her head.
—Where were you?
—Marlay Park.
—Where's that?
Leanne follows her out.
—Up the mountains, says Paula. —Miles away; Jesus.
She looks at the clock in the kitchen. It's two in the morning.
She tells Leanne about her day.
—They made you clean it up?
—No one made me do anything, love. It was a job.
—God though.
—It's grand.
She's getting annoyed. What's wrong with cleaning? Even cleaning a field. But she stops herself. She won't let herself bark. This is good. This is nice.
—I got paid for it, she says. —And I got in for nothing.
—I suppose, says Leanne.
—And I have to say. They were brilliant.
—Who were?
—The White Stripes.
—Don't know them.
—Jack does.
—What sort of stuff do they do?
—I don't know what you'd call it, she says.
She watches Leanne making the tea for her. The big moves, the energy, even when she's just stirring the cup. There's nothing too wrong with that young one. She'll think that for a while. She smells her hands. They're grand. The drink is off them.
It had reminded her of the old stuff. Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Rory Gallagher. Good rock from the 70s. Her time. And Charlo's time.
—But, God, it was brilliant. I don't think you'd have liked it though.
—Why wouldn't I of?
—They were hard.
They laugh.
—You're fuckin' mental, says Leanne.
—You've never liked hard music, says Paula.
—Some.
—You used to hate it when I danced around here, when a good one came on the radio.
—That wasn't the music, says Leanne.
—What was it then?
—I don't know.
She does know. And so does Paula. It was the frenzy, the panic, the big fuckin' roar – HELP! A woman stopping madness by meeting it halfway. Leanne saw it. Paula dragged her around the kitchen. You're hurting me; it hurts.
Leanne brings the tea over to Paula.
—It was embarrassing, she says.
And that's fair enough, a bit like Jack.
—An oul' one dancing.
—Jesus, Leanne. I wasn't even forty.
She works it out, does her subtraction.
—About thirty-three, she says. —I was thirty-three. Jesus, that's depressing.
—The tea will help, says Leanne, the wagon.
She sits down, beside Paula.
—Thanks for this, says Paula.
She picks up the cup.
—Were you out?
—Yeah, says Leanne. —Not really. Just for a bit.
They don't look at each other.
—Were they good-looking? says Leanne.
—Who?
Now they can look at each other. They've been at this for years.
—The White Stripes. Who else?
—There's only the two of them, says Paula.
—Are they good-looking?
—One of them's a girl.
—Is he good-looking?
Paula tries to smell the air between them. But her nose is still full of the mountains. Their faces are close. She can't smell anything.
Postpone it. It's late.
—They're brother and sister, she says.
—For fuck sake, Ma. Was he good-looking?
—No, he wasn't. Strictly speaking.
—Ah, says Leanne. —One of those ones.
—He was just brilliant.
—And you'd let him have you up against a barbed-wire fence.
—Ah, Leanne, says Paula.
—Well, you would. Admit it.
—Yeah. I would.
They laugh.
Postpone it.
—And there was you, says Leanne. —Old enough to be his mother.
Paula nods.
—I'm old enough to be most men's mother.
—I wouldn't let that stop me, says Leanne.
She looks at Leanne.
The signs are there, the eyes, the skin. She wants to touch Leanne's face. The warmth, and the smoothness she remembers. She wants to feel Leanne.
Postpone it.
—Where were you yourself? she says.
She yawns. She doesn't need to. She doesn't even want to.
—Nowhere, says Leanne.
—Is that the name of a new pub or something?
—Ha ha.
—Leanne.
—What?
—I'm worried about you.
She wants to run. She wants to turn the table over. To do it before Leanne does.
Leanne's still there, still close. She hasn't moved.
—I've been —
Paula starts again.
—I've been a bit worried.
No explosion. But nothing else.
Leanne is silent, still.
How
—Where were you?
—Marlay Park.
—Where's that?
Leanne follows her out.
—Up the mountains, says Paula. —Miles away; Jesus.
She looks at the clock in the kitchen. It's two in the morning.
She tells Leanne about her day.
—They made you clean it up?
—No one made me do anything, love. It was a job.
—God though.
—It's grand.
She's getting annoyed. What's wrong with cleaning? Even cleaning a field. But she stops herself. She won't let herself bark. This is good. This is nice.
—I got paid for it, she says. —And I got in for nothing.
—I suppose, says Leanne.
—And I have to say. They were brilliant.
—Who were?
—The White Stripes.
—Don't know them.
—Jack does.
—What sort of stuff do they do?
—I don't know what you'd call it, she says.
She watches Leanne making the tea for her. The big moves, the energy, even when she's just stirring the cup. There's nothing too wrong with that young one. She'll think that for a while. She smells her hands. They're grand. The drink is off them.
It had reminded her of the old stuff. Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Rory Gallagher. Good rock from the 70s. Her time. And Charlo's time.
—But, God, it was brilliant. I don't think you'd have liked it though.
—Why wouldn't I of?
—They were hard.
They laugh.
—You're fuckin' mental, says Leanne.
—You've never liked hard music, says Paula.
—Some.
—You used to hate it when I danced around here, when a good one came on the radio.
—That wasn't the music, says Leanne.
—What was it then?
—I don't know.
She does know. And so does Paula. It was the frenzy, the panic, the big fuckin' roar – HELP! A woman stopping madness by meeting it halfway. Leanne saw it. Paula dragged her around the kitchen. You're hurting me; it hurts.
Leanne brings the tea over to Paula.
—It was embarrassing, she says.
And that's fair enough, a bit like Jack.
—An oul' one dancing.
—Jesus, Leanne. I wasn't even forty.
She works it out, does her subtraction.
—About thirty-three, she says. —I was thirty-three. Jesus, that's depressing.
—The tea will help, says Leanne, the wagon.
She sits down, beside Paula.
—Thanks for this, says Paula.
She picks up the cup.
—Were you out?
—Yeah, says Leanne. —Not really. Just for a bit.
They don't look at each other.
—Were they good-looking? says Leanne.
—Who?
Now they can look at each other. They've been at this for years.
—The White Stripes. Who else?
—There's only the two of them, says Paula.
—Are they good-looking?
—One of them's a girl.
—Is he good-looking?
Paula tries to smell the air between them. But her nose is still full of the mountains. Their faces are close. She can't smell anything.
Postpone it. It's late.
—They're brother and sister, she says.
—For fuck sake, Ma. Was he good-looking?
—No, he wasn't. Strictly speaking.
—Ah, says Leanne. —One of those ones.
—He was just brilliant.
—And you'd let him have you up against a barbed-wire fence.
—Ah, Leanne, says Paula.
—Well, you would. Admit it.
—Yeah. I would.
They laugh.
Postpone it.
—And there was you, says Leanne. —Old enough to be his mother.
Paula nods.
—I'm old enough to be most men's mother.
—I wouldn't let that stop me, says Leanne.
She looks at Leanne.
The signs are there, the eyes, the skin. She wants to touch Leanne's face. The warmth, and the smoothness she remembers. She wants to feel Leanne.
Postpone it.
—Where were you yourself? she says.
She yawns. She doesn't need to. She doesn't even want to.
—Nowhere, says Leanne.
—Is that the name of a new pub or something?
—Ha ha.
—Leanne.
—What?
—I'm worried about you.
She wants to run. She wants to turn the table over. To do it before Leanne does.
Leanne's still there, still close. She hasn't moved.
—I've been —
Paula starts again.
—I've been a bit worried.
No explosion. But nothing else.
Leanne is silent, still.
How
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