The House that Jack Built

by Catherine Barry

  ‘Look at the state of him,’ Karen pointed.

  ‘They couldn’t play snakes and ladders, never mind an instrument,’ Jill sneered.

  I nudged Joe in the chest.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Go on, you know,’ I urged him. Joe was a good guitarist. He could also play the bodhrdn and the flute. ‘Go down there and play something.’ I smiled at him.

  ‘No, I’m not in the mood,’ he said grumpily.

  ‘Go on, for me?’ I urged.

  He got up reluctantly and joined the group. Matt fell on to the floor singing and clapping out of time. The group members knew Joe. They knew he could play in tune. They clamoured to offer him their instruments. Joe took a guitar and hit the first chord of ‘Whiskey in the Jar’.

  He played it to perfection and the whole pub joined in singing. When he had finished, a few old men threw some money in a hat and sent it down. Joe played another song. More money was thrown in the hat. The pints were flowing, the money piled up. Unknown to Joe, he had found his niche. Music had chosen him. It would serve him well in the following years.

  Chapter 4

  On 14 January 1987 I was twenty-four years old. My birthday present came in the form of a ‘positive’ result from a home pregnancy-testing kit.

  I remember sitting on the toilet in a white bathrobe, peering into the pink tube, nauseous with a mixture of terror and excitement. I had stopped taking the pill, due to continuing attacks of migraine, two weeks ago, and was amazed at how quickly I had become pregnant.

  I rattled the tube backwards and forwards hoping it would change colour. For a few seconds it did, then it went pink again. I was devastated. I had spent years taking ridiculous risks. Risks that should have seen me pregnant a million times over, but I had always gotten away with it. I had come through my teenage years without getting pregnant and was proud of it. I had seen many friends’ lives ruined due to pregnancy. I had witnessed their struggles, their lack of freedom, their youth cut short. I had seen them age before their time.

  I had looked into their eyes, which were old from too much responsibility. Young women, with hair streaked yellow and the roots showing, too busy to get them redone. They dressed scruffily and always seemed in a hurry. They clogged the post offices on Thursdays with their benefit books, and got pissed on Family Allowance day. I saw them in pubs, in the evening, their crisp-filled children running wild, bored, wanting to go home and have their dinner. I didn’t want to belong to that set. I was above that. How could I have been so foolish? Sitting on the toilet, I willed my period to come. I had heard of spontaneous abortions, miscarriages within the first three months, gin and hot baths, washing-up liquid and knitting-needles. Horrid thoughts assailed me.

  The story of my ill-fated pregnancy began in England. I was living in Sevenoaks, Kent, a large town with character and style. Jill and I had emigrated there the previous year, when the recession in Ireland hit rock bottom. Unemployment levels had soared to astronomical proportions. It had been an unhappy move, initially. We were leaving Karen behind; she was the only one of the gang in a stable job. Although I was sorrowful saying goodbye to Matt, greener fields beckoned.

  The excitement of England and its promised affluence over-ruled any lingering sadness. Besides, Matt insisted we had our priorities about-face. He would rather have died than take on a nine to five job. In fact, he would rather have died than take on any job. No, I found there was simply too much to do and see in London; there were things to achieve, places to go. It helped me to forget the distance between Matt and me.

  *

  Jill and I became staunch Nationalists overnight. To be honest, I didn’t know the difference between a Tanaiste and Taoiseach, let alone who was running what country. British taxpayers were paying our wages. We were living in their country, living off their system, but we behaved as if they were our number one enemy. In the evenings, we congregated and sang ‘The Fields of Athenry’. We mouthed the lyrics because none of us knew them. We listened to The Fureys and Foster and Allen. Had we been in Ireland, we wouldn’t have been caught dead mentioning them, but it seemed the right thing to do. One night, we smashed our glasses against a wall when the resident band (from Ireland) did a rendition of Paul Brady’s ‘Hard Station’. It was a stroke of luck they didn’t do ‘The Island’ or there might have been fatalities! We clung to our Irish friends, and only drank in Irish bars. A society within a society.

  Joe followed us over from Ireland but hated the quiet of Sevenoaks so he went to live in Finchley. He might as well have been in Hawaii. He jumped on the Traditional Irish Music bandwagon too, and was successfully making a living out of it.

  Joe was just as convinced as any of us that our fortune lay on English soil. He insisted the music was a temporary pit-stop. He would get a ‘real’ job soon. Of the three of us, he was making the most money. His musical talents were in great demand. As more and more Irish settled in England, the demand for Irish entertainment grew. Joe was in the right place at the right time. One night a week we made our way to Finchley, where he shared a house with several others. In the local pub (Irish, of course) he played to his heart’s content. The ‘brickies’ piled in to hear his guitar playing. The sessions were wonderful. So was the drinking. We forgot, temporarily at least, that we were away from home.

  Our two-bedroom flat was small and our wages were even smaller. I got a sales receptionist position in Otford, a small town not far away. Jill worked as an air hostess from Heathrow. She took the one-and-a-half-hour journey into Central London every day, and then tubed it out to the airport. By the time she came home, she was fit to collapse. We hardly ever cooked. We lived out of The Pizza Hut and the local Indian take-away.

  Jill had changed in the last few years. She had begun to show a degree of maturity that scared the life out of me.

  She was no longer interested in excessive drug-taking, or consuming enormous quantities of alcohol. She had begun to knuckle down to the hard graft of pursuing a career. It was proving to be a cinch. She was a stunningly beautiful woman. Her popularity soared wherever we went. Sometimes, I tired of living in her shadow, but in truth, it was Jill who received all the interesting party invitations. Our social life kept me alive. I was grateful for her company and her common sense.

  One of those invitations was to the opening of a trainee pilots’ drinking club in Frith Street, Soho. My journey into premature motherhood started there.

  Jill insisted that I go. There would be very interesting people there. Interesting to her, that is. I would rather have watched paint dry. I was dressed up like a dog’s dinner. The take-aways had started to take their toll and spare tyres had appeared almost overnight. The 1980s’ fashion craze was a leap into faith. I was nearly twenty-four years of age, but grossly immature still. My clothes advertised this fact. I wore 6-inch-heeled court shoes, the most uncomfortable shoe ever invented. I still have the pyramid toes syndrome to prove it. My slinky mauve Latex skirt looked more like a belt, and my white blouse had a million frills dangling from the collar. To top it all off, I wore a pair of diamante evening gloves and cheap diamante earrings and necklace.

  I looked like a cross between Queen Elizabeth II and Adam Ant.

  I knew by the look on Jill’s face that she didn’t approve. That wasn’t surprising. We hardly saw eye to eye on anything anymore. Image had become her number one priority, her God. Having a good time had become mine.

  At the opening, Jill was awesome, turning her feminine charm on every unsuspecting male in the room. They stared openly at her. I felt like a rag doll, tom and dirty. I had become tired of this shallow life, and the pretence. My homesickness was growing worse and worse. It seemed ironic that I had come to make my fortune and was wasting it all trying to keep in touch with Ireland. A light had gone on, and wouldn’t go off. I wanted to go home.

  I went to the bar and ordered some drinks. Nobody drank from glasses; they drank from their bottles. No airs and graces — I liked th
at. The barman’s name was Andrew, a tall, slim and dark character who was immediately taken with my Irish brogue.

  ‘I used to have an Irish girlfriend,’ he commented.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I drained another bottle. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked. At least he had bothered to talk to me.

  ‘Southampton,’ he smiled, a gleaming white set of teeth unveiled.

  I like you. You’ve a beautiful smile for a barman. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I asked, suddenly very curious.

  ‘I’m a trainee aviation-instructor. I’ve got to clock up a certain number of hours before I qualify.’

  Keep talking, Andrew. ‘Why is an aviation instructor serving drinks?’

  ‘I have to, I need the money. I just do it at weekends. Hey, would you like another drink?’

  Do bears shit in the woods? I sat drinking with Randy Andy the barman-cum-aviation-instructor and found him thoroughly interesting, especially his teeth. By the end of the evening I could think of nothing nicer than taking a flight with my new friend. To my delight, that was exactly what he suggested.

  The following morning, I had a shocking hangover. I jumped into the shower and took two Anadin Extra, my now constant handbag companion. I borrowed Jill’s clothes while she was still sleeping, although I knew there would be a price to pay. I couldn’t go flying in a pair of jeans, could I?

  Andrew was punctual, and looked wonderful in his spruce, freshly ironed uniform. We drove to a small airport and I boarded the tiny two-seater plane. It was not unlike a car. The door didn’t close properly, and I had to slam it shut. I was absolutely petrified. Every blast of wind and turn of wing could be felt fifty times more intensely. I sat in silence for the take-off. The plane felt so small and confined. I was impressed with Andrew as he radioed to air traffic control. Composed. Intelligent. Totally in control.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I eventually asked him shakily.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he smiled.

  A thrilling half-hour later, we arrived in Alderney, one of the Channel Islands, and ‘parked’ the plane in a wide-open field.

  Alderney was quiet and beautiful. We walked around the island, enjoying the breath-taking scenery. I liked Andrew — he was a good conversationalist. However, I was not planning to have his baby. Yet I never thought of the consequences of unprotected sex. Was I crazy? Yet I really thought that unwanted pregnancies only happened to other people.

  The island seemed almost deserted. We ate in a small restaurant; I noticed he did not drink. That was perfectly acceptable — he was ‘driving’, so to speak. The day was lovely. The perfect date — romantic and unique.

  On returning from Alderney that evening, I followed Andrew to the Pilots’ Club and sat at the bar while he worked. We chatted. He told me about his Irish ex-girlfriend. He showed me a photograph of her. Long hair, very pretty. He had not been interested in anyone since they had broken up.

  My interest was purely sexual. I got the feeling he felt the same. In the small hours when the club had closed, I drove to his flat with a bottle of wine. We made love all night. It was pure, unadulterated, uncomplicated, blissful lust. Andrew and I had a six-week affair. I enjoyed every minute of it. We locked ourselves in his tiny bedsit almost every night. I hardly ever saw Jill, but she was working most of the time and didn’t really miss me.

  I was enjoying the sensation of sleeping with someone, and we had some fun times together. I never really expected it to last; I don’t think he did, either. It finally put to rest any doubts I had about my sexual attractiveness. Andrew was a good lover. He taught me a lot. It was only when I experienced the real thing that I realised what a fumbling bumbling pair of idiots Matt and I had been.

  When I discovered I was pregnant, initially I clung stubbornly to self-delusion. I had to. It was momentary denial. I conjured up images of a giggly gurgling infant, complete with one tooth and ponytail consisting of four hairs. My thinking was more on the lines of a ‘pet’. I had seen the ads on television for nappies and baby bath oil. Gorgeous, pink-skinned, cuddly, laughing babies! This kind of thinking was short-lived.

  My mother’s face zoomed into view. I began to think about her, and what motherhood had done. I had watched dreams fade from her eyes as the years went by, and we stole those years from her. She had tried hard to disguise her disappointment. Eventually, she gave up any secret wishes to be anything other than a mother. I did not want to be like her. I loved her, but hated what the family had done to her enthusiastic personality.

  Reality hit home without wasting another minute. Babies were not pets, they were human beings, and they grew up, just like I had. The truth about my situation made itself painfully obvious. I had visions of Corporation Housing lists, butter vouchers and cheap mince. In truth, I was petrified. I felt my life, as I knew it, was over. I buried my head in the pillow and cried hard. How could this be happening to me?

  When I was all cried out I buffeted the blow by telling myself it would be exciting. This was pure naivety, not a true understanding of the enormity of motherhood. If I had thought about it for too long, God only knows what I would have done. I walked the roads for most of the day, waiting. Jill would help me. She would know what to do.

  I told Jill that evening. Her negative reaction was the last thing I needed.

  ‘What the hell are you going to do?’ she barked. ‘You can’t stay here. Have you told Andrew? Have you told your mum and dad?’

  ‘Look, hold on a minute, will you? It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Jack, you haven’t a fucking clue, have you?’

  That really pissed me off. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Since when are you the expert? You might at least take a breath before you launch into your “responsibility” lecture.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it,’ she said smugly. ‘I don’t think you know exactly what’s involved. You never plan anything, your life seems to be one big party. You won’t be able to keep living the way you are living now, speaking of which, where you are going to live? What about finance, and most of all, what about this poor unfortunate’s father?’

  ‘I’m not exactly stupid,’ I defended myself angrily; I was upset and needed her compassion, not this overdose of reality. ‘This is the 1980s, everyone is having kids, not all of them have a father, either. I don’t intend to stay here, and I’ve always hated it. The jet-set life doesn’t appeal to me the way it does to you. I’m going home, so you needn’t worry, and thanks for your support, Jill. You’ve been a great help.’ At which I stormed out of the flat.

  That was the first time I thought about having an abortion.

  I wandered aimlessly, thinking, thinking, and thinking. Should I phone Andrew? I really didn’t want him to know. I wanted to be back home. I couldn’t bear to think that my family might reject me too. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. They mustn’t.

  In my confusion, I found myself on a train to Central London, and then I got on the tube. I hadn’t made a conscious decision to call on Joe; my feet just seemed to be carrying me there. I was still thinking. Thinking. The stifling heat was overwhelming. My head was jammed in the rancid armpit of another passenger. I felt like throwing up but was stuffed like a sardine in a tin can. Thinking, I hate London. I hate London. I took the steps two at a time up to Joe’s flat and knocked on the door.

  Here I am again. I’m sorry 1 haven’t called you. Please don’t give me that look. ‘Here she is again, with another problem.’ Please don’t be with someone. Please don’t turn away. Please answer the fucking door. ‘That’s right, Jack. You only ever turn up when the shit hits the fan.’

  No answer.

  I knocked again, and peered in the small window. There was nobody in. It had taken me an hour to get there. My disappointment was awesome. I walked slowly back down the steps and started to head for the tube station. The tears were flowing fast and hard now. Too upset to be dignified, I walked along the footpath snivelling and wondering where to go now, and hating
myself. Just then, I heard footsteps quickly running up behind me. I turned around.

  ‘Are you fucking deaf?’ It was Joe, panting and puffing between words.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Did you not hear me screaming up the road after you? What the hell are you doing here, anyway? You know I’m never around in the evenings. I just happened to come back to pick up some lyric sheets for the lads down in the pub.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said again, smiling cheekily.

  ‘OK, OK… shit, I can’t breathe.’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’ It’s out. No point in waiting. There is no right moment or great words that will ease the blow.

  He put his hands on his hips and bent down. ‘Fuck it, I’ve a stitch in my side.’ He either didn’t hear me or wasn’t listening.

  My nose was running and my face was wet with tears. I started to dig into my pockets for a handkerchief but couldn’t find one so I wiped my nose on my coat sleeve. My self-disgust had come full circle. I then realised that Joe was staring very hard at me.

  ‘Are you pissed again?’ he demanded.

  ‘Pregnant. Pregnant.’

  I suddenly felt very, very giddy. An unbearable urge to laugh came over me. I laughed right in his face. He just stood there staring at me, expressionless. I laughed until it occurred to me that I was really crying. It was a mixture of both. I heard him tut-tutting, not in a condescending way, but more like a resigned sadness. We stood there looking at each other. Then he did that thing. The same thing he did at The Limit when we were sweet sixteen. He moved forward, put his arms around me and I dissolved like a Disprin.

  We stood on the pavement, swaying to the sound of silence, Joe humming softly in my ear. No words, no nothing. Joe and me. A pair of idiots. After a few minutes, my sobs subsided. But still no words would come.

  We walked slowly back to the flat, me sniffing all the way. Inside, I kept hoping that something would happen to make it all go away. Perhaps Joe would have some major plan. Perhaps the test was wrong? Maybe I should do it again! Sinking feeling. I know I’m pregnant. I know I’m pregnant. With each passing moment now, the reality is becoming clearer, the baby girl in pink frills image is wearing off. Like a junkie, I need a fix. Somebody fix this. I took a chance. I was paying for it now. I was not ready to be a mother.