Paula Spencer

  There's a new sign in the window. She can read it from here. Dial-A-Can. She won't be putting that one into her mobile.

  She looks away, along the counter. To the end of the glass, and the ovens. There's flour in the air over there. Hands with a rolling pin. Good, man's arms. Flattening dough.

  It isn't him. It's another man. A goofy-looking poor fella. Mouth dangling a bit over the pizza dough.

  Ah well.

  The coffee's gorgeous. Paula will come back another day, and the fella she likes might be there. He might even own the place. That might be his wife who brought her the cake. She isn't a bad-looking girl and the Italians always stick together. Look at the two guys down the back. They probably came from miles away just to support their own. And for the taste of home.

  Would she do it with a married man? She'd do it with any kind of man.

  Not true. She's fussy. Thirty years too late. She's a gas woman. But him being married wouldn't stop her. She doesn't think it would. She'll probably never know.

  Enough.

  She stands up. Should she go over to pay before she picks up the cake box? To avoid any misunderstanding.

  What misunderstanding? They know she isn't going to run.

  She leaves the box on the table and her bag of shopping beside it. She leaves the mobile on the table. She doesn't even look at it.

  She drops two euro into the tips jar. She hears it land on more coins.

  —Thank you, she says.

  —Are welcome.

  And work. The same as ever. And that's not too bad. It's boring and it gets on her nerves but she actually likes it. She's been doing it for years. She hates the travel. She always did. But it used to be worse, when she was drinking.

  She feels fine. She feels good. The usual tiredness and stiffness. But she's calm. She's not desperate for anything. Just the cake. The cake with no alcohol in it. In the fridge at home behind as many things as she could pile in front of it. In case Jack or Leanne are rooting in there. They'd have it for their dinner. Chocolate cake and chips. Knifes and forks and all. They'd pour Bisto on it. They've had stranger dinners. But she knows. Hiding the cake is a waste of time. They'll sniff it out. Kids know. Even grown kids.

  They're always kids.

  They'll smell it first. One of them will. Whoever's home first. They'll look at it and wonder. And they'll remember. It's her birthday. Their mammy's birthday and they forgot. Then the guilt will get right into them.

  Good.

  Especially Leanne.

  There's more to cake than chocolate.

  The mornings when she'd been drinking. They were just fuckin' terrible. Running out of the house, when she could manage it. Not even knowing exactly why. Just knowing she was supposed to. Always catching a bus or train or missing the fuckin' bus or train – she's never worked anywhere she could walk to. She often went to the wrong house on the wrong day. She let herself into one house and she knew when she was pushing the door; she'd done the exact same thing the day before. She wasn't due for another six days. And the houses were miles apart. The wrong direction was a day-long mistake.

  Another time, she got sick into a toilet while she was cleaning it. She remembers thinking: God. She remembers thinking: that's handy.

  The good old days.

  She's nearly done. She usen't to like this open-plan layout. She wanted walls between her and the supervisor, and Charlo and the rest of the world. Now she doesn't care. She isn't interested in hiding. These days she's the supervisor.

  Paula's the boss. For two weeks now she's been the boss. It's nothing really. She still has to clean. And that's grand. She'd be bored if she didn't. The money's a bit better. Thirty euro more a week. It's no big deal.

  But it's great.

  Still though, she'd love a change. It would mean a lot. A start or something.

  She's not complaining. She's still delighted.

  The boss, Paula's supervisor, came in one day with new bottles of bleach and fresh cloths and mop-heads and the rest. She stopped and had her couple of words with Paula.

  —The kids okay, Paula?

  —They're grand. Your own?

  —Can't keep up with them. I'll tell you though, Paula. Liam's college fees are a killer.

  —Yeah, said Paula.

  —And the grandkiddies? said the supervisor.

  —Lovely, said Paula.

  —'Course they are, said the supervisor.

  Give the woman her name. It's Lillian.

  —I'll leave you to it so, Paula, said Lillian.

  —Okay, said Paula. —Thanks.

  —What do you make of the new fella?

  —Hristo?

  —Yeah.

  —He seems grand, said Paula.

  She didn't say more; she never would. But Hristo was useless.

  —Okay, said Lillian. —See you so, Paula.

  She walked away towards the lifts.

  —Oh, she said. —I nearly forgot.

  She told Paula they needed a supervisor for the fourth and fifth floors because Eileen upstairs was calling it a day. She was waiting for an answer before Paula realised she'd been offered the job.

  —God, she said.

  —That's a yes, is it, Paula?

  —Eh – yes, said Paula. —Yes. Yeah.

  Are you sure? she wanted to say. Are you fuckin' serious?

  But here she is. Hristo's still useless and she's the boss. She'll sort him out. In her own good time. I insisto, Hristo.

  That's another big change, maybe the biggest. The men doing the cleaning work. Nigerians and Romanians. She's not sure if they're legal. She doesn't have to know. She's not paying them. They come and go. They're grand. They're polite. She feels sorry for them. It's not work for a man; she'll never think different. The African lads come in dressed to kill, like businessmen and doctors. They change into their work clothes and back into their suits before they go home. Ashamed. God love them. Handsome lads. They deserve better. But everyone starts at the bottom, she supposes. But that's not true either. She knows it. There's nothing fair about the way things work. She didn't start at the bottom. It was hard work getting there.

  But that was then. She's one of the tigers now. She's in charge of two floors.

  She's nearly finished. She turns off the hoover. The silence is always a little shock. These places should never be empty. Just a few more desks to do.

  She's not sure where the Hristo fella's from. Maybe Bulgaria. Maybe it's his home that Carmel is buying. She'd like that. She could introduce him to Carmel. Hristo, Carmel. Carmel, Hristo. You can chat about the EU together.

  Now, now.

  Nearly done. Then she'll follow them out, her staff, all four of them. She'll escort them off the premises. Then down to Tara Street. She hates that walk. Up to the platform. She hates the wait. Onto the Dart. And home to her cake and family.

  Desks never really change. There's always the same stuff on them. The photographs, the clutter or neatness. She can tell each desk – man, man, woman, woman, man. She reckons she'd get ten out of ten. OK! in the bin – a girl. Manchester Utd sticker on the computer – a man. Unless it was put there before they sold David Beckham to the other crowd in Spain. Then it might be a young one. She bends down, looks closely at the sticker. It looks new – it's a man's desk. A young lad. Not long out of school. He'll come in one day and peel it off.

  Leanne likes Beckham. He does nothing for Paula. He's a nice-looking lad but he looks a bit thick and he walks like he's wearing a nappy. And his white boots. He'll always be a little lad. You see them around, men who didn't quite make it. They get the wrinkles and lose the hair, but they still look like boys. Her husband now, he looked like a man. Charlo would never have worn white boots.

  The last bin. She's done.

  Hristo's at the lift. He could have been there all the time, waiting for her to make it okay. She couldn't care less. Not tonight. She'll have a good look at his patch tomorrow. She'll inspect. She will supervise.

  He smiles
at her. He fancies himself. She looks straight back at him. She likes nothing about him. Not one thing. And that's fine. He's looking at a poor oul' one. She can see it in his face.

  So fuck him.

  —Finished? she says.

  —Yes.

  —Sure?

  He tries to look hurt.

  —Yes. Of course.

  —Well, she says. —Good.

  She'll start being the boss tomorrow.

  She waits for the lift.

  She's never seen anything like the rain. It falls in sheets, then stops. Minutes later the ground is dry but the air is wet and oily. She's sweating drinks she had years ago. Moving, even thinking, gets her drenched. Her head – Jesus. This isn't fuckin' Ireland. It can't be.

  But it is. It's out there. The accents are the right ones. The swearing, laughter, the shouted comments about the weather. It's her country alright.

  It was stupid. Fuckin' stupid. She should have thought it through. She should have fuckin' thought.

  She did it for spite.

  It's not the heat. It's not just the heat.

  It's everything. She'll go home tomorrow. It's the only thing to do. She's vulnerable here; she's lost. It's ridiculous. If Jack had come with her she'd be better. But that wasn't going to happen. He's too old now to be going on holiday with his mother.

  His oul' one.

  She's in her sister Denise's mobile home. She's sitting in it while last night's rain rises up around her. She can feel it seep up from the ground beneath the floor.

  It's her own fault. She only took up the offer to get back at Carmel. She's stuck here in fluff – rug fluff, cushion fluff, lit by the sun and soggy. She hates the smell of the air freshener.

  It's no place for an alcoholic. Alone, restless; alone. Courtown. It isn't even Courtown. It's near Courtown. But not that near. Nearer the beach but still a good walk.

  She walked. She went to the beach. She sat like an eejit on her towel with a book. Till her back was sore and she had to stand up. Surrounded by families. But not really. The beach was quiet. The whole place is quiet.

  —They're all going foreign, the woman in the mobile next door told her. —It's the smoking ban. They feel like lepers in their own country.

  She walked down to the water. She took off her sandals and paddled a bit and felt old. She went back to the towel. She changed her mind as she started to sit down. She just grabbed the towel and the book and kept walking.

  She's sitting in a sweatbox. The windows are useless. She doesn't want to leave the door open. The neighbour might come in. She doesn't want that. She reminds Paula of too much.

  Mary.

  The life and soul of the fuckin' party.

  That's not fair. But she only really noticed when she stopped drinking, what fuckin' eejits people can be.

  The Mary one next door.

  —Come on out and have a can.

  —Ah no —

  —You deserve it; come on. Stuck in there all by yourself.

  Paula knows. Mary couldn't give a fuck about Paula or what she deserves. She wants the company, but she'll drink alone.

  —No. Thanks.

  —Or a g&t. Or a little vodka. We've all of them with us, Paula.

  Paula shut the door. She tried to smile as she did it. She sat down and held the table.

  That was two days ago. There isn't the room here for avoiding people. She keeps the door shut.

  Her phone's dead. She forgot the charger. She could get another one in Gorey. But she doesn't want to hear the lies. I'm grand; it's lovely; I'm having a great time. And she doesn't want to hear herself whinge. She'll leave it till she gets home.

  Tomorrow.

  She thinks about Leanne – she tries to. She thinks about Nicola – there's no room; she can't do it. She has her own things, her own problems. She can't get at them either. Her blood is hard. Her blood cuts at the corners.

  She stands. She closes the curtains. Now she can walk, she can pace the caravan. Can they see her outside? Her shadow, her silhouette. Does her weight dip and lift the caravan? She doesn't care. She does; she doesn't. She'll walk all night if she has to. She'll stay in here till it's time for the train. She'll get the bus to Gorey just in time. No time to hang around or feel the pull. Those small towns are treacherous. Every fuckin' door's a bar.

  She knows already. She's grand; she's fine. She's in charge again, she'll soon be home. She'll clean up, the little that needs doing. She'll pack, she'll go. She can trust herself. She knows she can. She's running from nothing. She's going home. She wants to.

  Foreign the next time. She'll go somewhere foreign. Away from drink and familiar accents. Where she won't be alone or it won't matter. She'll save. She'll try. She'll get herself a passport. She had one once, years ago. When she'd thought they'd be going abroad, when there was money and Charlo hadn't hit her in a long time. She'd got herself a passport, the kids' names on it too. And the application form for Charlo. But he'd never filled it in.

  She hasn't a clue where it went. It would be out of date now, even if she found it. And the photograph would kill her. Younger, less wrecked. But also sad. Too eager. Too near to Charlo. Too married.

  She'll be home this time tomorrow.

  She's on her way home from work. The Dart has just left Connolly. She has brochures in her bag. Dell, Gateway, Intel. She went into Peat's on Parnell Street. She spoke to a young lad in a white shirt. He showed her some of the computers. They all looked lovely. She hadn't a clue what he was talking about but she came away with the brochures and the prices. She hasn't mentioned it to Nicola and she won't. This will be hers. Her work is going to pay for it.

  The weather's been desperate. Summer, my arse. It's cold. She'll need a coat before the computer. The old one gave up on her this afternoon. The sleeve fell off when she was putting it on. No ripping or anything, it just came away with her arm. The material was worn like paper at her shoulder. No stitching that could have put it back on.

  She's always hated sewing.

  Shaking fingers.

  She threw it out, into the wheelie. And she didn't mind too much. She'll save for a new one. She knows she will.

  D'you think it grows on fuckin' trees? That was what Charlo used to say. And she did it once – she looked up into a big tree, in St Anne's Park. When Jack was a little lad in his buggy, and Leanne was with her too. One of those big fat trees, a chestnut or something – she's not good on trees.

  —Any money up there, love?

  —No, said Leanne.

  —.Ah well. Your daddy must be right, so.

  The bitterness was natural. But she should never have dished it out to the kids. More guilt. She didn't do it often. But she did it.

  She's human, she's only fuckin' human.