Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Page 9
Page 20
Page 40
Page 60
Page 80
Page 100
Page 120
Page 140
Page 160
Acknowledgements
PAULA SPENCERRoddy Doyle was born in Dublin in 1958. He is the author of seven acclaimed novels and Rory & Ita, a memoir of his parents. He won the Booker Prize in 1993 for Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.
ALSO BY RODDY DOYLEFictionThe Commitments The Snapper The Van Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha The Woman Who Walked Into Doors A Star Called Henry Oh, Play That ThingNon-Fiction Rory & ItaPlaysBrownbreadWarGuess Who's Coming for the Dinner The Woman Who Walked Into Doors No Messin' With the MonkeysFor ChildrenThe Giggler Treatment Rover Saves Christmas The Meanwhile Adventures
RODDY DOYLE
Paula Spencer
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Published by Vintage 20072 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1Copyright © Roddy Doyle, 2006Roddy Doyle has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this workThis electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaserFirst published in Great Britain in 2006 by Jonathan CapeVintage Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
This book is dedicated to Aideen, Pamela and Shane
She copes. A lot of the time. Most of the time. She copes. And sometimes she doesn't. Cope. At all. This is one of the bad days. She could feel it coming. From the minute she woke up. One of those days. It hasn't let her down. She'll be forty-eight in a few weeks. She doesn't care about that. Not really. It's more than four months since she had a drink. Four months and five days. One of those months was February. That's why she started measuring the time in months. She could jump three days. But it's a leap year; she had to give one back. Four months, five days. A third of a year. Half a pregnancy, nearly. A long time. The drink is only one thing. She's on her way home from work. She's walking from the station. There's no energy in her. Nothing in her legs. Just pain. Ache. The thing the drink gets down to. But the drink is only part of it. She's coped well with the drink. She wants a drink. She doesn't want a drink. She doesn't want a drink. She fights it. She wins. She's proud of that. She's pleased. She'll keep going. She knows she will. But sometimes she wakes up, knowing the one thing. She's alone. She still has Jack. Paula wakes him every morning. He's a great sleeper. It's a long time now since he was up before her. She's proud of that too. She sits on his bed. She ruffles his hair. Ruffles – that's the word. A head made for ruffling. Jack will break hearts. And she still has Leanne. Mad Leanne. Mad, funny. Mad, good. Mad, brainy. Mad, lovely – and frightening. They're not small any more, not kids. Leanne is twenty-two. Jack is nearly sixteen. Leanne has boyfriends. Paula hasn't met any of them. Jack, she doesn't know about. He tells her nothing. He's been taller than her since he was twelve. She checks his clothes for girl-smells but all she can smell is Jack. He's still her baby. It's not a long walk from the station. It just feels that way tonight. God, she's tired. She's been tired all day. Tired and dark. This place has changed. She's not interested tonight. She just wants to get home. The ache is in her ankles. The ground is hard. Every footstep cracks her. Paula Spencer. That's who she is. She wants a drink. The house is empty. She can feel it before she shuts the door behind her. Bad. She needs the company. She needs distraction. They've left the lights on, and the telly. But she knows. She can feel it. The door is louder. Her bag drops like a brick. There's no one in. Get used to it, she tells herself. She's finished. That's how it often feels. She never looked forward to it. The freedom. The time. She doesn't want it. She isn't hungry. She never really is. She stands in front of the telly. Her coat is half off. It's one of those house programmes. She usually likes them. But not tonight. A couple looking around their new kitchen. They're delighted, opening all the presses. Fuck them. She turns away. But stops. Their fridge, on the telly. It's the same as Paula's. Mrs Happy opens it. And closes it. Smiling. Paula had hers before them. A present from Nicola. The fridge. And the telly. Both presents. Nicola is her eldest. Paula goes into the kitchen. The fridge is there. —You were on the telly, she says. She feels stupid. Talking to the fridge. She hated that film, Shirley Valentine, when Shirley talked to the wall. Hello, wall. She fuckin' hated it. It got better, the film, but that bit killed it for her. At her worst, her lowest, Paula never spoke to a wall or anything else that wasn't human. And now she's talking to the fridge. Sober, hard working, reliable – she's all these things these days, and she's talking to the fridge. It's a good fridge, though. It takes up half the kitchen. It's one of those big silver, two-door jobs. Ridiculous. Twenty years too late. She opens it the way film stars open the curtains. Daylight! Ta-dah! Empty. What was Nicola thinking of? The stupid bitch. How to make a poor woman feel poorer. Buy her a big fridge. Fill that, loser. The stupid bitch. What was she thinking?But that's not fair. She knows it's not. Nicola meant well; she always does. All the presents. She's showing off a bit. But that's fine with Paula. She's proud to have a daughter who can fling a bit of money around. The pride takes care of the humiliation, every time. Kills it stone dead. She's not hungry. But she'd like something to eat. Something nice. It shocked her, a while back – not long ago. She was in Carmel, her sister's house. Chatting, just the pair of them that afternoon. Denise, her other sister, was away somewhere, doing something – she can't remember. And Carmel took one of those Tesco prawn things out of her own big fridge and put it between them on the table. Paula took up a prawn and put it into her mouth – and tasted it. —Lovely, she said. —Yeah, said Carmel. —They're great. Paula hadn't explained it to her. The fact that she was tasting, really tasting something for the first time in – she didn't know how long. Years. She'd liked it. The feeling. And she'd liked the prawns. And other things she's eaten since. Tayto, cheese and onion. Coffee. Some tomatoes. Chicken skin. Smarties. She's tasted them all. But the fridge is fuckin' empty. She picks up the milk carton. She weighs it. Enough for the morning. She checks the date. It's grand; two days to go. There's a carrot at the bottom of the fridge. She bends down – she likes raw carrots. Another new taste. But this one is old, and soft. She should bring it to the bin. She lets it drop back into the fridge. There's a jar of mayonnaise in there as well. Half empty. A bit yellow. Left over from last summer. There's a bit of red cheese, and a tub of Dairygold. There's a packet of waffles in the freezer. There's two left in the packet – Jack's breakfast. There's something else in the back of the freezer, covered in ice, hidden. Stuck there. The package is red – she can see that much. But she doesn't know what it is. She'd have to hack at it with a knife or something. She couldn't be bothered. Anyway, if it was worth eating it wouldn't be there. She has money, in her coat pocket. Not much, a fiver and some change. She could go and get bread, more milk. The Spar is still open. But she knows she can't. Her shoes are off. Tomorrow is payday. Always a good day. Excitement, a bit. Pride, a bit. New clothes, maybe. Food. A good dinner. A half-full fridge. A video. But tomorrow is tomorrow. Fuckin' miles and hours away. Cornflakes. The secret of the Spencer family's success. She fills a cup with cornflakes. A bowl when she has milk, a cup when she doesn't. She likes cornflakes, especially the big ones from the top of the packet. But the packet is nearly empty. Tomorrow. The telly is no distraction. Another of Nicola's presents. Second-hand; her old one. Nicola has one of these huge flat ones. This one is grand. The remote works, and that's the main thing. Paula tries to remember a time when she had to get up to change the channel. But she can't. She can't even imagine it. The old telly is out the back. Smashed. Leanne threw her shoe at it. The heel did the damage. The noise – it exploded. Leanne. Leanne scares Paula. The guilt. It's always there. Leanne is twenty-two. Leanne wets her bed. Leanne deals with it. It's terrible. Her fault. Paula's fault. The whole mess. Most of Leanne's life. Paula lies back on the couch. She doesn't like going up to bed before Jack comes home. Or Leanne. Although Leanne can come and go as she wants. She tries to get herself comfortable. The couch has collapsed in places. Given up. It's ancient. She had sex with her dead husband on this couch, long before he was killed. That's how ancient it is. That's another thing. She can't remember sex. Not really. And it doesn't matter. She doesn't think it matters. Is that true?Yes. It is. A man. A woman – she thinks, sometimes. She wouldn't want either. Not tonight. Where's the fuckin' remote?She hasn't had sex since her husband died. A year before he died; more. She doesn't remember it. She didn't know it would be the last time. Twelve years – thirteen years ago. It's pathetic. No. It isn't. She finds the remote behind her; she's sitting on it. She flicks from channel to channel. There's nothing. She's back at number one, RTE. She keeps flicking. Right through all of them again. Sixteen stations. Ads on most. Useless. The lot of them. You don't measure your life in sex. She knows that now. Fucking. It was riding when she was younger; now it's fucking. She's bang up to date. The more you fuck, the happier you are. That's rubbish. She knows that. Life without her husband has been better than life with him. Sometimes much better. Most times. Not tonight. Not today. But she knows the bad days. She recognises them. She feels them coming. They're real but they don't often fool her. She feels them going too. Bullshit. That's just fuckin' bullshit. That thing. Big Brother. God almighty. They're sitting around. One of them's biting his nails. The blondey one with the boobs knows she's being watched. Stupid – of course she does. She's on telly. Paula had tits like that. No, she didn't. Yes, she fuckin' did so. Jesus, though. Big Brother. Is she too old? That's what Leanne says. Paula's too old to understand it. Appreciate it. But Leanne thinks it's shite as well. —Would you go on it?—Would in me hole. Paula smiles; she feels herself smiling. She's never alone. Not really. More bullshit. One of them stands up, on Big Brother. A good-looking lad. Nice arse on him. She flicks on. The sound down. It makes more sense. She turns it off. Back on. Off. She'd like to sit in the dark. But the light's on and the switch is far away. Sex. Sex. She turns the telly back on. And off. He's there – she knows it – before she opens her eyes. She dozed off, and Jack's there. She sees him, and she sees him looking at the floor, under the couch, for the bottle, the glass. When will that stop?—Howyeh, Jack. He looks at her now. He knows. She's sober. He relaxes. She sees it. —Hi. —Where were you?—Out. —Where?—Just out, he says. —Just out, she says back. She sits up. —I must have dozed off. He says nothing. She stands up. That's for him. I'm fine – look. I'm awake and alert. She can't hug him. She'd love to but she can't. He's too old. And too new. Only in the mornings. She can pat his head, ruffle his hair. But not now. She doesn't mind. She doesn't really mind. She wishes he'd stayed small, but that's stupid. She loves the way he is. He's up there, taller than her. With his bit of a beard. It's a ridiculous-looking yoke, but it suits him. The brand new man. He'll wake up one day and shave it off. She'll miss it. She doesn't worry about Jack. His breath is clean. His eyes are clear. He doesn't remember his father. That seems like a good thing. She tells Jack about him. Now and again. Mostly good things. But she's told him she threw him out; she had to. She's told him why. She copes well. She thinks she does. —Did you eat? she asks. —Yeah, he says. He shrugs. He probably didn't. She won't press it. He isn't wasting away. Anyway, there's nothing in the house. And he had his lunch. She watched him. —D'you have your homework done? she asks. —Yeah. —All of it?—Yeah; most of it. —Ah, Jack. He smiles. —I've done everything I need for tomorrow, he says. —Relax. She smiles. It's a speech, from Jack. —Bed? she says. He shrugs. —Well, I'm going up, she says. —Okay. He sits where she was. He picks up the remote. —Goodnight, love, she says. —Night. She goes into the hall. She's tired. She looks at Jack, through the gap between the door and the frame. The couch is up against the wall. She can see a good bit of his face. He's turned on the telly. She hears him bring the sound up, and down. She reaches in, and turns off the light. She sees him look at the door. —Goodnight, she says, again. —Night. He's lit only by the telly now. He's waiting. For her feet on the stairs. He's sitting up. She goes on up. She doesn't worry too much about Jack. She doesn't need to, and she doesn't know why not. A dead father, an alcoholic mother – it's not a great start in life. But he's grand. He seems to be. She's tired. She's always tired. Not true. She's tired at night and that's the way it should be. A hard day's work and that. She likes being tired. Tired and sober – it's different. The sleep is different – it's sleep. Although she doesn't always sleep. But it's grand; it's fine. She's not complaining. Who'd listen?She brushes her teeth. The important ones are there. The ones at the front. The missing ones aren't seen, unless she smiles too wide. Then the gaps appear. She brushes them well. Brushing will bring the gone ones back. She can believe that sometimes. The new Paula.
She can believe nearly anything. She's a bit hysterical. Not now. But sometimes. So happy. Alive. She brushes for lost time. And teeth. Kicked out of her, some of them. Nights and mornings, when brushing wasn't a priority. She looks in the mirror. There were times when she didn't look. Years. She knows this mirror. She isn't fooling herself. Yes, she is. And she doesn't care. If she stands here, this way – she looks good. She looks good. This distance, this light. She's a good-looking woman. But she can't stay here, in the bathroom. One part of the bathroom. She's a good-looking woman. She takes that with her. She turns on the bedroom light. There's a mirror here too. She stays clear of that one. She takes off her jeans and lets them drop. They fall off her. She doesn't have to pull them off. They fit. She pulls back the blanket and sheets. She'd like duvets for the beds. They're on the list. She makes the beds these days. Hers and Jack's. She makes them in the morning. Before she goes to work. She gets into the bed. It's a good bed. A good mattress. She's puked in this bed and she's pissed in this bed. She can think of that; she can remember waking up to it. She can think back now without curling up, or wanting to. She likes this bed. She remembers. Four years after her husband died, five years after she threw him out, she moved over to the middle. She lies there. She knows. She won't sleep. Not for a while. Jack is down there. Leanne is out. It's grand. She lies there. She's a mother. It's the job. She doesn't feel bad. She knows that, suddenly. She's nicely tired. The heaviness is gone. The ache. Or most of it. That's Jack. She thinks that. And the nap in front of the telly. But mostly Jack. And it would have been the same with Leanne, if she'd come home before him. Just the contact. It's enough. She believes that, most of the time. She believes it. She's a mother. Still a mother. She'd still get up. She knows it. If there was anything to drink in the house, she'd get up now and drink it. She'd knock it back and promise herself a fresh start in the morning, as it soaked the back of her mouth. She knows. She can taste it. She'd do it. But there's nothing to drink in the house. And that's fine. It doesn't hurt. The pain is safe, behind other things. She listens. Her alarm clock. Paula has an alarm clock. She bought it herself and it often wakes her up. She gets woken by classical music. The music itself is shite but it's a nice way to wake up. At half-seven. Five mornings a week. And sometimes too when Leanne works the weekends. She gets up, to be with her before she goes. Still a mother. Leanne often went to school with no breakfast or kiss goodbye. It's in the past. She knows that's shite. More than anyone, she knows. You can't leave things behind. They come with you. You can manage. That's the best you can expect. She manages. Jack has pushed the sound up. But she can't make it out. She wonders what he's watching. Something he doesn't want to watch with her. That's fine. It's okay. It's funny. She knows she's smiling. It's strange, about the house. About her life. New fridge, old blankets. Does anyone else around here still have blankets?Plenty. There's plenty like Paula. Although it's changing, the whole place. One of the old shops is a cafe now, opened a few weeks ago. An Italian place, real Italians in it. Not chipper Italians. Selling bread and coffee and oil and other expensive stuff Paula would love to load up on. There's a fella that does the bread and pizzas. She's seen him in the window. A dark guy, not that handsome – something about his hands. She doesn't stop to watch. She can't. She can't be caught. She's a widow. She's a big girl. She can't be gawking in windows at middle-aged young fellas. Hands. Black hair on the fingers. The hands are on her neck. She feels the fingers. Rubbing gently. Pressing. Her throat is dry. She can't close her mouth. The fingers press harder. She can't cry out, move her mouth. It's dry. Dust, muck. She tries to shout – anything. Whisper, move. She can't. She wakes. She's awake. She bit her tongue. Badly. She tastes no blood. But it's sore. It's very sore. The door. She's been asleep. She's awake. Leanne's home. The door slammed. She doesn't know that. She bit her tongue. That's what woke her. She's awake now. And she heard the door. Leanne. She listens. How long did she sleep? She looks at the clock. Jesus, does she need glasses now as well? She brings her face closer. An hour. A bit more than an hour. Glasses. God. She listens. Leanne is in the kitchen. Paula won't get up. Leanne would know. Her mother, the alco, checking up on her. Leave the girl alone. She's grand. She's fine. She's fine. Paula listens. She hears nothing. No falling over. Nothing stupid. She needn't be worried. But she is. She listens. She crosses the kitchen. She pulls back the curtain. A big blast of sunlight. It would have killed her a few months ago. Guilty! It's grand now, though. She loves a bit of sun. She fills the kettle. She turns on the radio. The News is on – the European elections. Boring, Jesus. But she leaves it on. Royston Brady. His posters are all over the place. Energy. Drive. His head is on every pole. She doesn't like that version of handsome. That Daniel O'Donnell look. The mammy's boy. The country's full of men like that. They do nothing for Paula. The Royston fella's in trouble. They're talking about it on the News. Something he said about his da being abducted by loyalist terrorists. She must have missed something – that's her life. It doesn't make much sense. She'll be voting for Proinsias De Rossa. She hasn't voted in years. 1977, she thinks. The only time she voted. De Rossa's Labour, and his eyes are gorgeous. And he's nearer Paula's age. He'll be getting her vote, if she gets round to it. The kettle's going. She's forty-eight. Today. She puts two spoons of coffee into the cup. She's thinking of getting a plunger – real coffee. Another thing on her list. Or one of those espresso makers. It would look great, near the window. She's seen them for sale in the new cafe, on her way past. She's not mad about espresso, though. It's too strong, too druggy. Dangerous stuff. She wants a drink. But she's grand. She looks at her hands, the palms down. They don't look too bad. They look fuckin' dreadful but they're not too bad, considering. Her age, her work. Her life. They should be worse. There are badly mended bones in there. There's bad pain on the wet days. She listens. No one's getting up. She listens to the radio. They're still on about the elections. Northern accents, talking about Sinn Féin. She doesn't like Sinn Fein. Her husband loved all that hunger strike stuff. The black armbands, the armed struggle. He was going to march, support the hunger strikers. But he never did. How long ago was that? Years – it must be more than twenty. He didn't march. But he stood still for a minute in the kitchen, a minute's silence, after one of the strikers died. They all stood, Paula and the kids. A few hours after Paula had wiped her own blood off the kitchen floor. She's seen the posters for their Dublin candidate. Mary Lou McDonald. A nice-looking young one. A big smile on her. She wasn't alive, probably, when all that happened. Paula should have her own posters. Energy. Drive. She sits up straight in the chair. She reminds herself to do it. Straight-backed Paula Spencer. She hears feet upstairs. She wonders have they remembered. It's Jack. She can tell – the time between each step. She imagines him, one foot up, like one of those birds in the water. Calm, waiting. It's Jack alright, gone into the toilet. She hears the flush. She drinks more of the coffee. She can feel it push through her. She can feel it in the hair on her arms. Jack is coming down. Leanne is different. Leanne is another bird, one of those little frantic birds. Darting all over the place. Pecking at everything. Her steps are little punches to the floor. Jack walks in. —Howyeh, Jack. —Hi. —You're up early, she says. It's June. He's on his holidays. He's usually still in the bed when she goes. She doesn't know when he gets up. —What has you up?He looks at the window, at the light. —Don't know, he says. —Couldn't sleep. He stands there at the door. His jeans are huge, dragging on the floor. They're down over his arse. She looks at his feet. One of them is off the floor. She smiles. He moves. It's like he's been kicked, or goosed. —Oh yeah, he says. Now he walks in. —I have a job. —Ah, great. For the summer, just?—What? Yeah. Yeah. —What's the job?—Lounge-boy. —Where?—Finnegan's Wake. It's the local. Someone bought it a year ago. And the new name went up. Finnegan's Wake. After the famous book. —What's it like these days? she says. —Alright; yeah. —The same crowd?—Some; yeah. I don't know. He opens the fridge. He stood outside that pub when he was a little fella, waiting for her to come out. He stood in the rain. He often did it. She brought crisps out to him, and Coke with a straw. Like it was a treat. There you are, love. More guilt. On her birthday. Fuck it. —Would you like a rasher sandwich or something? she says. —Cool. She loves that. Coo-il. The way he says it. She looks at the clock. She has loads of time. She stands up. She gets the pan from the press. —How did you find out about it?—What?—The job, Jack. —I went in. —And just asked?He shrugs. —Yeah. —Good man. Will you have a uniform?—A waistcoat, he says. —Black trousers. —Nice, she says. —With the name on the waistcoat?—It's a bit cheesy, he says. —I've to buy the trousers. —I'll pay for them. —I'll pay you back. —Grand. She puts the heat on under the pan. —Pass the rashers over to me, love. He doesn't know it's her birthday. He hasn't a clue. It's fine. It's funny. She throws on the rashers. She steps back. They're spitting. She'll have one herself – it's her birthday. Finnegan's Wake. The whole area has changed. She's been here since the beginning. It was a farm a few months before they moved in. It was all young families, kids all over the place. Out in the middle of nowhere. No bus of its own. Near the tracks, but no train station. No proper shops, no pub. No church or schools. Nothing but the houses and the people. —D'you want toast or ordinary?—Toast. —Stick it in the toaster, so. Another present from Nicola. The toaster. —And a couple of slices for me. —Okay. —Thanks. It had been great back then. It had been so simple. But that's just rubbish. She knows. It hadn't been great. It had never been great. It's all changed now, anyway, the area – the estate. Or it's changing. It used to be settled. It isn't any more. The cafe is a start. And the new name on the pub. There's two groups of people living here now. Those who call it the old name and still go in, and those who call it Finnegan's Wake and don't go in. —What's it like inside? she says. —What? says Jack. —The pub?—Yeah. —Alright. —I haven't been there in ages. He says nothing. —Have they done much to it? she asks. —Not really, he says. —Just pictures and that. —The usual, she says. —You can't do much with a place like that. She came out once and he was standing at the door, in the cold, only his shirt on. She went home with him. She put him into the bed beside her. She cried, once she knew he was asleep. And promised. Jack knows. But it's grand. She doesn't miss it, the pub. Not at all. She hated it. She hasn't been in a pub since the smoking ban. She wonders what it's like. It's good that Jack will be working smoke-free. She feels good for thinking that. —D'you smoke, Jack?She doesn't look at him. —No, he says. —Never?—No. —Ever?She's no one to be talking. —I don't like it, he says. But she's his mother. —Good, she says. It's not too late. It's not meaningless. —Here we go. Plates now, Jack. He gets the plates. He takes dry ones off the rack beside the sink. —D'you want butter on your toast?—Cool; yeah. —Good lad. She goes to the fridge. Happy days. She has to move things out of the way to get at the butter. Real butter. Kerrygold. They sit at the table. They say nothing. They eat their rasher sandwiches. It's later now. She's staring at the plate. She can't do anything else. She's afraid to. She waits. The house is empty. She thinks she heard the door slammed twice. Leanne and Jack. She doesn't know which of them went first. She thinks they're gone. She's not sure. Leanne. Jesus. She screamed at her. Leanne did. She screamed at Paula. She hit her. Leanne hit her. She can still feel the sting. The shock of it. She slapped her. Across the face. Said sorry. —It's okay. Jesus. She's been sitting here for hours. She thinks she has. She thinks the house is empty. Today is her birthday. Her daughter has just attacked her. She won't let herself get corny. She has to be honest.
