—Yes, she says. —Let's wait for Denise. She'll probably be starving.
—After all the exercise.
—Exactly.
—I've a few things in the fridge that don't need cooking.
Paula stands up. She hears a key in the front door. She hopes it's Leanne. She hopes it isn't. She doesn't know – it's dreadful. Shame sweeps across her, and she can't stop it. She shouldn't have asked Carmel and Denise here. There's too much to show them. Leanne's in the hall – and it could be anything; she could be in any state. Paula wants to shout, to run out there and slam the door.
—That's Leanne, I think, she says.
Carmel sits up a bit. She's still a wagon. But that's not fair. Carmel knows. Paula's seen Carmel ripped apart by her own children.
She goes to the fridge. She opens the door. She hides behind it.
She doesn't.
She's getting the dips, and carrots. She's trusting Leanne; she's letting it happen. And the cold from the fridge is good. It knocks the sweat off her face. She'd love to climb in, just for a minute.
She shuts the door with her elbow.
Leanne's there. She's already sitting at the table.
Paula's afraid to talk. Every word will betray Leanne – she knows it. And Leanne will know it. Carmel doesn't matter. It's not about shame; she doesn't care. It's about her voice, what Leanne will hear.
—Jesus, Leanne, she says. —You must've heard me going to the fridge.
Leanne shrugs and does a face.
—I wouldn't eat that muck, she says. —What is it, an'anyway?
—Food for oul' ones, says Paula.
She puts the box on the table, and the carrot sticks.
—Ah Jesus, says Carmel.
—I'm getting you crackers, says Paula. —Shut up.
She smiles at Leanne. She doesn't look at the bottle, at Leanne's hands, at the little bits of label paper on the table, around the bottle.
She opens the press. She gets down the crackers. She throws them across to Carmel.
Leanne has the glass Paula left on the table for Denise.
She stands up. She brings the glass with her. She goes to the tap.
She feels it when she picks up the bucket. Her back. She's already walking crooked, to give it room, avoid admitting it.
She's not sure.
It was nothing dramatic. She just picked up the bucket and felt it, at the bottom of her spine, to the side there.
It's happened before. It goes away. Like a threat, something that'll come back when it wants to. A nerve, just gently tapped. It's horrible. It's playing with her.
She feels like a cripple already. The last time, it hurt every time she put her foot on the stairs. She can feel herself now, shifting all her weight away from the twinge. She feels fat and breakable; her belly is sticking out. The pain lights up every other pain. Every wound and break she's had, going on and off. Reminding her. Catching up.
It's Wednesday night. She has to work. It's a good while since she's been afraid that the fridge won't be filled. She's earning more than she ever did. But the back is there, the twinge. I can do this. I can bring you down.
She shifts the bucket to her other hand. It's full of water. It's always heavy – it's going to make her snap. It's up into her breath.
She stops. She bends her knees. She puts down the bucket. Now, she bends her fuckin' knees. Forty years too late.
There's no tax, no stamps. It's money into her hand. If she stops working, she never worked. She's never been happy with it, but it's all there ever was. And all there is. If she doesn't do it, other people will. She knows, she sees them. It's why they're here. Go back to your own fuckin' country. That's not her; that's not Paula. There's plenty of work. She won't be waiting long. But she doesn't want to lose the extra money for supervising, or the name, and the years that went into getting it. She's near the bottom of the heap. Tonight, she knows it. She feels it.
She leans the mop against the wall. She opens the top button of her jeans. That's a bit better.
It's like the wiring, across and up her back, through her ribs and up, to the back of her neck – it's like the wire has been tapped and the pain is singing through the wires, humming, loudly, softly. A bird has landed on the wire. It won't get off. It keeps opening and closing its claws.
Opening, and closing.
She picks up the bucket. She can't stand straight. The bucket's too full. She gets it to the lip of the sink. She empties it. She dips the bucket slowly. She doesn't want to spill the water.
A week on her back and the job is gone. The house jobs aren't enough.
There's other work. There's real work, with stamps and pensions. But how does she get one of those jobs; how does she explain? She hasn't worked since 1975? What does she say? She doesn't know.
She wipes the sink. There's grit from the water around the sides. She rinses the cloth. She squeezes it. The action, from her hands, arms, shoulders – there's no quick jab.
She wipes the sink again. It shines; it's grand.
She steps away from the sink. She picks up the bucket. She bends her knees. A tap, on her nerve. It's there. A claw. She tries not to be too nervous.
Everything is hopping. Everything is sweating. Every hole and dent. Every thump and kick. All of Paula's past is in her back. It's there, ready, breathing. One last kick from a man who died twelve years ago.
She has to put the buffer away. She'd forgotten; she wants to cry. She has to balance the bucket and mop on top of it. She pushes from her left side – she tries to save the right.
She feels it when she presses the button for the lift. Just lifting her arm, she feels it stab, and go. She's into the lift. She presses for the basement. She lifts her arm – it's fine. The door closes. She feels the movement, the shake, drop. She adjusts the bucket, resettles it on the buffer.
The lift stops. The door opens. She has to pull the buffer out. There's no room to turn it and push. The door starts to close. She does it before she thinks – she shoves the door back with her shoulder.
It's fine. She's okay.
She pulls the buffer. She starts to pull. She feels it; it's there. But she has to pull.
She's out of the lift.
Her mobile rings.
She digs into her pocket. Right side – the pain shoots up, but stops before it really starts. Her hand is shaking.
—Hello?
—It's me.
Nicola.
—What, love?
—Did you hear? says Nicola.
—Hear what?
—About Kylie Minogue, says Nicola.
—Ah, lovely, says Paula. —I'd love to go. With the girls, is it?
Will she leave her alone now?
—What? says Nicola.
—The Kylie concert, says Paula.
—What concert? It's not a concert.
—I've to go for the Dart, love.
—She has breast cancer, says Nicola. —Did you not hear?
—Kylie?
—Yeah.
—That's terrible.
She's always liked Kylie Minogue.
The bird lands – she puts her hand to her back.
She remembers one morning, dancing in the kitchen with Nicola – I SHOULD BE SO LUCKY – LUCKY, LUCKY, LUCKY – and she held up John Paul, a couple of inches, so he'd be the same height – I SHOULD BE SO LUCKY IN LOVE – around and around the kitchen. Her arms ached – she remembers. And when it was over Nicola asked her what was the stuff on her sleeve. It was blood. She hadn't noticed it. She'd gone to bed in her clothes the night before. She'd fallen asleep holding a wet cloth to her face.
Nicola just said something.
—Sorry, love. I lost you there.
—I said, will Carmel be okay? says Nicola.
Paula can hear Nicola's impatience – her mother, the eejit.
Go away, Nicola.
—About Kylie, you mean? says Paula.
—Yes!
—I'm not sure she even like
s Kylie, says Paula.
She feels the claws.
—I have to go.
She presses the red button. She leans on the buffer. She tries to lean out of the pain, to get under it. The mobile goes again. She doesn't answer. The ringing stops.
She tries not to let Nicola annoy her. But it's been happening. Nicola's the one who's furthest from her. It didn't feel like that before, but now it does. Nicola reared the younger ones as much as Paula ever did. She picked up Paula and washed her. She fed Leanne and Jack. And after she left she still looked after Paula.
She puts the mobile back in her pocket.
She stands away from the buffer. She pushes. She's fine. She hears and feels the double buzz. Nicola's text. She'll read it when she's finished.
She pushes the buffer around the corner. There's the corridor, and the storeroom. She could leave the buffer outside. She won't – she can't. She's the boss. It's her job, putting away the buffers and buckets that the other cleaners leave outside the door. She's last out, for €30 a week extra. She knows exactly what that can buy, and what not having it will mean.
The metal double-doors need a pull. The lock's a bastard. She's never sure when she has it. It's just luck; there's never a click. It gives tonight. She feels it come.
She turns on the light. She stands there for a while.
She feels bad about Nicola. But it's hard. Nicola sees no difference between Paula now and Paula the way she was ten years ago, five years, last year. Nicola was never a child; she never could be. Paula's fault – she knows, she feels it. It's in her back there, too. She could never feel guilty enough.
There are five buffers. They're in a line, like dodgems, against the corridor wall. Paula rolls her own in first. She feels the dust against her face. It's funny. No one cleans the room that holds the cleaning stuff. She goes out, and brings in the next. She pushes with both hands. She straightens her back, a bit.
One more buffer. Then the hoovers and the wheelie-buckets. She's not puffing now. She's not afraid to breathe. It's still there, though. The bird creeps along the wire.
Nicola will never trust her. She'll always be checking. Paula doesn't drink. She's nearly ready to make that claim. But she can't say that to Nicola. Because she'll see Nicola's face. Not disbelief, or sarcasm. Just sadness. And she'll keep checking the shelves. She'll keep looking in the fridge when she comes into the kitchen. That's why she bought the fridge for Paula, although she doesn't know it. She can walk right in and open it. She's not looking for alcohol. She knows it won't be there. She's looking for the mixers. Can I have a cup of mixers, Mammy? Paula will always be helpless, and hopeless. There's nothing she can ever do about it.
It's hard to take. It's hard not to hope. Leanne has seen the change in Paula. Jack has seen it. He's a bit afraid, but he's seen. She thinks John Paul has. Carmel, Denise, Rita Kavanagh. Even her mother, the last time Paula went to see her – Did you do something to your hair? – before she shut down again and stared across Paula's shoulder. Paula had done nothing to her hair. It suits you.
Paula is one of Nicola's children. It'll never be different.
She hates it.
She shuts the storeroom door. She's careful. She caught her skin in the door a few months ago. It took a chunk right off the side of her hand. She checks – she pulls the handle. It's locked. She can go home.
She remembers Nicola's text. She'll read it on the Dart.
She's happier than Nicola. That's probably true. Alcoholics can stop drinking but what is there for the children of alcoholics? Is it always too late? Probably. She doesn't know.
She's outside the building. She feels each step as she goes down. There's a jab, waiting – the little claws. She can't relax her body. She can't walk evenly. Her stomach is pushing out again. She sees the bridge at Tara Street. She's in trouble if the escalator isn't working. She can't face all those steps.
The Kylie Minogue thing. God love her, she's gorgeous. She's always liked Kylie. It's kind of heart-breaking. But Nicola phoning, she was letting Paula know that she hadn't thought of it. It'll be all over the papers, and on the telly, pictures of Kylie, her famous arse, experts going on about her chances of recovery, diagrams of mastectomies, other famous girls who survived or didn't. Carmel won't be able to avoid it. Nicola thought of it – Paula didn't.
Sitting down on the train, bending her back – what'll happen? It's one of the newer carriages. The seats aren't nice; you can't sit back. She's better off sitting up straight. She takes the mobile from her pocket. She sits. She's fine.
She phones Carmel.
—Are you coming home from work? says Carmel.
—Yeah.
—On the Dart?
—Yeah.
—Well, if you mention Kylie Minogue, I'll be waiting at the station and I'll smack the face off you.
—People are worried about you, says Paula.
—Oh, I know, says Carmel. —And I've had to cancel my tour of Asia and Australia. For fuck sake.
—They mean well.
—Ah, I know, says Carmel. —How're things with yourself?
—Not too bad. My back's at me.
—I'll swap with you, says Carmel.
—No sympathy for me tonight, Carmel, no?
—Hang on, says Carmel. —I need a bowl. My heart is fuckin' bleeding.
—Fuck off.
—Is it bad?
—It's thinking about it, says Paula.
—Take it easy, says Carmel.
—Yeah. Did my Nicola phone you?
—No. Why?
—I just thought.
—No.
—Grand.
She sees Nicola's car outside the house. She's not in the mood. The back's enough to be dealing with. She doesn't need Nicola. The guilt, the uselessness.
Leanne's in the front room.
Paula speaks softly.
—Where is she?
—Kitchen, says Leanne.
—By herself?
—Yeah.
Leanne's watching one of those reality things. Celebrity Fuckin' Eejits. Paula stands there for a while. Leanne points at the screen.
—He wants to get off with – not her. Her.
—Oh.
Paula goes into the kitchen.
—On your own?
Nicola's sitting at the table. There's a mug at her elbow. She's filling out forms or something. She's always working.