smile on his handsome face. I was loving and loved, sexy and pregnant.

Then I was on the floor and that was the end of my life. The future stopped rolling in front of me. Everything stopped.

—Make your own fuckin' tea.

That was what I said. That was what started it, what ended it. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't said it, what would have happened if I'd gone over and put on the kettle.

—Make your own fuckin' tea.

Me and my big mouth. I'd have made him his tea. And a cup for myself as well. We'd have sat in the living room, me in the armchair we'd got from one of his cousins, and him on the floor. We'd have sat and chatted. He'd have made us another cup. I'd have been tired — I was always tired; I remember that much. We'd have gone to bed. We'd have listened to the neighbours downstairs fighting and the fairy from upstairs bringing in a new boyfriend. I'd have gone to sleep with his arm around me, my bum parked in his lap. I'd have slept like a log. Tomorrow's just another day. And the one after that. And the one after that and the rest of my life, the rest of our lives. Up to today. Now.

—How was work, love?

—Fine.

Kiss.

—Ready for a cuppa?

—Yeah thanks; I'm parched.

But I'm only codding myself. I know it. It would have happened anyway. That fist was always coming towards me.

—Make your own fuckin' tea.

But sometimes I can't help thinking that I could have avoided it, I could have been cleverer. I could have made mat fuckin' tea. I'd done fuck-all all day; it wouldn't have killed me. He'd had his moods before. I'd seen them. I recognised them. I should have seen it coming. Instead, I provoked him. And now, here I am.

—Make your own fuckin' tea.

Now here I am, making my own fuckin' tea, buying my own fuckin' tea. Filling my big fuckin' mouth with tea. If I was in India or Africa I'd be picking my own fuckin' tea. A thirty-nine-year-old widow-woman with a hollow leg. A wreck of a woman with gaps where her teeth should be and a hole where her heart should be. A ruin, a wreck, a failure. What if I'd made that tea?

No, I'm only messing, codding myself. Feeling sorry for myself. (I haven't been drinking, by the way.) I know. It had nothing to do with the tea. It was coming all the time. The fist. The boot. The end. It had nothing to do with me.

I was tired and angry and sweating. My back was beginning to hurt. I'd gotten big with Nicola very early. I'd read nothing; I knew nothing about it. I thought I was carrying some sort of a monster. I didn't know about water retention or anything. My mother told me nothing. I was completely clueless, just pregnant and scared. I was jumpy and exhausted and miserable. The day had crawled. No one to talk to; nowhere to go to, too tired to go anywhere; all those stairs to get down and up, I couldn't have been bothered. Half-scared that the baby was going to come any minute. Premature and two-headed. A huge yellow-skinned oaf with a head too big to stay upright. I was ugly, fat and full of someone else's hairy body. My leg hair had gone black. I'd cried all day. I wanted chocolate. I wanted someone to bring me chocolate.

(I keep blaming myself. After all the years and the broken bones and teeth and torture I still keep on blaming myself. I can't help it. What if? What if? He wouldn't have hit me if I hadn't...; none of the other fists and belts would have followed if I hadn't... He hit me, he hit his children, he hit other people, he killed a woman — and I keep blaming myself. For provoking him. For not loving him enough; for not showing it. For coming between him and John Paul. For not making love, for making love when I didn't want to. For not talking to him, for not understanding. For drinking and getting old. For not looking after myself. For throwing him out. For killing him. I can dismiss them all. It's easy; they're all unfair. I'm innocent, completely innocent. But they keep coming back. What if? His brother spat at my feet at the funeral: I was to blame.
Have you had a drink, Mrs Spencer?
The doctor in Casualty. It was settled: I'd slammed the door on my own finger. John Paul looked at the bruises on my face and he hated me.
Did you fall down the stairs, Paula? Did you walk into a door, Paula? What made him do that, Paula? What made
you
do that, Paula? Did you say something to him, Paula?
No. No. No! I'm innocent. I'm innocent. I'm innocent. What if he hadn't hit me then? What if I'd been more cheerful? What if I'd made his fuckin' tea?