Woman crashed the door

Author: Roddy Doyle
Translator: Huang Yuning
Country: Ireland
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-12-01
Features: As long as there is poverty, tears, love, dreams, and hope, the same plot can happen in any corner of the world. This book describes a story from Dublin's underclass, portrayed with a tough guy's style, depicting the joys and sorrows of a young woman's growth. The plot is twisty and captivating.
—He's a "rider," isn't he? I remember hearing that—before I met Charlie Spencer, it was the first time I'd heard anything about him. We called all the good-looking boys "riders." Whether they were grown men or boys, if they weren't called "riders," they had to be really ugly—deformed or something like that. Even some of our fathers were "riders." We could call our friends' fathers "riders"—as long as they were good-looking. No one ever called my dad "a rider." I think it was Dearling who called Charlie a "rider," and everyone else just agreed with her.
Speaking of Dearling, she would stare back at the boys' gazes in a way no one else would: That was in 1973, close to Christmas. I know this because I was working at H. Williams's store, and all day I was stacking cartons of cookies at the end of three aisles, piling them high. Afterward, I was exhausted; I remember. I tried to open one of the cartons of cookies; I tore off the transparent tape that sealed it, but it wouldn't come off, the tape was so long. A customer was watching me, it was a woman. I remember her. She put a pair of glasses slightly crookedly on her head, and she was wearing a beautiful dress; the dress wasn't special—black, but it looked expensive and warm. So I put the tape back on. I could feel my skin getting hot. I moved slowly, as if I were doing what I was supposed to be doing. (I hadn't blushed in years.) I remembered all these things all at once. Cookies, tape, Charlie Spencer was a "rider"—these things all happened on the same day. I know. And it was also cold that day. We were outside Minter's Restaurant. The cold was so intense that you couldn't help but want to hide in the bathroom, keep stamping your feet, and stick your hands inside your sleeves. I think that's why I remember the woman's dress. I was frozen. None of us had enough space at home to let everyone in. And I think parents were different back then. Even if the house was big, even if I was the only child in the family, even if I had my own room, Mom and Dad would never let everyone in.
He really was a "rider." From the first time I heard about him to the last time I saw him, calling him a "rider" was always the right word. He wasn't outstanding. There was nothing outstanding about him. The first time we got drunk (especially me) and had sex in the field, I didn't really realize what was happening. I just felt his weight and felt like I was going to throw up; afterward, I felt awful, damp, scared, and guilty, mixed with aches all over my body. If he had been as outstanding as Robert Redford or Lee Majors, I wouldn't have felt so bad. They would have come to pick me up and take me home; at least they wouldn't have had sex with me in the field—not in our field, that wasn't really a field, just a pile of garbage left over from when the house was built.
Charlie stood up.
—It's really fucking cold.
He wiped his penis with the lining of his short jacket. I swear he did. It wasn't until the next day, when I calmed down and tried to think about it in a better way, that I really understood what he was doing. Outstanding men wouldn't do that. The grass was wet. I could smell the smell of animal feces. If that had been Robert Redford, he would have brought a picnic blanket with him. He was a "rider," he was eighteen years old, he had brown eyes, and he had once had a buzz cut; he had been in court three times and had been to St. Pat's prison once. I found out about these things that night outside Minter's Restaurant. He also had a scar—a stab wound—on his stomach.
—No, it was on his arm.
—It was on his stomach, Fiona said.
—How do you know? Dearling said.
—Oh, if you really have to know, Fiona said,
—he and my uncle were on the same team, and my uncle saw it. In the shower. We were both turned on.
—Shower! I had never seen a shower before. The shower equipment was like a waterbed or a Jacuzzi now—there was something luxurious and decadent about it.
—Imagine, sisters.
—Soap, soap, soap!
—and a face towel.
Dearling started pretending to take a shower, washing under her arms—she looked around—then washing between her legs. I called Pauline Spencer. I'm thirty-nine years old. I had my birthday last week. I'm a widow. I've been married for eighteen years. My maiden name was O'Leary. My husband died last year, almost exactly a year apart. He was shot by the police. He left me a year before he died. I kicked him out. His name was Charles Spencer, but everyone called him Charlie. Only my mother and father, and the priest at his funeral, called him by his real name. I have four children. (I could have had five; I had a miscarriage.) The oldest is Nicola. She's eighteen. She works in a store and has a steady boyfriend, Tony. She's a great kid. I don't have to worry about her at all. The second is John Paul. He's sixteen. I don't know where he is now. He used to hang out in an apartment in the city, but I don't think he's there anymore. He never gets close to me. No one talks to me about him, and I don't mention him in front of others. I have reason to believe he's addicted to drugs. He's stolen things from my mother more than once. This junkie. He never comes to my place; he knows there's nothing here. He uses heroin. He has a tattoo on his arm that I paid for; that's the only thing left between us. I don't want to think like that, but I have to. Otherwise, I'd just pretend everything was fine, pretend he was still at home, or on his way home. On his fourteenth birthday, I paid for the tattoo so he wouldn't hate me. It was "Liverpool F.C." He doesn't even care about that now. It's cruel; I don't understand what happened. I always hope someone will knock on the door with news about John Paul. Every knock and step outside can drive me to the brink of life and death. The third is Lynn. She's twelve. She's lovely, sweet; I really hope she never grows up. Last Saturday, I found a kiss mark on her neck. She noticed me watching her, but I said nothing. She's funny. She always makes me happy. She does well in school, though she's a bit of a show-off, her teacher told me. She's smart, imaginative, does well in math, but she likes to put on airs too much. Her teacher says she should spend more time on her homework. I plan to keep her in school until she finishes and gets her diploma. That's one in the Spencer family. The youngest is Jack, my little treasure. He's five. He's incredibly smart and reacts quickly. He's a gentle boy. His face and stomach are still like a baby's. Whenever I feel really down, I go to Jack, look at him. He looks well-fed, plump. There's nothing in the world that compares to being held tightly by Jack. I taught him to sing "(Goodbye, Sadness)," and he knows when to sing it too. I spend more on his clothes than on all the other kids combined. I'd starve myself to make him look good. I don't let Jack wear hand-me-down clothes; no way. He brings me luck, he speaks for me. He's my little treasure. He's already forgotten his father; he says he has. (I'll never forget it—I saw a woman staring at Lynn in a supermarket years ago. That scene contained something that scared me. Her shopping cart was empty. The woman noticed me watching her. —I recognize this dress, she said. She managed a smile and walked away. —Goodbye. I bought this dress from "Vincent Paul." I'll never shop there again. That was humiliating, God, and other thoughts have been bothering me ever since. Where is her daughter? It was a weekend. Why was her shopping cart empty? It was just an ordinary blue dress. That poor woman.)
My father died. After a long struggle, cancer took him. My mother is still alive and doing well. She's sixty now and lives alone. I have two sisters and three brothers. One sister died; we're close to our sisters, but we don't visit our brothers often. I don't like Roger, and he doesn't like me either. I haven't seen him in years, not even at Christmas. He lives somewhere in England. My mother once gave me his address, but I didn't take it in; I didn't care. He's divorced. Charlie beat him up badly. He got what he deserved. I'm an alcoholic. I've never told anyone that. (Neither has anyone wanted to know.) I've never taken any steps; I've never tried to quit. I think if I really wanted to quit, if I were ready, I could. I've been drinking since I was sixteen, even before I started dating Charlie. I don't remember when I stopped liking it and started needing it. I think this habit formed gradually in me. My father didn't drink much, and my mother didn't drink at all. (—Do you remember Dad getting drunk? I asked my sisters. —No, Camille said. —Never, Denise said.) He was talking to Lynn. He was patting her head. Her fingers were pulling at my pocket. Her face burrowed into me. Her eyes were fixed on her father. Her eyes were fixed on his fists. Her eyes were fixed on his face. Her face burrowed into me, making me wet. I couldn't see her. My hand was on her head. —It's okay. I had to look at Charlie. Begging him, stopping him. I felt Lynn trembling. I didn't let him get close. I tried to face him. Tried to hide her behind me. Tried not to make her a target. Her hand grabbed my jeans. Her heart was racing. I stared intently into Charlie's eyes. Once, he asked me why my eyes were black. I didn't know why he asked, I didn't know what he meant. We were just talking, talking about TV. We used to watch the news a lot; that was a long time ago. I remember it was during a hunger strike by political prisoners. Charlie was very interested in it. He knew all the names of the political prisoners and how many days they hadn't eaten; he was an expert in that regard. He would have been happy to be with them. I told him that. —Yes, he replied. He didn't even realize I was mocking him. He wore a black armband everywhere, and he put it on before he put on his pants every morning. Despite that, he ate like a pig. We were watching the news and making comments when he asked me about my black eyes. I didn't take my eyes off the TV. He was testing me; that had to be it. There was one definite answer, but I couldn't say it. There was no argument. No tension. We were getting along well, chatting about the world, about the hunger strike. Everything was fine; he was just twisting things to make sure every word he said didn't contradict himself. Then he said it. —Where did you get that? —What? —Eyes. It was a test. My heart was pounding. He was teasing me. There was one definite answer. —I hit the door. —Really? —Yes. —That must have hurt. —Not too bad. —That's good.