The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (8 page)

—What work? I said.

—Shut up. She was waiting in the hall for me. I opened the door and there she was.
Carmil,
she says.
Carmil.

We laughed. She's good at doing children, the face and hands and all. You can tell by the way Carmel imitates kids that she loves them.

—
Carmil.
Will yeh do us a favour,
Carmil
? I'll do one for you back,
Carmil.
I needed Tampax because I'd forgot to get them when I was going past the chemist so I said okay I'd do her a favour.

—She's making it up.

—How come I remember it then, Missis?

—You're, making it up.

—I remember it, clear as day. I thought you wanted a lend of one of me blouses or something.

She turned back to Denise.

—Then she told me what she wanted me to do and I told her to fuck off.

—You did not. You'd never have said that in the house.

—I told you to fuck off.

—She didn't. You remember, Denise. Language in the house; we'd have been killed.

—Denise; look at me. I told Paula to fuck off.

I let her go on.

—So, of course, she put her Paula puss on her. You said you'd do it,
Carmil.
You said you'd do it,
Carmil.
So I gave in. I had to. Up the stairs, into the bedroom, the bleedin' toilet, down the stairs. She wouldn't get off my fuckin' back. You said you'd do it,
Carmil.
You said you'd do it,
Carmil.
So —

She lit her fag. Her timing is always brilliant. She'd have made a great doctor, Carmel would. You've got— a cold; just when the poor patient was convinced that she had cancer.

She put her wasted match back into the box.

—So, she said. —I went out. Down to Kearns. Houseful of brothers. Fuckin' mortified, I was. I knocked on the door. Mister Kearns answered.

—Now there was a ride, I said.

—Mister Kearns! said Denise.

—Yeah.

—The father!

—Yep.

—Jesus.

—He was fuckin' lovely, said Carmel. —Better-looking than any of his sons and everyone of them was a ride as well.

—He must have been ancient, said Denise.

—Younger than we are now, said Carmel.

That shut us up for a bit.

Then Carmel got back to the story.

—Anyway, Mister Kearns, the man himself, opened the door. I nearly died. —Yes? he says. —Is — ? I couldn't remember his name. I'm red as a fuckin' beetroot. Just standing there. With my mouth open. Cursing you, Paula. He's looking down at me. I'm standing there wanting to fuckin' die. Cos I was too lazy to go to the chemists myself. Jesus. He's staring at me, you know. —Is your son in? I said. —Which one? he says back. —I've seven of them. Jesus Christ; he's looking at me. —There's only four of them in if that's any good to you. He was being smart-arsed but he wasn't good at it; it made him seem dirty or something, d'you know what I mean, taking advantage of me or something. Cos I really fancied him, Mister Kearns. I thought he was fuckin' gorgeous. I used to mess with myself thinking about him.

—Carmel!

—
Carmil.
I did. I could come in thirty seconds, no problem, thinking about him. Then he went and ruined it by being smart-arsed. His voice didn't fit the rest of him either. It wasn't a very good-looking voice. Donald Duck, he sounded like. So I decided I wouldn't let him best me. —The one that's about thirteen, I said. — That'd be Martin, he said. —Yeah, I said. —Whatever. Will you give him a message? Will you tell him that Paula O'Leary wants to go with him. He's gawking at me now; he doesn't know what's happening. —Cos if you do that for me, I said, —she'll go to the shops and get me my jam-rags for me.

Jesus, the laughing.

—Don't mind her, I told Denise. —It never happened. And tell us anyway, I said to Carmel. —Who did you think about after that?

—What?

—When you were playing with yourself.

—Oh. Eddie Kearns. A minute and a half with him.

—When we were in the room?

—Yeah.

—Jesus, said Denise. —I never knew that.

She can sound very stupid sometimes; you'd feel sorry for her.

—I'll tell you another thing you never knew, said Carmel. —I did it with Derek Kearns.

Carmel asked him for me; as simple as that. She was thirteen. I asked her would she and she did, after the usual no no no okay. She went up to him in the usual way. She was the same age as him. She went straight up. He was playing football. She went up to him after the game when he was picking up his jumper that was one of the goal posts. It was a green jumper, homemade looking, V-necked. They were all going home for their teas, all the other boys. We'd waited ages for the game to end. It went on all afternoon. On the big green behind our houses. It wasn't even a proper game; they just kicked the ball around and now and again tackled each other. Towards the end they hardly moved; they just tapped the ball to one another and waited till it rolled towards them. Carmel complained a bit but she stayed with me. All the fellas knew what we were doing there, that we were going to ask one of them to go with one of us. But they didn't know which one of us or which one of them. We enjoyed it; we had them anxious and excited. Excited about which one of them was going to be asked. Excited that it was going to be Carmel, worried that it was going to be me. I remember that. I remember it well because it didn't dawn on me until Carmel was going over to him. And it was too late to stop her. She said something to him and he nodded. He nodded. She was coming back. Carmel was lovely-looking in her own way. There'd been a thing written about her on a pole outside our house. It was done with chalk so it was easy to get off before our mammy or daddy saw it. He'd have blamed her for it. He was like that; he wanted to protect us. Carmel cried when she was cleaning it. Carmel O'Leary Has Big Tits. No spelling mistakes.

—He said yeah.

I went with him for three and a half weeks. Then I broke it off because he was going to break it off with me and I wanted to get there first. No fella had ever broken it off with me. I kept thinking that he was only going with me because I was Carmel's sister. Dee and Fiona were green about it. I broke it off with him. Then I told them and they were even greener.

It was great then, that year or two, from ten to twelve or so. It was all fun. But it got complicated after that, and nasty.

Carmel's different. She remembers nothing good. She won't. That's just the way she is. Everybody remembers their First Holy Communion, or things about it. Not Carmel.

—Nothing, she says.

—Your dress.

—No.

—The money.

She shakes her head. She won't remember it for you. It's in there somewhere, in her head. She just won't let it out. She has her own version of things.

Her first kiss.

—A tongue that had hair on it; I'm not fuckin' joking yis.

Her first day at school.

—She hit me. Before I even sat down.

Her wedding day.

—Boring.

Our father.

—There's things you never knew about.

I heard Denise gasp when Carmel said that.

—What d'you mean? I said.

We were in Denise's kitchen. We had a bottle open and a carton of orange juice. The chipper papers were in a heap on the table. It was very unlike Denise to have left them there. She usually gets even tidier when she's drunk. I've seen her rearranging chairs and tables in the pub when she's pissed enough. I once even saw her using her sleeve to mop up a spill.

Carmel poured juice into her glass.

—What d'you fuckin' mean, Carmel?

Her hints; she'd been making them for years. I didn't want any more of them. They were getting in my way. She made them up as she went along.

—What're you saying?

—I'm saying nothing, she said.

—Nothing, I said. —You already said something. You started, so finish.

Denise had started clearing up the mess; hoping we'd go. I wasn't going anywhere.

—Sit down, I said to Denise.

She kept tidying up, avoiding us.

—What? I said to Carmel.

She stared at her glass. She opened her cigarette packet and rooted for one. I had to push Denise's arm out of the way; she was leaning over for my chip bag.

—What. Are. The. Things. That we don't know?

Denise shook a bag.

—There's some left.

—Fuck off, Denise, I said.

I looked at Carmel.

—Well? Hey; well?

She was crying.

It was the drink. You made things up when you were drinking and you believed them if you were drunk enough. They became absolutely true and real. I knew. Jesus, the things I knew for a fact when I was footless. Once — Jesus Christ — I knew Jack was dead. I was sitting on the top step of the stairs. I'd got him out of his cot and he was in my arms. I was crying. Squeezing him. The middle of the night. He was smiling up at me, then crying, but I didn't believe it. It was his angel. He was dead. He'd died while I was out. I knew it. Cot death. I'd have killed him to prove it. Charlo took him off me and brought him back to the cot, stopped him from crying. I sat on the step. I was grieving. Big lumps of grief climbed up through me. I enjoyed it. The strength of it. My love being proved.

—Fuckin' eejit.

Charlo stood above me at the bedroom door.

—It's my fault!

—Come on to bed, for fuck sake.

I hated him for that. He'd ruined it. I couldn't believe it any more and the grief became just snot and bits of prawn cracker. I'd never drink again. I swore it. Never again. I'd never leave the kids alone. I'd never drink again. I was hopeless. I was useless. But now I knew and it would be different from now on. No more. I went into Jack and John Paul's room. I looked down at Jack. I put my hand on his back to feel him breathing. All that strong breath, so quick; it was like he was growing, I could feel it. I didn't deserve him. I didn't deserve him. I was starting it again, nearly wishing him dead. To prove how hopeless I was, what a slut and an alco. On the front page of the Herald. Found dead while she was out drinking. That was me. I kissed John Paul. I got into the bed beside him. He woke me up in the morning. He was trying to get over me. God love him, he was terrified. His mother in her Sunday clothes and shoes beside him in the bed. And sick on the pillow. I turned the pillow over and closed my eyes.

I knew what Carmel was up to. She'd had a hard time from our father when she was a teenager; they never really recovered from it — they were always at each other, at Christmases and christenings — and now she was giving herself a good reason for hating him, making it up and believing it. Loving herself for hating herself. I knew well what she was up to.

My father never did anything to her.

It must have been him. On the ground, under a blanket. First the camera was far off; all you noticed was the car and houses behind it. There was the yellow accident tape warning people not to go near it and there were Guards inside the tape. One of them stepped over the tape; he was walking away from the camera.

I can remember nothing about what the reporter said, except two words.

—One man —

It was the reporter with the Northern accent. He looks nice, like he'd be happier doing something else for a living. I can't think of his name. The only one I can ever remember is Charlie Bird and it wasn't him.

—One man —

Then the camera homed in on the car, only it wasn't the car it was aiming at; it was Charlo beside it, in front of it, with the blanket over him, or it might have been something else, but he was covered. He must have been face down because his foot was hanging from the open door, the back of his foot and leg and it disappeared under the cover just before the knee. He must have fallen out of the car. It looked like he'd tripped up getting out. I didn't know the car. I knew the socks. Green diamonds. I'd bought them for him. The car was neatly parked; he'd fallen out onto the path. The houses looked nice — big with lots of trees. He was far from home.

My name is Paula Spencer. I am thirty-nine years old. It was my birthday last week. I am a widow. I was married for eighteen years. My name was O'Leary before I got married. My husband died last year, almost exactly a year ago. He was shot by the Guards. He left me a year before that. I threw him out. His name was Charles Spencer; everybody called him Charlo. Except his mother and my father. And the priest at his funeral. I have four children. (There could have been five; I lost a baby.) The oldest is Nicola. She is eighteen. She has a job in a shop and a steady boyfriend, Tony. She's a great kid. I don't have to worry about her. Next is John Paul. He is sixteen. I don't know where he is. He was squatting in some flats in town but I don't think he's there now. He never comes near me. Nobody talks to me about him. I never mention him to anyone. I have reason to believe that he's a drug addict. He has robbed my mother more than once. A druggie. He never comes here; he knows there's nothing. Heroin. He has a tattoo on his arm that I bought him; it's the only thing left between us. I don't mean that; it's how I cope. It's either that or pretending that everything is grand and he's still at home with me or on his way back. I gave him the money for the tattoo on his fourteenth birthday, to stop him from hating me. Liverpool F.C. He doesn't even care about them any more. It's cruel; I don't know what happened. I'm always expecting another knock on the door, the news about John Paul. Every knock, every footstep outside kills me. Next is Leanne. She is twelve. She's lovely, wonderful; I'd love her to never grow up. I found a love-bite on her neck last Saturday. She saw me looking at her. I said nothing. She's hilarious. She always cheers me up. She's good in school but a bit cheeky, her teacher tells me. She's intelligent and creative and good at maths but too fond of smart remarks. She could spend more time at her homework. The teacher says. I'm going to make her stay in school until she's finished, right up to the Leaving Cert. The first of the Spencers to do it. Last is Jack, my baby. He is five. He's as bright as a button, and quick. He's a gentle little lad. He still has his baby's face and tummy. Whenever I feel really poor I always search for Jack and look at him; he looks well-fed and prosperous. Getting hugged by Jack is like nothing else in this world. I've taught him to sing Bye Bye Blues, and he knows when to sing it. I have spent more money on his clothes than on all the others put together. I've gone without food to make him look good. No hand-me-downs for Jack; no way. He is my mascot; my statement. He's my baby. He doesn't remember his father; he tells me he doesn't. (I'll never forget the time I saw a woman in the supermarket looking at Leanne. It was years ago. Something about it scared me. Her basket was empty. The woman saw me looking at her. —I recognise the coat, she said. She tried to smile and walked away. —Goodbye. I'd got the coat from the Vincent de Paul. Never again. The humiliation, Jesus, and there were other things that upset me then, and still do. Where was
her
daughter? It was the weekend. Why was her basket empty? It was just an ordinary blue coat. That poor woman.)

My father is dead. He died of cancer after a long fight. My mother is alive and well. She is sixty and lonely. I have two sisters and three brothers. I had another sister who died. I am close to my sisters but I don't see much of my brothers. I don't like Roger and he doesn't like me. I haven't seen him in years, not even at Christmas. He lives in England somewhere. My mother told me where but I didn't take it in; I don't care. He's divorced. Charlo once gave him a hiding. He had it coming to him.

I am an alcoholic. I've never admitted it to anyone. (No one would want to know.) I've never done anything about it; I've never tried to stop. I think I could if I really wanted to, if I was ready. I've always liked a drink, from when I was sixteen, even before I started going out with Charlo. I don't remember when I stopped liking it and started needing it. It crept up on me, I suppose. My father was never a big drinker and my mother doesn't drink at all.

(—Do you ever remember Daddy being drunk? I ask my sisters.

—No, says Carmel.

—Never, says Denise.)

Years ago, I had to drown the alcohol with coke or blackcurrant. Now I prefer orange juice, but I'll drink anything. I don't know when I started being like that. I don't know when I became an alco. My children have gone without good food because of my drinking. My children have suffered because of my drinking. But I have it under control. I've been taking back some of the day. I don't drink now until after Jack has gone to bed. I've been doing that for three months, a week and three days. It isn't easy. I stay out of the house; I bring him to the park. I put the bottles in the shed in the back and throw the key into the long grass around the edges of the back garden. I bought the lock and key especially for that, for locking away the bottle. The idea just came into my head. I threw out the spare key, threw it in the bin on bin day. I put a family-pack of crisps back on the supermarket shelf to make up the money for the lock. It's only a small one; I could probably break it. But I won't. I'm proud of it. I search for the key after Jack's in bed. It can take ages but I always find it. In the rain and dark and the cold. I find it. But I don't mind once he's in bed. Sometimes I put him to bed a bit early. I don't enjoy it, the drinking. I don't remember when I did. I need it. I shake. My head goes; I have small blackouts. I start sweating patches of sweat. Yes! Yes! cries the girl, we all need a drink; that's a bit from a little book I used to read with Jack. I laughed and cried when I read it the first time. It gave me a fright; it seemed to be laughing at me. A little girl climbing up on a chair to get to the sink. A little girl with yellow hair, a green skirt and blue shoes. I used to drink all day. I had gin in my coffee in the mornings. Before Charlo died. Before I threw him out. He wasn't to blame for it. We always drank a lot together. It's only when you're alone that you begin to notice what you're doing. I went off the rails altogether when Charlo died. For a while; I don't remember. It's different now though. I'm coping with it, thinking about it. Deciding. I made Jack go to bed early last night. I put the kitchen clock forward so Leanne couldn't point out that it wasn't his bedtime — because she would — and I ended up having to send her up early as well. I remembered to put the clock back to its proper hour after she'd gone. A few months ago I wouldn't have remembered.

Progress.

I'd love to tell Nicola about it. She knows already; she's not stupid. She can see and smell. But I'd love to say it to her. I think I'd stop then. It would keep me on my toes, knowing that somebody knew what I was up to. Especially Nicola. Sometimes I forget she's my daughter, I want her to love me so much. It feels like the other way round; I'm the child. It's so reassuring just being in the same room as her. I calm down; I don't grab at the glass. I'd like to sleep in her bed sometimes but I never could.

I'd like to go to Alcoholics Anonymous but I don't have the time. I don't know if there's one local. I don't know how to find out; I can't ask. I can't ask the priest, the one that calls round every couple of months — every two months, drinking tea and eating cake with the deserted wives of the parish. Anyway, he stopped calling after Charlo got killed; I wasn't a deserted wife any more. And I wouldn't trust him as far as I'd throw him. The looks he gave me when he was talking about faith and the Blessed Virgin, it wasn't my tea he was after, or my biscuits. It isn't only the bishops who like to get their exercise.

Sometimes though, I'll take looks from any source. They remind me of myself; they wake me up. I'd go to bed with a priest if I fancied him enough; I think I would. But then again, I've never really seen a good-looking priest. Except for Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds. I'm as well off with my hand and my imagination. Mind you, when you've seen what my hand does all day — wiping, scouring, cleaning other people's bins and toilets — my imagination has its work cut out.

I still think of Charlo.

I miss him.

I want him to come back.

Facts, Paula.

I get up at eight o'clock every morning. I used to sleep it out a lot; sometimes I couldn't get up. But not any more. I made the decision. I make the effort. I get up when the alarm goes. It's a little victory; I'm in charge of myself. I get up. I dress and wash before I go downstairs; I rub the cold out of myself. I shout in to the kids on my way down. I go in and tickle Jack. He has the boys' room to himself now. He looks so small in it. I make the breakfast. There's not much making in cornflakes but I do it, put the bowls on the table, spoons beside each bowl; I want to. I could never get any of them to eat porridge. My father believed in porridge. He believed it could do good things for you.

—Culchie food, said John Paul.

I wonder what he has for his breakfast these days.

Stop.

Leanne has tea. Jack has milk. I only got him to stop using the bottle last year. He'd started school; it was embarrassing. It took him ages to admit that it tastes just as nice out of a Winnie the Pooh mug. I did tests with him; it was like an ad. Now try Brand X.

—I want a bockle.

—It's a bottle.

—Yeah; I want it.

—Try this one.

—No.

—A little drop.

—No.

—A little sip just.

—No.

For fuck sake.

I have coffee, a two-spoon cup. Nicola has already gone to work when I get up. She's a pot-of-tea-before-I-say-boo-to-you woman. There's always a pile of warm teabags in the sink when I come down, like what a horse would leave behind.

So there's just me and Leanne and Jack in the mornings, except on Sundays when Nicola doesn't work. I like it. I like giving out to them, rushing them and pushing them. Come on, come on, chop chop. Making sure they have their lunches, checking they've all the right books in their bags. I'm on the case. It's a happy time. We're not poor first thing in the morning. They like it. They know I like it. I pretend I'm annoyed; they know I'm pretending. Sometimes I'm not and they know mat too. Come on come on hurry hurry. Busy busy. Busy busy. They love it when I fly around the house saying that. Busy busy. Busy busy. Then they're gone. Leanne brings Jack. She brings him up to the door of the school and shoves him in. She waits to see that he's found his classroom, then she goes on to her own door around the corner. I followed them a few times, just to check. It was lovely. I followed them because there was supposed to be a child snatcher on the loose, a woman with stolen hospital records going up to houses and trying to take the children away. I heard it on the radio. It's big business, baby snatching, especially in America. It's a sick world.

I have half an hour or so to myself — another cup of coffee and a think — then I'm off. Four days a week I have cleaning jobs, houses. On top of the office cleaning later on in the day. I don't do anything on Tuesdays and I don't like them much. I should clean my own house, I suppose, but I couldn't be bothered. We usually clean the house together when there's so much dust that it has no room to settle. It's nearly a tradition now, a game. Leanne loves it. She wrote in a story for school that one of her hobbies was cleaning. God knows what the teacher thought when she read it. I sit around on Tuesdays, listen to Gaybo — Gerry Ryan's too much of a smart-arse for me. Sometimes I go down to Carmel for a chat, before I go to pick up Jack. Carmel's not too bad in the mornings; she only puts her fangs in after dark. I like the morning cleaning. Don't ask me why. I'm doing something useful. I'm getting exercise. I'm getting paid. I like seeing into other people's houses. Funny, I hardly ever feel jealous. And I should, because some of the houses are incredible. Huge. Some of the stuff in them, I wouldn't want most of it myself but it must cost a fortune. Dark furniture, flat-screened tellies, CD players with tiny little speakers. I love music. There's one house I do on Mondays, in Clontarf; they've a great collection of CDs, all the seventies stuff. I got her to show me how to use the CD player. There was no problem. I like her, the owner. Miriam. We're the same age. We both went to the same dances when we were kids. I don't remember her. She married a doctor. I married Charlo. Mott The Hoople, Bad Company, Sparks, Queen — they have them all. I might get a tape recorder and tape some of their stuff. I love the CDs. They're very stylish; I love the colours. They look expensive. I love the way you just a press a button and get the exact song. I don't know how many records I scratched and ruined when I was pissed.

—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —

Charlo sang that to me, down on his knees.

—She's an angel of the first degree —

He'd just stood on a bee. We heard the crunch and started laughing; on the playground tarmac. I can't remember when; I don't think we'd been going together that long.

—I thought he'd get away, said Charlo.

—It might have been the queen, I said.

—Dead now anyway, said Charlo. — God love it.

—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —

I love Van Morrison.

—Just like honey baby from the bee —

I love the music. They have speakers all over the house and no children; the house hardly needs cleaning at all. The music fills the time.

—You can take all the tea in China —

Put it in a big brown bag for me —

My cloth swoops over the sideboard. The brush swings around the toilet bowl. Van's my man. A walk-man would be nice, for the other houses and offices in the evenings. I've seen cheap ones. And the train on the way home; it would be nice to close my eyes and listen and drift.

—You can take all the tea in China —

Things come back when I listen. The music drags out memories. That's one thing about my life; it has a great soundtrack.

Wooden floors are in; people don't seem to like carpets any more. Bare floors; pretending they're poor. I don't like it. I'd like to come home to carpet, get the shoes off, let the feet sink in; lie on it, lie back and float.

—Sail right around — round the seven oceans —

Clontarf, Sutton, Killester and Raheny; they're the houses I clean. Raheny is the worst. You're only in the gate, you haven't looked up at the house yet, and you know: kids. The kids make shite of the house all week and I arrive on Fridays and clean it up so they can start all over again on Saturday. I think kids should clean up their own messes. Mine always did. Even Jack, even if he's actually making a bigger mess when he's doing it. It's unbelievable. Marker and paint on the walls and fridge, dirty clothes on the stairs, crumbs and bits of stood-on sandwiches all over the place. They mustn't do a stroke during the week. They wait for me. I even have to put the videos and CDs back into their boxes because the room would look untouched if I didn't. She doesn't work; she leaves the house when I arrive. She kind of sneaks; she looks guilty. So she should, the bitch. She gets home just when I'm leaving. I saw her sitting in her car once, outside their gate on the road, waiting for me to finish; I saw her from their bedroom window. Waiting for me. She's left me short a few times. —I'll see you next week. I forgot to get to the bank. It's not fair; I have to remind her the next week. I
need
that fuckin' money. It's Friday. She has no fuckin' idea. It's the only house I feel jealous in; the kids have everything. I know; I pick it up.