Paula Spencer

by Roddy Doyle

  —I probably misled you when I mentioned that I was cutting the grass.

  —I don't know, she says.

  —A minute ago you told me that your husband murdered someone. And now I'm telling you about my wife's departure. What's your surname, Paula?

  —Spencer, says Paula.

  They laugh.

  —It's because we don't know each other, she says. — That's why. It's easy.

  —You might be right, he says.

  —What's yours?

  —Sorry?

  —Your surname.

  —Oh, yes. Prescott.

  —Like the dry cleaners.

  —No relation, he says. —But I have been told I'm a bit dry.

  —She told you.

  —Yes.

  Get over it.

  She'll give him another minute.

  —Anyway, he says. —Dry or not. She was going.

  —Another man, says Paula.

  —No, he says. —A woman.

  —What? You and —

  —She left me for a woman.

  —Fuck off.

  The words shock him; she sees it.

  —Sorry, she says.

  This is fuckin' ridiculous.

  —It's just, she says. —I'd never have guessed that.

  He nods.

  —Yes, well, he says. —Neither would I. I'd still be standing there. But, luckily —

  He snorts. She half expects to see snot on his top lip.

  —She put me out of my misery.

  —Jesus.

  She'd never have guessed. She's not sure why not, because she's often thought about women and women. It's never seemed wrong or even strange. She's often thought how easy it would be.

  But this is weird, the whole set-up here.

  —Tell us, she says. —Why are you telling me this?

  —Well, he says. —I have to say. It's the most interesting thing about me.

  —Fair enough, she says. —My husband was shot. Your wife ran off with another bird. We're fuckin' fascinating.

  —We are, he says. —We are.

  She's dying to tell people, Carmel, Leanne, even poor Jack. Not about his wife; that's nobody's business. Just that she's met him. I've met someone, by the way. She can hear herself. Just a friend, like. Nothing serious. She gave him her mobile number. He doesn't have one. They're meeting again. They're going for a walk. They're meeting at the Causeway Road. She'll walk there. It's not that far.

  She keeps thinking about him in his kitchen, and his wife walking out the door. Mary. And she keeps following Mary to her car – she'd have a car – and she puts the case in the boot and she drives off to Kerry. And Paula's in the back, trying to see her in the rear-view mirror. Why is she leaving? Why did she leave? How do you become a lesbian when you're fifty? She was the same age Paula is now, or thereabouts. He'd have mentioned it if she'd been much younger.

  She's not mad about walking. It's never made much sense. It was his idea. And that's fine. It's safe. His hand won't go for her leg. She laughs at that, alone. She'd noticed his hands. They were small. No dirt in the nails when he picked up his cup. They were cleaner than hers.

  But the wife. It can't have been out of the blue. He comes in from the garden for a glass of water and his wife's turned into a lezzer. What kind of a man has that effect? What does he have to do?

  She's married to a dead man and she's day-dreaming about a man who'll be dead in a few years. He's sixty, for fuck sake. She doesn't fancy him. Not at all. There are old men she could fall for, no bother. Not old, just a good bit older than her. Sean Connery, Leonard Cohen – she saw a picture of him in the paper a few months ago; he was seventy. She likes that old footballer, Frank McLintock. And there's Paul Newman. And Proinsias De Rossa. She saw the King of Spain on telly and he looked lovely. She hasn't told anyone, but she thinks the new Pope is a ride. She watched Sky News for a few days after he was elected, just to see if there'd be more about him.

  There's the bus crash the day before they meet. A school bus, on a road in Meath. Five girls are killed. Four of them from the same school, all from the same little place. A close-knit community, the man on the radio says. She watches it on the Nine O'Clock News, when she gets in from work. The bus is overturned, on a straight stretch of road. There are two other cars, crashed into each other. There's a picture of some schoolbags, thrown from the bus, on the side of the road. One of them looks like Jack's – she tries not to be stupid. There'll be piles of flowers there soon, and teddy bears. People in the village talk to the reporter. They try not to cry as they speak. One woman blesses herself. They heard about the crash on the radio. Other kids called home on their mobiles. Jesus, the thought. Your children on the bus. Coming home for their tea, says a man on the News. To do their homework.

  It's another of the cold days. She wear Jack's jacket. He gets out of his car when he sees her coming. She doesn't know what make the car is. It's green. He takes a big umbrella out of the boot.

  —I should have called for you, he says.

  —No, she says. —It's grand.

  They walk towards Sutton and Howth. The rain stays off. It was belting down all last night. It's still on the ground. They talk about the crash.

  —There was a man on the television last night, he says.

  He talks as he looks ahead. She looks at the side of his face. His wrinkles look deliberate. The skin on his neck is looser than hers. His shirt is clean. He must have ironed it himself.

  —He mentioned the children coming home for their tea.

  —I saw him, says Paula. —He was – what he said really brought it home.

  —Yes, he says. —I thought so.

  He looks at her. He's not as tall as Charlo.

  —A nightmare, he says.

  —Yeah.

  They say nothing for a while. They just walk. She'd prefer to be at home. She thinks she would. They go past the palm trees. The tide's out. He's looking across at the island.

  —Do you play golf, Paula?

  —No.

  For fuck sake.

  —Do you?

  —Occasionally, he says.

  —That means you're no good at it.

  He smiles. That's nice.

  —There you have it, he says.

  He's got a plain jumper on, under his North Face jacket. He's wearing a tie under his jumper.

  He points the umbrella.

  —There's a couple of oystercatchers.

  —The birds?

  —You're not interested?

  —Not really.

  —Well, look, he says.

  And he points again.

  —There's an old shopping trolley.

  She laughs.

  —I know the names of virtually all the birds that inhabit Dublin Bay and you're not impressed.

  —No.

  They're both a bit lost. He's blushing.

  —Well, she says. —I know the names of all the household bleaches and floor cleaners. D'you want to know them?

  He laughs. He looks at her. He laughs again.

  —How far do we go? she asks.

  —Sutton?

  —Okay. And back?

  —Well, my car's back that way.

  —Okay.

  Jesus.

  —What's your wife's partner like?

  —What – sorry?

  —Did you ever meet her?

  He's pretending he's slow.

  —Ah, he says. —Yes. I did. She's very attractive.

  —Is she middle-aged as well?

  —Yes, he says. —I suppose so.

  She points at the houses across the James Larkin Road, up the embankment.

  —I clean one of them, she says.

  —Really?

  —Yeah. Mondays. It's gas, she says. —Your wife and that. You never know what's happening, really. Behind closed doors.

  —Charlie Rich, he says.

  —Who?

  —Charlie Rich sang 'Behind Closed Doors'.

  —You like the
music, Joe?

  —I haven't listened to much music in years. I used to. I went to gigs.

  He grins.

  —D'you know the White Stripes? she says.

  —No.

  —None of your kids?

  He shrugs.

  —Maybe your wife likes them.

  He eventually smiles.

  —I went to them last summer, she says. —Up in Marlay Park.

  —An outdoor gig.

  —Yep.

  —You're a great girl altogether.

  She eventually smiles.

  —They were brilliant.

  —Did it not rain?

  —No, she says. —It wouldn't have mattered. I'm going to Coldplay in a couple of weeks.

  Will he want to go too? Is that what he thinks, that she's asking him? She can't see him filling black bags. Squashed into the minibus with the African women.

  —I've heard of them, he says.

  —They're good, she says. —But they're not as hard as the White Stripes. Do you get to see her much?

  —I told you, he says.

  —No, you didn't.

  —Yes, I did.

  He looks at her.

  —No, she says. —When?

  —I told you. The most interesting thing about me is the fact that my wife ran away with another woman.

  —Oh. Yeah. Sorry.

  They get to Sutton. It doesn't rain. They turn back. She'd like a coffee – she'd love a gin and tonic, four or five of them – but she's not sure she wants to stay with him for that long. She wants to get home. He doesn't suggest it, anyway, a coffee and a bun or anything.

  They chat. Or they don't. They say nothing. It rains a bit and that's good, because they talk about it. And he gets to hold up his umbrella. She walks under it, beside him.

  She lets him drive her to the house. She's not fuckin' walking. He stops the car. He turns off the engine. She doesn't invite him in. She can tell, she thinks – he wants to get away.

  —Well, she says. —That was nice. Thanks.

  —Yes, he says. —Thank you.

  —Well—

  —Can I phone you?

  —Yeah, she says. —That'd be great.

  She opens the door. He doesn't lean across to kiss her. Thank God – she doesn't want that. His hand is on the keys. He's ready to start the car.

  —Bye, she says.

  —Goodbye, he says.

  She closes the door. It doesn't shut properly. The seat belt's stuck. She does it again.

  He's gone.

  She watches the car turn the corner. She kind of misses him, although she's glad she's on her own. She'd like to see him again. It's hard, after so long alone. But he's nice. He is a bit dry – Mary's spot-on. His birds of Dublin Bay. Pointing his umbrella. He likes her, though. He listened to her. He laughed. He looked at her once, and she could tell; he wanted to hold her, probably grab her. He wanted to fuck her – ta-dah. That's kind of nice, although it's weird as well.

  She mightn't see him again. But Denise is right. The ocean's full of fish. She'll start hanging around the bottle bank. All she needs is more bottles. There's all sorts of bottles – sauce, medicine. She's not looking. She's not desperate. He likes her, though. She saw that.

  It's ridiculous.

  It's nice, though.

  She turns on the radio. It's the end of Joe Duffy. It's a young voice, a girl. And Paula remembers – the crash yesterday, in Meath. The girl is talking about her best friend, who's dead. She's on a mobile, Paula thinks – she can hear voices and noise behind her. She's probably at the school. The girl talks about them laughing, at the school sports last week. They did the three-legged race together. They fell over. She's clear, she's lovely; she knows her friend is dead. It's heart-breaking but it makes Paula smile. The kid on the radio is just so brilliant and alive.

  It's over. She turns off the radio.

  Leanne looks rough. Paula says nothing. She tries not to look too carefully. She tries not to smell the air. There's nothing she can do.

  She has to wait. That's all.

  She has to hope.

  You were late in last night. She'll say nothing. I didn't hear you come in.

  Leanne is dressed for work. That's something to clutch. She's going to work. She got up. She'll be going out the door.

  She's scratching her arms. Paula watches her as she stands looking out the window, waiting for the kettle.

  —I'm going to the doctor tonight.

  Leanne has turned. Her face is blotched. Her eyes are wet and red.

  Paula catches up with Leanne's words.

  —Why? she says.

  —Hay fever, says Leanne.

  Paula tries not to sound too happy.

  —God love you. Is it back?

  Every year since she was little. Pollen, dust-mites – they all go for Leanne.

  —I thought with all the rain, says Paula. —It isn't even warm.

  Leanne shrugs. She's miserable. Her eyes are full.

  —Those Zirtek tablets worked last year, says Paula. — Didn't they?

  Leanne shrugs.

  Paula says it – she can't stop.

  —I didn't hear you come in last night.

  Leanne stares at her. Wet, red eyes.

  —Why? she says. —Were you passed out?

  —Sorry.

  —Yeah, says Leanne.

  She picks up her bag as the kettle clicks. She walks past Paula. She doesn't slam the door. Paula hears her heels on the path outside.

  She knew she was going to say it. She could feel it; she wouldn't resist. She just had to say it. I don't trust you.