The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

  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?

  No.

  It was always coming. Before that night; before we got married; before we met. That was Charlo.

  Why did you marry him then, Paula?

  Fuck off and leave me alone.

  He. Hit. Me.)

  I was feeling low that night. I was feeling low and slimy. Low and slimy and mean. I was fed up and pissed off because he hadn't come home. Again. He hadn't been coming home for the last month. Since I'd started becoming seriously pregnant. Since I'd started looking wet and fat and white. Why didn't you make the effort, Paula? He came home later and later with drink on him. Could you not have had a nice dinner waiting for him, Paula? He'd say nothing to me. Or the fire lit? He'd grunt his answers when I tried to get us talking.

  It had been bad for a good while. The honeymoon hadn't lasted long. He still came home, but sat staring at the telly. He wouldn't look at me. Then he came home later. Then later. Drunk and dirty from the site; he didn't even wash himself. Sometimes he'd come in straight after work, smiling — shy looking — as if he'd decided to start all over again. I'd be thrilled, every time; madly in love. It never lasted, though. There were always rows again. Even before we got married. He got worse. He'd pick rows with me for nothing. Why wasn't I wearing a smock his sister had given me? Could you not have been more considerate, Paula? Why had I set the alarm clock wrong? Could you not have been more careful, Paula? Why was the floor so dirty? Well, Paula? Where's my tea? Well, Paula? Make your own fuckin' tea. Well now, Paula.

  I couldn't give him what he wanted, a pregnant wife who wasn't really pregnant. He saw me expanding and wilting and he couldn't handle it. He wouldn't. He wanted a baby but he didn't want anything to do with getting it. I was no good to him, an insult to him. Temporary wasn't a word he understood. He wanted nothing to do with me the way I was now. He hated what he saw. He hated me. (I'm so wise now, so handy with the analysis. I make it up as I go along. It's all shite. I change my mind every day.) I told him I'd soon have my figure back, after the baby was born. I tried to say it cheerfully, like I'd just thought it up, like I wasn't responding to his eyes. I'd backed into him in bed the night before, trying to make him hard. I wanted to feel him getting bigger against me; I was trying to prove myself wrong. I wanted to prove that I could still make him do it, that he wanted to do it. He loved me. I wanted him to ride me, to fuck me; I didn't care how. He pushed me back and turned away. He said nothing. I went into the living room to cry. He was snoring when I went back in. There was no room for me in the bed the way he was lying. I had to get a corner for myself and push with my feet. I lay on the bed. It was cold and I was sweating. I don't think I slept. I made his sandwiches for him the next morning. He took them and went. He kissed me goodbye.

  —Take care of yourself, he said.

  I stayed in the flat all day. I spent most of the time deciding whether to visit my mother or not, until it was too late. I was too tired and heavy. I was restless but I didn't want to move. I was afraid to move. He came in that night. He'd been drinking. He wasn't drunk, though. It wasn't that late. We all do stupid things when we're drunk, Paula. He wasn't drunk. He even washed himself, a sign that he wasn't drunk. He changed his t-shirt. He still had some of his summer tan. He shaved. The two of us in the kitchen. He whistled. All The Young Dudes, I think it was; an impossible song to whistle. I felt bad now. My imagination had led me astray. Everything was fine. We were happily married. But I wanted to say something.

  —Where were you?

  —Campions.

  I had to say something definite. I had to let him know.

  —Nice?

  —Yep.

  He dried his face with a tea towel. He sat down at the table. I stood looking at him. He looked at me. He looked straight at me. It was a good, honest look. I was feeling so bad, so mean.

  —Well? he said.

  —Well what?

  —The dinner.

  —There isn't any.

  He laughed. There was no anger in it, no shock, no sarcasm. He was so nice. He looked at the cooker and at me again.

  —How come?

  He looked away.

  —I didn't know if you'd want any.

  —What?

  —I didn't know if you'd be home.

  I didn't know if you loved me. I didn't know if you cared. I didn't fuckin' feel like it. I got it all wrong. I'm a cow. I'm a useless cunt.

  —I'm here, amn't I?

  I felt bad.

  —Amn't I?

  —Yeah.

  I was a lump, a cow. Of course, he was here. After a hard day's work. Waiting for his dinner.

  —It's just, I said. —It's just. You didn't touch it last night. And —

  —I wasn't hungry last night, he said. —And now I am.

  —Sorry, Charlo. It's just hard to tell.

  I had to say something to him, something about the other times. I wasn't inventing things.

  —What's that supposed to mean?

  —I don't know what to do. I didn't know if you'd be home tonight. Like last night. I don't know where I stand with you, Charlo. I don't.

  —Stop talking shite, will yeh.

  —I'm not.

  —You are.

  —I'm not, Charlo. I mean it.

  —Mean what? At least make us a cup of fuckin' tea.

  There.

  He hit me. He sent me across the kitchen and I hit the sink and fell. I felt nothing, only shock. A spinning in my head. I knew nothing for a while, where I was, who was with me, what I was doing on the floor. I saw nothing; I was empty. Then I saw his legs, making a triangle with the floor. He seemed way up over me. Way up; huge. I had to bend back to see him. Then he came down to me. I saw his knees bending; I saw his hand pulling up one of his trouser legs. I saw his face. His eyes were going over my face, every inch, every mark. He wa
s worried. He was shocked and worried. He loved me again. He held my chin. He skipped over my eyes. He couldn't look straight at me. He felt guilty, dreadful. He loved me again. What happened? I provoked him. I was to blame. I should have made his dinner. It was my own fault; there was a pair of us in it. What happened? I don't know. He held my chin and looked at every square inch of my face. He loved me again.

  26

  Ask me. Ask me. Ask me.

  Here goes.

  Broken nose. Loose teeth. Cracked ribs. Broken finger. Black eyes. I don't know how many; I once had two at the same time, one fading, the other new. Shoulders, elbows, knees, wrists. Stitches in my mouth. Stitches on my chin. A ruptured eardrum. Burns. Cigarettes on my arms and legs. Thumped me, kicked me, pushed me, burned me. He butted me with his head. He held me still and butted me; I couldn't believe it. He dragged me around the house by my clothes and by my hair. He kicked me up and he kicked me down the stairs. Bruised me, scalded me, threatened me. For seventeen years. Hit me, thumped me, raped me. Seventeen years. He threw me into the garden. He threw me out of the attic. Fists, boots, knee, head. Bread knife, saucepan, brush. He tore out clumps of my hair. Cigarettes, lighter, ashtray. He set fire to my clothes. He locked me out and he locked me in. He hurt me and hurt me and hurt me. He killed parts of me. He killed most of me. He killed all of me. Bruised, burnt and broken. Bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Seventeen years of it. He never gave up. Months went by and nothing happened, but it was always there — the promise of it.

  Leave me alone!

  Don't hit my mammy!

  I promise!

  I promise!

  I promise!

  For seventeen years. There wasn't one minute when I wasn't afraid, when I wasn't waiting. Waiting for him to go, waiting for him to come. Waiting for the fist, waiting for the smile. I was brainwashed and brain-dead, a zombie for hours, afraid to think, afraid to stop, completely alone. I sat at home and waited. I mopped up my own blood. I lost all my friends, and most of my teeth. He gave me a choice, left or right; I chose left and he broke the little finger on my left hand. Because I scorched one of his shirts. Because his egg was too hard. Because the toilet seat was wet. Because because because. He demolished me. He destroyed me. And I never stopped loving him. I adored him when he stopped. I was grateful, so grateful, I'd have done anything for him. I loved him. And he loved me.