The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

by Roddy Doyle

  16

  The first fella I ever went with, it was gas. I was only eleven. I went with him after he asked me. He had to ask me first though. It was all very formal, very proper. It was very like an engagement from the old days, only he didn't have to ask my father for my hand. That would have been really great, watching the poor little young fella — he was a little lad — knocking on the door and asking for my daddy.

  I fancied him because he was two years older than me and he had nice clothes. There was a matching corduroy trousers and waistcoat outfit that I remember, halfway between brown and orange. The waistcoat fitted him so well that the sleeves of his shirt seemed to be part of it. There wasn't a crease, except the ones that were supposed to be there. He didn't have brothers or sisters and I liked that about him too. It seemed to make him more complete and unusual. Exotic. Intelligent. Sad. He had lovely fair hair, not too white, and he went a great colour in the summer. He had a frown that I loved, a single light wrinkle that went at a slant across his forehead; it was gorgeous. I used to annoy him just to see it, or ask him hard questions or embarrass him. I wanted to kiss it. I wanted to follow it with my tongue or my finger. His big toes looked at each other when he was standing still but he had a normal walk. I was only eleven but I could recognise a nice little bum when I saw one; you should have seen him in those cord trousers. He had a little tummy on him, a tummy you'd expect on a much younger boy, a milk tummy. It was strange because his face was quite old. The two parts didn't seem to fit. Then he turned around and you saw his bum and you got very confused; you began to feel guilty — even when you were only eleven. It was easier to look at him in instalments. Blue eyes, of course, with the fair hair. A lovely ridge on his top lip. A chin that stopped just before it could get pointy. His cheeks. His fringe. I remember all this. I remember all this but I can't remember his name. What is it about me and names?

  Weirder still, I can't remember which house he lived in. I can't remember the road or the garden, the colour of the front door. Just to see if I could do it, I sat for a while on my own this morning when Jack was at school and I went from house to house along our road in my head, the road I lived on when I was a child, from our house to the corner, across the road, down the other side to the other corner, across and up, back to our house. I could remember all the names, all the people in each family. It was easy once I got started. I was delighted — I often wonder if my brain's gone, if I've wrecked it from drinking and living — but I felt incredibly sad too; I started bawling. All of those people, all of them happy. A mother and a father and their children. There was a dog in nearly every house. It seemed so lovely as I went from one side of the road to the other, I knew I was going to cry before I got to the end. I nearly wanted Carmel to come in and ruin it. And it seemed so long ago as well. And unreachable. And I started thinking about the road I live on now and the people all around me — the differences — and I knew that I wasn't the only one who'd been flushed down the toilet in the last twenty years. But it didn't make me feel any better. Even the dogs are different now. They're not pets any more; they don't know what they are. I missed all of those people, the neighbours; the nice ones and the mad ones, the ones that drank and the ones that went to mass every day, the girls and boys and babies.

  He must have lived around one of the corners because he wasn't in any of the houses on our road and he definitely lived near us. I'd never have gone with anyone from far away when I was eleven, and far away meant anything more than three minutes' walk. Anyway, I wanted to go with him. All my friends were doing it, going with fellas or talking about it. I wanted my turn. I wanted to hear me being talked about. My best friend, Dee, had gone with three fellas in three weeks; she broke it off three Sundays in a row. Fiona was the first one of us to bring back a love-bite. She only went with that fella for two days. The record was Mary O'Gorman. She told a fella she'd go with him, then she broke it off with him after half an hour.

  —He was only after me jacket, she said.

  She was a gas young one. It was a denim jacket; her big brother had given it to her when he didn't want it any more. He still wore it sometimes but it was hers; she let him.

  —He asks me first, she said.

  She wasn't really in our gang. We all liked her, but not enough to let her in. I don't think she minded. I'm not sure that she even noticed. I'd hate to think that we hurt her. I used to love meeting her years later, on the street or the bus — before I got married and moved away. She was hilarious. She didn't give a shite; she spoke out loud.

  —His hands, Jesus; for a minute I thought I had three tits.

  She'd have you in stitches. She was funny about everything

  —The bus must be having a shite round that corner. I've been waiting here for fuckin' ages.

  I loved meeting her but I never tried to get to know her better, even when the gang had broken up and gone — Dee to England, Fiona married. There was something about her. She didn't fit. I did. I preferred it that way. I was still happy. I think. I don't remember it any other way. (I'd love to meet her now. I think I'd recognise her. I don't think she'd recognise me. I don't know if I'd be able to stop her if she was walking past me.

  —What have you been up to yourself? she'd say.

  Where would I start?)

  Anyway, my time had come. I wanted to go with someone. It couldn't be just any young fella; I had to pick the right one. There were loads of fellas to choose from. They poured out of every house every morning, hundreds of them. All the parents were the same age; all their children were the same age. There were hundreds of fellas my age. That was the first thing though: he had to be older, even just a bit. You couldn't have a toy-boy when you were only eleven. But if he was much older he'd say no. I knew I looked older than my age — people kept telling me and looking at me — but a fella two years older was the most I could get away with. Stephen Rooney was thirteen and dead nice but he was as ugly as sin, God love him. Saying hello to Stephen Rooney when there was anyone around to hear you was like having your skirt blown up and your knickers shown off to everyone; it was an instant redner and it lasted longer. Harry Quigley was beautiful but he was fourteen and too good-looking. Dee said that he'd done it with Missis Venison from beside the shops — her husband was in the British Navy — and it was easy to believe. He was like a man already, a small, smooth man. His little brother, Albert, was gorgeous as well but he was only ten. He'd have been perfect; I could have just cuddled him and told him what clothes to wear and brought him around with me everywhere. But I'd never have lived it down.

  —Baby snatcher.

  —Where's his pram?

  —Slut.

  My head was full of fellas for days, real ones for a change; The Monkees didn't live on our road. I chose the one with the waistcoat because he was older than me — nearly two years — but small, not too much older, the same size. He wasn't really good-looking in the usual way. I was being realistic. There were parts of him that were absolutely gorgeous but not enough to make him that way overall. He was elegant. So was Charlo. I've always liked elegance, from the very start. Elegance in a man is a very rare thing, in an Irishman anyway, and especially in Dublin. Not so much the clothes, but the way they're worn. I've never liked really flashy clothes; that's not elegance. It's the way the clothes are worn, if they're clean and match, if they fit properly. You could spend your day walking around here before you'd see a man in a pair of trousers that fit him properly. Charlo always dressed well, even in just jeans and a t-shirt; he always looked well. Clothes say a lot; I've always thought that. (I dress like a knacker these days but that says something as well, I suppose. I used to make my mind up about what I'd wear every morning, before I got out of the bed. There was never much of a choice but I remember that it was part of my day. Now, I'm wearing an old pair of runners that Nicola didn't need when she left school three years ago and didn't have to do P.E. any more. And blue jeans that have no blue left in them and make my arse look bigger. But I still make an effort
on Sundays. Or when I'm going out, which is just often enough to stop me from saying never. My sisters take me out sometimes and make me enjoy myself.) My first fella was an elegant little man. His mother made and bought his clothes and she might have put them on him but he was the one that wore them. He was straight-backed — another thing I've always liked; straight-backed Dublin men don't grow on trees either — and he never put his hands in his pockets. He swung his arms. A little soft army man. He was just right. There was a good chance that he'd say yes. I'd a feeling that I was good-looking enough, especially if he wasn't all that interested. I made my mind up and fell in love with him.

  —D'yeh know —

  What was his fuckin' name!

  —I think he's lovely.

  Dee was my best friend. She was going to be my messenger. I could trust her and I'd done it for her, gone up to one of her fellas and told him that she wanted to go with him. We were sitting on the back step of our house, just me and Dee. I was nervous. I might have made the wrong choice; I'd see it in Dee's face.

  —Yeah, she said. —He's nice.

  God, I was happy sitting there. It must have been a sunny day. It couldn't have been cold.

  —I'd love to go with him, I said.

  —Yeah, she said.

  She didn't mean that she wanted to go with him too; she was just being nice.

  —Will yeh tell him for me? I asked.

  —Okay, she said.

  I waited at the corner. She went up and told him. She came back.

  —He says yeah.

  I waited for him. Dee went to the shops to wait for me. He came over to me.

  —Will you go with me?

  —Yeah.

  —Thanks.

  Isn't that lovely? He said Thanks. I remember it. And that was it. I was going with him.

  I went after Dee.

  —What did he say?

  —He said yeah.

  —That's brilliant.

  I went with him for eleven days, then I broke it off. We never kissed but that was alright; I was happy with that. We only met twice, but that was alright too. The thing was to be going with a fella, not to be with him all the time. You could go with a fella and not ever see him at all, it didn't matter. If you were going with him you were going with him. I broke it off because I wanted to. I just wanted to. I wanted to be able to say it. I wanted the word to go around; she broke it off with him. I wanted the power.

  —Why are you breaking it off with him?

  —I just am, right.

  You had to get a friend to let the fella know that you wanted to go with him but you had to break it off yourself.

  —I don't want to go with you any more; okay?

  —Okay.

  —We can still be friends.

  —Okay.

  —Seeyeh.

  —Seeyeh.

  It was easy.

  I never spoke to him again. I had a little cry to myself that night but I really felt great. I could take a few risks now. It didn't matter as much if a fella said no; I'd already had one and blown him out, a nice one too. I could get a few notches on my belt.

  I went with dozens of fellas after that for about a year. We swapped them around and they didn't know. They didn't really know what was going on. I suppose it made them feel good, being chased by little young ones. Sometimes it actually was like a game of chasing; you'd dump one and run after another. It was gas. Absolutely harmless. It was all playing, pretending, copying older people. I'd go into a field with one fella and sometimes we'd do absolutely nothing, not even talk; we'd stay a bit and go back to the rest. They'd nudge one another when we were coming towards them. I'd make myself blush.

  We were still a bit young to be called sluts for it. Anyway, the young fellas all thought that they were in charge; they asked us to go with them — but they wouldn't have if we hadn't made them. There was no real kissing or feeling. It was all about ownership really. You had to have a fella. I went with nearly all the fellas the right age on our road. None of them said no. I even went with Bickies O'Farrell for a bit because I felt sorry for him. I went with him for an afternoon but I broke it off before I went home for my tea because I wanted to go with someone else after, when it was getting dark; I didn't want to waste the whole day. Poor Bickies. You had to be very careful what you shouted out in the street, even when you were only seven.

  —I want bickies!

  He was Bickies up until the day I got married and he was twenty-three then. Not a bad-looking young fella either, just a complete and utter eejit, so thick he couldn't control the expression on his face — that kind of fella.

  We went with Barry Feeney, Dessie Feeney — twins — Fergie O'Toole, Francis Xavier Elliott, Kevin Harrison, Sean Williamson, Frano Grant, all of them — one day, two days. Three and half weeks was my record. That was with Martin Kearns. I was proud of that one; he'd said no to Dee and Fiona. He was a ride. I had to get Carmel to ask him.

  —Do you remember?

  —Yep.

  —Which one was he? said Denise.

  She's younger than us so there was a whole new batch of fellas on the road by the time she got round to it. I don't think she was much into fellas. Athletics was Denise's big thing. She ran a lot. Harry's about the only one she ever went with, and she married him. He was a runner as well, I think. She won a few cups and medals; I remember her taking them home and we got ice-cream to celebrate. I was on all sorts of diets by then. I wouldn't eat it. I wasn't being bitchy but Denise thought I was and so did my mother.

  —Martin Kearns, I said. —He had brothers. He was nice.

  —I remember it alright, said Carmel.

  She sat up, the way she does when she's getting going.

  —I was sixteen —

  —You were not, I said.

  —I was, she said. —I was working.

  —I was only eleven, I told her. —So you could only have been fourteen. At the most.

  —Listen, she said. —I'll tell my version and then you can tell your pack of lies. Anyway, Denise, this brasser here was waiting for me when I got home. From woork.

  —What work? I said.

  —Shut up. She was waiting in the hall for me. I opened the door and there she was. Carmil, she says. Carmil.

  We laughed. She's good at doing children, the face and hands and all. You can tell by the way Carmel imitates kids that she loves them.

  —Carmil. Will yeh do us a favour, Carmil? I'll do one for you back, Carmil. I needed Tampax because I'd forgot to get them when I was going past the chemist so I said okay I'd do her a favour.

  —She's making it up.

  —How come I remember it then, Missis?

  —You're, making it up.

  —I remember it, clear as day. I thought you wanted a lend of one of me blouses or something.

  She turned back to Denise.

  —Then she told me what she wanted me to do and I told her to fuck off.

  —You did not. You'd never have said that in the house.

  —I told you to fuck off.

  —She didn't. You remember, Denise. Language in the house; we'd have been killed.

  —Denise; look at me. I told Paula to fuck off.

  I let her go on.

  —So, of course, she put her Paula puss on her. You said you'd do it, Carmil. You said you'd do it, Carmil. So I gave in. I had to. Up the stairs, into the bedroom, the bleedin' toilet, down the stairs. She wouldn't get off my fuckin' back. You said you'd do it, Carmil. You said you'd do it, Carmil. So —

  She lit her fag. Her timing is always brilliant. She'd have made a great doctor, Carmel would. You've got— a cold; just when the poor patient was convinced that she had cancer.

  She put her wasted match back into the box.

  —So, she said. —I went out. Down to Kearns. Houseful of brothers. Fuckin' mortified, I was. I knocked on the door. Mister Kearns answered.

  —Now there was a ride, I said.

  —Mister Kearns! said Denise.

  —Yeah.


  —The father!

  —Yep.

  —Jesus.

  —He was fuckin' lovely, said Carmel. —Better-looking than any of his sons and everyone of them was a ride as well.

  —He must have been ancient, said Denise.

  —Younger than we are now, said Carmel.

  That shut us up for a bit.

  Then Carmel got back to the story.

  —Anyway, Mister Kearns, the man himself, opened the door. I nearly died. —Yes? he says. —Is — ? I couldn't remember his name. I'm red as a fuckin' beetroot. Just standing there. With my mouth open. Cursing you, Paula. He's looking down at me. I'm standing there wanting to fuckin' die. Cos I was too lazy to go to the chemists myself. Jesus. He's staring at me, you know. —Is your son in? I said. —Which one? he says back. —I've seven of them. Jesus Christ; he's looking at me. —There's only four of them in if that's any good to you. He was being smart-arsed but he wasn't good at it; it made him seem dirty or something, d'you know what I mean, taking advantage of me or something. Cos I really fancied him, Mister Kearns. I thought he was fuckin' gorgeous. I used to mess with myself thinking about him.

  —Carmel!

  —Carmil. I did. I could come in thirty seconds, no problem, thinking about him. Then he went and ruined it by being smart-arsed. His voice didn't fit the rest of him either. It wasn't a very good-looking voice. Donald Duck, he sounded like. So I decided I wouldn't let him best me. —The one that's about thirteen, I said. — That'd be Martin, he said. —Yeah, I said. —Whatever. Will you give him a message? Will you tell him that Paula O'Leary wants to go with him. He's gawking at me now; he doesn't know what's happening. —Cos if you do that for me, I said, —she'll go to the shops and get me my jam-rags for me.

  Jesus, the laughing.

  —Don't mind her, I told Denise. —It never happened. And tell us anyway, I said to Carmel. —Who did you think about after that?

  —What?

  —When you were playing with yourself.

  —Oh. Eddie Kearns. A minute and a half with him.

  —When we were in the room?

  —Yeah.