Free The Woman Who Walked Into Doors by Roddy Doyle Page B

road I lived on when I was a child, from our house to the corner, across the road, down the other side to the other corner, across and up, back to our house. I could remember all the names, all the people in each family. It was easy once I got started. I was delighted — I often wonder if my brain's gone, if I've wrecked it from drinking and living — but I felt incredibly sad too; I started bawling. All of those people, all of them happy. A mother and a father and their children. There was a dog in nearly every house. It seemed so lovely as I went from one side of the road to the other, I knew I was going to cry before I got to the end. I nearly wanted Carmel to come in and ruin it. And it seemed so long ago as well. And unreachable. And I started thinking about the road I live on now and the people all around me — the differences — and I knew that I wasn't the only one who'd been flushed down the toilet in the last twenty years. But it didn't make me feel any better. Even the dogs are different now. They're not pets any more; they don't know what they are. I missed all of those people, the neighbours; the nice ones and the mad ones, the ones that drank and the ones that went to mass every day, the girls and boys and babies.
    He must have lived around one of the corners because he wasn't in any of the houses on our road and he definitely lived near us. I'd never have gone with anyone from far away when I was eleven, and far away meant anything more than three minutes' walk. Anyway, I wanted to go with him. All my friends were doing it, going with fellas or talking about it. I wanted my turn. I wanted to hear me being talked about. My best friend, Dee, had gone with three fellas in three weeks; she broke it off three Sundays in a row. Fiona was the first one of us to bring back a love-bite. She only went with that fella for two days. The record was Mary O'Gorman. She told a fella she'd go with him, then she broke it off with him after half an hour.
    —He was only after me jacket, she said.
    She was a gas young one. It was a denim jacket; her big brother had given it to her when he didn't want it any more. He still wore it sometimes but it was hers; she let him.
    —He asks me first, she said.
    She wasn't really in our gang. We all liked her, but not enough to let her in. I don't think she minded. I'm not sure that she even noticed. I'd hate to think that we hurt her. I used to love meeting her years later, on the street or the bus — before I got married and moved away. She was hilarious. She didn't give a shite; she spoke out loud.
    —His hands, Jesus; for a minute I thought I had three tits.
    She'd have you in stitches. She was funny about everything
    —The bus must be having a shite round that corner. I've been waiting here for fuckin' ages.
    I loved meeting her but I never tried to get to know her better, even when the gang had broken up and gone — Dee to England, Fiona married. There was something about her. She didn't fit. I did. I preferred it that way. I was still happy. I think. I don't remember it any other way. (I'd love to meet her now. I think I'd recognise her. I don't think she'd recognise me. I don't know if I'd be able to stop her if she was walking past me.
    —What have you been up to yourself? she'd say.
    Where would I start?)
    Anyway, my time had come. I wanted to go with someone. It couldn't be just any young fella; I had to pick the right one. There were loads of fellas to choose from. They poured out of every house every morning, hundreds of them. All the parents were the same age; all their children were the same age. There were hundreds of fellas my age. That was the first thing though: he had to be older, even just a bit. You couldn't have a toy-boy when you were only eleven. But if he was much older he'd say no. I knew I looked older than my age — people kept telling me and looking at me — but a fella two years older was the most I could get away with. Stephen Rooney was thirteen and