by Roddy Doyle
—You must like it, says Paula.
—Yes.
The woman smiles.
—Where you come from – your home.
—Nigeria, says the woman.
She smiles again.
—It is very sunny there, she says.
—Lovely, says Paula. —Bye again.
—Goodbye.
She stops at the noticeboard. There's nothing about jobs. There isn't much of anything. A dog minder. A little picture of a pup on the card. That wouldn't be for Paula. She's not mad about animals. Maths grinds. Ordinary and Honours Level. That's some teacher doing a nixer. It's a sheet of paper, with the phone number repeated at the bottom, and cut into strips, one strip for each number. It's a mobile number, 086. Paula tears one strip. She puts the little piece of paper in her pocket.
She has no idea why she did that. She has no intention of doing maths, at any level. It was just something small to do. To be involved.
She's collecting phone numbers.
The bag is biting into her fingers. She changes hands. The new Paula. Bringing a plastic bag. Thinking to bring it, a step ahead. She's rarely that skint that she can't afford the 15c bag tax. But she'd never have thought of it before, bringing the bag, before she left the house.
Little things.
The car park here is nearly empty. She'd love a car. She'd love a lot of things. The vegetable place is new. Garden Fresh. Not her garden. It's a wreck. It's another of the things on her list. Do the garden. Do what? She hasn't a clue. Borrow a lawn-mower, cut the grass. Get out into it. Find the time, find the energy, the interest. Become a gardener.
She looks in at Garden Fresh as she passes. It's nice, old-fashioned. There are boxes of fruit tilted on shelves covered with that artificial grass-looking stuff. She hasn't seen that stuff in years.
There's no one in there. No one guarding the stuff – the produce. A few years ago, they'd have been running off with all the fruit and some of the vegetables, the kids around here, her own included. There are hardly any kids now. They're like hers, grown up. A lot of the new people don't have kids. Young couples. Women on their own. Jack's school is nearly empty. There's only twenty in his class. There's a rumour they'll be closing it down. Carmel told her, the bitch. Her own kids went elsewhere. Carmel's buying an apartment in Bulgaria. So she said, this morning. Paula's second call.
—Bulgaria?
She told her after she'd wished Paula a happy birthday.
—Yep.
—Where's Bulgaria?
—Eastern Europe, Paula.
—I know. But where? Do people go there on their holidays?
—Yes, Paula.
—Is there not a war there or something? Orphans?
—Not at all. They're joining the EU in 2007.
She stops at Garden Fresh. She won't go in. There's fruit at the front, and she doesn't know the names. She wouldn't know whether to peel them first or bite straight in. Another day, she'll buy some of them, to try.
The chipper has changed hands, but it's still the chipper. There are two men outside the bookies, having a smoke. They can't smoke inside any more. It's gas. Clean air, paper bags, apartments in Eastern Europe.
She'll get an atlas. She'll buy one.
—What about Courtown? she said, this morning.
—What about it? said Carmel.
—Are you selling it?
—No. Why would I?
—Well. How many holidays can you go on in a year?
—It's an investment, Paula.
—Oh. Yeah.
—When Bulgaria joins the EU the value of those apartments will go through the fuckin' roof.
An investment. They used to talk about EastEnders and their husbands.
The men outside the bookies are looking at her. They nod. They know her. They knew her husband. They were frightened of him. They were at the funeral. They shook her hand. Sorry for your troubles, Paula.
They're still looking. She can't see them, but she knows. Looking at her arse. Looking at each other.
Not bad for forty-eight.
She's never been in the bookies.
Someone's phone. It's ringing.
It's her fuckin' phone.
She drops the bag. The phone's in one of her pockets. God, it's loud. She's mortified. The men outside the bookies – where's the stupid fuckin' thing? They're so bloody small and loud, and not even a proper ring. Scotland the fuckin' Brave.
Nicola's present, this morning.
—Hello?
She's done it right. Pressed the green button.
—Hiya.
It's Nicola.
—How's the phone?
—Well, it works, love, says Paula; she's sweating now. —I'm fuckin' talking to you.
That sounds mean but Nicola laughs.
Paula couldn't believe it earlier, when she unwrapped the box and saw what was inside.
—Ah, Nicola. Jesus.
—It's just plain, said Nicola. —I can swap it for one of the camera ones if you want.
—Don't be mad, said Paula. —What would I do with one of them?
—Take photographs, actually, said Nicola.
The same Nicola.
Paula was still holding the box, turning it in her hands. The lovely young one on the cover, the phone at the side of her head, laughing into it. The sea behind her, yachts, the sunset.
She opened the box. Took out the phone.
—D'you know how to use it?
—I've used Leanne's, said Paula.
—Is hers like this one?
—This one's nicer, said Paula.
She smiled.
—It's gorgeous.
She's delighted with it. She's been looking at it all morning, holding it. Practising.
—I was just checking, says Nicola now.
—No, says Paula. —It's grand. I love it.
—I'm not far away, says Nicola. —Just up in Donaghmede.
Nicola's a rep for a sports clothes company. All those trainers and T-shirts and outfits. Nicola puts them into the shops. Or a lot of them. She has a company car and all. A lovely little car.
—Will I come down for a cup of tea? says Nicola.
—Ah, no, says Paula. —Better not. I've to go off to work in a minute.
She doesn't feel too guilty. Lying to Nicola with the phone that Nicola has given her.
—Use it whenever you want, Nicola had said, earlier. —Don't worry about the bill.
—God, Nicola, she'd said. —You're amazing.
And Nicola had shown her how to open the phone book, how to put in the few numbers Paula knew or needed – Leanne, Carmel, Denise, the doctor, the Chinese takeaway. Paula began to get a bit angry. She wanted the phone back. Nicola was bullying her, making her go too fast.
—Why would I want that? she said. —The number's on the menu.
—Ah, Ma. Stop being thick.
Nicola must have phoned Carmel and Denise earlier or the day before and told them about the mobile she was giving Paula. Because they'd both phoned her a couple of minutes after Nicola had left. She's a great kid, Nicola, the best. But Paula doesn't want her wrecking her plans.
A car passes. Nicola will hear it. Paula can't pretend she's at home.
—I'm at the shops, she says. —But I'm on my way home. And then I've to go.
—Are you having a nice day anyway?
—Ah, yeah.
—It doesn't sound that brilliant. Shops and work.
—Ah, Jesus, love. I'm forty-eight. I didn't want a Barbie.
—What about Ken?
—Ah now.
She laughs.
—I don't think I'd like Ken that much, she says.
—He's gone an'anyway.
—What?
—Ken, says Nicola. —They've got rid of him.
—Really, says Paula. —Why?
—Don't know, says Nicola. —They're not making him any more. I think.
Nicola has two little girls.
—
That's strange, says Paula. —I'd better get going, love.
—Okay. Talk to you.
—Seeyeh, love; thanks.
Talk to you. Where did she get that from?
Leave her alone. Nicola's making something of herself. More than Paula ever did. And Nicola has her problems too.
She's at the cafe. She's getting nervous. It's ridiculous. She's only going for a cup of coffee. She used to be good at looking at men. She could look straight back at any age, height, shoe size. Charlo knocked it out of her. That must be it. The confidence, the guts – gone. Or maybe you have to be young for it. To hold a look. To stare without fear.
It's nearly empty. She sees that before she gets to the door. Just two people, Italian-looking, sitting at the back. Tiny cups on their table.
The door's open.
She steps in.
The smell is great. All the different bread and the little pizza things. The salami, all the tomato-covered stuff under and over the glass along the counter. It's gorgeous and nerve-racking. Even the cakes. There's nothing that's just round and normal-looking. She knows the names of none of them.
But it's grand. It's why she's here. There's a wet-looking cake that looks like a killer. It'll do.
There's a body behind the glass, waiting for Paula to straighten up.
A small woman, smiling. Dark, Italian. Paula smiles back. This is easy. She doesn't let herself look further, at whoever might be doing the pizzas, away to her left.
—I'm spoilt for choice, says Paula.
The woman smiles.
Paula points at her cake.
—Is there alcohol in that one?
She looks at the woman asking herself, repeating the question in her head. Strange question, she probably thinks.
The woman now points.
—This?
—Yeah, says Paula. —That one.
—No alcohol, says the woman.
—Grand, says Paula.
She's tempted. She could tell the girl that she doesn't want the kids having anything with alcohol in it. But she doesn't.
—You want?
—Yes, please, says Paula.
She doesn't even ask the price.
—And a cup of coffee for here.
The woman smiles.
—You sit, I bring.
—Grand.
Nicest thing she's heard all day. You sit, I bring.
She sits. She looks in the milk jug. There's plenty. She runs her hand over the wood of the table. She can see the methadone clinic across the road. The steel double doors are shut. There's no sign outside or logo. There's no one hanging around. It's the wrong time of the day. But it's in there. She was there herself more than once, looking for John Paul. She stood in that place feeling great because they were junkies and she was only drunk.
There's a cage over the only window. Maybe there's someone over there looking out, a nurse or doctor, looking across where Paula is. Maybe thinking the same thing as Paula. She's on the right side of the street.
She still hasn't looked over at the pizza oven. She isn't that fussed.
The coffee.
—Lovely.
In a lovely cup. Not that cheap china that's half-plastic, that sticks to your lip as you take it away. This one is a beautiful blue, no saucer. And the woman puts the cake, in a box, on the other side of the table.
—Thanks very much.
No mention of money. They know. She won't run off without paying.
Her running days are over.
Scotland the Brave. She's quicker this time.
—Hello?
—It's me.
It's Nicola.
Oh shite, she's caught.
—Hi, love.
It's very quiet, there's a roof over her head – she might get away with it.
—Where are you?
—At home, says Paula. —Just changing my shoes.
—I was thinking I'd bring the kids over later, to wish you a happy birthday and that.
—After work, says Paula. —Lovely. I'd love that.
—Okay. Eight-ish. They've done cards for you.
—Ah. The dotes. Bye, love.
She pushes the red. They'll talk later, while the kids are playing or watching a video. They might talk. Paula doesn't know. They chat but they don't really talk. Nicola looks after Paula. She checks on her – that's what tonight is really about. She was no good to Nicola when Nicola was younger, except as a bad example. But it's better now. She thinks it is – she knows. She wants Nicola to see that.
She adds her milk and tests the coffee.
God, it's lovely.
She thinks of something. She takes out the phone. She turns it off. She presses her fingernail into the hidden button at the top. She's not sure if she's doing it right. But the blue screen goes to black. It's off.
She's a good granny. She loves it. She felt nothing but joy when Nicola told her the news that she was expecting. That was the first time she seriously gave up the drink. She was clean and looking around. And looking after herself. And touching herself, and liking herself. She fell off the wagon that time, badly, but she remembers it as the start. She knew she'd always be trying to give it up. She knew she'd always be fighting.
Vanessa. She was the first. And Gillian, two years later. They're five and three now. Gorgeous young ones. Like their mother.
Like their granny.
And the two other grandchildren. She loves them. She loves it, the whole thing. It's added to her.
She looks away from the window and the truck outside the off-licence. Flavours. That's what it's been called for a while now. Shelves of wine from all over the world but kids still go in looking for cans of Dutch Gold. The bag of cans. She caught Leanne once. She'd hate to see Jack going in, watching him from here, in the sunshine. Having to deal with it. Or ignore it.