Paula Spencer by Roddy Doyle

will still have more than she does.
    She'll go to the bank in the morning. It means a walk but she'll do it. She'll open her account. Her own envelope will slap the floor in the hall. Paula Spencer. Private and Confidential.

She's to wait for a minivan outside Tara Street station. She's waiting with the junkies. God love them, and the kids in buggies, their mammies strung out or hurting – Paula doesn't know. John Paul did his hurting out of sight. She never got to hit him with tough love.
    —Are you clean now, John Paul?
    She asked him that the second time they met, a month after she'd answered the door and found him there, a young man in black jeans and a baseball cap. She thought he was looking for the milk money or something and she was going to put him right. But he moved and then she knew. Just the slightest move. He lifted his hand, and John Paul was in front of her. Back from the dead.
    —Alright?
    Her son.
    And she'd wondered what he wanted. What he was going to take.
    —Are you clean now, John Paul?
    That second meeting. He looked at her, across the table. He'd left the baseball cap at home or in his van. She could see him clearly. She watched him remembering the kitchen, putting himself back in it.
    He looked at her.
    —Yeah, he said. —I am. Are you?
    He knew. He could see the state of her. This was before she'd stopped drinking, this latest time. He was looking around him and it was coming back. He knew where he'd find the bottles.
    But he didn't sneer.
    He knew. She knows that now. But she didn't. He knew she was an addict. She didn't. She drank too much. She'd have admitted that. She was an alcoholic. She knew that too. But she didn't know what it meant. She drank too much. The way to deal with it was to drink less. She could give it up any time she wanted.
    John Paul looked straight at her. And she realised. It made her want to die or kill him – he expected her to answer.
    About time. The minivan stops and the door is slid open. She's climbing in before she feels the heat and she realises that the van is nearly full.
    She gets in. There's not much room. Her leg is right against another woman's leg.
    —Sorry.
    No answer.
    She looks around. She's the only white woman.
    Someone smiles. She catches herself, smiles back. She turns to face the front. She remembers – she finds her seat belt and puts it on. She has to push and shove. She's like a cranky kid.
    —Sorry.
    She knows. There'll be no crack on the way. And no singsong coming home. No one speaks. It takes about an hour and it stops being familiar after twenty minutes. Ranelagh, Milltown, Windy Arbour. She doesn't know them. Dundrum. She knows the name – of course she does – but she's never been here before. She looks up at the new bridge for the Luas, where the tram goes right over the road. It's like a different city.
    She doesn't feel uncomfortable but it's weird. She's the only white woman. And the only Irish woman – she supposes. The only one born here. The driver's white but he says nothing. He mightn't be Irish either, although he looks it from where she's sitting – his ears are Irish. He doesn't have the radio on, or any music playing. It's so quiet, it's mad. As if they have to stay quiet. As if they're coming up to a border crossing and they'll be caught if they make noise.
    She looks out at a shopping centre. She knows the name. Nutgrove. She's heard ads for it on the radio. She can't remember the jingle.
    They're going up a steep hill. She can feel it in the engine; she can hear it. It's like the city has ended and they've come right up to the mountains.
    She's the only white woman in the van. What would she think if she was outside and the van was passing her now? She doesn't know. She wouldn't make much of it. Just that. The van is full of women and only one of them is white.
    She's a failure. She shouldn't be in this van. She should be outside, looking at it going by. On her way home from work. Already home – on her way out