The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (7 page)

They were out on the street — Carmel had run them out of the garden — waiting for anything to happen, journalists and photographers and just people, neighbours and people who had just come to see the house. But I didn't know anything about them. I was in the kitchen. I didn't move. Jack's picture was in all the papers the day after, Jack looking out the window. Jack is five. He's the most beautiful child I've ever seen. He makes me cry, just looking at him.

—He killed a woman.

That was all I knew about it.

—It'll be on the News.

—Okay; bye. Thanks.

—Bye.

I hadn't seen the News. I wasn't interested. My mouth had gone numb on me. I weighed a ton. All I was good for was tea, vodka and sitting in the kitchen. They put soup in front of me but I couldn't manage it. It was too full, too packed; I couldn't have swallowed it.

I'd made it home easily enough. I didn't think. I didn't feel. I walked. I divided the journey into pieces, seven corners, four roads to cross. Past the pub, the car park and the bus shelter, the shop-van, the dry cleaners, the church. Past O'Neill's house, Mooney's, O'Connor's. The green, the pitch, the subway. I didn't look at anything.

It would be on the News.

I made it. I had my key ready, straight in, no shakes. I was home. The house was still empty. I was alone. Then I wasn't. Carmel and Denise were there. I was on the floor. They picked me up.

—Paula, love —

They hugged me. Next, I was in the kitchen.

—It's freezin' in here; Jesus.

—She needs heat or she'll go into shock.

—I'm alright, I said.

—Sit down there, said Carmel. —Do nothing.

—It's your day off, said Denise.

—Don't overdo it, Denise, said Carmel.

I sat and they surrounded me.

—Now, said Carmel.

She put a mug of tea in front of me.

—Loads of sugar in it.

—Thanks.

Then she put the bottle on the table.

—Thanks very much.

—No problem.

I threw the vodka in on top of the tea.

—Good girl.

It was a new mixture. I liked it.

—He's dead, I said.

—That's right, said Carmel.

Nothing else.

—
I'll
tell Nicola, I said.

—Okay.

—When she comes in.

—Okay.

—When she comes in.

—Yeah.

—She has a job, I said.

I don't know what made me say that, and I remember that I definitely did say it. I wanted to tell Nicola. She was older than me in some ways. She'd an old mind inside her lovely head. I didn't know if it was strength or deformity; when I was feeling low I felt guilty about it. I was to blame for it; I'd robbed her and crippled her. I was proud of her. She stunned me sometimes. I'd made a right hash of my life but she wasn't going to. It wasn't that she could find work or that she was beautiful — all my kids are beauts — it was her shrug. She'd shrug past the Charlos and the bastards. She'd never become an alco like her mother. She'd never look fifty until she was fuckin' fifty, and then she'd probably look forty. Nicola was something else. There were some times when I was so jealous I wanted to maim her, really hurt her. I adored her. She was my pride and joy; still is.

Jack and Leanne had the telly on loud and Denise had the hoover out — she's always loved hoovers — and some of her and Carmel's kids were floating around as well but I heard nothing except the click of the door.

Nicola was home.

Half-six.

She knew. She'd walked past all the houses along the way. She might have seen faces in the windows; one or two that I know would definitely have been gawking out at her going past. She'd have seen all the journalists. She'd have put on her face, her I-never-smiled-in-my-life face, as she got nearer. They'd have seen her and guessed that she was Charlo's daughter. There'd have been a stampede. They might have pushed her when she was getting past them. Click click, the cameras. She'd have pushed them back. They'd have got out of her way, if they knew what was good for them. She'd have heard the cameras clicking and whirring as she was opening the door. She'd have seen the flashes behind her —

—Miss Spencer —

—Nicola; this way this way —

—Miss Spencer —

She wouldn't have looked back.

The picture in the Herald showed her almost smiling, her shoulder lifted as if to protect herself. It didn't do her justice.

All I heard was the click of the door.

Carmel led her into the kitchen to me. She held the lapels of her jacket like it was cold and windy.

—Your daddy's dead, love.

I didn't even stand up. My legs weren't up to it.

—Oh.

She shrugged. I knew she would; I'd put mental money on it. There was so much in that shrug. I leaned over and grabbed her. I pressed the side of my face into her stomach and wouldn't let go. I cried. I hoped that she'd cry — she needed to, I wanted her to cry. I wanted to think that she needed me. I wanted her to hold my head. I could hear her tummy grumbling.

Carmel got my arms apart and rescued poor Nicola.

—How? she said.

I wiped my eyes. Carmel was waiting to see if I'd answer.

—Shot, I said.

Now I shrugged.

We all started laughing.

—Shot, I said it again. —Can you believe it?

We were still laughing. Denise closed the kitchen door so the kids outside couldn't hear us; it wouldn't have sounded proper. It was a bit indecent, laughing at the way your husband had got himself killed. We all had to wipe our eyes. I noticed mat. Even Carmel.

—The police, I told Nicola.

She nodded.

—We can watch it on the News, I said.

Her forehead creased, the way it does.

—Did they film it?

—What? No, no. I meant just the news about it; it'll be on.

His mother looked me up and down like she was thinking of buying me. I stood on the back step. Charlo went ahead of me.

—That's Paula, he said, and he rushed through the kitchen into the hall and left me there on the step with the dark behind me and his fuckin' mother in front of me. And I was half-pissed and there was no escape. He'd gone to the jacks. It was the only thing that ever made him hurry.

—I'm fuckin' burstin', he'd said just before he opened the back door. It hadn't stopped him from grabbing my arse when we were going through his alley to the back. I'd screamed. I was bursting as well, and cold. Someone had robbed my jacket. His mother must have heard me.

—Hello, I said.

I said Hello and not Howyeh. All mothers said that their sons' girlfriends were common. My mammy said it about Roger and Eddie's girlfriends. All the mothers were the same. I was drunk as a skunk, I'd no jacket on me, there was probably grass on my back, I was smiling crooked but I made sure I said Hello instead of Howyeh.

—Come in, she said.

—Thanks very much, I said.

She was making sandwiches. For Charlo's da and his brothers. They were all in watching the telly. I was never certain how many brothers Charlo had. There were sisters as well. They were easier to count; there were three of them. The three fuckin' pigs. I watched her buttering the bread. She was the only person I ever knew who could manage butter straight from the fridge. It was great to watch.

—Shut the door there.

I couldn't manage it.

—You have to lift it.

I tried but it wouldn't shut for me. I thought I was going to piss.

—Here.

She shoved me out of the way, her elbow right into my side. She put her two hands under the knob and groaned and carried the door in the last half-inch. The latch clicked.

—One of them lazy gets in there will fix it one of these days.

I leaned where I'd landed when she'd shoved me and waited for Charlo to come back down and rescue me. She slapped slices of ham down onto the bread; I could hear the air escaping from under the meat. The kitchen was smaller than ours at home. The ceiling was lower and slanting down towards the back door. It was stuck on to the back of the house, not really a proper part of it; you had to go up two uneven cement steps to get into the house itself. There was the smell of dinners and teas. When she'd finished piling the sandwiches — they were like a block of flats — she held them down like they were trying to escape and sliced through them with one lunge of the bread knife. Then she picked up the plate and walked the few steps over to the wall opposite. She pulled back a curtain that I hadn't really noticed. There was a big window behind it. The sitting room was behind that and they were all in there watching the telly; I could see the backs of the tops of their heads and Charlo was in there too, the fucker. She knocked on the glass and an older version of Charlo stood up, opened the window and took the plate off her. He shut the window, leaned out to haul it back in.

She closed the curtain. She was big. She reminded me of an Indian woman or a knacker, the same huge soundless way of moving. She knew exactly where everything was, even things that had no fixed place. A knife on the table — her hand went out and took it up by the handle while she was turning on the cold tap and facing the sink. Her shoulders were massive. There was no fat there under her dress; it was all strength. The dress was flowery but there were no real colours. Her hair was black and grey and long, the longest I'd ever seen on a middle-aged woman. It wasn't tied up or anything. It was loose. She'd shake her head to get it out of the way, and it obeyed. She was like a statue, big and solid; there was something magnificent about her. But I could see it as well — she was bad. She hated things.

The kettle was colossal. She swung it and landed it on the gas. She turned and looked over at me. There was only a yard between us.

—D'you drink tea?

—Yes.

I didn't know if I was going to get any. Charlo was a bollox for dumping me there; either he thought we'd be having a chat or he didn't give a shite. He knew his mother; she didn't chat — she wasn't interested.

—D'you have a name?

—Yes. — Paula.

—That's right: he told me.

Her name was Gert but I only found that out after. When I asked Charlo he wasn't sure; he had to think about it.

She had the teapot now. She came towards me. For a second I thought she was going to skull me with it. She threw the lid on the table. She got the doorknob and choked it open. She threw what was left in the pot out the door into the yard. I heard water landing on cement. She stepped back and lifted the door shut.

—One of them will fix it some day.

—Where's the toilet?

—Upstairs.

—Thanks.

I escaped, up the two steps into the house. It was brighter. The sound from the room to the right was a film — gunfire — and all the men talking about it. I went past to the stairs and up. I had everything I'd ever drunk crying to get out of me. I bent a bit to make it easier to carry. It was dark at the top, no lights on, no switch that I could see. I could make out doors. One of them looked open. I gave it a shove and hooshed my skirt up; it was dribbling out of me now. I got in, found the switch, turned on the light; it was a bedroom and there was a man lying on one of the beds. And my knickers were heading down over my knees before I realised.

—Oh Jesus!

He was awake, lying back. He'd lifted his head.

—Sorry, I said.

The insides of my legs were wet; I couldn't get my knickers back.

—No problem, he said. —Next door.

His head fell back.

I turned the light off.

—Thanks, he said.

I wouldn't make it; all I wanted now was to get onto lino. I kept my skirt right up at my waist. I got to the next door, shoved in, turned on the light, saw the bath, and I emptied. I looked down; lino.

—Thank God.

It was the longest piss I've ever had, and the loudest. I could hear nothing else. I'll never forget it. I didn't go again for days after; I couldn't. And I never drank cider again.

I'd saved my skirt; it was dry. I used up most of the toilet paper wiping the floor. I left some. There was only one towel, a dirty white one. I used it to wipe the rest of the floor, then I rinsed it and hung it on the side of the bath. I flushed the toilet and prayed to Mary that it wouldn't clog. It took ages before I was convinced that all the paper was going to be taken. I rinsed my knickers. But I had nowhere to put them. I'd no pockets; my jacket had been robbed. I didn't want to chance the toilet; I could see them floating there flush after flush and me waiting for the cistern to fill again and listening for one of the brothers coming up the stairs, or the father or the mother — there was no way.

I threw them out the window. I didn't care; I just wanted to get rid of them. They were wet and heavier than they should have been so I think they went well into the garden, maybe even over the back wall. I listened for them landing but I heard nothing. A good pair they were too. I shut the window.

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.