The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

by Roddy Doyle

  We were never that relaxed again, not since.

  5

  Gerard was the Guard's name.

  —Gerard, Missis Spencer, he told me when I asked him.

  —I'm Paula, I said.

  —Yes, he said. —They told me.

  —Well, they were right, I said.

  He was confused, probably wondering if I was joking or not, probably thinking that it wasn't right for me to be joking at a time like this. He ate his biscuit the way a kid does, quickly so that he'd be offered another one. He was slower with the second one.

  —Where're you from, Gerard? I asked him.

  —Dublin, he said.

  —What part?

  —Churchtown, he said.

  —I don't know there, I said.

  —It's nice, he said.

  —Nicer than here I'd say, Gerard, is it?

  —It's alright, he said.

  —D'you live with your parents?

  —Yes.

  —Rent-free.

  —No, he said. —I give her two hundred and thirty a month.

  I nodded.

  He'd forgotten he was a Guard. He'd forgotten to take his cap off. He told me all about his family. His father sold fish to the French; his mammy didn't do much. His sister was in college becoming a vet.

  —She's a bit of a genius, he said.

  His twin brother was in Trinity becoming something else.

  —You didn't go to college yourself, Gerard?

  —No, he said.

  He blushed.

  —It's not for everybody, I said.

  6

  —He's a ride, isn't he?

  I remember it — that's the first thing I ever heard about Charlo Spencer, before I ever saw him. We called every fella that wasn't ugly a ride. A man or a boy had to be in a really bad way, deformed or something, if he didn't get called a ride by us. Even some of our fathers were rides. It was okay for friends to call other friends' fathers rides — if they were good-looking enough. No one ever called my father a ride. It think it was Deirdre said that Charlo was a ride and all the others agreed with her. Deirdre could stare back at fellas in a way that none of the rest of us could manage. It was 1973, coming up to Christmas. I know that because I was working in H. Williams and I'd spent all that day stacking tins of biscuits into huge piles at the end of three of the aisles. I was knackered after it; I remember. I'd tried to open one of the tins; I pulled away some of the Sellotape that kept the lid on but the tape kept coming and coming, there was miles of it. And there was a customer looking at me, a woman. I can remember her. She had glasses that were a bit crooked on her head and her coat was nice; ordinary, black but it looked expensive and warm. I put the tape back on. I could feel my skin burning. I did it slowly so that it looked like something I was supposed to be doing. (It's years since I blushed.) I remember all these things together. The biscuits, the tape, Charlo Spencer is a ride — they all happened on the same day. I know. It was cold too. We were outside The Mint. The type of cold that made you want to go to the toilet, to keep your feet moving and your hands up your sleeves. I think that's why I remember the woman's coat. I was freezing. There wasn't room in any of our houses for all of us. And parents were different then, I think. My parents wouldn't have let us all into the house even if there had been space, if I'd been the only girl and I'd had a room to myself.

  He was a ride. It was the best way to describe him, from the first time I heard of him to the last time I saw him. He wasn't gorgeous. There was never anything gorgeous about him. When we made love the first time in the field when we were drunk, especially me, and I didn't really know what was happening, only his weight and wanting to get sick; I felt terrible after it, scared and soggy, guilty and sore. It would have helped if he'd been gorgeous, like Robert Redford or Lee Majors. They'd have picked me up and carried me home; they wouldn't have fucked me in a field in the first place, not one of the fields where I came from that weren't really fields at all, just bits left over after the building was finished. Charlo stood up.

  —Fuckin' cold.

  He wiped his prick on the inside of his bomber jacket, I swear to God he did. I didn't really know what he was doing until the day after when I was calm and thinking about it and making it nice. Gorgeous men didn't do that kind of thing. The grass had been wet. I could smell some sort of animal dirt. Robert Redford would have brought a picnic rug.

  He was a ride, he was eighteen, he had brown eyes, he used to be a skinhead, he'd been up in court three times and in St Pat's once. I found out these things that night outside The Mint. He'd a scar where he'd been stabbed —

  —On his belly.

  —No, his arm.

  —It's his belly, said Fiona.

  —How do you know? said Deirdre.

  —Well, if you must know, said Fee, —he's in the same team as my cousin and he seen it. In the shower.

  We loved that.

  —The shower!

  I'd never even seen a shower back then. A shower was like a water bed or a jacuzzi now — there was something rich and filthy about it.

  —Imagine tha', girls.

  —Soap, soap, soap!

  —And a face-cloth.

  Deirdre started washing herself, under her arms — she looked around — then between her legs.

  —Jesus, look at her!

  —Next time, Fee, said Tina, —ask your cousin how long his mickey is.

  —Jee-sus!

  So I had my identikit of him before I ever saw him; a brown-eyed ride with scars and a record and his mickey thrown over his shoulder. That was how I saw him and that was exactly what I got.

  7

  The doctor never looked at me. He studied parts of me but he never saw all of me. He never looked at my eyes. Drink, he said to himself. I could see his nose moving, taking in the smell, deciding.

  8

  The house was empty. Nicola was at work. (John Paul was gone.) Leanne was at school. Jack was next door playing with their young one. She's three years older than him but she loves bossing him around and he loves it too. I had the place to myself. Gerard the Garda was gone. A nice poor young fella.

  I wasn't surprised. I'd always half-expected it. Charlo was dead.

  He'd been out of the house for more than a year. I'd thrown him out. Out the door. But we'd never done anything about it, got properly separated. I never got a barring order, didn't need one. He was still my husband. That was why Gerard had called. I was still Mrs Spencer.

  I made another cup of tea — because that's what you do. I didn't go for the vodka. I decided not to. I put an extra spoon of sugar into my tea.

  Charlo was dead.

  I picked up the crumbs that Gerard had left behind and put them into my mouth. I don't eat biscuits much. I usually don't have the money for them. I always feel a bit queasy after them.

  I could taste the extra sugar.

  I still loved him. I'd loved him before I even met him and I never stopped. The minute I saw him, before I saw his face properly, I knew what being in love was. It was dreadful. I was already jealous, already expecting him to leave me, nearly wanting him to be a bastard; I hadn't even heard his voice yet. I loved him when I was throwing him out. I loved him when Gerard rang the bell. I love him now.

  Then the shock.

  My stomach fell under the table. My ankles ached; my heart charged. All of a sudden. Gerard had told me that Charlo was dead but he hadn't said how. I'd never asked him. I didn't know how he'd died.

  I couldn't pick up the cup. I didn't want it. The table was holding me. I had to stand up. I had to know. I wanted people in the house. I wanted noise. I had to find out. It was vital. He wasn't dead yet. I had to know. No tears yet. No tears. He wasn't dead. Anything could have happened. My mouth opened; a scratch came out. I had to do something. I had to find out. I didn't know how. I had to do something. I had to move.

  9

  I left school after my Group. I ran out of the place; I fuckin' hated it. I stuck it for three years, lo
nger than any of my own kids have done, so far. But I hated it, every minute of it. I loved the primary school. Probably because we had only the one teacher and she was lovely. I can't remember her name, but she was lovely. We all wanted to be teachers when we grew up. It was just girls, fifty-four of us. The noise in the room when the teacher wasn't there, fifty-four screaming young ones. I was good in school, especially at stories. She always got me to read mine out to the class, before she'd even read it herself. I loved that.

  —Ah Miss —

  —Ah come on.

  —I don't want to.

  —Ah come on.

  She knew I was dying to get up and go to the front of the class but she went along with it.

  —Do we want to hear Paula's story, girls?

  —Yesss!

  Fifty-three voices.

  I don't remember any of the stories. What were they about? There's nothing there in my head, nothing. But I remember the applause after and the smiles. I was good in school; she made us think that we were good.

  I was only in the tech half an hour when I realised that I wasn't good at all. September, 1969 — after Courtown. We were all kept out in the yard when the older classes were let in. The headmaster stood on the steps and told us to shut up. He didn't tell us who he was; I just guessed that he was the headmaster. He read out all the class lists.

  —Class 1.1. As follows. One last time. Shut up.

  I was in 1.6, the second lowest.

  —O'Leary, Paula.

  There were only twenty more left in the yard. I think it started raining. I went past him through the door.

  —You'll have the proper socks for Monday, Miss O'Leary, won't you?

  —Yeah.

  —Yes is the word we use here, Miss O'Leary.

  —Yes.

  —We also say Sir. Off you go. Down that way. The open door.

  Mister O'Driscoll. I remember all the teachers' names. There wasn't one of them that wasn't an out-and-out cunt. The men and women, they were all the same, cunts. Cunts. I hated them. The night before my first day Carmel told me all about them. I didn't really want to hear; she was ruining it.

  —He's a creep. He never looks at your face and there's a smell off him.

  But she was right. Everything she said was true.

  —My name is Mister Waters. W.A.T.E.R.S.

  —A dope, said Carmel. —He thinks he's so smart. There's sweat stains under his arms when he's writing on the blackboard. Right through his jacket. He'll spell his name and say something smart about it, wait and see.

  —WA.T.E.R.S. You are 1.6 but you should be able to remember that one.

  All the different teachers, I hated it. It was much better with just one. I never got used to it. Just one stupid cunt after another stupid cunt all day long. In a smelly room that was either too hot or too cold. I was put beside Derek O'Leary because our names were the same and he walked into the room just before me. He farted all day. Lifted his arse for noise, the dirty bastard. Buck teeth. A smell of sardines out of his mouth. He kept trying to feel me till I punched him in the face and told him to fuck off. I was made to stand up for making noise.

  —Well, Paula; it's not very pleasant, is it?

  After standing for half an hour.

  —No, Miss.

  —Sit down.

  —Thanks, Miss.

  Derek O'Leary gawked over at me and opened his stupid mouth.

  —There's a smell o' periods off yeh.

  —There's a smell o' shite off you.

  —Periods.

  —Shite.

  —Periods.

  —Shite.

  For three years.

  —Good God, what did they teach you in that primary school?

  We were the dopes, the thicks. There was only one class after us, 1.7. They were nearly retarded. You could tell. We were put with them for Domestic Science. You could tell by the way they held their mixing bowls, something not quite right. Two of them were crosseyed; three of them had stammers. Two of them got pregnant in second year. It was a big thing in those days. They sat beside each other; it was weird. They left school on the same day; they were called out of the class. We were making Christmas cakes. I think. Putting the almond paste on them. They never came back. We said that it was the same fella that made the two of them pregnant. We even pointed him out, a big mallet-head that worked in the butchers. We made him the father. We made him the fathers. He didn't have a name. The butcher, Mister McQuaid — he's still there — never called him anything. He carried the carcasses in and out of the fridge but he never cut anything. Mister McQuaid probably wouldn't let him; it would have been bad for business. The girls were called Sandra Collins and Bernadette Ryan. They never came back. Leanne, my second youngest, started secondary this year. She's in a class called Carolin, after an old Irish harp player. All the classes are named after Irish musicians. We were just 1.6. We got the worst room and the worst teachers, the dopes. They were thicker than us.

  It was a fright, finding out that I was stupid. Before I even got in the door. He read out the names, through the Fs and the Gs, up towards the Os, and first five times he went past me and the yard got emptier and emptier. And I wanted to cry. I had all my books. They were all in my bag; it weighed a ton. My uniform, except the socks. Bottle green; I loved it. And it started to rain. All my friends except Fiona had gone through the door into the school. And I didn't like Fiona as much as the others. She was full of herself.

  —1.6. Brady, Harold. Brady, Frances. Brannigan, Martin.

  It was mostly boys.

  —They're all horrible, said Fiona. —Look it.

  I was too busy listening, going through the alphabet with the headmaster.

  —O'Leary.

  I picked up my bag.

  —Derek.

  I let go of the handle.

  —O'Leary, Paula.

  The corridor went on forever. I was following Derek O'Leary. He kept looking back. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mammy. I walked in the door. My arm was sore from carrying the bag. A woman teacher pointed at one of the desks that was still empty.

  —There.

  Derek O'Leary was sitting down by the time I got there. He wouldn't move.

  —Move over, you, I said.

  He wouldn't.

  —Hey, said the teacher.

  He slid into the wall and I sat down. Miss Harrison was the teacher. She sat up at the front and clicked her fingers when anyone talked until no one else came through the door. Then she got up and shut the door.

  —Right.

  She went to the blackboard.

  —Take this down, all of you. No talking.

  She was young. That was a good sign, I thought. She wore nice clothes. She was tall. Her hair was up in a shiny bun, like something plastic and black. She wrote Monday on the top of the board and the timetable under it.

  —Okay; get that down, all of you.

  —Are you Miss Harrison?

  —No talking.

  She read her newspaper.

  —Right.

  She rubbed out what was on the board and wrote Tuesday on the top.

  —Okay.

  —What's M.W.?

  —No talking; metalwork.

  She didn't look at us. She didn't ask our names. She didn't ask us if we'd had nice holidays or if we were nervous. She was just horrible. I felt Derek O'Leary's hand on my leg. I got away from him. I heard him sucking his snot back into his stupid head. Then I felt his fingers again, taking the material of my skirt. I sat sideways to get my legs away from him. I wouldn't look at him; he was disgusting. Miss Harrison was doing Wednesday but I hadn't been able to get Tuesday down because of Derek O'Leary. He grabbed me again, right up my leg this time because I was turned away from him. It frightened me this time; he wanted to hurt me. I punched him right in the face.

  —Fuck off, you, righ'.

  He screamed and held his face like it was falling off him.

  —What's going on over there? Stand up, the pair
of you.

  —It was her.

  —Shut up.

  She came over to our desk. She stared at us, at him and especially at me. I looked back at her. She went back to the desk and picked up the roll book. She looked at me again.

  —Carmel O'Leary's sister, she said. —Yes?

  —Yes, Miss.

  —Another one.

  She let Derek O'Leary sit down and she made me stand up for the rest of the class. Carmel had been right about her.

  —She has an ice-pop stick stuck up her hole.

  She was a stuck-up cow. She put on this face when she walked into the room as if there was a bad smell coming up off us.

  —You. Get the windowpole.

  She sprayed her perfume around the room one wet day when the coats were on the hooks and the air was warm and soggy. She never corrected our homework; she made us leave our copies open on the right page but she never really looked at them. The only time she ever treated us like real people was the day she came in with her new engagement ring.

  —It's gorgeous, Miss.

  —How many stones?

  —Count them yourself, yeh thick.

  We stood around her desk at the front, just the girls, and she smiled and smiled.

  —Back to your seats now, girls.

  We wanted it to last.

  —Is your husband nice, Miss?

  —She hasn't married him yet, yeh thick.

  —Shut up, you.

  —Sit down now, come on; all of you.

  That was in the middle of third year, two and a half years after she'd made me stand up. She was back to her normal cuntishness the next day. She had us for maths. I hadn't a clue. It didn't make sense and she didn't care. History, geography, English, Irish — I got worse and worse at all of them. I don't think I learnt one new thing after I went to that school. I wasn't too bad at Domestic Science. She wore a hat in the class, Miss Travers, because she was cold. She was as mad as shite. We spent the whole afternoon cleaning the kitchen, cleaning up the mess left by the older classes. She could never time her classes properly; we'd be just dropping our beaten eggs into the flour when the bell would go.