Authors: Roddy Doyle
That's another real Denise line.
—Of what?
That's a real Carmel one.
Denise looks at the kitchen door, making sure it's closed. She moves her chair an inch closer to the table. She looks at the door again. The house is empty. It's just the three of them.
When Denise speaks she's not looking at Paula or Carmel.
—Just because I've met someone, she says.
Paula watches Denise redden before she really understands what she's just heard. Denise's face – excitement, fear.
Jesus Christ, she's having a fling.
Paula looks at Carmel. It's news to Carmel too.
—What's this? says Carmel.
Denise shrugs.
Paula's stunned. She hasn't felt this way – slow, stupid, outside the meaning – since she stopped drinking.
Her sister is having an affair.
Denise still hasn't spoken. Neither has Carmel.
Her sister, whose husband isn't dead, is having an affair.
She looks at Denise. Denise is coming down from the shrug. Her hand goes for her glass. She's shaking a bit.
Paula decides to get in before Carmel. It'll be easier for Denise.
—You're seeing someone?
Denise nods. She gulps. She hides behind the glass. Then she puts it down on the table. She still holds it.
—A fella? says Carmel.
Paula can't help it; she laughs. But it's not fair. Carmel makes it sound so silly. Fella. Denise is running around with some sixteen-year-old. They're snogging behind the chipper. He has his hand up her jumper.
It's cruel.
But Denise is wise this time. She just nods.
Carmel looks at Paula. Paula can tell. Carmel needs to know if Paula knew about this before her. She'd love to cheat –Yes! I did! I fuckin' introduced them! She'd love to break Carmel's heart.
She shrugs.
Carmel looks at Denise.
—So, she says.
Denise giggles. She does. It's the only word to describe the noise that comes out of Denise. Paula could kill her; she's not sure why. She'd love to be Denise right now and she wouldn't be fuckin' giggling.
Carmel sighs.
—Tongues and all, yeah? she says.
Paula doesn't laugh this time. She looks at Denise.
—Tongues and all, says Denise.
And the tongues have just gone across her eyes. That's what it looks like to Paula. Or a hand, fingers have gone down Denise's back. She sits up – she arches, the bitch – in the kitchen chair. She looks as if she's going to lick her lips.
—Well, says Carmel. —We'd better hear it. Tell your Auntie Carmel.
—Where do I start? says Denise.
For fuck sake.
—Your eyes met, says Carmel.
—Sneer away, says Denise.
Paula hasn't seen Denise like this before. She's dangling it all in front of Carmel. Carmel bites; she always has. And Denise doesn't care.
—In the gym? says Carmel.
Denise shakes her head.
—Wrong, she says.
—Look it, Denise, says Carmel. —We're not going to spend the rest of the night guessing.
—Parent-teacher meeting, says Denise.
—There's romance, says Carmel.
But Paula thinks it's lovely.
—He sat—, Denise starts.
She sits up, nearly acting it out.
—We were sitting beside each other.
All those years, Paula didn't go to those parent-teacher meetings. She'd been too afraid to go. Afraid of what she'd hear, of how she looked. Too busy; otherwise engaged. She'll go to the next one.
—A teacher?
—No! says Denise. —A parent. A father, like. A dad.
—We know what a father is, Denise.
—There was a queue at the English teacher's desk and I'd seen all the other ones. The other teachers, like. And Anthony's very good in school —
Anthony's her youngest, a few years younger than Jack. A nice kid, but a bit thick – Paula thinks.
—So I didn't mind waiting. I knew that whatever she
– his teacher – was going to say about him would be good and I'd go home on a high.
—And you did, says Carmel.
—I didn't go home at all, says Denise.
She giggles again.
—Well, I did.
—You're not a complete slut, so, says Carmel.
—Yes, I am, says Denise.
What the fuck is happening here?
Denise sits up again; she keeps sliding. And Paula sits up. And – Paula watches her – so does Carmel. There's a man in the room.
—But I was bit late, says Denise. —Home. But not that late. We went for a drink, just.
Anthony doesn't go to the local school, the same school as Jack. They sent him to the Christian Brothers, even though there aren't any Brothers left in the school. They're all dead or in jail. Paula remembers Denise saying about it being better suited to Anthony's abilities. Paula knows the school. She goes past it every Wednesday, on the bus, on her way to her Wednesday house. She tries to remember, to see, the nearest pub to the school. She tries to see its inside. The lounge. A corner. A lounge girl, the tray.
—How'd it happen? she asks.
Denise looks at her, surprised, disappointed it's Paula asking and not Carmel. Then she realises that Paula is serious.
—Well, says Denise. —He said —
—D'you come here often? says Carmel.
Denise looks caught, confused – ashamed.
—He didn't, did he?
Denise nods.
—Yeah. But it wasn't — . It was the way he said it. He was funny.
—It's a great line.
—Feck off, Carmel.
—He was being ironic, says Paula.
—Yeah, says Denise. —And it really was funny. And anyway, we just got talking.
—What about?
—I'm not sure.
—Yes, you are.
—Our boys.
—Lovely.
—Just at the start. Anyway, what else would we have talked about?
—Football, the Peace Process, Charles and Camilla.
—I didn't go there for it to happen, Carmel, says Denise. —It just —
—You weren't on the prowl, no?
—No.
—How long was the queue?
—Long enough, says Denise.
Good girl.
—He was just —
She looks at Paula.
—Nice.
Paula nods.
—We just chatted. And he was in front of me —
—Nice one.
—And he went to the seat at the teacher's desk and I must say now —
But she doesn't say now. She doesn't say anything. She holds her glass. Paula thinks she's going to smash it, her fingers are so stiff. Paula's going to lean over and take it from her. But Denise breathes out.
—I liked the look of him, she says.
—The look of him, says Carmel.
—Yeah.
—What? His —
—Don't cheapen it, Carmel, says Denise. —Use your fuckin' imagination.
And Paula sees it; they all sit up again. The synchronised fuckin' sisters.
—And he had his few minutes with the teacher. Miss Murray. She's very nice. And he got up and I sat in the place where he'd been.
—Nice.
—And Miss Murray said her bit. He's doing really well. She says he'll sail through his Junior Cert.
—Good, says Paula.
—Yeah. And I said thank you very much. I was thrilled, you know yourself.
Paula nods.
—And I got up and I was finished then. I'd seen them all. And all the teachers were in the one big room, at tables. The assembly hall, I think they call it. And I was going to the door. And there he was.
—At the door.
—Yeah.
—Blocking your way.
—Yeah. No. Just there. I could've walked past him. I was going to. I mean. I was on my way home. But I —
She stops. She puts both her hands on the table. She moves her glass.
—Something, she says. —I slowed down, I suppose. I didn't stop. But I slowed down a bit. I didn't decide to. Not exactly.
She isn't drunk at all. Paula can see that.
—But I did slow down. So I'd go by him slowly. He smiled. Like, a goodbye smile, you know. See you next time. Who'd be a parent? You know, like?
Paula nods.
—And I smiled back. And he opened his mouth, like he was going to say something. And I said, What? And I stopped. And he said, Sorry? Like that, you know. And we laughed.
—Ah.
—And I was blushing; Jesus.
She's blushing now. Paula wants to hug her. And kill her.
—And he said would we go for a drink. But, like. Hesitantly. Like, only if you want, if you have the time. He wasn't used to it. You could tell.
—Used to what? says Carmel.
—Going for drinks with women. Asking them.
—That's nice.
—Well, it was.
—You're his first slut, so.
The timing's perfect. The oven goes ping. It's the bell, the timer. They laugh. Paula leans across and pats Denise's hand.
Carmel stands up.
—Here we go.
She puts her face down to Denise's.
—Finger food.
And that sets them off again. Denise takes her glasses off; they're steaming. She wipes her eyes. She smiles at Paula.
—She's a wagon.
Carmel bends down, opens the oven door.
—Jesus.
The heat – Paula can see it – sails out, up, past Carmel's face. Carmel steps back. The smoke alarm goes off. It's on the ceiling, over the oven. Paula doesn't have a smoke alarm at home.
—Give us the brush, there, says Carmel.
It's a horrible noise. Paula wouldn't have it. She'd rather burn to death.
—That's the only bad thing about this alarm, says Carmel. —It fuckin' works.
Paula finds the brush. It's beside the back door.
—Open the door while you're there, says Carmel. — Get some air in.
Paula does. The cold air goes past and around her. The alarm is still going. It's a good brush. A blue handle, electric blue. And grey bristles, but not the usual shape.
—Hurry!
Carmel takes the brush. She holds it by the working end. She stretches, and stabs at the alarm with the handle. Paula looks. There's a button on the side of the alarm. It's like a little spaceship stuck to the ceiling. The handle hits the button. One last yip – the noise stops.
—Oh, thank God.
The brush falls out of Carmel's hand. Paula catches it, before it hits the table. She's pleased; it was easy. She could do it again.
—Now, says Carmel.
She bends down again.
—These look grand; I wasn't sure.
She pulls out the oven tray. She puts it on top of the hot plates; they're all off.
Carmel stands back.
Paula shuts the back door.
Carmel takes a fag from the packet on the counter and she lights up. And Paula realises. Denise is off them. She hasn't smoked all night. She's a forty-a-day woman – was. It must be serious, whatever's happening to her.
Carmel exhales. She nods at the oven tray.
—I got these in the new Tesco's, she says. —The Darndale Opera House.
—Is it any good? says Paula.
—It's open twenty-four hours a day, says Carmel.
—Jesus.
—Things taste better if you buy them at five in the morning.
Paula's starving. She loves the look of the prawns wrapped in pastry, like little spring rolls, and the miniature quiches and the little sausages wrapped in bits of rasher.
—And they all take the same time to cook? says Paula.
—That's right, says Carmel.
—That's brilliant, isn't it?
—Dips and all, says Carmel. —There's nothing to it. Just throw them on the tray and take the lids off the dips.
She throws her cigarette into the sink. Paula hears the hiss.
—Mind you, says Carmel. —They always look much better on the packet.
—These look lovely, but.
—We'll see. Sit down.
Carmel puts on oven gloves. They're tartan. They're clean. She shakes the oven tray.
—Grand.
Paula looks at Denise. She looks a bit impatient. She wants to get on with her story. Maybe she's just hungry. Paula smiles at her.
Adultery, though. It's a good one. And Denise. It's a surprise. She'd kind of expect it of Carmel. She'll probably find someone now; she won't be outdone by Denise.
That's not fair.
Yes, it is. Stand back and watch.
She hears the scrape. Carmel is hoisting the food onto a couple of plates, with a spatula.
Denise smiles at Paula.
—Can I borrow some of your water?
—What's wrong with the tap? says Carmel. —The alco here needs her bubbles.
She's standing beside Paula now, and Paula whacks her on the leg.
—Fire away, she tells Denise.
Carmel puts the first white plate onto the table.
—Don't dare touch them yet.
Denise pours some of the Ballygowan into her wine glass. She's over the hump, Paula guesses. Now she's just thirsty. Paula's thirsty all the time. She lowers the water, day and night. She brings a plastic bottle with her, with tap water, whenever she thinks of it; when she remembers. And it's the thing that's there when the situation is tricky, with Leanne, or John Paul or even Nicola. When the talk is awkward, the past or the present – it's the roaring thirst. The dry throat that actually takes over her whole body. And it's not alcohol; that's not what she needs – that's a different one. It's just water – dehydration. But it's nearly the same need. She can't cope until she feels the water crawling down through her, and up to the place behind her forehead, the pain there, and the joints right below her ears. Like oil. Calming her, softening the dry edges. It's even had an impact on her skin. She looks at the back of her hand. It's not as dry; there are no open cracks. It's the skin of a hard-working woman. She's seen a lot worse.
Leanne's hands are desperate. Scratched raw, especially the wrists. Paula hates to see those scratches, self-inflicted – all her life. They remind her of the little girl, holding onto Paula, clinging, getting between Paula and Charlo. Protecting her. Leave my mammy alone. The skinny little wrists, the little red fingers, the nails bitten to blood and nothing.
But Leanne's creaming her hands again. She carries a tube of E45. Paula bought it for her. And she's going back to work. I'm proud of you. Paula can't say that. She'd wear the words out; they'd mean nothing. Leanne puts on eye shadow. She puts on a skirt. She puts her key in the door without falling over. I'm so, so proud of you.