Paula Spencer

by Roddy Doyle

  She drops them into the toaster. One of them sticks to her finger, the cold. She has to shake it off. She puts the finger into her mouth. She presses down the toaster's lever.

  —There, she says. —What sort of a day have you, Jack?

  He shrugs. She takes back one of the spare waffles and puts it aside for Leanne. To my loving daughter, Leanne, I also leave a waffle. There'll be no fighting at the funeral.

  —The usual, says Jack. —Nothing much.

  —Same ol' shite, she says.

  She's trying too hard.

  He smiles. He shrugs.

  —Did I tell you about that house being empty, when I went there a few weeks ago? she says.

  —Yeah.

  —Did I?

  —Yeah.

  —Mad.

  —Yeah.

  —Can you imagine it? Coming home from work or something. And finding the house empty.

  Of course, he can. He probably expects it, every day of his life.

  —Maybe you'd like it that way, she says.

  He smiles – he shrugs.

  —You'd cope, she says.

  Why is she doing this? Leave him alone.

  —Did you hear Leanne and myself up there?

  Leanne and myself. Not Myself and Leanne. She's blaming Leanne.

  —It was my fault, she says.

  He says nothing.

  —It was stupid, she says. —It was nothing.

  She hears Leanne on the stairs.

  —It's grand, she says.

  The toaster pops. Jack's looking at his bowl.

  —Okay?

  He nods; he doesn't look.

  —I'm fine, she says. —Okay?

  —Okay.

  It's horrible, cornering him like this. But it's the only – it's the right way. She's sure of that. No hiding.

  —It's hard, she says.

  He nods. He still isn't looking.

  She puts the waffles on a plate.

  —But I'm grand, she says.

  Leanne walks in.

  She's forgotten the kettle, Leanne's tea.

  It's hard.

  Leanne looks twitchy. She's pulling at her top, pulling her hair. She's never still.

  Paula says nothing. She gets the kettle and brings it to the tap. She empties the old water, fills it with new. She brings it back and turns it on.

  —Did you hear about that woman? she asks the two of them.

  —What woman? says Leanne.

  —In America, says Paula. —It was on the News.

  —What about her?

  —She's on a life-support machine.

  —I know how she feels.

  Jack laughs.

  What a strange fuckin' day. It's swinging all over the place.

  —And she's been like that for fifteen years.

  —Jesus.

  —Yeah, says Paula. —Anyway. D'you want a waffle, Leanne?

  —No; thanks.

  —Sure?

  —Don't like them.

  —Did you hear about it, Jack?

  —Yeah, he says. —We did it in Religion.

  —What do you think?

  Leanne rescues Jack.

  —What does he think about what?

  —Well, her husband wants the machine turned off.

  —Yeah.

  —But her parents want her kept on it.

  —After fifteen years?

  —Yeah, I know. But it must be hard. Anyway, it's gone to the courts and everything.

  —And what happened?

  —Well, the Congress or something, the Senate, passed an emergency law and I'm not sure what that's about. But it's real American. You know. All over the telly. People with placards, screaming and roaring.

  —It'd be the same here, says Leanne.

  —Would it?

  —Yeah. The Pro-Lifers and that. They're mad cunts.

  —Ah, Leanne.

  —Well, they are.

  —What do you think, Jack?

  He looks at the clock. He's afraid of being wrong. He doesn't want to upset her. It's why he's such a good kid. He's afraid to be anything else. He's grown up minding Paula. He's her slave. She knows it now.

  —Well, says Paula. —All I'll say, if it happens to me I want you to turn off the machine.

  —Where's the fuckin' plug?

  That's Leanne.

  Paula laughs. They're all laughing, all able to look at one another. It's mad. It's the best moment of her life. It probably is. She looks at Jack and Leanne, still laughing. She can wipe her eyes. It's all fuckin' mad.

  Her mother's hands are twisted and savage. It's the same at every corner of her body. She's shaking. She never stops shaking. And she's shrunk. She's a small woman now, much smaller than she used to be. She sleeps in a bed downstairs. She hasn't gone upstairs in more than a year. She never goes out. She can't. She won't.

  But it's not her body. It's the whinge. It was never there before. Paula can't stand it. This is the first time she's seen her since just after Christmas.

  Her mother is furious, but not at Paula – not just at Paula. She's spitting at everything. Young people, old people, the country, the world. Her daughters, her sons. She smacks the huge, red knuckle of her wrist. She wants to hurt herself.

  There are clear moments, like now. They're longer than moments. They're long enough to fool Paula. She wonders if her mother is playing with them. Fooling them all.

  —That's a lovely-looking day out there, says her mother.

  She's looking out the window.

  —Yeah, says Paula. —It's a real spring day.

  Whatever that is.

  —The flowers coming up.

  —That's right, says Paula.

  —It's my favourite, says her mother. —I was never mad about the summers. But spring. I often thought it would have been great to live somewhere where it was really cold in the winter. Russia or Canada. Just to wait for the spring. The heat and the flowers. Wouldn't that be nice, Paula?

  —Yeah, says Paula. —It would. The winter, though.

  —Oh, I know, says her mother. —But that mightn't be too bad either.

  Her hands are forgotten, the pain, the rubbing. They're on her lap. She's not an old woman. Not these days. She was only a kid when she was having her own kids.

  —The snow and that, she says. —That would be lovely too. Chestnuts. Isn't it chestnuts they eat?

  —Yeah, I think so.

  —Did you ever eat a chestnut, Carmel?

  There's nothing in her face. She's talking to Carmel; she's talking to Paula.

  —No, says Paula. —I don't think I'd like them.

  —No, says her mother. —It's hard to imagine. Conkers. Do boys still play with conkers?

  She looks at the window again. She moves her head slightly, as if she's listening to children outside. Paula can't hear anything.

  —No, says Paula. —I don't think so.

  —Your Jack. He doesn't?

  —He'd be too old.

  —Would he?

  —Yeah.

  —I never see him, of course. Did you come in your car?

  —I don't have a car.

  —I thought you had a car.

  —No.

  —Who has the car?

  Fuckin' everyone.

  —That's probably Carmel.

  —Yes. Carmel.

  She doesn't look, to check who she's talking to.

  —And Denise.

  —Yes.

  Your daughter, Mammy. She goes to hotels in her car and fucks men.

  —And Wendy.

  —Wendy's dead, Mammy.

  —I know that. I know well she's dead.

  The hands are moving again.

  —She was the best of you.

  Paula nods. She doesn't disagree.

  The window's gone. Her mother isn't looking at it any more.

  —Would you be interested in going outside, Mammy?

  She's too late. She knows.

  —For a few minutes, jus
t? she says.

  —They put their rubbish in the bin, says her mother.

  —Who?

  —The foreigners.

  —What foreigners?

  She doesn't know why she's asking. It keeps the flak off her. The foreigners can take their share for a while. She looks at her mother's legs. They're full of hard weight, right down past her ankles.

  —They eat goats and all, says her mother.

  —I'm sure they don't, says Paula.

  —Her husband beat her.

  It's like a slap. When Paula arrived with black eyes or splinted fingers, her mother never commented. Not once. All those years.

  —You fuckin' oul' cow, says Paula.

  —Beat her to a pulp, says her mother.

  Paula's not sure if she spoke out loud. Her mother didn't notice, if she did. She's rubbing that knuckle. It's raw. She looks around, to see if her skin cream is near. What is it about the people close to Paula? They're all cracking open. They all have to baste themselves.

  She can't see any. The place is filthy. Carmel comes over on Mondays, and Denise on the Thursdays, but they're fighting a losing battle – if they're fighting at all.

  She looks, and her mother is looking at her.

  —You're looking lovely, she says.

  —Thanks very much, says Paula.

  —You haven't had it easy.

  —Ah. I'm fine.

  —Good.

  Her hands are on her lap again. That's her mother now, the woman sitting there.

  —I always liked Charles.

  —No, you didn't.

  —Ah, I did.

  —You didn't, Mammy. You were frightened of him.

  —I don't remember that. Being frightened.

  —We were all frightened of him, Mammy.

  —Were we?

  —Yes. Will I make us more tea?

  —I'm frightened all the time, says her mother.

  —D'you want more tea?

  —I'll only have to go to the toilet.

  She wants her mother, but not this version. She's here; she wishes to fuck she wasn't.

  But she's here.

  —What has you frightened? she asks.

  And she knows. She sounds exactly like her mother used to. What has you frightened? What made you do that? But she looks at her now, and that's her mother. She loved her. She loves her. That's true.

  —I'm afraid I'll fall, says her mother.

  —You won't if you're careful, says Paula.

  —It's not being careful, says her mother.

  She hits her leg, hard.

  —I'd love to be careful. I can't bloody well move.

  She groans. It's not pain.

  —I liked getting old, she says. —Up until —

  She rubs her leg where she hit it. She can hardly manage that. The side of her hand rasps against her skirt. The skirt isn't clean.

  —It was lovely, she says.

  Her hand is on the table now. It looks like something dead, a fish, thrown there.

  Paula remembers her mother's hands. She remembers watching her work. Peeling apples, wringing clothes. Taking her rings off before she put her hands in the sink. Cutting bread, combing hair with the lice-comb. Paula remembers the feel of the comb, of her mother's hand on her neck. She remembers the newspaper on the floor, right under her face, the little tappy sound when anything landed on the paper. She remembers her mother laughing when Paula read the headline that was below her.

  —Bishop Deplores Seaside Behaviour.

  —The poor bishop, her mother said.

  In this kitchen.

  Paula looks down at the chair she's sitting on. It's the same chair. In the same place. It must be forty years ago. Even longer.

  She'll ask her mother if she remembers it, the headline that made her laugh.

  But she won't.

  She'll visit more often.

  —I can't manage the bin, says her mother. —With my hands.

  —Never mind the bin, says Paula.

  She hates herself as she listens. Her mother wants to talk about bins. So, let her.

  —And they put the goats into it if I don't get it out on time. The bits they don't eat.

  —That's terrible, says Paula.

  —The girls are useless.

  Paula nods.

  She has one speaker on the floor, at the door, and the other at the window, as far from the sink as she can get it. She pushes the wire on the floor closer to the wall. She'll get tacks or something, to keep the wire in place. The player itself is where the bread-bin was.

  The bread-bin is out in the hall. She'll put it up in the attic. It's an old tin one. She never used it. Jack used to put his little toys into it. He'd drag a chair to the counter and climb up with the toys, cars and Lego things, one at a time. He'd refuse help – always.

  —It's my work to do.

  It was like a fort, or a stage. She'd sit and watch him for hours, and listen to his little serious voice.

  She's looking at her new stereo – €199. She got it in Power City. Rita Kavanagh drove her up. She took her time choosing it. She touched everything. She pressed buttons, watched doors pop up, slide open.