The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (12 page)

The wedding day. Patches of it were wonderful; nothing has changed that. I've good memories and some nice photographs. The ones taken outside the church. I look lovely. Charlo looks handsome. I look modern; you'd never think it was long, long ago. The flares on Charlo's trousers are the big give-away. And the hairstyles. All the hair split down the middle. People stood differently too back then, like they weren't confident, like their jackets were too small for them. Still though, it's not a bad-looking bunch of people. Both families. The aunts and uncles, cousins. Boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands, wives; kids and babies. Two families that were getting bigger by the month. From all over Dublin and some from England. A boyfriend from Limerick, one of my cousin's. He sang The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down later on. My father is smiling. So is Carmel. It was the only time my father smiled that day, I think; he always smiled for the camera. Denise is squinting. My mother is looking at my father. My brothers look like dwarfs beside Charlo's. The weather was nice; bright. Denise isn't the only one squinting. The photographer had us all looking bang into the sun. He was a dreadful eejit.

—Say cheddar.

It was chilly as well; you can see it in the way people are standing, one or two on Charlo's side glaring at the photographer. A stranger looking at the photos could tell where one family started and the other ended; it's like a border running through the middle of the pictures. Different sizes, different faces. My Granny O'Leary died two weeks after the wedding. She looks fine in the photographs. She looks the same age as my mother. She never liked my mother; I always knew that. The old man beside her is my Granda. He died last year, long after my father. I hadn't seen him for a long time before he died. I got out of the habit of going to see him; I'd begun to like him less and less, so I stopped.

I'll put the photographs away now so I don't start going through the rows, counting the dead. It was a good day. That's the word: good.

—I do.

I wasn't pregnant. So there. It was love. Love and my father. He didn't want us to go with each other — he hated Charlo, called him a waster, a criminal, a skinhead, a hippy — so we got engaged. To spite him. A great cluster of jewels to wave under his nose.

—Look, Daddy!

Bought in the Happy Ring House. I met Charlo outside. I saw him standing there before he saw me, when I was coming up from the bus stop. God love him, he looked mortified. I rubbed it in, spent ages looking in the window and pointing the rings out to him. This one, that one. I was worse inside. I tried them all.

—I love a bit of glitter.

The look on his face when he saw the prices; he couldn't believe it.

—It's only a bit of metal!

He whispered it into my ear when the man was bending over another tray.

—The jewels as well, Charlo, I said.

Cash. He handed it over. He'd saved up for it. No one had cheques or cards then. I never did, ever. Charlo had a good job then, for McInerney's; Charlo built most of the northside. Every time we met he'd tell me that he'd been working on the house we were going to get. He wanted to live out in the country, where Darn-dale was.

—Great for the kids, he said.

Then he blushed. He had it all worked out, and so did I. He saw the same future that I saw.

It wasn't just to spite my father. We were in love. I was mad about him. He was mad about me; he was. He loved me. He loved being with me. We laughed. He cuddled up to me. I could make him go hard just by staring at him. He lived for the times when I was with him; his face lit up. There was one grin that was all for me; his mouth and his eyes, his teeth over a chunk of his bottom lip, as if he was trying to fight back a laugh. He saved up for the ring, stayed at home so he wouldn't spend the money. He ate chips out of my knickers.

—Take your knickers off.

Out of the blue. He sounded like he'd just had a great idea; he couldn't wait to show me. It wasn't threatening or nasty. We were outside the chipper, midnight or later.

—Charlo!

—Go on, he said. —I want to show you something.

—No.

—It's not what you think, he said. —You'll like it; go on.

—No; fuck off.

—Go on, he said. —It's nothing to do with sex or anything like that; don't worry. I'd do it for you. Paula; go on.

There was a lane beside the chipper.

—Hold my chips, I said.

He held his hand out.

—You're not to eat any.

—I have my own, he said.

—Just don't, I said.

—Hurry up, he said.

I brought the knickers back to him balled up in my fist.

—Hang on, he said.

We walked on a bit, away from people.

—Give us them here, he said.

I gave him the knickers in exchange for my chips.

—Look it.

He held the knickers on one palm with his fingers coming out one of the leg holes. He upended his bag so that some of the chips fell onto his palm, onto the gusset. He handed me the rest of his chips.

—Now look.

He took a chip off my knickers and ate it.

—Jesus! Charlo!

He ate another one. He winked at me.

—Lovely.

After I started laughing I couldn't stop. He was laughing as well. He got all the chips into his mouth.

—There now, he said.

Little bits of chip sprayed out of him. He couldn't stop laughing.

—I ate chips out of your knickers, he said. —You'll remember that for the rest of your life.

He handed them back to me.

—Mind the vinegar when you're putting them back on, he said.

I had to marry him after that. Although we were with each other for a year before we got engaged.
And
another year before we got married. Jesus, I was happy. We were both happy. Both of us dying to get out of our houses and into our own — a room, a fiat, a box, anything. Anywhere. Fitzgibbon Street, Coolock, Darndale. Australia. We talked about going there. He wanted to go; I didn't. I wanted to go; he didn't.

—Christmas at the beach.

—It wouldn't be the same.

We'd go over Europe and Asia, through India. There was something called the Magic Bus. We'd save enough money and take our time. We'd hitch and go on the roof of a train.

—The Taj Mahal.

—McInerney built that as well.

We'd go through Burma and China.

—That'd be the business.

We'd drop in on Chairman Mao for a cup of tea. We'd spend the winter in Shanghai, then we'd head south for Australia and the rest of our lives.

It was so far away; we'd never see anyone again. It was too far. We both had jobs here. There were housing estates being built all over the place, all around the city; the papers were full of ads for skilled labourers — just turn up at the site and ask the foreman. The city was bursting with people growing up and getting married. There were people coming home from abroad. No one was leaving any more. Charlo had a criminal record.

—Talk to them, I said.

—Talk to who?

—The people in the embassy, I said. —You're different now. You were only a kid. They'll see. You're a good worker; they'll want you.

Summer in the winter. Upside-down. Aborigines and Skippy. We didn't go.

We didn't want to. We didn't need to. We were happy. We had money. We could see the mountains from the roof of the flats we were moving into. We were in love. Our whole lives ahead of us.

My father walked me up the aisle. He had to hold me back. I just wanted to get up there. To get to Charlo. I rested my hand on his arm. His sleeve was stiff and cold. He'd said nothing to me in the car to the church. Just the two of us. There was a separate car for the bridesmaids, my friend Dee and my sister, Denise. (It couldn't be Carmel because she was older than me. And Wendy was getting over the chickenpox, so she wouldn't do it. Dee didn't mind being asked three days before the wedding.) Daddy's chance to bury the hatchet, to wish me luck, to say that the weather had stayed nice for us; anything. No, though; nothing. He sat in his morning suit like a chicken in tinfoil, looking out the window. He never as much as looked at me; I had to open the car door for myself. He made sure we weren't touching. Our house was only a hundred yards from the church but the chauffeur brought us twice around the estate to make a journey of it. People waved, children ran alongside us. I smiled back out at them but all I knew was that my father was beside me miles away. He said absolutely nothing. It killed me to think that people could see him staring out at them, on his daughter's wedding day, on his way to the church, on his way to giving her away.

It was good in a way, though. I couldn't wait to stop being Paula O'Leary, to become Paula Spencer. I wanted nothing to do with the O'Learys again. My father, Carmel; they were bitter and warped. They hated happiness. I was finished with them, gone. They'd see me at Christmas and that was it. The wedding was my great escape and, best of all, the grumpy old fucker was paying for it.

Charlo was up at the front waiting for me. With his brother, Liam, the best man. He smiled at me. I think he was smiling at my father as well. He knew my father hated him and he didn't care; he loved it. He smiled at me. His eyes got bigger. He was admiring me; he thought I was gorgeous. And I was. Nearly running to get to him.

—Here comes the bride —

Ninety inches wide —

He looked gorgeous as well. Born in the suit. Straight-backed and comfortable. A smile that would have made Elvis jealous. A smile that said I love you and I want to rip your clothes off. A smile that said We're going to live happily ever after. He believed it. I believed it.

I was standing beside him. I laughed, and stopped myself. Some of the stuff getting out of me; the happiness and excitement. My father was somewhere behind me. Charlo was looking at me.

—I do.

Paula Spencer. The new me. The adult. Just twenty and married. Married to Charlo Spencer. The man with a past and a future. The man they all wanted. The man I got. The man who chose me.

There was confetti. There were cans tied to the back of the car. And Just Hitched in shaving foam. We ran to the car through the guests and neighbours. Showered with the confetti. Pats on the back and thumps for Charlo. The photographer missed it; we did it again. The chauffeur gave out about the shaving foam; it burned through the paint. Charlo told him to shut up. We kissed in the car. Tongues. Nearly in public, stopped at the lights.

—Let's skip it, said Charlo.

—What?

—The dinner and that, said Charlo.

—No, Charlo.

—Come on.

—No way; it's my wedding day.

We kissed again. He hadn't meant it. He was as happy as I was. He leaned nearer the chauffeur.

—How much do these things cost? he said.

—I don't know, said the chauffeur. —I don't own it.

He didn't like talking.

—I'll get you one, Charlo told me.

He leaned out to the chauffeur again.

—How much are your wages, pal?

I laughed and laughed and looked at the driver's neck going red.

Photographs of me and Charlo pretending to cut the cake. Me with his family. Him with my family. Us with both families. All of us smiling. Me with the bridesmaids. Him with his brother. His brother with the bridesmaids. Leaning into Dee, ignoring Denise. It was my day. Being kissed by everyone; buzzing all around the place. Making sure that everyone was happy. I hardly saw Charlo, except at the dinner — the breakfast. Our table was up on a platform; me and Charlo, our parents, Liam, Dee and Denise, the priest. Prawn cocktail. I looked around; most people weren't fussed about it. Charlo loved prawns. Then turkey and ham. Very nice. Sprouts, carrots, roast potatoes or mash, or both. I remember the taste of the gravy on the potatoes; I think I do. The cutlery whacking off the plates. Everyone stopped talking, only the odd word between mouthfuls. Sitting between Charlo and my father. Daddy ate it all. My mammy beside him, adjusting the food on the plate, busy but eating very little. Charlo's mother concentrating on her food. His father.

—Blotting paper, wha'.

All the brothers. The wives and girlfriends. Big people squashed along the long table. The priest. I can't remember his name. A real lemon-sucker. O'Hanlon, I think. Father O'Hanlon. Grace before meals, grace after meals. All the aunties still wearing their hats. Charlo pointed at the plate with his knife.

—Grand.

People stuffing themselves.

Then the pavlova.

—-Fuckin' hell.

Lovely. Really special. Cream on top of cream. Chunks of hidden fruit. Pears, grape halves, tangerine segments. Everyone moaning, gasping. Watery mouths.

—Oh Jesus.

And there was more for those that wanted it. The waitresses were grinning. Their high-sided steel trays were full of good news.

—Here, love!

People started to panic; there couldn't be enough for everyone. First come, first served.

—Over here!

Chairs scraping, hands waving. Even the priest looked scared that there'd be none left. Charlo laughed. There was enough for everyone. The clink of spoons, tongues shoving cream back, swallowing. Everybody happy. More big men on Charlo's side; big women on mine. His mother was big. Big boned, not an extra pick on her; like a teenage swimmer. Her hair free. A big sexy grandmother. She opened her mouth and chewed. She disgusted my father. She frightened him. Tea and coffee; the speeches.

—Hush hush!

—Loads of hush.

—Shut up!

Liam walloped his pint with a fork. The telegrams; the ones I remember. Best wishes, all the way from my Auntie Doris and Uncle Jim in Long Island; don't forget your hammer, from the lads on the site with Charlo; don't do anything we wouldn't do, from the girls in H. Williams where I worked.

—And now, said Liam. —I'm calling on Mister O'Leary to say a few words; Paula's da.

He stood up. They clapped.

—I'm not used to talking like this —

—Says you!

He coughed.

—It's been a lovely day so far, thank God. We've just had a lovely meal; the best.

Applause for the staff and the food.