by Roddy Doyle
The back of her mind, she sees – she remembers. She gets down and looks under the bed. A teddy, way back at the wall. It must have slipped down. God love her, she still has her bear. Traffic. That's the bear's name.
—Why Traffic, Leanne?
Leanne shrugged. Her chin rested on the new teddy's head. It was a present from Paula's mother.
—Just like it, she said.
—That's grand. Howyeh, Traffic. Sure now?
—I can call him what I want.
—Is it a him?
—'Course.
She pulls the bed away from the wall. A second of terror – a syringe, pills – they'll fall to the floor. But there's nothing, just dust and the bear. She picks him up. She sniffs him – just dust. She climbs onto the bed. She opens the window. She holds him out. She leans out and she beats the bear, she batters the head off him. She closes the window. She puts the bear on the top pillow.
What's going to happen?
She hears the door. She goes out to the landing. Her heart is hopping – she's sweating.
It's Jack.
She calls down to him.
—Hiyeh, Jack.
—Hi.
The deep voice. She loves it. There's a squeak in it sometimes, like he hasn't got used to it yet.
She picks up the beer cans. She should hoover the room. She will if she has the time. She stands there. Her back is at her – it's been at her for years. Old injuries, the Charlo damage; she tries to keep them in the past. The scar on her chin, the pain in her back, the way she has to turn her head when she's listening to someone, because she can't hear too well with her left ear – they're the old Paula. The pain in her thumb is new. It's aching a bit, the left – Paula's left-handed. It's not too bad. She looks around. She'd love to paint the walls.
She goes down the stairs like a kid. Jack's making a sandwich.
—The soup's not ready yet, she says.
—What? Yeah.
It's years since she made soup. He probably doesn't remember.
—I just thought I'd make some.
He's cutting some cheese.
—D'you want a hand?
—I'm fine.
—I got some fresh bread.
—I know; yeah. I have it.
—Just in case you're using the old stuff.
—No.
—Lovely smell now, she says.
—What? he says. —Yeah.
She gets the tea-towel. She takes the lid off the pot. She lowers the gas. She watches the soup calm down. She slides the lid back across the pot. She leaves it open a small bit.
—You can have some when you get home later.
—Cool.
—I'll be at work.
—Yeah; grand.
His back is to her. He's eating his sandwich.
—Jack?
—Yeah?
—You've noticed Leanne.
His mouth is full. He's at the fridge. He takes out the milk.
—She's not well, says Paula.
He drinks from the carton.
—She's not herself.
He shakes the carton and drinks again, holds his head back.
—Would you not use a cup?
There are no glasses in the house. She threw them all out when she stopped drinking. It made sense at the time. It's ten months ago. She can be more exact.
He puts the carton back in the fridge.
—About Leanne, she says.
—I've to change me books, he says.
He moves towards the door. He picks his schoolbag up off the floor. It's falling apart but he didn't want a new one when she offered.
—Jack.
—What?
He stops. He looks at her.
—I'm trying to say something to you.
He waits.
—Sit down or something.
He doesn't sit. It isn't aggression. He's embarrassed, worried.
—Look it, she says. —She's not well. She has a problem. With her drinking. You've noticed.
He nods.
—Well, so, she has a problem. Like me.
She watches him redden. He's going to cry. She doesn't want that. But maybe she does. She'd love to hug him. She could hold his head. It would get rid of so much.
He stays where he is. He studies his bag. He messes with the strap.
—I don't drink any more. You know that. Don't you?
He nods.
—It's nearly a year.
He swings the bag onto his shoulder. She hears it slap his back. It nearly pushes him forward.
—But Leanne's in the middle of it. She's a mess, Jack. And I'm going to do something about it. And there might be blood and guts. I just wanted to tell you. Okay?
He nods.
—It'll be grand, she says. —But it might be – I don't know. Messy.
He nods, looks down.
—I'll never drink again, Jack, she says. —I shouldn't say that, I suppose.
He's leaning over, staring at his shoes – his skate shoes. He bought them himself.
—But, well. I know I said it before.
He shakes his head.
—Well, I meant to. But maybe I knew I wasn't ready and that I'd let you down. If I said it. So I didn't. But I know it now.
A few hours ago, she was giving up. She's a gas fuckin' woman.
He's still staring down. His arm goes across his face, under his nose.
—Go on, she says. —I've said enough.
He turns. He hesitates. He goes. She hears him on the stairs. She checks on the soup. It's looking good. She stirs it a bit. She pulls the spoon along the bottom of the pot. There's nothing stuck. She wipes her eyes. She puts the lid back on the pot.
She hears Jack on the stairs. He calls from the hall.
—Seeyeh.
—Seeyeh later, Jack. Have some of the soup when you come home.
—Yeah; seeyeh.
She hears the door. She hears the gas hiss under the pot as the outside air rushes in. She feels the cold. He shuts the door. She wipes her eyes.
Should she look for Leanne, or what? She needs to move. No. It would be a mistake.
She has to wait. But she has to go to work.
She checks the gas.
She's hungry.
She goes out to the hall. She opens the press under the stairs. She takes out the hoover. The flex is stuck in there. She pulls it – it's stuck. She pulls. She hears something fall in the dark of the press. There's no bulb in there. There hasn't been for years. The flex comes out this time. She gathers it up. It used to go right into the hoover, when you put your foot on the button at the side. The kids loved doing it. She picks up the hoover. She brings it upstairs to Leanne's room.
Paula's in bed now. It's later. She misses her second pillow. She feels too flat, too close to the mattress.
She gets out of the bed. It's cold. She closes the door over before she turns on the light. She hadn't shut it when she was going to bed. She wants to hear.
She gets her hoodie from the floor. It's an old one of Jack's, too small for him now. It's black and plain, with TONY HAWK across the front in yellow. It's nice, but she mightn't wear it again. People smile when they see it. An oul' one wearing a skateboarder's hoodie. She bought it for Jack three years ago. He loved it.
She folds it up. She puts it under her pillow. She opens the top drawer of her press. She tries to stop it groaning. She holds it tight, up off the hinge thing. Her thumb is still sore, still there. It's how she imagines arthritis. She takes out another jumper. It's a soft one and probably expensive – Nicola gave it to her, something she'd bought for herself, then didn't want. So Paula doesn't feel too bad about not wanting it either. She doesn't like the colour. She doesn't even know the colour. She folds it and puts it on top of the hoodie, under her pillow.
She finds the tub of skin cream beside the bed, where she dropped it. The tub is nearly empty; E45. It's Leanne's, for her dry skin. Although she hasn't been using it. Leanne's skin is red raw
in places, like it used to be when she was a little one. Her neck, her wrists – it's horrible.
Paula gets the lid off the tub. She puts two fingers into the cream. She puts the fingers to her head, just over her forehead, the small patch where it still hurts. She rubs the cream in gently through her hair, to the skin. The coolness is nice. The cream softens the little hills and clots of blood. It isn't too bad. And it doesn't look bad; she's seen that already. She puts the lid back on the cream. She drops the tub beside the bed. She moves it with her foot, where she'll be able to reach it.
She turns off the light. She opens the door a bit more. She gets back into bed. She rubs her legs. She rubs her arms. She pulls the duvet up over her chin. The pillow's a bit better with the jumpers tucked under it.
She listens.
Leanne is in her room. She might be asleep. She probably is.
She came home before Paula went to work. Paula heard the key in the lock. She had her jacket on. She was already late. She took off her jacket. She threw it on a chair – she was in the kitchen. She took the lid off the soup. She dropped it – she caught it. She gave the soup a stir. She turned on the gas. She hummed. She heard herself and stopped.
Leanne didn't come into the kitchen.
—Is that you, Leanne?
She'd gone straight to the couch – she must have. Paula went out to the hall. Leanne was there. Leaning against the wall. She was still, but wheezing. And sweating across her grey skin.
Her daughter.
Could you force yourself to love your own child?
Holding her off-licence bag.
Paula grabbed Leanne. She got her arms around her. Her knuckles rubbed against the wall.
—Leanne, love.
She held her, and smelt her. She pressed her hand against Leanne's head and tried to get it – gently – to her shoulder. Leanne didn't stop her. But it was awkward. She was stiff. Paula rubbed her back. The feel of her tracksuit top was horrible, like carpet with a hardened spill in it.
She held her.
That was all.
She'd missed her Dart. The light was going; winter afternoon. The door glass was darkening. Jack would be coming in soon.
—Would you like a drop of soup?
—What?
—Soup.
—Soup?
—Can you not smell it? said Paula.
—Is that what it is?
—Yeah. I made it.
—Oh, said Leanne. —I thought it was just something burning.
She was still Leanne.
—Yeh bitch, said Paula.
She still held her. Leanne's arms didn't move.
Paula decided. She wouldn't go to work. She took down her arms. She looked at Leanne.
—Come on, she said. —Have some soup.
The hall was the wrong place. It was too like a cell. They needed the kitchen. Room to back off. There was no heat in the hall. Paula hated it.
She grabbed Leanne's sleeve. She tried to make it playful.
—Come in here.
Leanne limped in behind her. She'd left the crutch in the hall. Where was the other one? It wasn't in the house.
Paula grabbed a chair.
—Sit down there.
She made the move as Leanne sat down. She grabbed the bag. Leanne pulled it back. The brown paper ripped. Paula had the bottle before it hit the lino. Smirnoff. Three cans fell out with it, and a big bottle of Coke. They hit the floor flat and rolled. Leanne's hands were on the bottle but Paula held the neck. It was easier for her to pull. She was stronger too – that was shocking.
She was on her knees beside the chair. She had the bottle out of Leanne's grip. She started to stand up. She put the bottle on the ground beside her.
Leanne leaned out. Paula put herself in front of the bottle. But Leanne went for Paula's hair. Paula felt the fingers before she saw Leanne's scratched wrist right over her eyes, felt the weight of Leanne's hand and arm. She felt the fingers pull tight across her scalp. She grabbed Leanne's wrist.
—No!
She feels her scalp now. There's no hard, black blood there, demanding an excuse. I walked into a door; sorry. The cream seems to have lifted it away. She'll see in the morning. She pulls a finger over the place on her head. She's fine.
Leanne had her hair. She was pulling it hard. She was trying to get at the bottle with her other hand. Paula thought she'd have to give it to her. She held Leanne's wrist, right over her eyes. Her own thumb pressed into her forehead.
But it stopped. Leanne's hands were gone and Paula fell back. She sat on the floor. She was gasping. The bottle was beside her.
Leanne sat there. She was shaking, hiding behind her hair. It needed a wash.
Paula stood up. She put the bottle on the counter.
She went to the soup. She found the ladle. She kept an eye on Leanne. She had a bowl ready, the nicest bowl. There are five bowls in the house. This one was yellow, with blue around the rim. It was the last one of six. She'd had it for years. She remembered buying them, in the basement of Roche's Stores. Plates, cups, saucers, bowls. In a box with a plastic window that showed you the top plate. Springtime Classic. Charlo carried it home.
She lowered the ladle into the bowl. She poured carefully. She dipped the ladle again and dredged the bottom of the pot. She lifted the ladle and made sure she had loads of lentils. She poured the lentils into the bowl. When the bowl became the last one, Leanne decided that it was her favourite. It was her special bowl and it was left where she could always reach it. That was how it went, for years.
Would she remember it? Paula didn't know. She didn't care that much. The bowl wasn't the point. The soup wasn't even the point. The woman bringing the soup to Leanne, holding the bowl in front of her, not shaking – the woman was the point. She was always there for me. Paula heard some poor junkie talking on the radio a few days before, talking about her mother. She was always there for me. That was Paula.