by Roddy Doyle
She put the bowl on the table and she went back for a spoon. She had soup spoons. She'd bought them another time, when she'd had a few quid. She searched through the cutlery and got out a soup spoon. She got two. She'd have some herself. She was starving.
She put the spoon beside Leanne's bowl.
—There.
She was fine. It hadn't really happened, the fight. Leanne had stopped herself. That was the important thing.
She watched Leanne pick up the spoon. She went back to the soup. She filled a bowl for herself. Cracked bowl, no blue border.
—D'you want some bread, Leanne?
—What? Oh. Yeah.
—It'll be nice. It's nice and fresh.
She put three slices on a plate and brought it over to the table.
—Butter?
—No. Thanks.
She went back to her bowl. She tasted the soup.
—God, it's lovely. If I say so myself.
—Yeah.
Leanne gathered her hair in her fingers and put it behind her ear. She held it there while she went at the soup.
Paula put her hand to her head. She looked at her fingers. There was no blood. She was sore but it wasn't too bad. She remembered her domestic science teacher, a mad oul' bitch called Miss Travers. She said it one day. We don't drink soup, girls. We eat it. Well, Paula drank hers now. She lowered it like a vodka and Coke, with carrots. And it was fuckin' lovely.
She put the vodka bottle up in the press. She got up on her toes and pushed it well back.
Then she pretended to go to work. She'd done enough, for now. That was what she told herself. Leanne got the message. And she'd see her room cleaned when she went up. Fresh bedclothes. The extra pillow.
She put on her jacket, said her goodbyes and she left.
She went into town. She went one extra stop on the Dart. She got off at Pearse instead of Tara, in case anyone she knew saw her. That waster, Hristo, or one of the others from work. She'd phoned in sick before she'd left the house. She'd tried to make herself sound croaky. It hadn't been too hard.
She walked down Nassau Street. The blood and the little cuts were hidden by her hair. She thought they were. She put her hand to her head. She kept doing it. Her hair seemed good and thick. She could feel little clots under it, just in a small patch.
She went into Trinity. She hadn't been there in years. She wasn't sure she'd ever been there. Jack would have fitted in among the students she passed. He looked no different. He dressed the same. Even Leanne – when she was on the mend. Leanne could be a mature student. Paula knew a girl – a woman – who'd done that, gone to college, after her own kids had finished with school. It wasn't Trinity but it was a real college. The place in Glasnevin with the Helix – she thought it was there. Leanne was bright. Leanne was the brainiest of her kids.
She came out the arch, through the little gangs of students, onto College Green. She went up to Grafton Street. It took her ages to get past the queues at the bus stops, along the Trinity wall. The crowds coming from the opposite direction – she had to stop and shift, and start, and wait. Grafton Street was a solid wall of kids. Girls in black hoodies like Paula's, and fat jeans – she didn't know what the style was called. Girls with their tummy buttons pierced, their bellies hanging out. Paula was in better shape than most of them. She'd get her own belly pierced. She'd bring it home to the kids. She'd fall back on the couch and pull up her top. She was always there for me.
She went towards the top of Grafton Street. The shops were shut or closing. The bookshop near the top of the street was shut. That was a pity. She'd have liked a book. She was in the mood and she had enough money. She'd like to have held a new book.
Around the Green and then she'd go home. She thought she was doing it right, staying away for a while like this. Leanne had to decide.
There were people getting off the Luas. It looked gorgeous. She'd go on it one of these days. She'd go to Tallaght, on the one that went from Connolly. Off the Dart, straight onto the Luas. She'd make a day of it. She'd never been out to Tallaght. She'd have a look at the Square. She could bring the grandkids, Nicola's children. They'd love it, the day on the Luas with their granny. They run to her when they see her. They're still that lovely age.
She's still awake in bed now, nowhere near tired. But she doesn't mind. Jack can get himself up in the morning. But she knows. He'll be worried. He'll be wondering is she drinking. Is that why she isn't up? She'll just get up. It's easier.
She lifts her head a bit. She listens. She drops her head back to the pillow. She closes her eyes.
She came home from town. Leanne was on the couch and Jack was beside her. They were watching something – photographs of a woman, Before and After pictures. Then she saw the actual woman, screaming, being hugged by a younger, better-looking, woman.
—What's that?
—The Swan, said Leanne.
—What?
The bottle was on the floor beside Leanne's bad leg, with the Coke and a cup. Half empty. Half full. Would she have a limp for the rest of her life? There was a plastic bottle of pills standing beside the bottle.
—The Swan, Leanne told her again. —Have you not heard of it?
—No.
Paula sat down on the side of the couch. Leanne's head was close to her hip.
—What is it?
—Women get plastic surgery and you see them before and after.
—Ah no, said Paula. —And during?
—Yeah. A bit.
—For fuck sake.
—No, it's great. You get to know their stories and that. They've had tragic lives, some of them.
Paula laughed. She leaned back and hit her head off the wall.
—Serves you right, said Leanne. —See her?
—Which?
—Her. The presenter. The gorgeous bitch. She's Irish.
—Is she?
—Yeah. Amanda.
—Good girl, Amanda. And is that one the same girl in the photos?
—Yeah, said Leanne.
She sounded a bit proud, as if she'd just proved something. The Smirnoff bottle was at Paula's feet. She leaned down. She picked it up. She sat back up. She held the bottle by the neck. She didn't hide it.
—Can they do all that with surgery? said Paula.
—Yeah, said Leanne. —Big difference, yeah?
Paula would remember this. She knew. Her kids on the couch, herself, the bottle. Two alcoholic women and a teenaged boy, watching women being sliced apart and reassembled. And it was great.
She stood up.
—What's her story? she said.
She nodded at the telly, at the brand new woman. She was still screaming. I'm gorgeous, I'm gorgeous.
—She had very low self-esteem, said Leanne.
—Is that right? said Paula. —Does she still have it, d'you think?
—She looks happy.
—Well, if her self-esteem is as big as her tits there, she'll be grand.
—Ah, lay off.
Paula went to the door. She didn't hide the bottle. Leanne didn't say anything.
It didn't mean anything. These things were easy, these deals and promises. Never again. Paula had said it so often. She'd said it while she was picking up a glass. It meant fuck-all. The smiles, the hugs. They were the sentimental shite that addicts love. She was always there for me.
She went to the sink. She turned on the taps. She ran the hot and cold water, full blast, so the smell and the taste wouldn't lift up and grab her. She got the top off the bottle. She poured.
Hme?
She texted John Paul earlier, to make sure she didn't waste her time. She'd done that once, before she got the mobile. She'd gone right across the city but they weren't home.
It's the last Sunday before Christmas. Two buses and a bit of a walk.
Hme?
Yes.
3.00?
Okay.
She's going out with the presents. Six days before Christmas. That's as near as she'll get. The
new granny.
She has two of Rita Kavanagh's selection boxes. She has a Dougal, the dog from The Magic Roundabout, for Sapphire; a nice, soft one. There's a film of The Magic Roundabout coming out soon. Maybe she'll get to bring Sapphire to see it. That would be nice, just the two of them, maybe. Sapphire is four. Find out their birthdays. Write them down. She has a Tamagotchi for Marcus. Rita Kavanagh told her that it was what all the kids wanted this year. She'd been looking for a Tamagotchi for her own granddaughter.
—I've been through Newry and Enniskillen, she said. —Ballymena, even feckin' Belfast.
But she couldn't get one.
Then Paula saw Tamagotchis, dozens of them, in a little shop on Talbot Street that looked like it might be closing down soon. There was that run-down look about it. She bought three of them, one for Marcus and two more for Nicola's pair. She was halfway down the street – she was on her way to work – when she stopped and checked her money and went back and got a pink one for Rita.
She's doing her best. She's trying to like it. She's trying to mean it when she wishes people a Happy Christmas. She even tries to beat them to it.
She's exhausted. She's nervous.
Jack wouldn't come with her.
—Your niece and nephew, she said.
That was cheap but she'd wanted the company. She doesn't like going to places she doesn't really know. It makes her jittery. John Paul's flat is in Rialto. He hadn't offered to pick her up and bring her.
Jack didn't even respond to that. He walked out of the kitchen – that was his answer.
She might miss her stop; she has to be careful. It's hard to tell on the South Circular Road. It looks kind of the same every time she looks out the bus window, especially on a pissy day like this.
They dashed at her, the last time she visited. They had the SuperValu bag out of her grip and they were grabbing at the goodies before she was even in the door.
—What's in it, missis?
She laughed.
—She's your granny, said – what was Paula supposed to call her?
Star.
Their mother. John Paul's partner.
—Oh yeah, said Marcus.
—Is she? said Sapphire. —Are you?
—Yes, said Paula.
They've been to her house since, five times. John Paul brought them. Star stayed at home. The last time, Leanne was on the couch, asleep. Little Marcus hit her with the crutch. She didn't wake up. Jack looked at them all, nodded and went out. John Paul put on cartoons for the kids and left them on the floor, with Leanne on the couch behind them. They didn't stay there. Paula could hear them upstairs, all over the place – she heard something break; she thought she did. They charged into the kitchen, charged out, back up the stairs. While Paula and John Paul tried to talk to each other.
She's off the bus. She knows the way now. She holds the bag close to her chest. Her hand holds it shut. She doesn't want the rain wrecking the wrapping paper.
John Paul's not a talker. He doesn't chat. He's in control; he can never let go. It's a powerful thing. But it's frightening. He manages every part of himself, like a sheepdog at the sheep. A loose hand on the table gets pulled back in. His lips never curl. He doesn't sigh. Every word is examined before it's let out. He's worked very hard. Wherever he got this strength, he didn't get it from his father. There are parts of John Paul that are Charlo, but Charlo was never in control. He could never have stopped and turned.
Paula did.
John Paul did. But, God. She even asked him.
—Are you religious, John Paul?
—No.
He said no more.
She was a bit surprised. It would have made sense. He's like some kind of a preacher, from an old film. A man in black. A preacher who doesn't say much.
There's none of the child in John Paul. There's nothing about him that brings a rush. He was a jumpy kid, always flying. Looking everywhere but taking nothing in. Adorable, because he was heading the wrong way. People patted John Paul, when they could catch him. He was a stupid kind of kid and she'd loved him more for that. She'd laughed. She'd shaken her head. She sat beside him as his stomach was pumped. She was drunk, and hating herself; they were some double act that night. He was fourteen. She learnt nothing. He was addicted to heroin; he was gone from the house before she started looking for signs. He was months gone before she really lost him. She moved through fat, yellow fog. Dead husband, dead son. Then this man rang the bell. Alright?
She thinks this is the corner. Then they're down a bit to the left.
It isn't that John Paul has become a hard, solid man. She doesn't think he goes to a gym.
—Have you been in jail, John Paul?
—No.
He doesn't have the powerful arms, pulling at his T-shirt. He always wears a black T-shirt. He's not as well-built as his father. A little different, a little less, and he'd be scrawny. But he holds himself up; he pulls himself out of his size. She's wondered if he's involved in anything bad. She can't help it. There's so much that makes no sense. Does he collect money? Protection? Is he even a bouncer?
—What do you do, John Paul?
—Work?
—Yeah.
—Drive a van.
—Oh.
—Mine, he said. —I've an ad in the Herald.
—Oh.
—People moving. Want anything moved. I do it.
John Paul never shrugs.
She rings the bell. She hears it inside. The flat is half a house. The bottom half. She hears a door. She hears feet. There's no glass in this door. She'd like one like it. The door opens.
He smiles. He decides to smile. She's being unfair; she's a bitch. She's watching a miracle. She should be down on her fuckin' knees.
He stands back.
—Come in.
The kids are behind him, beside him, trying to get through. He uses his legs to block their way.
—Let her in, let her in. She's soaked.
He adores them. She can hear it. They're in and out of his legs. Sapphire whacks his arse, like that's what it's there for.
Suddenly, Paula wants to cry. She catches herself. She laughs.
—It's the granny-woman!
That's Sapphire again. Paula is the old woman who isn't her granny, but is.