Paula Spencer Page 10

  —Mammy?

  —Yes, love?

  —Ma?

  —I'm here, Leanne.

  —Where?

  —Coming to get you, don't worry. Where are you?

  Eventually – Jesus – she got the name out of Leanne and she told her she'd be there in a minute. She turned off the phone and looked out for a taxi. She saw one coming. She put up her hand. The taxi slowed and did a U-turn.

  —Where to, love?

  —Beaumont.

  —The hossy?

  —Yeah.

  —Are you alright?

  —I'm grand, yeah. It's my daughter.

  She was there quickly. The taxi driver was nice. He talked about his own kids and the dashes to hospital.

  —I went to Temple Street twice in the one day. With two different children.

  —God.

  —I had a season ticket for that place.

  —What was wrong with them?

  She could tell that he loved his kids.

  —Well, the eldest gashed his leg on a nail. That was in the morning. And the other lad started vomiting and he wouldn't stop. During the meningitis scare; are you with me? Straight back in.

  —Was he alright?

  —Ah, he was grand. They kept him in for the night just. As a precautionary measure. Put him on a drip. That's a horrible thing to see.

  She texted Leanne. On way.

  She was alone when Paula got there. She was calmer, but strange and far away. The young one who had wanted her mammy was gone. Paula never really found out what had happened. She sat with her. She held her hand. Leanne's hard, cracked hand. She watched women alone. She tried to smile at them. She watched men guard their women. She saw arms around shoulders. But who was she to judge? What did she know? An arm around her shoulders would have been nice. The pizza man's arm. Charlo's arm.

  She sat all night while Leanne slept, and woke, and slept. It was a long time since Paula had been one of the women alone or John Paul had been one of the unconscious young lads. But the place was still the same. A war zone – worse now, when she was sober. She'd been hearing people on the radio, on Joe Duffy, giving out about people having to lie on trolleys for days because there were no beds. Now she saw it when she went to the toilet. All along the corridor, women, old men, people who might have been injured at work earlier that day, the day before, on trolleys. In rows, like a weird queue for the bus. There was a smell of smoke in the jacks, dirty toilet paper on the floor.

  She took Leanne home three days after, in another taxi. She helped her up to her room and she helped her down again. She brought her food and treats and gave her the remote when she dropped it. She said Thanks at first. Then that stopped. Getting her to talk was hopeless.

  Then she made the mistake.

  —I'm just going down to the shops, Leanne. Can I get you anything?

  The face lit up. She sat up on the couch. She smiled – grinned; the little girl who'd danced around the kitchen, trying to distract her father, trying to charm him away from her mother's broken body.

  —Bottle of something would be nice, she said.

  Paula tried to laugh it away.

  —You're joking.

  Still, the grin. Can I have an ice-cream, Ma? The little head bobbing. Can I? Can I?

  —For fuck sake, Leanne.

  The child's big eyes.

  —Don't ask me, Leanne. Please.

  She walked out of the room.

  Leanne did it herself. She got up the next day and went to the off-licence. She used only one crutch. The other one was lying in the hall. Paula watched her struggle down the street. No coat or jacket on her. Using the neighbours' walls and gates. It was like she was climbing a cliff. Paula couldn't go with her. She couldn't go after her.

  She went to work.

  No one has come near Leanne, or phoned, as far as Paula knows. There are no names written on her cast.

  It's not fuckin' fair.

  She can't go home. She can't face the sight of her on the couch, the sound of the telly sliding from channel to channel, the bits of broken noise that do her head in. She'll go straight to work, with the shopping bags. She'll wander around town a bit. She can go to Smyth's, have a look at the toys for the grandkids. There's plenty she can be doing.

  She's losing her fuckin' mind. She can feel it. She can put her hands on the cracks.

  The list.

  Jack.

  She writes the word. She prints it. COMPUTER.

  It's bought, hiding in Nicola's attic. In its big box.

  She takes the last of her coffee. She holds it in her mouth. She knocks it back.

  She found the extra hours. She worked. She went into the AIB and opened her own account. She chose a branch that wasn't the closest to home. It's about two miles away. The money that goes in stays in, unless she's prepared to walk. She isn't going to waste it. She wastes nothing. She's a rock of sense. She doesn't have a bank card yet. She didn't want one. She didn't want to touch the money until it was there, the exact amount. She didn't want to relax.

  She trusts herself. She'll get herself a bank card after Christmas.

  Does she, trust herself?

  Not today.

  It's not about money. It's about being careful. She has to be careful. For the rest of her life. It's killing her. She can feel it. Every word, every little decision. Chipping away. She wants to put her head on the table here. She wants to just give up. Not give up – but take a break. Not have to ignore Leanne. Not have to worry about Jack. To sit down and feel comfortable. To sleep. And wake up like she's rested.

  She can't go on.

  Why should she? Who's thanking her?

  She's feeling sorry for herself. Fuckin' right she is. The blinkers she has to wear. She can't look left or right. Straight ahead, but never too far ahead. And no loitering – keep going, keep moving.

  She's out of the cafe. She's heading for the Dart.

  Leanne is coming at her. Going sideways on her crutch. She's hanging over the road. White-faced from the cold. And coming straight at Paula.

  She stabs the path with the crutch. She was told not to put weight on the ankle. Paula was there. She heard the doctor tell her. But she's moving as if she has to keep the good foot off the ground. Like she's punishing herself.

  —Leanne.

  Leanne sees her and stops. Starts again, and stops. Paula makes sure she's not in her way. The street is empty. There's no one looking. She cares about that. It surprises her.

  Leanne is skin and bone. Paula sees that, out of the house, out in the open. Leanne is dying.

  —Where are you off to?

  Leanne shrugs. She rubs her nose.

  —Come home, love.

  Leanne's knuckles are cracked and red.

  —Will you come home?

  She wants to reach out – she's put down her bags.

  Leanne moves away. She doesn't look at Paula.

  Paula picks up her bags. She can hear the crutch on the path. She goes home.

  She pushes the door. She looks into Leanne's room. She goes in. She stays near the door. She stands there.

  It's the Boyzone poster that does it. She sees it – it's been there, it must be ten years – and she's bending down, picking up the dirty clothes. Knickers, socks, a bra gone grey, she sweeps them all up in her arms. She throws them out, onto the landing.

  She attacks the bed, gets the cover off the duvet. She bought the duvet three weeks ago, when Leanne came home from the hospital. She bought three of them.

  The sheet – she pulls. It's worn, she can see the rubber sheet through it. She yanks it off. She hears it rip but she doesn't care. She feels it. It's damp, and stained. She'll throw it out.

  She leans over the bed – she gets up on it and opens the window. The cold climbs around her.

  She'll get new sheets today.

  She gathers up the clothes on the landing, and the duvet cover and pillowcase. She looks into Jack's room. She throws the duvet over his bed. She flattens
it out. She picks up one of his socks. She goes into her own room. She pulls back the curtains. She opens her window. She feels the cold come from behind her. The toilet door slams. There's fresh air running through the place. She takes her own jeans off the floor, a pair of socks, heels worn to nothing. She'll throw them out too.

  She goes down the stairs. The cold air follows her. She'll put in a wash. Then she's going to make soup. She'll fill the house with the smell of soup. It'll smack Jack when he comes in from school. It'll get Leanne too, when she comes back.

  She feels good. She feels calm. She feels hungry.

  The washing machine is ancient. The door is going to come off soon. But not today. She has it shut without much of a fight. She's doing the whites first. They'll look good on the line, flapping away – she's always liked that sound – or draped on the chairs in the kitchen. The temperature numbers are worn off the dial. But the dial still turns. It clicks like a safe lock. She listens. She hears the water flow in. That's grand.

  How long will she wait for Leanne? She'll have to go to work.

  She'll stick with the plan. She'll make the soup. She might mop the floor. It's getting quite cold. She'll give it a minute, then go up and close the windows.

  She has vegetables. Carrots, onions, enough potatoes. Two tins of tomatoes. Most of a bag of lentils. God knows how long they've been in the press. She takes them down. Something falls out, onto the floor. The seeds she was thinking of planting last spring. She picks up the packet. She shakes it. She feels the seeds. They seem quite big through the paper. Nasturtium – Empress of India. They look lovely on the cover. How would they be in the soup? She throws the packet to the back of the press. It hits the wall and falls behind the self-raising flour. She shuts the press door.

  Leanne loves lentils. She loved lentils. The way they changed colour when they'd been cooked and the way they got fatter. She loved how they broke apart in her mouth.

  —Nearly like biscuits.

  There was once, Paula spread the cooked lentils on a slice of bread for her. An invention of their own. Just the two of them. After she threw out Charlo. Before he died, she thinks. When she wasn't drinking. She washed the little sieve – it's still in the cutlery drawer, in with the mess. She let Leanne scoop the lentils out of the pot.

  —It's like fishing, Ma.

  She emptied the sieve onto the bread. And they folded the bread.

  —Quick. Before it bursts the bread.

  Leanne's face. Bread and lentils.

  —Is it too hot for you?

  Leanne shook her head. Her mouth was packed, too full for chewing. Her eyes were huge and glowing.

  Paula gets out the big pot. She gives it a wipe. She hasn't used it in ages. She fills it at the tap. She brings it to the cooker. Jesus, it's heavy. She gets the gas going under it. She finds the lid. She gives it a wipe. She covers the pot. She washes the breadboard. She cuts the onions. They've never made her cry. She washes the carrots; they don't need peeling. She chops them. She finds the can opener. She runs the hot water. She fills the sink. She throws in the can opener. There's years of old goo on it. She'll leave it there for a while. She drops the spuds into the water. The washing machine is rattling.

  She runs up the stairs – this is me running. She closes the windows – I'm shutting the windows. She finds Jack's other sock. She goes back down. She looks through the door glass. She opens the door. She looks down the street. There's no sign of Leanne. There's no sign of anyone. Most of the houses are empty all day.

  The water's starting to bubble when she gets back to the kitchen. She gets the lid off the pot. She holds the lid with a tea-towel. She can feel the heat through the cloth. She gets the breadboard. It's plastic, not heavy. She holds it over the pot. She slides in the carrots and onions. She herds them all in using her knife. Nothing misses the pot. She's sure there's something she should do with the onions first but she can't remember.

  She gets the opener from the water. She scrubs it and dries it. She opens the tomato cans. She's not sure about the mix, tomatoes and water. It's a long time since she made her own soup. She decides. There's too much water in the pot. She ladles some out, into a bowl. She empties the bowl. She does it again.

  She peels the potatoes. She has too many. She peels them anyway; she's on a roll. She could go on peeling all day. She chops some of the spuds and slides them into the pot. And the tomatoes; she empties the tins. She holds them just over the water. The steam bites at her knuckles. She holds the bag over the pot and the lentils flow out slowly. She watches them float, and sink. She gets the wooden spoon. She washes it. She gives it a shake. She stirs the mixture. It'll start working soon. The house will fill with the smell.

  She puts the last of the peeled spuds in a smaller pot. She fills the pot with cold water from the tap, to the top of the highest spud. She opens the fridge – there's plenty of space – and slides in the pot. They'll do for later, maybe tomorrow.

  Jack will be home soon. The soup won't be ready. He can have some when he comes home again later.

  Leanne. She has to concentrate on Leanne. The soup's for Leanne. The bedclothes, the wash – for Leanne.

  She goes through the house again. She's looking for bottles. Leanne's gone looking for drink but there might still be some hidden. Paula hid her own for years. She thought she did. But Nicola took her around the house, another time when Paula wasn't drinking, and showed her every secret place. The back of the hot press, behind the toilet, under the polish and brushes.

  She lifts Leanne's mattress. She looks in her wardrobe. She climbs right in. It's a flimsy, child's thing, not real wood. She feels it bending under her weight. She pulls back the wardrobe. She looks under the bed. She opens the window. She puts her hand along, under the ledge. She closes the window. Leanne isn't a mother. She has nothing to hide from children. Paula's wasting her time. There are no bottles here.

  The room is a tip. There are cans on the floor. She taps each with her foot. They're all empty. There are cigarette butts, in a line on the sill, right over the bed. She's been smoking in bed. Drunk and tired, out of her face. Paula thinks it – Jesus Christ, she's as stupid as me.

  She goes to the hot press. She gets down a sheet and a spare duvet cover. She can't go to work with the bed unmade. It would be cruel, like a scar, the rubber sheet exposed. She finds an old blanket behind the towels. She'll put it over the rubber sheet. It must be cold with only the sheet over it.

  Why is she only thinking of that now?

  Take it easy. Leanne's not a child.

  Yes, she is. Paula will wash the blanket every day if she has to. She'll happily do it. She goes down to the kitchen. She fills the basin with hot water. There's just enough left. She brings it slowly upstairs. She washes the rubber sheet. She wipes it dry.

  The new sheet isn't ironed. Paula hasn't ironed her own sheets since – she hasn't a clue. It's a waste of time. She's not changing her mind now. She pulls the sheet tight at the corners. She flattens it nicely. She's sweating. She gets the duvet into the cover. She knows all the tricks. She does this four times a week, in other people's houses. She irons their sheets. Eighteen different beds. Doubles, singles and bunks, bottom and top. Now she's doing Leanne's bed. She goes back to the hot press. She gets out two spare pillowcases. She goes into her own room. She takes one of the pillows off her bed. She brings it into Leanne's room. Leanne will have two pillows, to sink her head into. She's less likely to choke with two pillows; the thought smacks Paula's face. She closes her eyes.