by Roddy Doyle
They're moving again. Out of Clontarf station. Over the bridge. She used to clean one of those houses. How long will it be before Leanne is searching the trees for money?
She'll face it. She will – no running away.
—D'you like the White Stripes, Jack? she asks.
Jack looks at her. He has that expression – what's she on about now? She loves that look. He's had it since he was six or seven. It hasn't really changed as he's got older.
He looks at her.
Except in one big way. There's less fear in the look now. He knows she isn't drunk.
He looks at her.
—They're alright, he says.
His music is none of her business. She rarely breaks the rules.
—That sounds lovely. Who is it?
She asked it once, last year.
—Eminem, he said.
She stayed at his bedroom door and listened as Eminem told his mother to bend over and take it like a slut – OKAY, MA? She leaned against the door and smiled in at Jack, like a complete eejit. She watched him squirming. Caught and angry. She was sure the Eminem fella had good reasons for his anger. But she wondered about Jack, why he was listening to that stuff about killing your mother. Not that he wasn't entitled to. But anyway, she copped on. She closed the door and went downstairs.
All mothers feel guilt. She heard some woman on the telly say that. She saw her on that afternoon show on RTE. The woman was smiling. She had glasses on top of her head. She'd written a book about being a mother. For fuck sake.
A month later, she watched Eminem's film with Jack. 8 Mile, the video. She had to sit there and keep her mouth shut. And watch. The angry young man, the alco ma. Slim Shady is Jack Spencer. And Paula was Kim Basinger. She wondered if he was putting her through it, making her watch what she'd done to him.
It ended.
—What did you think?
—Good, he said.
—Rough, she said.
—Yeah.
—He's a good actor.
—Yeah.
—What did you think of his mother?
—She was in the first Batman film.
—Was she?
—Yeah. When she was younger.
That was all. And that was grand. He rewound it and brought it straight back to the video shop.
She's stayed well away from his music since.
He's standing there now, one leg off the floor. He's scared she's going to say something really stupid.
—I was just wondering, she says. —Because I'm going to see them tomorrow.
—The White Stripes?
—Yeah, she says.
He's amused. He's outraged. He doesn't know what he is – he's confused. Maybe he thinks it's some mad date she's going on. It only dawns on her now. With a biker, or a chap half her age. Going to a gig with a fella.
She rescues him.
—It's just a job, she says.
—What?
—I'm cleaning up after the White Stripes.
—Their hotel?
—No, the place. Where the concert is. Way off, on the southside. Something Park.
—Marlay Park.
—That's right.
He's relaxed; the fear falls off him. She's doing what she should be doing. Cleaning.
—How, like?
—What?
—How do you clean a fuckin' park?
They laugh. He doesn't say fuck very often.
—With a big brush, she says. —How many'll be there?
He shrugs.
—Fifty thousand? I don't know.
—Jesus, she says. —That's a lot of ice-cream wrappers.
—How come? he says.
—What?
—The job, like.
—The money, Jack, she says.
My coat, your computer. She won't go that far. She'll handle her own guilt.
—Okay, he says. —Yeah.
She'd put the word out – Paula's looking for work.
—I have a little job for you, Paula, Lillian told her. — If you're interested. A concert.
It was grand. It didn't clash with other work. The money wasn't bad and they'd get her home when it was over. Once in, she'd be asked again. It could be very useful.
And it's a bit of excitement.
—D'you have any of their CDs, Jack?
—No, he says. —They're on the radio a good bit. 'Seven Nation Army'.
—I don't think I've heard it.
—It's good.
—I'll listen out for it, she says. —And anyway, I'll hear it myself tomorrow night.
—Will you not be working?
—I will, yeah, but my ears won't be picking up the rubbish.
It takes a while, but he smiles. He's a teenager. She often forgets. He's so old sometimes. Like Nicola was. Like Leanne wasn't. Like John Paul? – she doesn't know. She's not sure what teenagers are. They're probably the sign of a healthy house – a full fridge and teenagers. Hers were all good kids – or absent. They were too good really. Forced to grow up. Teenagers shouldn't have to wash their mother's face and hair. They shouldn't have to peel their own potatoes. They shouldn't get their first alcohol at home. They shouldn't be homeless on their sixteenth birthday. Junkies should never be sixteen.
She watches Jack walk out of the kitchen. She wants to follow him, pull up his jeans at the back.
He's never obnoxious. In a chat with other women about their impossible teenagers, she'd have nothing to say. She'd have to make up something. He's lovely. He organises his own pocket money; he works. He's good in school. He's had nothing pierced. He's made no young one pregnant. She should be very proud of him. She is – and worried.
He's too like a fuckin' saint. She thinks that sometimes. She wants to shake him. She wants him to throw things and hate. her. She'd understand it. She'd cope. She doesn't really know his friends. She's not sure if he has any. She'd love to meet a girlfriend. She'd love it if he brought one home. Some gorgeous kid. She'd get a cake.
But she doesn't know his life.
She read a thing in the paper once – someone had left it on the seat on the Dart. The Irish Times. About gayness and the absence of the father. The mother made a gaybo out of the son if there wasn't a dad around to stop her. Because of the lack of balance and a male example.
He was some example, Jack's da. A man who beat his wife for seventeen years. In front of Jack and his brother and sisters. But Charlo was Jack's father and he died when Jack was five. So Jack hasn't had a dad. And no other man to show him how to wee standing up, or how to walk like a king, or how to look at a girl quietly.
Jack looks at everything quietly.
She'd love to see a girl.
She's being stupid. He's not gay.
She doesn't care.
He isn't.
She often points out women on the telly and in films.
—She's lovely. Isn't she, Jack?
The young one from Spiderman, or any of those kids from Neighbours.
—She's alright, he'd say. Or just, —Yeah.
He's useless, hopeless.
She's stupid. No boy wants to talk about girls with his mother. It's different with daughters. She could never follow a film when she was watching it with Leanne, when she was Jack's age.
—Oh, he's massive. Look at his jacket.
Every man from ten to ninety-seven had to get past Leanne. She'd fast-forward to the next fella. Paula watched Ocean's Eleven with Leanne but she actually saw about ten minutes of the story. Brad Pitt and George Clooney.
—Brad or George, Ma?
—George.
—No way. Brad.
—D'you not like George?
—I do; Jesus. But Brad. For fuck sake – sorry.
Leanne hasn't a clue.
Watching films with Jack is a waste of time, unless the film is good. It's actually lovely, just the pair of them watching quietly, the odd comment.
—Why did he do that?
—Don't know.
/> —But—
—Wait.
Jack telling her to wait. Like the dad, the adult. Teaching her to wait, how to watch and listen.
She likes Sean Penn. She'll watch anything with Sean Penn in it.
She'd love to go to the pictures with Jack. Or to the concert tomorrow. She'd love to go places with him, any place. To be able to show her pride, to walk beside him. Look what I've done, look what I've produced.
He's grand. There's nothing to worry about. She missed this part of it when John Paul was Jack's age, so she doesn't really know.
John Paul. Another thing she's had to face. Another one of her lost children. But they're fine, herself and John Paul. They talk. He calls to the house, now and again. She has his mobile number. He has hers. She meets his kids, her other grandchildren.
She can't help it – other. As if they're not quite hers. But that's not what she feels. She laughed and cried when she found out about them, when John Paul told her their names. Just like that, they were there and hers. Two more grandchildren. They're gas kids. They're lovely. God though, they scare her.
Marcus and Sapphire.
And their mother – Christ almighty.
Paula wasn't there when they were born. That's the problem – one of the problems. They were there years before she found out. That kills her. She deserves it. She's no right to anything, no natural right – she gave that one away. But no one deserves it. It's savage, ridiculous – they lived four miles away.
She loves them.
John Paul. Her other son. He's good. A good man. He's been through a lot.
There was no fatted calf. But he didn't expect one. It wasn't why he rang the bell. She'll never forget it. Nine years, four months and thirteen days. She opened the door. And he was there. And she didn't know him.
She isn't cleaning up after the gig. It would be too late and too big. She can imagine mountains of rubbish, work for trucks and diggers. She's cleaning up during. Wandering around after brats, picking up their crap. Doing what their mothers wouldn't dream of doing.
She's not complaining. It's money in the bank. Another thing she wants, a bank account.
She waits at the corner. It's August but it's bloody cold. It's always colder near the river.
She'd like that. A bank account. She's never had one. It's always been cash, or none of it. She's always clung to money. There's nothing like the feeling, cash going into her hand. The relief, Jesus, and then the excitement. The fuckin' drug. In your hand. She knows exactly what that means. The weight of it, the reassurance. She needs to know how much she has, exactly how much, now.
She likes the two-euro coins, the way they accumulate. They can become a bit of a fortune while her mind is on the notes. And handing them out; she's always loved that. Watching the little faces as they see what's coming at them in her hand. A two-euro bit for each of the grandkids when they come to the house. That's the rule; they see it that way. They carry the coins around all the time they're there. They don't know how to spend it. In their arses, they don't. But they're not greedy. The coin is a medal. They win it for coming to their granny's.
She'll never get over the terror of having no money, the prison of having nothing. Putting things back up on the supermarket shelves because the tenner in her pocket turned out to be a fiver. Stopping at the front door because the fiver she'd felt in her pocket was gone. Going five days before the next hope of a hand-out from Charlo. A present. That's what the fucker had called it. Buy yourself a few sweets. He'd burned money in front of her eyes. He put it down in front of her, a fortune, solid enough to be a million. He let her look at it. He let her wander the shops and aisles in her head, pushing a trolley with perfect working wheels. He picked it up – she didn't follow; she kept her eyes on the table – and he put a match to the lot. There's waste.
She'll always want cash, but she wants to hold a laser card and join the queue at the Pass machine. I earned the money I'm getting from this wall.
Jack has opened an account. He's been saving most of the money he's earning from work. It came as a shock, the letter in the hall. It wasn't for her. She saw that as she opened it. She stopped. She left it on the kitchen table.
—I had it half open before I realised; sorry.
—It's okay.
It was his first statement. He put it in his back pocket. But it wasn't there when she was putting his jeans in the washing machine. How much does he have? More than her? Of course he does. She's standing on a corner here and she has fuck-all. She actually has €23 and a few cent. Payday's two days away and she should do well tonight. And she might get a bonus, a goodbye present from one of the houses, the one she does on Fridays. They're moving to Prague. She'll be flush. Rolling in it. But her teenage son will still have more than she does.
She'll go to the bank in the morning. It means a walk but she'll do it. She'll open her account. Her own envelope will slap the floor in the hall. Paula Spencer. Private and Confidential.
She's to wait for a minivan outside Tara Street station. She's waiting with the junkies. God love them, and the kids in buggies, their mammies strung out or hurting – Paula doesn't know. John Paul did his hurting out of sight. She never got to hit him with tough love.
—Are you clean now, John Paul?
She asked him that the second time they met, a month after she'd answered the door and found him there, a young man in black jeans and a baseball cap. She thought he was looking for the milk money or something and she was going to put him right. But he moved and then she knew. Just the slightest move. He lifted his hand, and John Paul was in front of her. Back from the dead.
—Alright?
Her son.
And she'd wondered what he wanted. What he was going to take.
—Are you clean now, John Paul?
That second meeting. He looked at her, across the table. He'd left the baseball cap at home or in his van. She could see him clearly. She watched him remembering the kitchen, putting himself back in it.
He looked at her.
—Yeah, he said. —I am. Are you?
He knew. He could see the state of her. This was before she'd stopped drinking, this latest time. He was looking around him and it was coming back. He knew where he'd find the bottles.
But he didn't sneer.
He knew. She knows that now. But she didn't. He knew she was an addict. She didn't. She drank too much. She'd have admitted that. She was an alcoholic. She knew that too. But she didn't know what it meant. She drank too much. The way to deal with it was to drink less. She could give it up any time she wanted.