The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (13 page)

—The best of luck to Paula and Charles. He's a lucky man.

—Hear hear!

—So's she!

Laughing.

—Thank you all for coming and I hope you all enjoy the rest of the day.

That was it.

Applause.

Word for word.

—Good man.

He managed to say it all without looking at either of us — no fond look, no toast. He was no hypocrite. A pity; I wish he'd pretended. It would have been better. I'd like to have smiled back up at him, to have felt his hand on my shoulder, to have let myself get weepy.

Liam stood up.

—Loads of hush. Would the Spencers ever shut up!

—Good man, Liamo.

—Now Father O'Hanlon has a few words he wants to say to yis. Put your hands together for Father O'Hanlon.

The priest said something about the family rosary; I can't remember exactly. Something about if we were ever in trouble we should get down on our knees and say the rosary, it would sort out our problems. (I tried it; it didn't.) He said that we were a lovely couple and that we'd have lovely children.

Then it was Charlo's turn. He stood up slowly, uncurled himself and got taller and taller. Everyone watched him and admired. He smiled. He enjoyed being looked at. He was happy; I could feel it off him.

—Ladies and gentlemen, Father O'Hanlon, Ma.

Laughter.

—Yis all know me —

—More's the pity!

Charlo's lovely grin.

—I'm a man of action, not words.

—Yeow!

—Watch out, Paula!

My father beside me, looking into his tea. Charlo leaned down and took my hand.

—This is the best day of my life.

Then he kissed me.

Cheers, laughter and clapping.

—He kissed me in a way I'd never been kissed — Before-ore —

He kissed me, leaned over me and kissed me bang on the mouth. Then he sat down without letting go of my hand. His grin turned into a laugh. I can see it; he was so happy. I'd made him that way.

—I do.

Into the bar. Chatting and laughter. My mother grinning and nodding like a mad woman — making up for my father. The Spencers took over most of the tables. They were wedding veterans. The men at the bar handed glasses and mixer bottles over their shoulders and heads, and back, hand by hand, to the tables. Pockets full of notes. It was great to watch. They were a real family, a great sponge of hard men and women. I was one of them. I liked that. You were safe when you were in there with them. You were welcome. They'd die for you. They were funny and impressive. The women with the women and the men with the men. Charlo's mother sat there in the middle. She had her head to the side and she nodded, like she was listening to confessions. His father was up at the bar, handing back the drink, pint after pint after pint of Guinness. I sat in with the women. They smiled, made sure that my dress didn't get creased or stained. A rum and black appeared in front of me; they knew what I'd want. His mother nodded.

Liam leaning into Dee. He winked at me.

The band and the dancing. Me and Charlo had to get up first.

—Knock three times —

On the ceiling if you wa-want me —

I remember letting my head drop onto his shoulder, just for a little while, to let him know I loved him and how happy I was.

—Twice on the pipes —

If the answer is no-ho-ho-oo —

Everyone stood around us and clapped. Then little cousins started running and sliding and his parents were dancing, and mine, Liam and Dee, and everybody. The band were brutal but Charlo liked that.

—Fuckin' hopeless, he grinned.

The Virginians. Orange shirts and waistcoats. Four of them. The drummer was my father's second cousin. He threw up his sticks and caught them.

—These are the dreams of an everyday housewife —

Jackets off, ties loosened or gone. It was still bright outside. The windows were fogged, little rivers running down them. I could taste the pavlova.

—An everyday housewife who gave up —

The good life —

For me —

Mixed with the gravy. We were circling too fast, like in a ceili. It didn't suit the song. I was sweating and dizzy. But it went. The taste and the terror. I laughed. Charlo whooped. We stopped and swapped, me with Liam, Charlo with Dee. Liam pressed into me. He licked my neck. I didn't have time to be properly shocked. Then he stood away and laughed.

—Indiana wants me —

But I can't go back there —

Me and his father.

—Did you see the price of the drink in this place?

—Is it dear?

—Fuckin' desperate. Still though, it's only the once. Y'enjoying yourself?

—Yes, thanks.

—Good. It's your day.

(I could never decide if I liked him or not. He came over to me at the funeral and held my hand for a while. Liam spat on the ground in front of me.)

—By the time I get to Albuquerque —

Me and my father.

—Are you enjoying yourself? I asked him.

—Yes, he said.

—Great, I said. —Thanks; it's been lovely.

Nothing back.

—I'll never forget it.

Nothing.

(The man at the wedding has killed the other father I had, the one I had when I was a girl. I can't get at
him
any more. I can picture him, no problem, even smell him — but he isn't my daddy. He's another man. He's not real. I don't trust him or myself; I'm making him up. He couldn't be the same man who was at my wedding, the same man who wouldn't come to Nicola's christening ten months later because he had a cold, who wouldn't take her in his arms when she was handed to him, pretending he didn't realise what was expected.)

Singing. It was dark outside. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down. The Men Behind The Wire. All Kinds Of Everything. Going Up To Monto. Charlo's da sang Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens. He became a chicken on the stage in front of the band; they couldn't cope with him. He was brilliant. I looked around to see if my father was watching. He wasn't there. My Auntie Fay sang Ave Maria. Charlo's brother, Thomas, sang Brown Sugar.

—How come you taste so goo-wood —

He was great.

—Yeah — Yeah — Yeah — Woooo —

His lips and his shoulders. Spinning and ducking. All the Spencers were great actors. They were queuing up for their turn. I sang Vincent. I closed my eyes and dragged myself through it.

—Look out on a summer's day —

Wrong notes all the way through and silence in front of me. I finished, mortified and wet. They clapped and cheered. I fell off the stage to get away. Then it was Charlo. He knew thousands of songs. He only had to hear a song once and he could give it back and fill in the gaps with words of his own, better words. He never sang the same song twice. (Then he stopped singing. About ten years ago.) Everyone watched him. It wasn't just a song; it was a whole show.

—There's —

No lights on the Christmas tree —

Mother —

They're burning Big Louie tonight —

I knew the song. The Sensational Alex Harvey Band. Charlo loved Alex Harvey. He even looked like him when his hair wasn't combed. He had a few striped t-shirts like Alex Harvey's. He looked out over the microphone; he never looked at it. He stopped, pressed some words, and skipped over others.

—There's —

No elec-tricity —

Mother —

They're burnin' Big Louie tonight —

The Spencers were in charge now. My crowd were huddled in corners, sipping their drinks and waiting for going-home time. The Spencers had taken over. They even took the instruments off the band, got in behind the drums and started messing with the knobs on the amplifiers. The brothers. Liam, Thomas, Gregory, Harry, Benny and Charlo.

The wedding was over. I was married now, one of them. They were finished with my family. Not just the brothers. His mother and father, all his aunts and uncles and cousins. They took over the whole place. They kept on singing.

—I'm in lurve — huh —

I'm all shook up —

My crowd started leaving. They crept along the walls. There were cousins whispering behind me; a fight going on in the men's toilet. Harry started bashing the guitar on the floor. The Virginians stood beside the platform, looking at the brothers wrecking their gear and pretending it was great gas.

I went up to the room upstairs and sat on the bed. I wanted Charlo to come in now. Before it was too late. Before he got too drunk. Before he went off somewhere with the brothers. If he came in now it would become our wedding day again. I waited. I had my bouquet. I wanted to stand on the stairs and throw it and laugh. I lay down on the bed. It was cold. I got under the bedclothes without taking my dress off. I waited for Charlo. I listened to the noise.

I stood outside his house. In the drizzle. The house was in a swerving cul-de-sac, a lovely quiet place with a smell of the sea. I stood there for I don't know how long; a few minutes. I just wanted to see. I wasn't going to knock on the door, nothing like that. He was in there. There was a light on and his car was parked on the slanting drive. Pointing at the house, slanting down. A nice-looking car; stylish, silver-blue. My hair was like a cap on my head; the rain and drizzle had hardened it.

I was standing outside Mr Fleming's house. I was by myself. I'd got off the bus in Malahide and walked the rest of the way because I didn't know how far from the town his house was. I asked the way, and walked. Past the tennis courts and the Grand Hotel — we'd been to a wedding there once — and Oscar Taylor's restaurant, all the places named in the newspapers. On along the Coast Road. The estate name was carved into a piece of stone on the side of the road.

I didn't want to see him.

But I did. I wanted to see him doing something; putting something in the bin, cutting the grass, something ordinary. Something to prove that he was getting over it. But I didn't think I'd be able to look at him; I didn't want him to see me. I couldn't have looked at him. It had nothing to do with me, I'd have shouted. He left me long before it happened. I didn't kill your fuckin' wife. He hit me too, you know. He hit me too. I'm sorry, I'd say. I'm sorry for your troubles. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'd only seen him in photographs. At the funeral, with his hand over his eyes. Coming down the steps of the court during Richie Massey's trial; looking thinner and older. I'd never seen him on the telly. I'd made sure I hadn't. I saw nothing on the telly after the first night.

I didn't see him this time. He didn't come out; I saw no movement inside. I was happier that way, but a bit unsettled, not ready to leave. Waiting. It wasn't a big house. A very neat red-bricked bungalow. It had a name, a wooden plaque beside the front door: The Haven. Charlo had stood in the porch down there, waiting for the door to open. The net curtains on the windows stopped me from seeing anything; I wasn't going to go down the drive for a better look. I wondered had she put them up or had he, after she died. They were good for closing him in; that was what he wanted. He was in there.

The sea was behind the house. I couldn't see it from where I stood. All the houses blocked it; the row of little bungalows keeping the view for themselves — they'd paid for it. I imagined him looking out at the sea and the island, sitting back in a nice chair. A big window in front of him. Did it make him feel any better? Lambay Island. It really was a lovely place to live.

It was so quiet. I'd never been anywhere so quiet. Even the birds were silent. Maybe it was the drizzle. Maybe there weren't any. Maybe they were waiting for me to go. They didn't know me. I wasn't wanted. I'd been standing there too long; I didn't know how long it had been. I didn't know why I'd come. Just to see. To fill something in.

I walked to the end of the cul-de-sac. There were cars in front of most of the houses. People in; someone was looking — there had to be somebody. Looking at a wet woman in her daughter's jacket. There was a small park at the end of the road and another road at the other end of it, to the left. That must have been where they'd parked their car, Charlo and Richie Massey. I wasn't going to go over there. (Does blood leave a stain on cement?) In front of me, to the right, over a bunch of bluey-green trees, there was a beautiful house, like a castle. A really beautiful thing with two round roofs shaped like cones. And windows in them. A gorgeous-looking place. People lived in that. There was a weather cock on top of the highest roof. It wasn't moving. I don't think I'd ever seen a weather cock before, or noticed one. Arrows pointing four ways. People lived in there, had bedrooms in that roof. The trees in the park were in round groups. They looked old but the place seemed brand new. No cracks in the paths, no dog dirt. I looked over at where I drought Richie Massey had parked the car. I could feel nothing. I wouldn't go over. There was a lane beside the castle. Steps down to a small road above the main road. I could see the sea and the sand now. I went down the lane; it looked open and public. Strange trees that made me feel that I wasn't in Ireland. Even with the rain. Even the daisies were different. They were bigger and fuller, absolute flowers. There was a smell of things growing and dying. I came to the end of the lane. The tide was out. It was lovely; miles of shining wet sand and a mist that was thin enough to make things look more interesting. Lambay was floating by itself. There was a town off to the left, maybe Skerries, shaped like an American city in the mist. There were dunes made for Arabs. The railings were silver and lit. Hardly anyone around; a few people in parked cars, looking out where I was looking. Maybe thinking what I was thinking, feeling the same way.

I was happy. It made me happy to think that people lived here, in all this, with all this. In this quiet, with this view of the island and the sea and its fresh smell. Charlo had been here but he'd left nothing; I couldn't feel him anywhere. He'd been washed away. He was stuck to other places but not here. Mr Fleming was looking out his window. I decided that. He definitely was. He was looking out at the same view 1 was looking at. He was fine; lonely but fine. There was a woman in his bank who was in love with him, but he didn't know it yet. She was nice, mature; she'd be good for him, bring him out of himself, make him laugh. She'd respect his memories. She wouldn't compete. He stretched his legs and bent down to pick up his mug of coffee.

There was a bus stop near but I walked past it, and the next two. I was glad now I hadn't seen him. It was better imagining him. It made more sense.