Paula Spencer by Roddy Doyle Read Free Book Online Page B

when she found out about them, when John Paul told her their names. Just like that, they were there and hers. Two more grandchildren. They're gas kids. They're lovely. God though, they scare her.
    Marcus and Sapphire.
    And their mother – Christ almighty.
    Paula wasn't there when they were born. That's the problem – one of the problems. They were there years before she found out. That kills her. She deserves it. She's no right to anything, no natural right – she gave that one away. But no one deserves it. It's savage, ridiculous – they lived four miles away.
    She loves them.
    John Paul. Her other son. He's good. A good man. He's been through a lot.
    There was no fatted calf. But he didn't expect one. It wasn't why he rang the bell. She'll never forget it. Nine years, four months and thirteen days. She opened the door. And he was there. And she didn't know him.
    She isn't cleaning up after the gig. It would be too late and too big. She can imagine mountains of rubbish, work for trucks and diggers. She's cleaning up during. Wandering around after brats, picking up their crap. Doing what their mothers wouldn't dream of doing.
    She's not complaining. It's money in the bank. Another thing she wants, a bank account.
    She waits at the corner. It's August but it's bloody cold. It's always colder near the river.
    She'd like that. A bank account. She's never had one. It's always been cash, or none of it. She's always clung to money. There's nothing like the feeling, cash going into her hand. The relief, Jesus, and then the excitement. The fuckin' drug. In your hand. She knows exactly what that means. The weight of it, the reassurance. She needs to know how much she has, exactly how much, now.
    She likes the two-euro coins, the way they accumulate. They can become a bit of a fortune while her mind is on the notes. And handing them out; she's always loved that. Watching the little faces as they see what's coming at them in her hand. A two-euro bit for each of the grandkids when they come to the house. That's the rule; they see it that way. They carry the coins around all the time they're there. They don't know how to spend it. In their arses, they don't. But they're not greedy. The coin is a medal. They win it for coming to their granny's.
    She'll never get over the terror of having no money, the prison of having nothing. Putting things back up on the supermarket shelves because the tenner in her pocket turned out to be a fiver. Stopping at the front door because the fiver she'd felt in her pocket was gone. Going five days before the next hope of a hand-out from Charlo. A present. That's what the fucker had called it. Buy yourself a few sweets. He'd burned money in front of her eyes. He put it down in front of her, a fortune, solid enough to be a million. He let her look at it. He let her wander the shops and aisles in her head, pushing a trolley with perfect working wheels. He picked it up – she didn't follow; she kept her eyes on the table – and he put a match to the lot. There's waste.
    She'll always want cash, but she wants to hold a laser card and join the queue at the Pass machine. I earned the money I'm getting from this wall.
    Jack has opened an account. He's been saving most of the money he's earning from work. It came as a shock, the letter in the hall. It wasn't for her. She saw that as she opened it. She stopped. She left it on the kitchen table.
    —I had it half open before I realised; sorry.
    —It's okay.
    It was his first statement. He put it in his back pocket. But it wasn't there when she was putting his jeans in the washing machine. How much does he have? More than her? Of course he does. She's standing on a corner here and she has fuck-all. She actually has €23 and a few cent. Payday's two days away and she should do well tonight. And she might get a bonus, a goodbye present from one of the houses, the one she does on Fridays. They're moving to Prague. She'll be flush. Rolling in it. But her teenage son