Paula Spencer by Roddy Doyle Page A

Something big and bad. She's dragging it to her.
    The list.
    She hasn't a clue what to get Leanne. Does Leanne still like music? She has no idea. Barbie was always a safe bet in the old days. Leanne and Nicola's room was full of Barbies, all of them sitting up and staring at Paula whenever she went into the room. She could still get her one, for the laugh. Melt the ice. Boozer Barbie – little bottles, one little shoe with a broken heel. Smashed-Ankle Barbie. The little medical card, the little tracksuit.
    That's what's waiting for Paula at home. Smashed-Ankle Barbie herself. Leanne on the couch, in a dirty tracksuit, firing bullets at the telly with the remote control. She's been there for three weeks. It's no wonder Paula's going mad. Not one friend has come near Leanne. It's as if there's never been a previous life. Even work – Paula doesn't know if Leanne's job will be waiting for her when her foot is mended. She's afraid to ask too often.
    Leanne called Paula. She was crying, not able to make proper words. She was in hospital, or on her way – something.
    —What hospital, Leanne?
    She didn't know; she wouldn't tell her.
    —What hospital, love? I'll come and get you.
    Leanne just cried. Paula was in the hall now, putting on her jacket, looking for the money to get her a taxi – where? – and back. She had enough. She'd been paid the day before.
    —What hospital, Leanne?
    —I'm sohhh-ry.
    Paula tried to hear beyond Leanne's tears and gasps. A friend's voice, an ambulance fella – a word or hint that might tell her where to go. She ran out of the house. She headed for the main road. It was raining. She couldn't zip up the jacket and keep the phone to her ear.
    —Mammy?
    —Yes, love?
    —Ma?
    —I'm here, Leanne.
    —Where?
    —Coming to get you, don't worry. Where are you?
    Eventually – Jesus – she got the name out of Leanne and she told her she'd be there in a minute. She turned off the phone and looked out for a taxi. She saw one coming. She put up her hand. The taxi slowed and did a U-turn.
    —Where to, love?
    —Beaumont.
    —The hossy?
    —Yeah.
    —Are you alright?
    —I'm grand, yeah. It's my daughter.
    She was there quickly. The taxi driver was nice. He talked about his own kids and the dashes to hospital.
    —I went to Temple Street twice in the one day. With two different children.
    —God.
    —I had a season ticket for that place.
    —What was wrong with them?
    She could tell that he loved his kids.
    —Well, the eldest gashed his leg on a nail. That was in the morning. And the other lad started vomiting and he wouldn't stop. During the meningitis scare; are you with me? Straight back in.
    —Was he alright?
    —Ah, he was grand. They kept him in for the night just. As a precautionary measure. Put him on a drip. That's a horrible thing to see.
    She texted Leanne. On way.
    She was alone when Paula got there. She was calmer, but strange and far away. The young one who had wanted her mammy was gone. Paula never really found out what had happened. She sat with her. She held her hand. Leanne's hard, cracked hand. She watched women alone. She tried to smile at them. She watched men guard their women. She saw arms around shoulders. But who was she to judge? What did she know? An arm around her shoulders would have been nice. The pizza man's arm. Charlo's arm.
    She sat all night while Leanne slept, and woke, and slept. It was a long time since Paula had been one of the women alone or John Paul had been one of the unconscious young lads. But the place was still the same. A war zone – worse now, when she was sober. She'd been hearing people on the radio, on Joe Duffy, giving out about people having to lie on trolleys for days because there were no beds. Now she saw it when she went to the toilet. All along the corridor, women, old men, people who might have been injured at work earlier that day, the day before, on trolleys. In rows, like a weird queue for the bus. There was a smell of smoke in the jacks,