The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (6 page)

I stopped being a slut the minute Charlo Spencer started dancing with me. I'll never forget it. People looked at me and they saw someone different.

Where I grew up — and probably everywhere else — you were a slut or a tight bitch, one or the other, if you were a girl — and usually before you were thirteen. You didn't have to do anything to be a slut. If you were good-looking; if you grew up fast. If you had a sexy walk; if you had clean hair, if you had dirty hair. If you wore platform shoes, and if you didn't. Anything could get you called a slut. My father called me a slut the first time I put on mascara. I had to go back up to the bathroom and take it off. My tears had ruined it anyway. I came back down and he inspected me.

—That's better, he said.

Then he smiled.

—You don't need it, he said.

My mother stayed out of it.

Carmel was always fighting with him. I remember the screams and the punches. She remembers them as well but she refuses to remember anything else, the good things about home and my father. It was hard for her, I know; she was the oldest and she had to fight all our fights. Fights — Jesus, they were wars. He tore clothes off her. He set fire to a blouse she'd bought with her first pay money. He dragged her up to the bathroom. He washed her face with a nailbrush. He locked her in our bedroom. He went after her when she got out. He took his belt to her in front of all her friends. He put me and Denise up on his knees and did horsey-horsey — it was embarrassing; I was much too old — while he stared at Carmel. He said that we were his girls, his great girls. He made Carmel go to the kitchen and make the tea; he told my mother to stay where she was.

—It's for her own good, he said when Carmel was gone.

She nodded. She agreed with him even though she was shaking. I remember being terrified. Denise looked from him to her, from him to her.

—Kettle on? he said when Carmel came back.

—Yeah.

—Good girl.

He loved her. That was why he did it. Fathers were different then. He'd meant it for the best, being cruel to be kind. Carmel hated him. She remembers nothing else. She got married when she was seventeen.

—I'd have married anyone to get out of that house, she says. — I'd have married any invalid that asked me.

She got pregnant.

—Best tiling I ever did.

Then got married.

My brother, Roger, called me a slut when I wouldn't let him feel me. I was fourteen; he was twelve. It was dark, in the kitchen. I thought it was a joke at first; he was my little brother. I'd gone in for a drink of water. He followed me. He put his hand up my skirt. I waited for him to tickle me. But it didn't happen. He was grabbing me. I thumped him.

—That hurt, I said.

I still thought he was messing.

—That hurt, I said again.

He tried to grab me again.

—Come on, he said.

Jesus, I don't know how many times I heard those words over the next few years. Come on. It never stopped. Come on. You were a slut if you let fellas put their tongues in your mouth and you were a tight bitch if you didn't — but you could also be a slut if you didn't. One or the other, sometimes both. There was no escape; that was you. Before I was a proper teenager, before I knew anything about sex, before I'd even left primary school — I was a slut. My daddy said it, fellas said it, other girls said it, men in vans and lorries said it. My mammy called me in off the street.

—You're getting too old, she said. —You'll get a name.

I helped her with the ironing. I liked being with her. I put the clothes and bed things in the hotpress when she was finished ironing them. She was good at making you feel necessary.

I began to learn. It was alright to sit or lean on the wall during the day but not when it began to get dark. It wasn't respectable. Sitting on a wall in the dark would get you a name for yourself. You were looking for trouble, parading yourself, making a show of yourself. Getting yourself a bad name. Dying for it.

Smoking was another one. It was alright for a gang of girls to smoke, share the fag, laugh and cough. But it wasn't on for a young one to smoke by herself, say, to walk down the road by herself, smoking. She had the makings of a slut if she did that. Keeping the cigarette in her mouth when she was talking, that made her a definite slut. Smoking Major, the strongest, made her an absolute prostitute. If you didn't smoke at all you were tight and dry and a Virgin Mary.

Everything made you one thing or the other. It tired you out sometimes. I remember spending ages exhausted and upset. It was nice knowing that boys wanted you but then you couldn't want them back. If you smiled at more than one you were a slut; if you didn't smile at all you were a tight bitch. If you smiled at the wrong boy you were back to being a slut and you might get a hiding from his girlfriend, and she'd be a slut for pulling your hair and you'd be one for letting her. Boys could ask you to go with them and you couldn't ask them. You had to get your friends to let the boys know that you'd say yes if you were asked. That could make you a slut as well, if you got the wrong friend to ask for you. And then there were periods and keeping them secret and never mentioning them and making sure that no one knew and checking to make sure that there was no smell off you and — every day, every day — staying in the toilet till it was properly flushed and the water was clean again and, Jesus, if you went wrong once you were a slut.

—Slut.

My little brother.

—Slut.

My father.

—Slut.

Everyone. They were all in on it.

But it stopped when I started going with Charlo. God, it was great. I could have walked around in my nip with twenty Major in my mouth combing my pubic hair and nobody would have said a word. I was Charlo's girl now and that made me respectable. Men kept their mouths shut when I went by. They were all scared of Charlo and I loved that. It was like revenge. I could have pointed out fellas to Charlo, told him to kill them and he would have. And they knew it. And I knew it. I was a good fighter myself; I could crease any young one that ever got in my way. But being a good fighter made no difference; you were still only a girl and a slut. As far as fellas were concerned, being good in a fight only made you an even bigger slut. They laughed at girls fighting even though they were scared; girls fought to maim and kill. Girls didn't box. Girls tore flesh off and tried to blind each other. Girls knew the importance of hair. Most boys didn't really fight at all; girls always did. Boys pretended; girls didn't. Boys pretended that girls couldn't fight and everybody believed them. I was a great fighter. Nobody cared.

Charlo could fight like a girl. Charlo didn't go by the rules because when he was fighting he didn't know them, he wasn't thinking. Not till the end of a fight, when he stopped and started planting his kicks, then he was thinking about it; that was when it became really vicious and bad. But he didn't fight much. He didn't have to. One look at Charlo told fellas that they were dead if he felt like it. All I had to do was point.

He walked me home the first night. All the way to my house. Guitar Man followed My Eyes Adored You and Charlo didn't let go of me. His head moved. I looked up and his mouth was there and I opened mine before his got there so he'd see it and know that I wanted to kiss him. I could taste the smoke and the drink and I could nearly swear that he'd had egg and chips for his tea, but it was great. We looped the loop and wore the faces off each other till the end of the song and the D.J. changed the record — he only had one turntable. We both stopped at the exact same time.

—What's your name? he said.

—Paula, I said. —What's yours?

—Charlo Spencer, he said.

His fringe came down over his eyebrows.

—Have you heard of me?

—No, I said. —Is that short for Charles?

—Yeah, he said.

—Does your ma call you that as well? I said.

—Yeah, he said.

He looked at me; he wasn't sure if I was slagging him. I surprised myself sometimes when I was cheeky. I didn't plan it.

—I like your jacket, I said.

He put his hand on it.

—It's nice, I said.

(—What was Tony wearing when you first saw him? I asked Nicola.

Tony is her fella, a lovely kid.

—I don't know, she said. —Somethin'; it was ages ago, sure; years. His uniform, I think. I can't remember.

—Well, I said. —You should try to remember these things.

—Why should I? she said.

—Because they become important later on, I said.

She looked at me; her forehead creased.

—I'm embarrassed for yeh, she said.

She sighed, the wagon, pretending she didn't want to ask me.

—What was my da wearin'?

—A stolen bomber jacket, I said.

—Stolen?

—Yeah. And Wrangler parallels.

—Parallels?

—Yep.

—What're
they
?

They.

I drew her a pair on a piece of paper.

—What colour was the jacket?

—Black.

—You've a great memory.

—It's easy to remember black, I said. —All the bomber jackets were black.

—Black's nice.

—Yeah. Not
all
black though. You need a bit of colour.

—What about his shoes? she said.

—Black as well.

—What type?

—Loafers.

—Jesus!

She laughed.

—With the tassels on them?

—Yeah.

She was starting to annoy me, just a teeny-weeny bit. I could see why parallels were funny but there was nothing wrong with loafers. They were still a good shoe.

—Jesus, she said.

It was my own fault for trying to include her. She's too young. She doesn't have a past yet. Mind you, that isn't true either. But her past is too close to her present. She has no need to look back yet. She has — and I really believe this — her whole life ahead of her.)

Charlo respected me, I have to say that. All the way home to St Francis Avenue. He didn't try to get his feel or pull me behind a wall or none of the usual stuff. It was nice for a change. We just walked. He didn't say much and most of it was boasting, but that's fellas for you. He was funny. He didn't mind me laughing. He stopped holding my hand whenever we were coming up to people and passing them. I asked him questions. He liked it. I asked if he'd ever been in jail. He was chuffed. I'd given it away; I knew all about him. He told me he'd been in St Pat's.

—For how long?

—Three months.

—Jesus. What was it like?

—Alright; not bad.

—It's not really jail though, is it? I said. —It's only for kids.

—It fuckin' is so jail, he said. —I was in a cell.

—On your own?

—Sometimes.

—I'd hate that, I said.

He'd been in for robbing. He'd been caught loads of times, shoplifting and with stuff out of stolen cars, mostly radios. Then they found him up on top of an old house in Kinsealy taking the lead off the roof, him and another fella. The old people in the house had phoned the Guards.

—We thought the place was empty, he said. —We made a huge hole in the fuckin' roof. Lovely bit of lead.

I asked him if he still robbed. He said he didn't. All kids robbed; they were wild and then they stopped when they grew up. They didn't need the buzz. He had a job. He was a builder. One of his little brothers was in Pat's now.

—The same cell?

—Don't know. He'll see my name if he is. I can't stand the little cunt.

(I hadn't met his family yet, of course. They were all robbers. It was in their blood. They robbed that as well, out of Pelican House.)

I loved mat walk home. It was probably the best part of all the years with him, though maybe I'm just being stupid. It was warm and windy. I remember it well and I don't care if anyone can prove that it was raining, like the man on the Late Late Show who could prove that it was too cloudy for the moon to be out on the night Annie Murphy got ridden by the Bishop of Galway. It wasn't fuckin' raining; it was lovely. I wasn't a bit scared of him, or worried. After only ten minutes he was a friend; that was the way I felt — and I fancied him as well. I thought he was an absolute ride. I wouldn't have minded if he had pulled me behind a wall. But he didn't. He respected me. He'd do that to me later; I knew it would happen. I always knew what to expect. Fellas were like easy crosswords; you knew the answers before you'd finished the questions, and they usually weren't worth doing. But this was different. I liked the idea that I was getting to know him, that I could already read him. It was different; it was perfect. I'm able to remember it without what came after, the bad years and the terrible years. Warm dry wind, his hand — dry as well — the manly clip of his heels, his smoke, his side-to-side walk. I began to walk like him so we wouldn't keep bashing into each other. They all walked like that then, the fellas. You can still see them now, in their forties and late thirties, walking like they're afraid they'll topple over because their balls are so heavy. We must have looked ridiculous, the pair of us, strolling through Brookwood like two hard penguins. I didn't feel a bit ridiculous then, though. I was walking with Charlo Spencer. He was holding my hand. He was taking me home. I was with Charlo Spencer. He was the King, and that made me someone. Not a Queen or a Princess, just someone. It was a start. It filled me. I could feel it in my walk.

—What went wrong with Daddy?

—He was always like that.

—No, he wasn't. He wasn't, Carmel.

—He was, said Carmel.

—He wasn't, I said. —Remember Courtown?

—Yeah.

—D'you remember, Denise?

—Yeah. The caravan.

—Wasn't it brilliant?

Carmel got there before Denise; she wouldn't let her answer.

—I remember Courtown alright, she said. —I remember fuckin' Courtown alright.

—Jesus, Carmel; back off.

—Why should I? she said. —I remember it as well. I know what you're fuckin' up to.

—Do you remember it, Denise? I said.

—Yeah, said Denise.

She was looking at Carmel; she was looking guilty. She didn't want to take sides. She was always Carmel's sidekick, her fuckin' Tonto.

—Wasn't he great then? I said.

—Yeah, said Denise.

She looked at Carmel.

—He was.

—Not just then, I said. —Every Sunday, we used to go out. Bray and Skerries. We always got chips and 99s.

—Jesus Christ, said Carmel.

—We did, Carmel, I said. —You can't say we didn't.

—So what? said Carmel. —For fuck sake; the two of you. Do you remember the times when we didn't want to go anywhere on Sunday? Do you remember what happened then? Do you remember what happened if you dropped your fuckin' 99? Well? D'you remember Mammy crying because she'd put too much vinegar on his chips, do yis? Ask her.

—He was nice then, I said.

—When it suited him.

—He was nice. At home. Watchin' the telly. We were always laughin'.

—Yeah yeah, maybe.

—What do you think, Denise? I said.

I felt sorry for her but she annoyed me as well, always in the middle. Clueless and gutless. That isn't fair, but she can really get on my wick sometimes.

—I don't know, she said.

But I gave her more time because I knew mat she was only starting; she was making her mind up, taking the plunge.

—Yes, he was nice.

Jesus, I felt good. That proved it, what Denise had just said; I wasn't just making it all up. My stomach landed and took off. I felt secure. I felt sane. It's a valuable feeling. It's a long time since I took it for granted.

Denise confirmed it. The man I remembered was my father. I wasn't wasting my time or fooling myself. Once upon a time my life had been good. My parents had loved me. The house was full of laughter. I'd run to school every morning.

Carmel wasn't finished. She went for Denise. (Not really, Paula; be fair.) She looked at Denise — hard — and spoke to her.

—All the time?

—No, said Denise. —Who's nice all the time? I'm not sayin' he was a fuckin' saint, Carmel.

Carmel was shocked. Denise had answered her back, probably for the first time ever. Denise was enjoying it.

—He was nice, she said. —He sang a lot, didn't he?

—So did Hitler.

—Ah stop, Carmel, will yeh, I said. —Is that the best you can do?

—I know what you're up to, she said.

—What?

—I know.

—What?

—Rewriting history, she said.

—I don't know what you're talkin' about, I said. —I don't even know what you mean.

—I'm sure you have your reasons, said Carmel.

—Fuck off, Carmel, will yeh.

(I'm not. What Carmel says. Rewriting history. I'm doing the opposite. I want to know the truth, not make it up. She has her reasons too.)

—It's my house, said Carmel. —You fuck off.

She glared at Denise.

—The two of you.

She didn't mean it. She filled our glasses. Denise was a bit shaky; I saw it when she was picking up her glass. She was coming down after her rush.

—It's not just Daddy, said Carmel. —All men are the same. Basically bastards.

—Ah no, I said.

I didn't know if I really disagreed with her; I wasn't sure. But Carmel said things too easily, and got away with them.

—They can't be.

—They are, said Carmel. —Basically. I think.

—Not really.

—Yeah, said Carmel. —Even the nice ones.

—Yeah, said Denise.

That annoyed me. She was licking up to Carmel.

—No, I said. —What about your Harry? He's a lovely man.

(I didn't believe that; I think her Harry's a boneless little drip.)

—He can be a bastard as well, said Denise. —You're not with him all the time.

—Ah, for fuck sake, I said. —You can say that about anybody, not just men.

—Maybe, said Carmel. —You might be right.

—I'm not drinkin' gin any more, said Denise.

—Don't blame the drink, love, said Carmel.

—I'm not, said Denise. —I'm just goin' to start cryin' and I don't want to. And now I do.

—Jesus.

—Listen, I said. —I lived for twenty years. Nearly twenty, with a bastard. The bastard of all fuckin' bastards. I know one when I see one. Will you give me that?

—No problem, said Carmel.

—All men are not bastards, I said.

—Name one that isn't, said Carmel.

—Okay.

—Off you go; come on.

—Okay, I said. —Jesus, I think I'm drunk.

—Don't start, said Carmel. —Name one. Go on.

—Nicola's fella; Tony.

—He's lovely, said Denise.

—He's only a kid, said Carmel. —He'll learn.

—He's lovely, I said. —Isn't he, Denise?

—Yeah.

—Robert Redford, I said.

—Him! said Carmel. —Did you see him in that last one? It was on the Movie Channel. He bought your woman for a million dollars.

—Indecent Proposal, said Denise.

—He was a right fuckin' creep in it anyway.

—That wasn't him, I said. —He was only acting.

—I wouldn't pay a tenner for that bitch. Who's that she's married to again?

—Bruce Willis.

—Now there's a bastard.

—Charlo liked him.

—Jesus.

I went home happy. I lay in bed happy. I rarely felt like that, unless Jack or Leanne came into me and cuddled up against me and I could hear them sleeping and knew that they needed me. This was different, nothing to do with love or the kids or being wanted. It was about me. I felt solid. I wasn't drunk. I didn't really get drunk in the old way any more. My head was clear. I was wide awake; it was way past midnight. I felt solid. I felt right. I'd got something right. I could trust my memory. My father was my father; my past was my past. I could start again. I could believe myself. The things that came into my head were true. My father had been a nice man. Charlo had been a loving husband. I had been a good-looking woman. It hadn't always been like this. I had once been a girl. I used to read my stories out in class. I used to drink only at the weekends. My hair was nearly long enough for me to sit on. I believed it when I prayed; I really thanked O Lord for the food he gave me. Men whistled. I had a lovely smile. I practised it but it came natural. I cooked great Sunday dinners. I made Bisto my own. Charlo peeled the spuds and carrots. I lay in my cot and the wind lifted the curtains and dropped them. All these things were in my head and all of them were true. Just a few words from Denise. He was nice. Proof. My past was real. I could stand on it and it wouldn't collapse under me. It was there.

I could start again.

Men whistled.

Daddy laughed.

My husband peeled the spuds.