The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

by Roddy Doyle

  —Fair play to them, said Charlo. —It can't be easy.

  There was always a wait. I was never hurt enough to jump the queue. The crying and the moaning, the stretchers being wheeled in, seeing children tied to them — it took weeks to get it all out of my head. It was a mad place. Some of the people strolling around really did look crazy, staring at the ground, mumbling, holding onto arms that were bandaged, holding towels up to their faces. Some of them looked dangerous; broken, noisy people. I never saw myself in the middle of it. I was always on the side, not really there at all. Dropping in. There under false pretences. I felt ashamed, only myself to blame.

  Sometimes it was different. Sometimes I'd think that I could escape if I could get behind the right curtain, if I was asked the right questions.

  Ask me.

  Charlo was always beside me, always near, but if I got the right doctor or nurse I'd be safe. They'd see, and they'd take me away. They'd take me through a door and I'd be gone before Charlo knew it. I'd have the kids out of the house before he got home. We'd be gone without ever having to look at him again. They'd help; they'd do it for me. There was a room up at the top of the hospital where we could stay, a place where he could never find us, with huge windows and a balcony. The right curtain. I just had to be in the right place in the queue. Open Sesame. I'd be led behind the curtain and it would be over. I'd be mended and safe. We'd be happy and safe. I'd get worked up waiting. I believed it was just a matter of luck. Maybe this time. A nurse would look at me and know. A doctor would look past his nose. He'd ask the question. He'd ask the right question and I'd answer and it would be over. Charlo was always with me. He was always there. Behind the curtain was the only time I was alone. His shadow on the curtain. A few minutes. One question. One question. I'd answer; I'd tell them everything if they asked.

  Ask me.

  I'd have told them everything, I swear to God I would have. If they'd asked. I'd have whispered it. If they'd asked first. He pulled my arm behind my back and lifted me off the floor. It would have been easy after that, watching them listening. He hit me. He kicked me there. He burned me here. He did it. He did it. Save me. I'd have told them everything. I just had to be brought behind the curtain, asked the right question.

  It was my turn.

  —Mrs Spencer?

  —Yes.

  —Doctor will see you now.

  I followed the nurse. She held the curtain open for me. She smiled. I'd seen her before; she had a new hairstyle. Charlo kept my coat. He followed me, as far as the curtain. I was in. I sat on a chair.

  —Doctor'll be here in a minute.

  I knew her; she'd seen me before. She was from the country somewhere. She looked at me. She nodded at me.

  —In the wars again.

  —Yes, I said.

  She looked at her watch.

  —Fell down the stairs again, I told her. —Sorry.

  —You poor thing, she said.

  She was nice. I didn't want to disturb her. She had a boyfriend of her own; she was bound to have. There was no engagement ring. Maybe he was saving for one, like Charlo had.

  —In the dark, she said.

  —Yeah, I said. —The bulb was gone.

  —God.

  It wasn't going to happen. It wasn't the right curtain.

  —It'll all be over in no time, she said.

  —Busy tonight?

  —Sure, stop.

  There'd be no escape. I could see Charlo's shape walking up and down outside. It would be fine later, when we got back home. He'd be great. I'd learnt my lesson. He'd bring me up a cup of tea. He'd get up with the kids in the morning, let me stay in bed. It wasn't so bad. It would be fine for a while.

  The baby was gone before I knew if it was a boy or a girl. Between Leanne and Jack. Born too early; born by a fist. A girl. I never saw her. Her name is Sally.

  27

  It's all a mess — there's no order or sequence. I have dates, a beginning and an end, but the years in between won't fall into place. I know when I met him, I know our wedding day, I know the day I threw him out, the day he died. I have other dates — births, my father's death, communions, confirmations, other deaths. I can put them in a list down a page, but they're the only guide I have.

  I missed the 80s. I haven't a clue. It's just a mush. I hear a song on the radio from the 60s or 70s and I can remember something that happened to me; it has nothing to do with liking the song. Song Sung Blue — I'm doing my homework, listening to Radio Luxemburg, the chart show on Monday night, with Carmel and Denise. I'm drawing a map of Ireland, the rivers of Ireland. My blue marker is nearly wasted and I haven't got to Ulster yet. Lily The Pink — I'm sitting on my mother's knee, watching my Uncle Martin singing Delilah; I have a toothache. Somebody else sang Lily The Pink before or after him; I can't remember who — one of my cousins. All The Young Dudes — I'm watching Charlo washing himself at the sink. He still has some of his summer tan. But I don't know any songs from the 80s; they mean nothing — and the radio was on all the time. What did I do in the 80s? I walked into doors. I got up off the floor. I became an alcoholic. I discovered that I was poor, that I'd no right to the hope I'd started out with. I was going nowhere, straight there. Trapped in a house that would never be mine. With a husband who fed on my pain. Watching my children going nowhere with me; the cruellest thing of the lot. No hope to give them. They saw him throw me across the kitchen. They saw him put a knife to my throat. Their father; my husband.

  —Ida

  I was their future. That was what they saw. The grown-up world. Violence, fat and an empty fridge. A bottle of gin but no meat. Black eyes, no teeth; a lump in the corner. Do your homework, say your prayers, brush your teeth, say please and thank you — and you'll end up like me.

  I never gave up.

  Carmel told me to go. Fill a bag, get the kids and go. Anywhere, her house, a refuge; go. She kept at me; I hated her for it. It was none of her business. She promised the police and barring orders. She was standing on me, making it worse, rubbing it in. There was nothing wrong. He'd be fine. He'd get a job and everything would go back to normal. He loved me. She just didn't like him; she was jealous. I was cruel to her. I shut the door on her. I threw things at her. (But she was there all the time. She was there when I wanted her. I've never thanked her.) I wouldn't go. I'd get to the door. I'd open it. No further.

  The hidings, the poverty, the pain and the robbery. I never gave up. I always got up off the floor. I always borrowed a tenner till Thursday. There were always Christmas presents, birthday presents. They always had a Christmas tree. There was always some sort of food. I got between them and him. I guarded the fridge. I made ends meet.

  I never gave up.

  I'm here.

  I picked myself up. I washed the blood off my face. I put on the kettle.

  I came close. I wanted to die. I lay on the floor and felt death under it. It was warm and I wanted it. I never wanted to get up. I was broken; I wanted to melt. I didn't know who I was. All I knew was the pain.

  But I got up. I always got up. I had children. I had a husband. I limped around the rooms, tucking the children up in their beds. I hung out the washing with a broken finger. I ate sugar and drank gin. I made sandwiches for their lunches; thin slivers of ham around the edges to hide the nothing in the middle. I hid. I hid the pain, the bruises and the poverty. The front door stayed shut. I went mad if one of the kids left it open. A knock on the door terrified me. I'd been seen, I'd been caught. I was guilty.

  He beat me brainless and I felt guilty. He left me without money and I was guilty. I wouldn't let the kids into the kitchen after teatime, I couldn't let them near the cornflakes — and I was to blame. They went wild, they went hungry and it was my fault. I couldn't think. I could invent a family meal with an egg and four slices of stale bread but I couldn't think properly. I couldn't put a shape on anything. I kept falling apart.

  The floor was warm and sticky. It was easier to stay there. It was nice. The blood hardened.
It didn't want me to move. It wanted me to stay on the floor.

  But I got up. Always, eventually. I'd remember who I was. I'd remember the time of day; I had things to do, things to look after. I'd mop the floor and start again. That was my life. Getting hit, waiting to get hit, recovering; forgetting. Starting all over again. There was no time, a beginning or an end. I can't say how many times he beat me. It was one beating; it went on forever. I know for how long: seventeen years. One stinking, miserable, gooed lump of days. Daylight and darkness. Pain and the fear of it. Darkness and daylight, over and over; world without end. Until I saw him looking at Nicola.

  28

  I stood at the front door so many times. I opened the door. I stepped out, into the garden. So many times. Never further. I changed my mind; I made excuses. I couldn't do it. I turned back. I'd go upstairs to pack and sit on the bed until it was too late. I'd let John Paul or Leanne or Jack have their nap first. I'd wait until I had some money. I'd wait until after Christmas. I'd wait until Charlo was asleep. I'd walk up to the door, gone already, just the door in the way. But I'd know; I wasn't going. There was nowhere to go; I couldn't go. I couldn't lift my hand to the latch. I couldn't go past the garden. I was walking into nowhere. Disgrace, the shame, the picture of him coming after me. There was too much; I had nowhere to hide. It wasn't worth it. Having to admit everything, nowhere to go. I'd pick up a piece of paper off the grass and walk back in, as if that was what had brought me out, one piece of paper, one out of all the papers and packets and plastic bottles littering the garden. (I once found a syringe in the grass, near the front wall. I didn't touch it. I didn't even think about it.) I'd walk back inside like I'd made my mind up. I'd feel better; this was the right decision. I'd stay. I was needed. It wouldn't happen again. I was better off with what I had. The kids needed their father. It wouldn't happen again.

  He put the money on the table in front of me. I never got to count it. Or feel it. I'd been drinking; I was a bit slow. I'd been resting, sleeping. The kitchen, the light on — I was sitting up. Had my head been on the table? He picked up the money and put it back down again, now that he knew I was awake and looking. A wad of money. Serious money. Enough for clothes, enough for a big shop. A full basket full of lovely things, the kids with me, queuing up knowing that there'd be plenty left over when it was all paid for. A bit of excitement. Good lunches for school, lunches to be proud of — grins on their faces. Family packs of waffles and Mars Bars. A jersey for John Paul with John Barnes' number on it. Shoes for Leanne. A tenner for Nicola. A bottle for myself. McDonalds Happy-meals for the lot of us, ice-creams with hot fudge after. A pile of money in front of me, a wad that would keep us going for as long as I needed to think about.

  —There, he said.

  Salvation and happiness. Out of nowhere. I looked at it. He watched me waking up. He watched me calculating, seeing the things I was going to get with the money. A pile that said hundreds. A pile that wouldn't get smaller unless you put in the effort. I was mesmerised. Very happy and wondering where the catch was. I knew he was watching. I didn't move. Bills gone, a full fridge full of family packs, pouring out of it when I opened the door. A trip to the pictures. A day in town and a taxi home. A real Sunday dinner, paper napkins and the works. Ah, Bisto!

  He picked up one of the notes. A twenty. I didn't follow it. I kept my eyes on the rest. The twenty wasn't missing. The pile looked exactly the same. I didn't care where it had come from, how he'd got it. It was robbed; it had to be. I didn't care. The twenty-pound note came down again in front of my face. On fire.

  —Look at that, he said.

  He lit more notes with the flame. The blue notes turned black; black crumbs lifted into the air. He was setting fire to the lot of it.

  —Isn't that a shockin' waste? he said.

  I didn't answer him. He wanted me to. He wanted me to grab at what was left. Funny, I didn't care that much. It was interesting, watching it burn. It was so light. I followed the flame. But why was he doing this, making us broke again, him as well as us? I remembered: I'd told him I was leaving, that I wasn't taking any more. The day before, after he'd swiped at me for nothing. He'd laughed when I told him I'd get a job, mat I didn't need his fuckin' money, mat I could fend for myself better than he ever had.

  He laughed now. He made himself laugh, like the baddy in a film.

  —All that lovely dosh; it's a crying shame so it is.

  He bent down and blew it off the table. I could hear the kids in the front room, fighting over the remote control. It was the first time I'd seen his face since he'd come in. There was nothing there, no cruelty. He was like a child now, studying his work. Not all the notes were burnt. He'd stopped; he left them on the table. He put five blue notes in front of me, one hundred pounds.

  —Where would you be without me? he said.

  He put his hand on my shoulder.

  I could never get past the door. There were too many things. Things I didn't have. Money, somewhere to go. Too many things. The kids. The schools. People seeing me. All of them stopped me. It was all black out there. He said he'd kill me if I ever went. I knew he'd do it. He said he loved me and he couldn't live without me; he didn't care what happened to him after he'd done it, it made no difference to him, dead or alive, the rest of his life in jail, he didn't care — he'd kill me. I believed him. It was in his face and voice. He couldn't live without me, he said. He loved me. I couldn't go. He was sorting himself out. He'd come after me and kill me. And the kids. He said he'd never let me take them. I wasn't fit to look after them; I was only a fuckin' alco and too stupid. He wouldn't let it happen; they'd be better off dead. He looked at me. He meant it.

  He smashed me against the door before I could open it. He hit my face off it. I waited for the glass to smash into me.

  —I'll kill you; I'll fuckin' kill you!

  I could never go.

  I thought about it; I dreamed about it all the time. I made it up. I sat for hours, going from one step to the next. New house, a job, new hair and clothes. The kids in a new school in black school uniforms with a maroon stripe on their V-necked jumpers. A job in an office. I believed it as I sat there. I believed it all day. Me sitting at a computer. Working away at it, no bother. I always saw myself from a distance, hands moving but never the fingers on the keys. Or I'd see myself from the back of the computer, the camera rising over it. The light from the screen making two shining paths on my cheekbones. Starring Sally Field as Paula Spencer. Home from work — in my little car; I saw myself from the outside — I never had to learn how to drive. A neighbour waved, raking up the leaves. A huge room straight in from the front door, like Cosby's. Food for the kids, a microwave. Laughter, discussions. I helped them with their homework. I read them a bedtime story, all of us on my big fluffy bed. They went to bed together and they slept all night; no wetting, no crying out. I lived this life all day; changed bits, added others. I ran away all the time. I ran away to luxury. I ran away to a new face and body. Me and the kids, no one else. Me and the kids in a big sponge house. Miles from anything Irish. Couches. Rugs. A big white dog with no sex. Dry heat and warm snow. A fluffy dog that didn't shed its hair. A purple bathroom that I sometimes changed to pink.

  I ran away in my dreams, the ones I could handle and control. I didn't have real dreams, night dreams. I just went black. I didn't want the real ones. I drank myself into the blackness. I could never run away in the real dreams. I didn't let them in. Sometimes, though, they got through. I fought myself awake. I could never move; I couldn't breathe.

  I ran away to twenty years ago. I ran away to another country.

  He threatened me all the time, reminded me that I couldn't cope. I had nothing going for me. I was only Paula Spencer because of him. It was the only thing I was. People knew me because of him. We had the house because of him. I was there because he looked at me and proved it. One nice look could wipe out everything. I loved him with all my heart. I could never leave him. He needed me. He told me so, again and again. I
was everything to him.

  I always stopped at the door.

  I was frightened of being without him. In the early days, I got excited when I heard him coming in at night, when I was lying in bed waiting for him; delighted he'd come home to me. At the same time I was scared. Would he be drunk? Would he be nice? Would I be awake or pretending to be asleep? I'd listen to his steps, reading them; how far away, how much drink on him, his mood. I could tell before he got to the room, but there was always hope. Happy feet — he was especially light on his toes when he was feeling frisky. I'd pretend to be asleep. That was the best, letting him think he was waking me. We'd make love for hours. On the bed, off the bed, in the hall. I'd feed the baby while his balls filled up again. Long, long ago. Excited and scared. Sometimes, I liked the mixture. Then it was just scared, no mixture. Just terror when the door slammed, terror all day. We had sex before he went out; I still wanted that, always. He loved me. I was mad about him. Behind that terror and cruelty, he was still there. But I had to get him before he went out. Then I could black out before he got home. If I was lucky.