Paula Spencer

by Roddy Doyle

  She went for the slider. Panasonic. A name she knows. A CD player and radio. It's silver. The speakers are wood, a nice light colour. They look great, like furniture.

  She takes the plastic off her new CD. It's hard work, the packaging. It's fuckin' ridiculous.

  There were bargain CDs in Power City. But they were all old stuff – Smokie, the Carpenters. That's not what Paula wants. Not yet. Rita bought five of them.

  —You have to.

  But Paula had already bought her first CD. She's had it for weeks.

  She has the plastic off it. She needs to let her nails grow. They're nearly as bad as Leanne's. Anyway, she has it open. She loves the red and black circles on the disc. She takes it out. It resists a bit. The teeth things in the centre of the box are holding it tight. She presses the teeth down with her finger and the disc lifts. It's ridiculous, really. It's not the first time she's handled a CD. But it feels that way. Maybe it's just ownership. She bought this disc. She bought the player. She worked for these things. For herself. For the house. Jack will play his discs in the kitchen, if he wants. And Leanne – if she wants. Leanne doesn't play music. She has a blaster in her room. Paula got it for her, years ago – a birthday present. She was fourteen, and mad into Boyzone. She doesn't know if the blaster still works. She hasn't seen any CDs up there.

  She presses a button, CD 1. There's a short whirr, and the holder slides out and stops. She lowers the disc onto it. It slides back in.

  She's not even sure if she'll like it.

  She presses Play. She barely has to touch it.

  It was just, when she saw the cover, the four lads, not much younger than herself, but sitting together like teenagers, lads she'd like to see Jack with, if she was walking back from the shops or something. There was just something about the photograph, the sunshine, their shoes. But mostly, it was the four of them together, friends, pals at their age – nearly her age. She thought it was lovely.

  How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.

  She knows nothing about them. U2 – she's never liked the name. They come from her part of the city, but she missed them. She was being hammered, battered to the floor, while they were becoming famous. Nicola and John Paul weren't into them. Or Leanne, or Jack – she thinks.

  She wants it loud. She wants to ignore the fact that her left ear isn't good. There's a dial for the volume. She turns it, clockwise, with just one finger, the way she's seen women in films turning cars, just one finger on the steering wheel. She's always loved the way they can do that.

  And it's at her. The music.

  She's grinning.

  LIGHTS – GO DOWN. IT'S DARK.

  It's exactly what she wanted.

  THE JUNGLE IS YOUR HEAD.

  It's modern. It reminds her of nothing. It's not an oul' one crying into her glass. It's Paula Spencer, looking ahead.

  HELLO HELLO —

  She'll fill the house with it. This is what will welcome the kids when they come home from school and work.

  I'M AT A PLACE CALLED VERTIGO.

  It's everywhere in the kitchen, with her.

  THE GIRL WITH CRIM-SON NAILS.

  She can spin in it.

  HAS JESUS ROUND HER NECK.

  That's how she feels. She could nearly spin. She knows, she'd go on her arse. But it's the way she feels, the way this music makes her feel. She's been brave. She's jumped right in.

  She turns on the water. She bends down. She drinks straight from the tap.

  They're alone. It's Friday night. Leanne is just in. She's eating. She has the plate on her lap.

  Paula watches her.

  She has the telly on, Sky News. The sound is down. She's been watching the pictures from Rome. She'd love to be there.

  Leanne's putting away the food. Two sausages, two rashers, fried potatoes, beans. She'd phoned earlier. She'd had to work late, because someone had messed up an order. She was on her way home.

  They're both trying hard.

  Paula's only in, herself. She's home about an hour. She was getting stuck into a sausage sandwich when Leanne phoned.

  —Have you eaten? said Paula.

  —No.

  —I'll do you something.

  —Great.

  —It'll be ready when you get here.

  —Can't wait.

  That's Leanne. That's the way she's always been.

  Then there's the terror. Things change so quickly. Ten minutes is a long time. The phone is easy. Paula doesn't trust it.

  But it's grand. Leanne came straight home. She wasn't hobbling. She's eating. They're talking.

  Paula sacked someone tonight.

  —Why?

  —I had to, says Paula.

  —Why?

  —He was useless, says Paula.

  —Can you sack people for that? says Leanne.

  —Well, says Paula. —Yeah. You can.

  —They're all useless where I am, says Leanne.

  Leanne works in a furniture distribution place.

  —Including me, she says.

  —Ah, Leanne.

  —Don't worry, Mammy. I don't mean it.

  —How're the fried spuds?

  —Best ever.

  —I had the potatoes left over.

  —They're great.

  —From last night. I didn't want to waste them.

  —Jesus, Mammy. They're beginning to taste a bit fuckin' dry. So you sacked this fella.

  —Yeah.

  —Was he good-looking?

  —Leanne.

  —Was he?

  —No.

  —He was. I can tell.

  —You are useless.

  —Told you.

  Leanne wipes her plate with a chunk of that Cuisine de France bread. Paula got it earlier, when it was still hot. She looks at the telly. The same words go across the bottom of the screen. Breaking Story – Pope has lost consciousness.

  —Were you on your own? Leanne asks.

  —How d'you mean?

  —When you sacked him.

  —Oh. Yeah.

  She'd been a bit frightened. She'd reported him a few weeks ago to Lillian, the supervisor. Lillian thanked her and told her that it was up to Paula to give him the good news. But she did nothing for two weeks. She chickened out, three times. She was going to sack him last night, but the bollix wasn't there.

  —He thought it was his charm, she says now.

  —What was?

  —He thought – the Hristo guy.

  —Where's he from?

  —Romania.

  —Is he a gypsy?

  —No.

  —How do you know?

  —Actually. I don't. But it doesn't matter.

  —Go on; sorry.

  —You asked me was he good-looking.

  —Yeah.

  —He thought he was.

  —Yeah; go on.

  —He thought he had me, says Paula. —Where he wanted me.

  —Sounds good, says Leanne.

  Paula smiles at her. How many times has Leanne made Paula smile?

  —The poor oul' one, you know, says Paula. —Putty in his hands.

  He'd smile, the times he came in.

  —Like you should be delighted to see him.

  —Yeah.

  —-We've one of them in work, says Leanne. —He's Irish but, God love him.

  —It annoyed me, says Paula.

  —So you sacked him.

  —No.

  —Yeah, yeah; maybe.

  —No, Leanne. I didn't sack him because he was full of himself. He wasn't doing his job.

  Leanne shrugs, the wagon. She nods at the telly.

  —Is he going to die tonight?

  —Yeah, says Paula. —So they're saying. It's sad.

  —Yeah, says Leanne. —He's been Pope for ages, hasn't he?

  —1978.

  —Jesus. I wonder how John Paul feels.

  —Why?

  —His name, Ma; duh.

  —Oh. Yeah.

  —You gave it to him, r
emember?

  —Yeah, I do, actually. I can remember that one.

  John Paul was born a few months after the Pope came to Ireland. She'd been big and sick when she watched it all on the telly.

  —I'll text him, says Leanne.

  —What?

  —John Paul, says Leanne. —I'll text my condolences.

  Paula feels suddenly annoyed. She feels rejected. She pulls it back; she tries to.

  —You get on well, don't yis?

  —Yeah, says Leanne.

  She looks at Paula.

  —He's great.

  Paula nods.

  —I've some ice-cream in the fridge, she says.

  —Nice one, says Leanne.

  She nods at the telly.

  —We can change the channel while we're eating it, she says. —We can't be eating ice-cream while he's dying.

  Jesus, thinks Paula, she's amazing; she's so sharp.

  She goes into the kitchen.

  She hears the telly. Leanne has the remote.

  She puts the ice-cream on a plate, and into the microwave. She blasts it for ten seconds, so she can get the bread-knife through it. She gets down two bowls. She's in front of the stereo. It's lit, even though it's not on. It's like an altar or something, the tabernacle. She keeps looking at it. She can't help it. There's a CD on the counter. Lullabies to Paralyze. By Queens of the Stone Age. It's Jack's. He must have been playing it when he got home from school, when she was at work sacking Hristo. She's delighted. She's not sure why. Leanne, Jack. The ice-cream.

  It's a home. That's the feeling.

  She cuts two good pieces from the block. She picks them up, one at a time, on the side of the bread-knife and drops them into the bowls. She puts the rest of the block back into the freezer. She gets a couple of teaspoons. They'll make the ice-cream last longer. She picks up the bowls and goes back in to Leanne.

  —No change?

  —No.

  —Nothing else on?

  —No.

  —There you go.

  —Thanks.

  Leanne takes one of the bowls, and a spoon. Paula gets back on the couch. She holds her bowl well out, so the ice-cream won't spill as she settles into a corner.

  Her feet are touching Leanne's. Leanne doesn't move them. She hears Leanne's spoon tap and scrape the bowl.

  —It's only vanilla, she says.

  —I noticed, says Leanne.

  —There's more if you want it, says Paula.

  —No, this is grand.

  Paula watches her lean out, put the bowl down on the floor. She comes back up and leans back into her corner. She shifts her feet, pulls them nearer to her. She does it softly. She's not pulling them away from Paula. She puts her hand to her foot. Paula sees a hole in one of Leanne's socks, at the big toe. Leanne pulls at the sock. She stretches it, and pulls it back under her foot – like she's putting the toe to bed, tucking it in. She's looking at the telly.

  —I wonder what all the John Pauls are thinking, she says.

  —How d'you mean? says Paula.

  —Like, they were all named after him and now he's nearly dead. It must be a bit weird.

  —I never thought of it, says Paula. —When I gave him the name. That hundreds of others were doing the same thing. Did you text our John Paul?

  —Yeah.

  —And?

  —He didn't get back yet.

  Leanne flicks quickly through three channels, then back to Sky News.

  —Was it just you that gave him the name? she says.

  —Was your daddy involved, says Paula. —Is that what you mean?

  —Yeah.

  —Well, it was my idea. That one. I think Charlo wanted to call him Charles. But, yeah, he was interested, if that's what you mean.

  —Charles?

  —I liked the name when it was Charlo. But not the full name, Charles. Or Charlie.

  —Does it bring it back a bit?

  —Looking at this?

  She has to be careful.

  —It's a bit strange alright, she says. —But it wasn't all bad. Not then. It got worse.

  She looks at Leanne.

  —How about you?

  —I wasn't even born, sure.

  —But thinking back. About your daddy.

  —I don't.

  —At all?

  —No.

  They both look at the telly. Leanne is the first to speak.

  —I'm going to bed if he doesn't die soon.

  —Me too.

  Rita talks about retirement. There's not much that Paula can say back. She's only starting. She has to work. She used to drink to sleep. Now she wants to be exhausted. She has to drive herself to it. The real work starts when she opens her eyes in the morning. It never stops. Her hand is killing her. She won't go to the doctor.

  He'd tell her to rest it. She'll live with the pain.

  Rita says We a lot. We're looking into early retirement. We were looking at a carpet last week. Her husband, Paddy, is a nice enough fella. Paula's not sure what he does. He's away a lot. She's seen him getting into taxis in the early mornings, with one of those wheelie suitcases. He doesn't wear a suit. Jeans and a zip-up jacket.