Paula Spencer

  She looks at the clock in the kitchen. It's two in the morning.

  She tells Leanne about her day.

  —They made you clean it up?

  —No one made me do anything, love. It was a job.

  —God though.

  —It's grand.

  She's getting annoyed. What's wrong with cleaning? Even cleaning a field. But she stops herself. She won't let herself bark. This is good. This is nice.

  —I got paid for it, she says. —And I got in for nothing.

  —I suppose, says Leanne.

  —And I have to say. They were brilliant.

  —Who were?

  —The White Stripes.

  —Don't know them.

  —Jack does.

  —What sort of stuff do they do?

  —I don't know what you'd call it, she says.

  She watches Leanne making the tea for her. The big moves, the energy, even when she's just stirring the cup. There's nothing too wrong with that young one. She'll think that for a while. She smells her hands. They're grand. The drink is off them.

  It had reminded her of the old stuff. Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Rory Gallagher. Good rock from the 70s. Her time. And Charlo's time.

  —But, God, it was brilliant. I don't think you'd have liked it though.

  —Why wouldn't I of?

  —They were hard.

  They laugh.

  —You're fuckin' mental, says Leanne.

  —You've never liked hard music, says Paula.

  —Some.

  —You used to hate it when I danced around here, when a good one came on the radio.

  —That wasn't the music, says Leanne.

  —What was it then?

  —I don't know.

  She does know. And so does Paula. It was the frenzy, the panic, the big fuckin' roar – HELP! A woman stopping madness by meeting it halfway. Leanne saw it. Paula dragged her around the kitchen. You're hurting me; it hurts.

  Leanne brings the tea over to Paula.

  —It was embarrassing, she says.

  And that's fair enough, a bit like Jack.

  —An oul' one dancing.

  —Jesus, Leanne. I wasn't even forty.

  She works it out, does her subtraction.

  —About thirty-three, she says. —I was thirty-three. Jesus, that's depressing.

  —The tea will help, says Leanne, the wagon.

  She sits down, beside Paula.

  —Thanks for this, says Paula.

  She picks up the cup.

  —Were you out?

  —Yeah, says Leanne. —Not really. Just for a bit.

  They don't look at each other.

  —Were they good-looking? says Leanne.

  —Who?

  Now they can look at each other. They've been at this for years.

  —The White Stripes. Who else?

  —There's only the two of them, says Paula.

  —Are they good-looking?

  —One of them's a girl.

  —Is he good-looking?

  Paula tries to smell the air between them. But her nose is still full of the mountains. Their faces are close. She can't smell anything.

  Postpone it. It's late.

  —They're brother and sister, she says.

  —For fuck sake, Ma. Was he good-looking?

  —No, he wasn't. Strictly speaking.

  —Ah, says Leanne. —One of those ones.

  —He was just brilliant.

  —And you'd let him have you up against a barbed-wire fence.

  —Ah, Leanne, says Paula.

  —Well, you would. Admit it.

  —Yeah. I would.

  They laugh.

  Postpone it.

  —And there was you, says Leanne. —Old enough to be his mother.

  Paula nods.

  —I'm old enough to be most men's mother.

  —I wouldn't let that stop me, says Leanne.

  She looks at Leanne.

  The signs are there, the eyes, the skin. She wants to touch Leanne's face. The warmth, and the smoothness she remembers. She wants to feel Leanne.

  Postpone it.

  —Where were you yourself? she says.

  She yawns. She doesn't need to. She doesn't even want to.

  —Nowhere, says Leanne.

  —Is that the name of a new pub or something?

  —Ha ha.

  —Leanne.

  —What?

  —I'm worried about you.

  She wants to run. She wants to turn the table over. To do it before Leanne does.

  Leanne's still there, still close. She hasn't moved.

  —I've been —

  Paula starts again.

  —I've been a bit worried.

  No explosion. But nothing else.

  Leanne is silent, still.

  How long have they been like this? Leanne sits still but, actually, she's jumping, frantic. She's out of her seat although she's sitting there.

  —Yeah, says Paula. —So. I've said it. So. Leanne?

  —I know.

  —I'm worried.

  —I know. I heard you. You're worried.

  She's not looking at Paula.

  —Yeah, says Paula.

  That's all. It's all she can say. She needs Leanne.

  —What about? says Leanne.

  —Well, says Paula. —It's —

  Jesus.

  It's too much.

  She's losing control. She knows she's shaking. She's dying for a drink. She wants to laugh. She'll tell Leanne – the happy ending. Later.

  She holds the cup with both hands. Something to do; the heat is real.

  —I know you might think I'm a hypocrite or something.

  Where did that come from?

  —I'd understand it if you do.

  She puts the cup to her lips.

  —Lovely.

  That gets nothing.

  She sips again. She feels the tea. She feels it crawl across her tongue.

  Too much sugar.

  —I'm an alcoholic, Leanne.

  Leanne's eyes slide off her.

  —I know, she says.

  —I know you do, love. You've always known. But I've never told you and I should've.

  She doesn't cry; she doesn't want – she doesn't need to.

  —It doesn't matter, says Leanne.

  —It does. But, anyway —

  —What?

  —Well, she says. —Leanne. Are you?

  —What?

  —An alcoholic.

  —What? Are you mad?

  She's stiff-solid now, in front of Paula.

  —I am not.

  Still there, furious – terrified.

  —Good, says Paula.

  Leanne says nothing. She doesn't move.

  —So, says Paula.

  She sips again.

  —It's my imagination.

  She doesn't want to accuse Leanne. She already has.

  —Leanne?

  —What?

  —Am I imagining it?

  —Imagine what you like.

  —I've been there, Leanne. I —

  —I've been there, Le-annnne —

  She fires it back, and it hits. They'd laugh if they saw it on telly.

  —Sorry, says Paula.

  Leanne's still there.

  —Can I ask you something, Leanne?

  Another bad line – they're all bad.

  —What?

  —How —

  She goes for the cup – she stops.

  —How do you feel when you wake up in the mornings? Most mornings?

  Leanne cocks her head. It's not good. She's acting.

  She speaks.

  —Remember when I woke up once and you were beside me and you were asleep? And your face was stuck to my pillow with your vomit. Do you remember that?

  Paula nods.

  —Yes, I do.

  —Do you? Great. Because I don't feel nearly as bad as that when I wake up in – the mornings. I feel fuckin' gr
eat, actually.

  Leanne moves. Every part of her jumps, like a puppet whose strings have been tapped. She raises her hand.

  And Paula does too, to her face, quickly.

  She tries to stop.

  She puts her hands down.

  —Why did you do that? says Leanne.

  —What?

  —Did you think I was going to hit you or something?

  —No.

  —You did.

  She raises her hand, fast —

  It doesn't happen. Leanne doesn't hit her.

  Paula takes her hand from her face.

  Leanne stands up. Paula can hear her breathe.

  You're your father's daughter. She doesn't say it.

  She has to look. It's gone if she doesn't.

  She looks up at Leanne. Leanne is looking across at the back door, that direction.

  But she looks at Paula now. She looks down at her. Her face is blotched. Her eyes are dirty.

  She was never beautiful. Paula can't help thinking that.

  She looks at Leanne. She sees the mouth.

  —You thought I was going to hit you.

  —It was just a reaction. When you raised your hand —

  —Like this?

  The fingers fly past Paula's eyes.

  —Leanne. Stop.

  —What? This?

  The fingernail stings her nose. She's cut – she must be.

  Paula stands – she's not going to be caught.

  —What are you doing?

  Leanne doesn't answer.

  —What gives you the right to do that?

  —What gives you the right?

  —I didn't hit you.

  —Not now.

  —I never hit you.

  Leanne doesn't answer.

  —I never hit you. When did I ever hit you?

  —He did.

  —He hit us all.

  —Yeah well, you fuckin' married him.

  Paula's fault.

  —Ah, for God's sake, she says. —What's this got to do with anything?

  —And you did.

  —What? Hit you?

  Leanne nods. Like a headbutt. Her bottom lip is in her teeth.

  —When did I?

  —When you were drunk.

  She has her; there's no answer.

  —You've no fuckin' right to lecture me, says Leanne.

  —I know.

  —You've no right.

  —I know.

  —Just, fuck off.

  Why should she listen to that? When you were drunk. Why should she have to listen?

  If one of them would cry now —

  —Is Jack upstairs?

  —What?

  —Jack. I don't want him to hear this.

  —Who fuckin' started it? Accusing me. Of being like you. You.

  —Stop, Leanne.

  —'Cos Jack will hear? Poor Jack. Jack, Jack, it's always fuckin' Jack!

  Leanne loves Jack. She always looked after him for Paula. His little mammy. Paula always called her that and she'd loved it.

  Leanne's hands are rolling over each other. Her nails are digging into skin.

  —What do you know about me? she says. —What do you fuckin' care?

  —You know I —

  —I know nothing. Except that you haven't a fuckin' clue. I know that much. And it's more than you fuckin' know. And then you want to tell me I'm an alcoholic?

  —And that gives you the right to hit me?

  —I'm an alcoholic? Join the fuckin' club. Have a drink, Leanne.

  —I never did that, says Paula.

  —What?

  —I never made you drink with me.

  —Well, take a bow. Saint Paula of the alcos. She never made us drink with her.

  —Ah, shut up, Leanne.

  She could kill the little bitch. Paula's proud of how far she's come. But Leanne is mocking her and it seems so stupid. I never made her drink with me. Come up and get your medal. She wants to drink – her head is hopping. She'd break the bottle over Leanne's head. And the little cunt drones on.

  —She made us go to school hungry, she made us wear clothes so that other kids threw twopences at us.