The Woman Who Walked into Doors (A Paula Spencer Novel) by Doyle Roddy

Author:Doyle, Roddy [Doyle, Roddy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 1996-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

19

Charlo and my father. High Noon. The two of them standing there, facing each other, staring, my father at the window, Charlo at the door. My mother trying to get out of her chair, trying to smile. Denise and Wendy on the floor looking at The Golden Shot. The rest were out or upstairs.

Sunday afternoon.

I’d brought him home for tea. I’d been told to.

—I want to see him, said my father.

—He’s very nice, said Mammy.

—I want to see him anyway, he said.—It’s about time I met him.

They looked at one another, Daddy and Charlo. I hadn’t told Charlo to be nice; I was hoping he’d put on a bit of a show. He turned up in his usual gear, the parallels and bomber jacket. Wearing denims on a Sunday was a big thing back then; it was almost like saying that you didn’t believe in God. And his bomber jacket, zipped up even though it was lovely out, real spring weather. I thought he looked great but I could see him now through my father’s eyes. I saw him looking at Charlo’s socks. Mammy was still trying to lift herself out of the chair. She wasn’t fat or awkward or anything; she probably just felt weak. I know I did.

—This is Charles, I said.

I nearly burst out laughing.

—Charles, said my father.

—Howyeh, said Charlo.—Mister O’Leary.

He was trying. I really loved him now. He was doing it for me, wrecking his Sunday, doing his best.

—Howyeh, Missis O’Leary.

God, he was gorgeous.

—Hello again, Charles, said Mammy.

I don’t know why she said that; again. Maybe she sensed that Daddy was going to like Charlo—she often guessed things wrong—and she wanted to remind him that she’d seen him first. Maybe she hoped it would help us relax. He was the first fella I’d ever brought home. I was eighteen.

Twenty-one years ago.

—Sit yourselves down, said Daddy.

—We’re watching Bob Monkhouse, said Mammy. Charlo said nothing.

—D’you like Bob Monkhouse, Charles? said Daddy.

—He’s alright, said Charlo.

—We like him.

—He’s good guests, said Charlo.

I nearly fell off my chair. He was really trying.

—He does, said Daddy.—Sometimes.

Daddy looked at Charlo looking at the telly. He was being horrible; I remember. He was waiting. He was going to get Charlo—I could see it. He looked mean that afternoon. We watched Bernie The Bolt put the arrow thing in the crossbow. Wendy was scratching her leg, trying to keep up with Charlo, the telly and Daddy. Denise was just staring at Charlo.

—I wonder is it all a cod, said Daddy.—What d’you think, Charles?

—Don’t know, said Charlo.—The prizes are real.

It was a brilliant answer; it shut Daddy up. It made me nervous though. It was more like the real Charlo, much more than cheeky.

—Left a bit, said Mammy, and she laughed.

—Mammy! said Denise.

—Catweezil’s on after this, said Daddy.—Although, God knows, the reception could be better. D’you like Catweezil, Charles?

—No, said Charlo.

I’ll never forget how uncomfortable the chair was that afternoon. I can still feel it.

—Do you not?

—I think it’s stupid, said Charlo.

—We like it, said Daddy.

—It’s a kid’s programme, said Charlo.

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