by Roddy Doyle
John Paul looked straight at her. And she realised. It made her want to die or kill him – he expected her to answer.
About time. The minivan stops and the door is slid open. She's climbing in before she feels the heat and she realises that the van is nearly full.
She gets in. There's not much room. Her leg is right against another woman's leg.
—Sorry.
No answer.
She looks around. She's the only white woman.
Someone smiles. She catches herself, smiles back. She turns to face the front. She remembers – she finds her seat belt and puts it on. She has to push and shove. She's like a cranky kid.
—Sorry.
She knows. There'll be no crack on the way. And no singsong coming home. No one speaks. It takes about an hour and it stops being familiar after twenty minutes. Ranelagh, Milltown, Windy Arbour. She doesn't know them. Dundrum. She knows the name – of course she does – but she's never been here before. She looks up at the new bridge for the Luas, where the tram goes right over the road. It's like a different city.
She doesn't feel uncomfortable but it's weird. She's the only white woman. And the only Irish woman – she supposes. The only one born here. The driver's white but he says nothing. He mightn't be Irish either, although he looks it from where she's sitting – his ears are Irish. He doesn't have the radio on, or any music playing. It's so quiet, it's mad. As if they have to stay quiet. As if they're coming up to a border crossing and they'll be caught if they make noise.
She looks out at a shopping centre. She knows the name. Nutgrove. She's heard ads for it on the radio. She can't remember the jingle.
They're going up a steep hill. She can feel it in the engine; she can hear it. It's like the city has ended and they've come right up to the mountains.
She's the only white woman in the van. What would she think if she was outside and the van was passing her now? She doesn't know. She wouldn't make much of it. Just that. The van is full of women and only one of them is white.
She's a failure. She shouldn't be in this van. She should be outside, looking at it going by. On her way home from work. Already home – on her way out again. Irishwomen don't do this work. Only Paula.
That's not true. There's plenty do what she does. Going to work is never failure. Earning the money for her son's computer isn't failure. The money comes from nowhere else.
Ten years ago there wouldn't have been one black woman on this bus – less than ten years. It would have been Paula and women like Paula. Same age, from the same area, same kids. Where are those women now? Carmel used to do cleaning and now she's buying flats in Bulgaria.
Enough.
She's grand. She knows how far she's come. She's not ashamed of work.
They must be getting near. There are Garda at all the corners and gangs of kids, all walking in the same direction.
But it's true. She's been left behind. She knows that. But she's always known it. She was never in front. Except when she first met Charlo and for a while after that. She thought she was winning then. Because she was with Charlo and people got out of his way. He never looked behind him. He never cared what others saw or thought – including her, but she didn't know that then. Anyway, that was the time she thought she was ahead of the pack. And, very quickly, she knew it wasn't like that.
She sits up.
They're going through a gate. They're in the park. She can't hear any music.
This is better. It's honest. She puts in the hours. She gets paid.
Do women her age go backpacking? Go to Australia and that other place – Singapore? Do they go to bed with men whose names they don't want or need to know?
It's looking like serious rain out there. The mountains and trees make the clouds look nearer.
Singapore. My arse.
Honesty. That's what she owns now. She thinks.
—Are you clean now, John Paul? she'd asked him.
—Yeah, he'd said. —I am. Are you?
—No.
He'd nodded.
There were parts of his father sitting there in front of her. The eyes, the forehead, the length of the fingers resting on the table, and the knuckles. But it wasn't Charlo who'd nodded. There was no sneer or triumph. A good man had nodded back at Paula.
Her son.
She saw him to the door. She went back to the kitchen and she drank a bottle of vodka.
The man stops the van. They're in among other vans and buses, on the grass. It'll be desperate later if it rains, when they're going home. They'll be up their arses in muck.
—Right, says the driver.
He's Irish alright. She was right about his ears.
He turns around.
—Ladies. Out you get.
He thinks he's great. Just now – the power.
—Will you be bringing us back? says Paula.
—Haven't a clue, love.
He's a rat-faced fella, yellowy teeth. There's nothing on his face she'd like to know.
—You might have to walk home, love, he says.
—Fine, she says. —I like a nice walk.
She finds the handle. She opens the door, slides it back. She climbs out. She's stiff. It's cold. The ground is soft and wet. She can feel it in her feet.
She puts on her jacket – Jack's jacket. It's a good warm one, black, for school. He never wears it, unless she stands at the door and tells him to. Anyway, there was nothing else. She's here because she needs a coat of her own. And Jack's computer. It's grand. There's no crest on it or anything. It isn't a school jacket.
She can hear the music now. That bass sound kids seem to love. She can feel it coming from the ground. She didn't know what bass was in her day. There was a bass player in every band but it didn't seem to matter. It wasn't what she ever heard. Which one of the Beatles played the bass? She still doesn't know.
The African women get out after her. They stand behind her. She's the leader. She doesn't want that but she doesn't want to move too soon, to look as if she's trying to get away. She's stuck. She smiles at two women. They smile back.
—Cold.
They smile.
What's it like for them? Are yis not freezing? It's a reasonable question. What made you come here? But questions like that must piss them off. There are colder places than Ireland. It's Marlay Park, not fuckin' Siberia.
They're not like American black women. The ones you see on the telly and in films. They're blacker; their bodies are a different shape. They're rounder women, bursting with strength. They like wigs, some of them, or bits of wigs – extensions. Going to work with purple hair. These girls have style.
They're young. She's the oul' one again.
—Girls, girls. This way.
Another man. He's waving at them. He's wrapped for worse weather than this. He's Scott of the fuckin' Antarctic. Or the Irish one, the explorer in the Guinness ad, who came back from his adventures and ran a pub. He has a black bag beside him. It's full – she can see that.
It's full of more black bags. He's handing out the bags. He'll be paid more than Paula. She'd bet on it. He dips in and gives her two rolls – twenty serious, heavy-duty bags. She holds a roll in each hand. Plastic bags always feel warm.
He lets go of his own bag and digs into his pockets. He takes out some plastic-covered cards. Laminated – that's the word. He holds out his hands to the women. The cards hang from his fingers. Paula takes one. WHITE STRIPES – STAFF. It's on a thin rope that goes around your neck. She hopes she gets to keep it. She'll leave it on the kitchen table. That'll show them. It'll give them something to be proud of, or envious. Or a bit of a laugh – their groovy ma.
Scott of the Bags points at a path that goes into the woods.
—Down there, girls. That's right. Happy hunting.
Jesus Christ, it's a fairy tale for big people. She's going to get lost in the woods. She's still ahead of the Africans. She goes slowly enough but they won't pass her out. She's the first one into the trees.
S
he can hear the music now. There's no sign of a house made of gingerbread.
Jack always hated that story. He'd take the book from her and turn the pages till he got to Snow White. Then he'd put the book back into her hands.
—Read it.
On the nights when she could read.
Everything seems well organised. There are big lights, like you'd get at a roadworks, for later when it's dark. But they're lit already. It's already dark. There are barriers at the gaps in the trees, where people might stray and get lost. There are men in fat jackets at every corner and swerve.
It's not very busy. They're the only ones on the path. She hopes it isn't going to be a disaster, that no one will turn up. There'd be nothing to clean up and she'd still get paid. But she wants the experience. She wants to tell Jack all about it. And Carmel and Denise.
And Leanne.
The path is wider now. There's a car behind them. They stand aside. Is this the band on their way to the stage? It goes by slowly and it's only a Ford or something, an ordinary car. Being driven by one of the men in the fat jackets.
The path widens again and they're in front of a field. There's a fence all around it. She can tell. It wasn't there a few days ago. There are four straight lines, steel barriers, like you'd get at a football match for controlling the flow of people. Paula chooses one line and walks down it. The other women are right behind her. She's Mother fuckin' Goose.
A man looks at her staff card. He steps aside.
—Cold enough for you, love? he says.
—Ah, stop.
She smiles.
—What happened the summer? she says.
—What bleedin' summer?
She walks on.
It's a woman this time, waiting for her. She's staring at Paula's card. She looks at Paula's black bags.
—Over.
She points. She's white but she isn't Irish. She's European or something. One of Carmel's Bulgarians, maybe. She's young. Good-looking but angry – skinny because of it.
—East, she says, still pointing.
That proves she isn't Irish. Just as well she's pointing. Paula wouldn't have a clue. Jack told her once, out in the back garden. One of the times she'd decided to make a proper garden out of it. South-facing, it said on the packet of seeds.
—Jesus, Jack, where's the south?
And he knew. He pointed.
—How do you know?
—Well, he said. —The sea's that way and —
—How do you know?
—It just is. So that means the south's behind us.
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.
—But how do you know? she said.
She didn't doubt him. She knew he was right.
—Geography, he said. —It's easy.
She thought it was great. She watched Jack go to the back door, heading north. She could hear the Dart – and that was west. If she wanted a drink she'd have to head south. She couldn't remember the last time she'd learnt something. Carmel's house was that way, west. America was over the wall, a good long way past Carmel's. It all made sense. She was in the world, surrounded by it.
She never got round to planting the seeds. They're still in their packet, in the press, behind where she puts the sugar bag. She might plant them next year, in the spring.
The woman stops pointing.
—Bring the bags. To here.
Paula is on her own, heading east. There's no one following her now. The field is nearly empty. It would be hard to hide if she wanted to. The stage is huge. She's never seen anything like it. It's like something from a space film. There's no one on it. It's too early for the White Stripes. The crowd is small. It's a mixture of people. Some very young kids with their fathers or mothers – no parents together that Paula can see. Some of them are sitting on big inflatable chairs and sofas. A great idea. They must have bought them somewhere. Now she sees, way over at the end of the field, a hill of inflatable furniture. There's always someone with the right idea, there before anyone else. How do they do it? How do they know? Paula hasn't a clue.
The music is loud and fuckin' terrible but there's no one up on the stage yet.
But there is.
She picks up a cup, one of those big waxy paper ones with the plastic lid, for Coke and that. It's going to be dirty work. They should have given her gloves or something. Her hands are sticky already. Thank God it's too cold for the wasps. She picks up the cup and she hears the voice the same time as she sees the young one on the stage. She's singing about someone sucking on her tits and wanting to come – something like that, anyway. There's no band, just the young one. And she's not that young either. Paula can see that now on the big screen beside the stage. She's in silver hot pants, and wandering around the stage, like a little animal in a very big cage. She'd be sexy or interesting on the telly but, God love her, she must be fuckin' freezing up there. Whoever she is. She's climbing up the frame at the side of the stage. Anything to stay warm. Paula looks at the parents with their kids. No one's paying much attention to the young one. Imagine being like that and no one cares.
Paula picks up a crisp bag. A cigarette butt – she puts her hand down for it but she stops herself. She'll leave the butts. She'll never fill the bag if she starts picking up butts. Another cup. It's empty but she smells the lager. She drops it into the bag. The smell is on her hands. Around her nose and face. The field is full of plastic cups. She picks up another.
Leanne's there when she gets home. Paula's freezing. She stinks. She's expecting Jack. And it's Leanne.
It's grand.
She sits down.
The telly's on, the sound's down. MTV or something like it. Black ones shaking their arses, fellas with medallions.
—Turn it off, love, will you. I've had my fill of that shite.
—What?
She hears the click. She sees the screen go dead. Leanne did what she was asked. She's not gunning for a fight. She's been sitting and probably worrying. Where was her mother at this hour?
Cleaning the fuckin' mountains.
—Come into the kitchen with me, Leanne. I'm frozen. I need a cup of tea.
—Where were you?
—At a gig.
—What?
—A job, she says. —Come on. I must have walked miles today, and I went fuckin' nowhere.
She makes it; she stands up. Her ears are buzzing. The inner ears, the ones she remembers learning about in school, deep inside her head.
—Where were you?
—Marlay Park.
—Where's that?
Leanne follows her out.
—Up the mountains, says Paula. —Miles away; Jesus.