by Roddy Doyle
She replies. Thnkng of u.
Carmel's straight back. Thnx.
She puts the phone back on the floor. She lets it drop.
She'll sleep now. She might.
—How's Carmel?
—She's grand, says Paula. —Yeah; she's great. You know.
They're in Rita's sitting room.
—It's a terrible thing, says Rita.
—Yeah.
—Hanging over her like that.
—Yeah.
—And it could happen to any of us, Paula.
—For fuck sake, Rita.
—Don't mind me, says Rita.
—No, I was rude, says Paula. —Sorry.
—She's your sister, Paula, says Rita. —You can be as rude as you like. Will you tell her she's in my prayers?
—I will, says Paula. —She'll like that.
—She can shove her fuckin' prayers, says Carmel.
It's the same day, later. They're in Paula's kitchen.
—Rita's sound enough, says Paula.
—I know, says Carmel. —I know. And I shouldn't be fussy where the prayers come from.
Carmel has the date. She knows when she's going into the hospital. The beginning of June.
—Will you be able to wait?
—I don't have much of a choice, says Carmel. —It's not like the fuckin' hairdresser's. I can't go up the road to the next one.
—Okay, says Paula. —Okay.
They're alone, together. There's no Denise.
—She'll be off riding some dark handsome stranger, says Carmel.
—She's actually gone to the doctor with Harry, says Paula. —He's having his ears syringed.
—Lovely.
—He was afraid to drive the car after. Something about his balance.
—You couldn't make it up, says Carmel. —Could you?
—No, says Paula. —She'll be here later.
—He'll probably keep the fuckin' wax, says Carmel.
—Ah Jesus.
—Make earrings for his loving wife.
Paula has Marks and Spencer's stuff for them. She bought it today, before going on to work. And three new plates, three glasses, two bottles of wine. The red for Carmel, and Denise prefers the white. It's in the fridge. When Denise goes over and opens it, she'll see it's nicely filled. It's Friday night. There's a chicken. There's mince, and a box of eggs. There's yoghurt. There's ice-cream, in the freezer. And pizzas. And, back on the table, there's a brand new corkscrew. Paula bought it today. She got the cork out of Carmel's bottle with it, no bother. The bottle's on Carmel's side of the table.
—You must be nervous, a bit, says Paula. —Are you?
—A bit, yeah, says Carmel. —I'm fuckin' terrified.
Paula gets up and hugs her. Carmel's arms go around Paula. They stay that way for a good while.
—I'm an eejit, says Carmel.
Paula lets go of Carmel.
—Stop that, she says. —Why are you?
—It's only an operation, says Carmel.
—It isn't only anything, says Paula.
—D'you know what it reminds me of? says Carmel. — And it's weird.
—What? says Paula.
—Being pregnant.
—No.
—Yeah, says Carmel. —The waiting. Knowing it's going to happen but not knowing exactly when.
—But you know now, says Paula.
—But it still feels a bit the same. I've even packed a fuckin' bag. I have it at the door of the bedroom. Jesus, Paula, what's that shite Jack's playing?
—It's not Jack's, says Paula.
—What is it?
—It's the White Stripes. I'll turn it off. I'll change it.
—Is it yours? says Carmel.
—Yeah, says Paula.
—For fuck sake.
—Ah, lay off, Carmel. I like it.
She puts the CD into its box. Carmel comes over and picks up more boxes.
—Are all these yours?
—No, says Paula. —Some of them.
—Have you no good stuff?
—Like what?
—Stop being thick. The 70s.
—That's thirty years ago.
—It feels like fuckin' yesterday. What's going on, Paula? Is this something menopausal, or what?
She's holding up Queens of the Stone Age.
—That's Jack's.
Paula's blushing. She can feel her face burn. She'd wanted Carmel to notice the stereo. But she hadn't. It's no big deal. Every house has one, or two or three of them.
Carmel holds up another one.
—Jack's? she says.
—Yeah, says Paula.
How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.
—Like shite, says Carmel. —It's yours.
—Yeah.
Carmel hands it to her.
—Stick it on, she says.
She goes over to the table, sits down again.
—I've never really listened to music, she says. —Even the old stuff. I don't really care. The first couple of seconds is enough.
—I was like that, says Paula.
—No, says Carmel. —You weren't.
'Vertigo' starts. Paula turns the sound down.
—I've heard that one, says Carmel.
—It's all over the place, says Paula.
She sits down.
—I love it, says Paula.
Carmel nods.
—D'you ever think of Wendy?
—Yeah, says Paula.
—Me too, says Carmel.
—She was lovely.
Carmel nods.
—What would she be like now? says Paula. —D'you ever wonder?
—Still lovely.
—Yeah, says Paula.
—She'd be, what?
—Forty-four, I think.
—Jesus, says Carmel.
They laugh.
—Wendy liked her music too, says Carmel. —Didn't she?
—Yeah, says Paula.
—The bedroom wall, says Carmel. —The pictures she stuck up. It wasn't just Donny Osmond and them.
—She loved Led Zeppelin, says Paula.
—D'you have any of theirs?
—No, says Paula. —Jack might.
—Really? says Carmel. —Are they still big?
—I think so, yeah, says Paula.
She doesn't think they've talked like this before. They're like two people getting to know each other – their first date. Or two old friends who haven't seen each other in years.
—That was your man, Ozzy Osbourne, wasn't it?
—Led Zeppelin? says Paula.
—Yeah.
—No.
—Well, that's sorted, says Carmel. —I won't go under the knife thinking that Ozzy Osbourne was in Led Zeppelin.
—Stop.
—I didn't really know her, says Carmel. —The age gap, you know.
—That's only natural, says Paula. —In a big family.
—I was gone before she was really a teenager. And I stayed away.
Paula says nothing.
—Fuckin' regrets, Paula, says Carmel. —That's the worst part of this.
—We all have regrets.
—Just – look it. Listen.
—Sorry, says Paula. —Go on.
—I'm not being morbid, says Carmel. —I'm trying not to be, anyway. And I know my chances are good. And even if the operation isn't, what's it – it's too late –1 know I won't be dying there and then, on the table.
Paula says nothing.
—Unless something goes really wrong. There's a power cut, or the doctor has a game of golf she has to get to, or something.
Carmel sits up.
—But anyway. I'm optimistic. I am. But fuck it, I'm not stupid.
She stops. Paula knows. She isn't finished.
—Dead, says Carmel. —That's the word. You have to get used to it. And you can't help looking back. It seems to be natural, you know.
Paula nods.
—Yeah, says Carmel. —And t
he good things kind of glide past you. You can take them for granted. But the bad things, the regrets. They fuckin' sting.
—I know, says Paula.
Carmel is looking at her.
—Yeah, she says. —You know exactly what I mean. Sorry, Paula. You become a bit full of yourself when you're dying.
They should cry. But they don't. Carmel nods at the stereo.
—It's shite.
—Fuck off.
Carmel pours some more of the wine.
—So, says Paula. —What stings?
—Things I said, says Carmel.
She shrugs.
—It's stupid, she says. —You can't be going around regretting every fuckin' word. And if I wasn't sick I wouldn't even be thinking about it. But I was a bitch, wasn't I?
—No.
—Sometimes.
—Yeah.
—See?
—We all are, says Paula.
—Yeah, but I'm good at it, says Carmel.
—That's true.
—But that's not really it, says Carmel. —Not really what I mean. I don't think I'm a bad person.
—God, no.
Carmel saved Paula's life, before Paula knew she wanted to be saved.
—No, I'm grand about it, says Carmel. —But I'm going to be nicer.
Paula laughs.
—Fuck off, says Carmel. —I am. Regardless, you know. But it's other things I really regret.
—Like?
—The things I didn't do.
—Like?
—I just wish I'd done more.
She slaps her stomach.
—I got old too fuckin' early. I let myself. Look at me.
She slaps herself again. She lifts her jumper, grabs hold of the flab. And Jack walks in. He's immediately very red. His face is blotched and glowing. It's too much for him. He knows about her cancer, her breast. And Carmel's always been good to him.
—Hi, he says.
He says it to the floor.
—Howyeh, Jack, says Carmel.
—Hi.
—Hungry, Jack? says Paula.
—No, I'm grand.
He turns. He's gone.
—Poor Jack, says Carmel, after they've stopped laughing. —He's probably starving.
—You were saying about regrets, says Paula.
She's at the tap. She's filling her glass.
—There's not much to say, says Carmel, —that isn't obvious. I wish I'd lived a bit more.
—Like Denise.
—No, not like Denise.
She takes a drink. She lowers the glass.
—Okay, she says. —A bit like Denise. But, not really. No real regrets there.
She's started to peel the label off the wine bottle.
—Nothing dramatic, she says. —Just, things. Like, I never go into town. I decided I didn't like it, years ago. And I don't know why. Because I did like it. D'you know what I mean?
—Yeah, says Paula. —I think so.
—You go into town.
—I have to, says Paula. —To work.
—I know, says Carmel. —But you still go in. And it's not just town. It's not even town. It's – I don't know. It's the attitude. You know. There's nothing good. There's something wrong with everything. I'm not really like that at all.
—I know.
—But it's the way I've been. Nothing worth seeing, nothing worth doing. I go to nothing. And now I'm afraid to.
—Why?
—I don't know. I want to be close to home. In case.
—What about Bulgaria? says Paula.
—What about it?
—You said you don't like going into town.
—Yeah.
—But you go to Bulgaria. It's not on the Dart, Carmel.
—Yeah, but that's different, says Carmel. —We did that because everyone else is doing it. It is a good investment, though.
—But you've been there and other places, says Paula. —I don't even have a passport yet.
—Yet, says Carmel. —You see, that's it. You said Yet. You're going to get one. We know you are. You're fuckin' amazing, by the way.
Paula says nothing; it's happened too fast. She's not sure she heard it.
—If it was me, says Carmel, —I wouldn't bother getting a passport. I'd think of reasons not to.
She nods at the stereo.
—It's not too bad, she says.
Paula smiles.
—Will I stick in the food or wait for Denise?
—Don't wait for that one. She's probably riding Harry's doctor.
—The new you, yeah?
—I forgot.
She takes a sip.