The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

  —All the time?

  —No, said Denise. —Who's nice all the time? I'm not sayin' he was a fuckin' saint, Carmel.

  Carmel was shocked. Denise had answered her back, probably for the first time ever. Denise was enjoying it.

  —He was nice, she said. —He sang a lot, didn't he?

  —So did Hitler.

  —Ah stop, Carmel, will yeh, I said. —Is that the best you can do?

  —I know what you're up to, she said.

  —What?

  —I know.

  —What?

  —Rewriting history, she said.

  —I don't know what you're talkin' about, I said. —I don't even know what you mean.

  —I'm sure you have your reasons, said Carmel.

  —Fuck off, Carmel, will yeh.

  (I'm not. What Carmel says. Rewriting history. I'm doing the opposite. I want to know the truth, not make it up. She has her reasons too.)

  —It's my house, said Carmel. —You fuck off.

  She glared at Denise.

  —The two of you.

  She didn't mean it. She filled our glasses. Denise was a bit shaky; I saw it when she was picking up her glass. She was coming down after her rush.

  —It's not just Daddy, said Carmel. —All men are the same. Basically bastards.

  —Ah no, I said.

  I didn't know if I really disagreed with her; I wasn't sure. But Carmel said things too easily, and got away with them.

  —They can't be.

  —They are, said Carmel. —Basically. I think.

  —Not really.

  —Yeah, said Carmel. —Even the nice ones.

  —Yeah, said Denise.

  That annoyed me. She was licking up to Carmel.

  —No, I said. —What about your Harry? He's a lovely man.

  (I didn't believe that; I think her Harry's a boneless little drip.)

  —He can be a bastard as well, said Denise. —You're not with him all the time.

  —Ah, for fuck sake, I said. —You can say that about anybody, not just men.

  —Maybe, said Carmel. —You might be right.

  —I'm not drinkin' gin any more, said Denise.

  —Don't blame the drink, love, said Carmel.

  —I'm not, said Denise. —I'm just goin' to start cryin' and I don't want to. And now I do.

  —Jesus.

  —Listen, I said. —I lived for twenty years. Nearly twenty, with a bastard. The bastard of all fuckin' bastards. I know one when I see one. Will you give me that?

  —No problem, said Carmel.

  —All men are not bastards, I said.

  —Name one that isn't, said Carmel.

  —Okay.

  —Off you go; come on.

  —Okay, I said. —Jesus, I think I'm drunk.

  —Don't start, said Carmel. —Name one. Go on.

  —Nicola's fella; Tony.

  —He's lovely, said Denise.

  —He's only a kid, said Carmel. —He'll learn.

  —He's lovely, I said. —Isn't he, Denise?

  —Yeah.

  —Robert Redford, I said.

  —Him! said Carmel. —Did you see him in that last one? It was on the Movie Channel. He bought your woman for a million dollars.

  —Indecent Proposal, said Denise.

  —He was a right fuckin' creep in it anyway.

  —That wasn't him, I said. —He was only acting.

  —I wouldn't pay a tenner for that bitch. Who's that she's married to again?

  —Bruce Willis.

  —Now there's a bastard.

  —Charlo liked him.

  —Jesus.

  I went home happy. I lay in bed happy. I rarely felt like that, unless Jack or Leanne came into me and cuddled up against me and I could hear them sleeping and knew that they needed me. This was different, nothing to do with love or the kids or being wanted. It was about me. I felt solid. I wasn't drunk. I didn't really get drunk in the old way any more. My head was clear. I was wide awake; it was way past midnight. I felt solid. I felt right. I'd got something right. I could trust my memory. My father was my father; my past was my past. I could start again. I could believe myself. The things that came into my head were true. My father had been a nice man. Charlo had been a loving husband. I had been a good-looking woman. It hadn't always been like this. I had once been a girl. I used to read my stories out in class. I used to drink only at the weekends. My hair was nearly long enough for me to sit on. I believed it when I prayed; I really thanked O Lord for the food he gave me. Men whistled. I had a lovely smile. I practised it but it came natural. I cooked great Sunday dinners. I made Bisto my own. Charlo peeled the spuds and carrots. I lay in my cot and the wind lifted the curtains and dropped them. All these things were in my head and all of them were true. Just a few words from Denise. He was nice. Proof. My past was real. I could stand on it and it wouldn't collapse under me. It was there.

  I could start again.

  Men whistled.

  Daddy laughed.

  My husband peeled the spuds.

  14

  They were out on the street — Carmel had run them out of the garden — waiting for anything to happen, journalists and photographers and just people, neighbours and people who had just come to see the house. But I didn't know anything about them. I was in the kitchen. I didn't move. Jack's picture was in all the papers the day after, Jack looking out the window. Jack is five. He's the most beautiful child I've ever seen. He makes me cry, just looking at him.

  —He killed a woman.

  That was all I knew about it.

  —It'll be on the News.

  —Okay; bye. Thanks.

  —Bye.

  I hadn't seen the News. I wasn't interested. My mouth had gone numb on me. I weighed a ton. All I was good for was tea, vodka and sitting in the kitchen. They put soup in front of me but I couldn't manage it. It was too full, too packed; I couldn't have swallowed it.

  I'd made it home easily enough. I didn't think. I didn't feel. I walked. I divided the journey into pieces, seven corners, four roads to cross. Past the pub, the car park and the bus shelter, the shop-van, the dry cleaners, the church. Past O'Neill's house, Mooney's, O'Connor's. The green, the pitch, the subway. I didn't look at anything.

  It would be on the News.

  I made it. I had my key ready, straight in, no shakes. I was home. The house was still empty. I was alone. Then I wasn't. Carmel and Denise were there. I was on the floor. They picked me up.

  —Paula, love —

  They hugged me. Next, I was in the kitchen.

  —It's freezin' in here; Jesus.

  —She needs heat or she'll go into shock.

  —I'm alright, I said.

  —Sit down there, said Carmel. —Do nothing.

  —It's your day off, said Denise.

  —Don't overdo it, Denise, said Carmel.

  I sat and they surrounded me.

  —Now, said Carmel.

  She put a mug of tea in front of me.

  —Loads of sugar in it.

  —Thanks.

  Then she put the bottle on the table.

  —Thanks very much.

  —No problem.

  I threw the vodka in on top of the tea.

  —Good girl.

  It was a new mixture. I liked it.

  —He's dead, I said.

  —That's right, said Carmel.

  Nothing else.

  —I'll tell Nicola, I said.

  —Okay.

  —When she comes in.

  —Okay.

  —When she comes in.

  —Yeah.

  —She has a job, I said.

  I don't know what made me say that, and I remember that I definitely did say it. I wanted to tell Nicola. She was older than me in some ways. She'd an old mind inside her lovely head. I didn't know if it was strength or deformity; when I was feeling low I felt guilty about it. I was to blame for it; I'd robbed her and crippled her. I was proud of her. She stunned me somet
imes. I'd made a right hash of my life but she wasn't going to. It wasn't that she could find work or that she was beautiful — all my kids are beauts — it was her shrug. She'd shrug past the Charlos and the bastards. She'd never become an alco like her mother. She'd never look fifty until she was fuckin' fifty, and then she'd probably look forty. Nicola was something else. There were some times when I was so jealous I wanted to maim her, really hurt her. I adored her. She was my pride and joy; still is.

  Jack and Leanne had the telly on loud and Denise had the hoover out — she's always loved hoovers — and some of her and Carmel's kids were floating around as well but I heard nothing except the click of the door.

  Nicola was home.

  Half-six.

  She knew. She'd walked past all the houses along the way. She might have seen faces in the windows; one or two that I know would definitely have been gawking out at her going past. She'd have seen all the journalists. She'd have put on her face, her I-never-smiled-in-my-life face, as she got nearer. They'd have seen her and guessed that she was Charlo's daughter. There'd have been a stampede. They might have pushed her when she was getting past them. Click click, the cameras. She'd have pushed them back. They'd have got out of her way, if they knew what was good for them. She'd have heard the cameras clicking and whirring as she was opening the door. She'd have seen the flashes behind her —

  —Miss Spencer —

  —Nicola; this way this way —

  —Miss Spencer —

  She wouldn't have looked back.

  The picture in the Herald showed her almost smiling, her shoulder lifted as if to protect herself. It didn't do her justice.

  All I heard was the click of the door.

  Carmel led her into the kitchen to me. She held the lapels of her jacket like it was cold and windy.

  —Your daddy's dead, love.

  I didn't even stand up. My legs weren't up to it.

  —Oh.

  She shrugged. I knew she would; I'd put mental money on it. There was so much in that shrug. I leaned over and grabbed her. I pressed the side of my face into her stomach and wouldn't let go. I cried. I hoped that she'd cry — she needed to, I wanted her to cry. I wanted to think that she needed me. I wanted her to hold my head. I could hear her tummy grumbling.

  Carmel got my arms apart and rescued poor Nicola.

  —How? she said.

  I wiped my eyes. Carmel was waiting to see if I'd answer.

  —Shot, I said.

  Now I shrugged.

  We all started laughing.

  —Shot, I said it again. —Can you believe it?

  We were still laughing. Denise closed the kitchen door so the kids outside couldn't hear us; it wouldn't have sounded proper. It was a bit indecent, laughing at the way your husband had got himself killed. We all had to wipe our eyes. I noticed mat. Even Carmel.

  —The police, I told Nicola.

  She nodded.

  —We can watch it on the News, I said.

  Her forehead creased, the way it does.

  —Did they film it?

  —What? No, no. I meant just the news about it; it'll be on.

  15

  His mother looked me up and down like she was thinking of buying me. I stood on the back step. Charlo went ahead of me.

  —That's Paula, he said, and he rushed through the kitchen into the hall and left me there on the step with the dark behind me and his fuckin' mother in front of me. And I was half-pissed and there was no escape. He'd gone to the jacks. It was the only thing that ever made him hurry.

  —I'm fuckin' burstin', he'd said just before he opened the back door. It hadn't stopped him from grabbing my arse when we were going through his alley to the back. I'd screamed. I was bursting as well, and cold. Someone had robbed my jacket. His mother must have heard me.

  —Hello, I said.

  I said Hello and not Howyeh. All mothers said that their sons' girlfriends were common. My mammy said it about Roger and Eddie's girlfriends. All the mothers were the same. I was drunk as a skunk, I'd no jacket on me, there was probably grass on my back, I was smiling crooked but I made sure I said Hello instead of Howyeh.

  —Come in, she said.

  —Thanks very much, I said.

  She was making sandwiches. For Charlo's da and his brothers. They were all in watching the telly. I was never certain how many brothers Charlo had. There were sisters as well. They were easier to count; there were three of them. The three fuckin' pigs. I watched her buttering the bread. She was the only person I ever knew who could manage butter straight from the fridge. It was great to watch.

  —Shut the door there.

  I couldn't manage it.

  —You have to lift it.

  I tried but it wouldn't shut for me. I thought I was going to piss.

  —Here.

  She shoved me out of the way, her elbow right into my side. She put her two hands under the knob and groaned and carried the door in the last half-inch. The latch clicked.

  —One of them lazy gets in there will fix it one of these days.

  I leaned where I'd landed when she'd shoved me and waited for Charlo to come back down and rescue me. She slapped slices of ham down onto the bread; I could hear the air escaping from under the meat. The kitchen was smaller than ours at home. The ceiling was lower and slanting down towards the back door. It was stuck on to the back of the house, not really a proper part of it; you had to go up two uneven cement steps to get into the house itself. There was the smell of dinners and teas. When she'd finished piling the sandwiches — they were like a block of flats — she held them down like they were trying to escape and sliced through them with one lunge of the bread knife. Then she picked up the plate and walked the few steps over to the wall opposite. She pulled back a curtain that I hadn't really noticed. There was a big window behind it. The sitting room was behind that and they were all in there watching the telly; I could see the backs of the tops of their heads and Charlo was in there too, the fucker. She knocked on the glass and an older version of Charlo stood up, opened the window and took the plate off her. He shut the window, leaned out to haul it back in.

  She closed the curtain. She was big. She reminded me of an Indian woman or a knacker, the same huge soundless way of moving. She knew exactly where everything was, even things that had no fixed place. A knife on the table — her hand went out and took it up by the handle while she was turning on the cold tap and facing the sink. Her shoulders were massive. There was no fat there under her dress; it was all strength. The dress was flowery but there were no real colours. Her hair was black and grey and long, the longest I'd ever seen on a middle-aged woman. It wasn't tied up or anything. It was loose. She'd shake her head to get it out of the way, and it obeyed. She was like a statue, big and solid; there was something magnificent about her. But I could see it as well — she was bad. She hated things.

  The kettle was colossal. She swung it and landed it on the gas. She turned and looked over at me. There was only a yard between us.

  —D'you drink tea?

  —Yes.

  I didn't know if I was going to get any. Charlo was a bollox for dumping me there; either he thought we'd be having a chat or he didn't give a shite. He knew his mother; she didn't chat — she wasn't interested.

  —D'you have a name?

  —Yes. — Paula.

  —That's right: he told me.

  Her name was Gert but I only found that out after. When I asked Charlo he wasn't sure; he had to think about it.

  She had the teapot now. She came towards me. For a second I thought she was going to skull me with it. She threw the lid on the table. She got the doorknob and choked it open. She threw what was left in the pot out the door into the yard. I heard water landing on cement. She stepped back and lifted the door shut.

  —One of them will fix it some day.

  —Where's the toilet?

  —Upstairs.

  —Thanks.

  I escaped, up the two steps into the house. It w
as brighter. The sound from the room to the right was a film — gunfire — and all the men talking about it. I went past to the stairs and up. I had everything I'd ever drunk crying to get out of me. I bent a bit to make it easier to carry. It was dark at the top, no lights on, no switch that I could see. I could make out doors. One of them looked open. I gave it a shove and hooshed my skirt up; it was dribbling out of me now. I got in, found the switch, turned on the light; it was a bedroom and there was a man lying on one of the beds. And my knickers were heading down over my knees before I realised.

  —Oh Jesus!

  He was awake, lying back. He'd lifted his head.

  —Sorry, I said.

  The insides of my legs were wet; I couldn't get my knickers back.

  —No problem, he said. —Next door.

  His head fell back.

  I turned the light off.

  —Thanks, he said.

  I wouldn't make it; all I wanted now was to get onto lino. I kept my skirt right up at my waist. I got to the next door, shoved in, turned on the light, saw the bath, and I emptied. I looked down; lino.

  —Thank God.

  It was the longest piss I've ever had, and the loudest. I could hear nothing else. I'll never forget it. I didn't go again for days after; I couldn't. And I never drank cider again.

  I'd saved my skirt; it was dry. I used up most of the toilet paper wiping the floor. I left some. There was only one towel, a dirty white one. I used it to wipe the rest of the floor, then I rinsed it and hung it on the side of the bath. I flushed the toilet and prayed to Mary that it wouldn't clog. It took ages before I was convinced that all the paper was going to be taken. I rinsed my knickers. But I had nowhere to put them. I'd no pockets; my jacket had been robbed. I didn't want to chance the toilet; I could see them floating there flush after flush and me waiting for the cistern to fill again and listening for one of the brothers coming up the stairs, or the father or the mother — there was no way.

  I threw them out the window. I didn't care; I just wanted to get rid of them. They were wet and heavier than they should have been so I think they went well into the garden, maybe even over the back wall. I listened for them landing but I heard nothing. A good pair they were too. I shut the window.