Free Paula Spencer by Roddy Doyle Page B

coffee.
    She hasn't seen the pizza fella since, the one she took a shine to in the summer. He seems to be gone. And she can't ask. Not today anyway, after what's just happened.
    She was just suddenly there. Awake – she hadn't a clue. With a bag in each hand, standing at the counter.
    She remembers being in the supermarket, at the till. She thinks she remembers taking things out of her basket. The feel of the chicken, cold from the fridge. Afraid her fingers would burst the plastic covering. She thinks that was today. But she thinks that every time she picks up a chicken in a supermarket. She's always afraid the blood will come through the plastic. She can feel the cold in the fingers of her left hand, picking it out of the basket.
    And then she was here. The woman behind the counter was smiling at her – the usual way. Waiting for Paula to ask for her coffee and maybe a cake. The usual.
    What did she look like? What do they see when they look at her?
    She mutters to herself a bit at home, in the kitchen, wandering around.
    Enough. She's grand.
    She opens the notebook. She writes the names down the page. With her madwoman's pen. She can hardly read the pink ink. She definitely needs her eyes tested. Carmel and Denise need glasses for reading.
    She writes the names. Jack, Nicola, Leanne.
    She stops.
    She tears out the page. The page says it all, the order she's written the names in – Jack, Nicola, Leanne. She puts the page in her jacket pocket.
    She'll get a handbag too, when she's buying the coat. She might as well, go the whole hog. She heard a woman this morning, on Marian Finnucane. I just love a nice bag, Marian. I'm addicted to them. Fuckin' eejit. Spending thousands on handbags.
    She starts again. The grandkids' names. John Paul's first. Then Nicola's two. Then Jack – he's still a kid. Then Leanne. Nicola. John Paul. Carmel. Denise. Nieces, nephews. The big, happy family. She can't remember them all. Denise's second lad. The one who did well in his Leaving. All sorts of honours. What's his bloody name? She knew it yesterday. Is that why she's suddenly keen on lists, because it's all slipping away?
    She just wants to be organised. She wants to know what she has to do. How far she can get with the money she'll have.
    Here's the coffee.
    Kieran.
    The girl puts it on the table, and the little jug of milk.
    —Thanks very much.
    —Are welcome.
    Kieran.
    She writes it down. It's a big list. It's taken two pages. And now she remembers, she left out two. Tony. That's Nicola's fella. And John Paul's partner. No-Arse.
    The girl has a name and it's Carol. Except she calls herself Star. It's tattooed on the knuckles of her right hand. She did it herself. Paula will never need reading glasses to see those letters.
    Are reading glasses expensive? Depends on the glasses. She supposes. She'll ask Carmel. She'll text her. Glses exps? She'll get the reply. Spare pr. Wnt?
    Thank God for selection boxes. That's what most of these kids will be getting. And thank God for Rita Kavanagh, three doors up from her. It's 23 November and Rita has been up to Newry twice already, doing her Christmas shopping. Paula met Rita getting out of her car last week and the car was stuffed with bags, mostly filled with selection boxes. The whole back of the car was full of chocolate.
    —I'm after saving a fortune, Paula, she told her. — It's a great day out. You should come with us. There's a convoy of us going up to Enniskillen next week. Jesus, the crack.
    Paula's never been to the North. She suggested it to Jack last summer, a day in the train to Belfast. A big breakfast on the train, shopping for a few hours, maybe that tour of the black spots she heard about on the radio, and back to Dublin on the train. She'd have liked that, the day out with Jack, and the walk home through the estate with the Belfast shopping bags. But he wouldn't go. She didn't ask Nicola, because Nicola would have spent too much. And she never thought of asking