again. Irishwomen don't do this work. Only Paula.
That's not true. There's plenty do what she does. Going to work is never failure. Earning the money for her son's computer isn't failure. The money comes from nowhere else.
Ten years ago there wouldn't have been one black woman on this bus – less than ten years. It would have been Paula and women like Paula. Same age, from the same area, same kids. Where are those women now? Carmel used to do cleaning and now she's buying flats in Bulgaria.
Enough.
She's grand. She knows how far she's come. She's not ashamed of work.
They must be getting near. There are Garda at all the corners and gangs of kids, all walking in the same direction.
But it's true. She's been left behind. She knows that. But she's always known it. She was never in front. Except when she first met Charlo and for a while after that. She thought she was winning then. Because she was with Charlo and people got out of his way. He never looked behind him. He never cared what others saw or thought – including her, but she didn't know that then. Anyway, that was the time she thought she was ahead of the pack. And, very quickly, she knew it wasn't like that.
She sits up.
They're going through a gate. They're in the park. She can't hear any music.
This is better. It's honest. She puts in the hours. She gets paid.
Do women her age go backpacking? Go to Australia and that other place – Singapore? Do they go to bed with men whose names they don't want or need to know?
It's looking like serious rain out there. The mountains and trees make the clouds look nearer.
Singapore. My arse.
Honesty. That's what she owns now. She thinks.
—Are you clean now, John Paul? she'd asked him.
—Yeah, he'd said. —I am. Are you?
—No.
He'd nodded.
There were parts of his father sitting there in front of her. The eyes, the forehead, the length of the fingers resting on the table, and the knuckles. But it wasn't Charlo who'd nodded. There was no sneer or triumph. A good man had nodded back at Paula.
Her son.
She saw him to the door. She went back to the kitchen and she drank a bottle of vodka.
The man stops the van. They're in among other vans and buses, on the grass. It'll be desperate later if it rains, when they're going home. They'll be up their arses in muck.
—Right, says the driver.
He's Irish alright. She was right about his ears.
He turns around.
—Ladies. Out you get.
He thinks he's great. Just now – the power.
—Will you be bringing us back? says Paula.
—Haven't a clue, love.
He's a rat-faced fella, yellowy teeth. There's nothing on his face she'd like to know.
—You might have to walk home, love, he says.
—Fine, she says. —I like a nice walk.
She finds the handle. She opens the door, slides it back. She climbs out. She's stiff. It's cold. The ground is soft and wet. She can feel it in her feet.
She puts on her jacket – Jack's jacket. It's a good warm one, black, for school. He never wears it, unless she stands at the door and tells him to. Anyway, there was nothing else. She's here because she needs a coat of her own. And Jack's computer. It's grand. There's no crest on it or anything. It isn't a school jacket.
She can hear the music now. That bass sound kids seem to love. She can feel it coming from the ground. She didn't know what bass was in her day. There was a bass player in every band but it didn't seem to matter. It wasn't what she ever heard. Which one of the Beatles played the bass? She still doesn't know.
The African women get out after her. They stand behind her. She's the leader. She doesn't want that but she doesn't want to move too soon, to look as if she's trying to get away. She's stuck. She smiles at two women. They smile back.
—Cold.
They smile.
What's it like for them? Are yis not freezing? It's a reasonable question. What made you come here? But questions like that must piss them off. There are colder places than Ireland. It's Marlay Park, not fuckin'
That's not true. There's plenty do what she does. Going to work is never failure. Earning the money for her son's computer isn't failure. The money comes from nowhere else.
Ten years ago there wouldn't have been one black woman on this bus – less than ten years. It would have been Paula and women like Paula. Same age, from the same area, same kids. Where are those women now? Carmel used to do cleaning and now she's buying flats in Bulgaria.
Enough.
She's grand. She knows how far she's come. She's not ashamed of work.
They must be getting near. There are Garda at all the corners and gangs of kids, all walking in the same direction.
But it's true. She's been left behind. She knows that. But she's always known it. She was never in front. Except when she first met Charlo and for a while after that. She thought she was winning then. Because she was with Charlo and people got out of his way. He never looked behind him. He never cared what others saw or thought – including her, but she didn't know that then. Anyway, that was the time she thought she was ahead of the pack. And, very quickly, she knew it wasn't like that.
She sits up.
They're going through a gate. They're in the park. She can't hear any music.
This is better. It's honest. She puts in the hours. She gets paid.
Do women her age go backpacking? Go to Australia and that other place – Singapore? Do they go to bed with men whose names they don't want or need to know?
It's looking like serious rain out there. The mountains and trees make the clouds look nearer.
Singapore. My arse.
Honesty. That's what she owns now. She thinks.
—Are you clean now, John Paul? she'd asked him.
—Yeah, he'd said. —I am. Are you?
—No.
He'd nodded.
There were parts of his father sitting there in front of her. The eyes, the forehead, the length of the fingers resting on the table, and the knuckles. But it wasn't Charlo who'd nodded. There was no sneer or triumph. A good man had nodded back at Paula.
Her son.
She saw him to the door. She went back to the kitchen and she drank a bottle of vodka.
The man stops the van. They're in among other vans and buses, on the grass. It'll be desperate later if it rains, when they're going home. They'll be up their arses in muck.
—Right, says the driver.
He's Irish alright. She was right about his ears.
He turns around.
—Ladies. Out you get.
He thinks he's great. Just now – the power.
—Will you be bringing us back? says Paula.
—Haven't a clue, love.
He's a rat-faced fella, yellowy teeth. There's nothing on his face she'd like to know.
—You might have to walk home, love, he says.
—Fine, she says. —I like a nice walk.
She finds the handle. She opens the door, slides it back. She climbs out. She's stiff. It's cold. The ground is soft and wet. She can feel it in her feet.
She puts on her jacket – Jack's jacket. It's a good warm one, black, for school. He never wears it, unless she stands at the door and tells him to. Anyway, there was nothing else. She's here because she needs a coat of her own. And Jack's computer. It's grand. There's no crest on it or anything. It isn't a school jacket.
She can hear the music now. That bass sound kids seem to love. She can feel it coming from the ground. She didn't know what bass was in her day. There was a bass player in every band but it didn't seem to matter. It wasn't what she ever heard. Which one of the Beatles played the bass? She still doesn't know.
The African women get out after her. They stand behind her. She's the leader. She doesn't want that but she doesn't want to move too soon, to look as if she's trying to get away. She's stuck. She smiles at two women. They smile back.
—Cold.
They smile.
What's it like for them? Are yis not freezing? It's a reasonable question. What made you come here? But questions like that must piss them off. There are colder places than Ireland. It's Marlay Park, not fuckin'
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