The House that Jack Built

by Catherine Barry

  ‘This is Sam,’ he said. ‘Whenever you are lonely, or feeling rotten, you cuddle him, take him to bed, talk to him. In fact, he does anything you want, really. He even sings — look.’

  He handed me the toy. It was a yellow chicken with a green hat and denim dungarees. ‘Squeeze his hand,’ he instructed.

  I squeezed. ‘Nothing’s happening,’ I laughed.

  ‘Squeeze, girl. Use your imagination, if you must.’

  I laughed again and squeezed the hand even harder. ‘Old MacDonald had a farm, ee-i, ee-i, o.’

  I started to cry. I felt like an idiot, standing there with a stuffed chicken, playing that ridiculous tune.

  Joe held me tight and kissed me gently on the head. ‘I will see you soon. I’ll visit when I can, I promise. Call me if you need anything, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I answered obediently like a child. I didn’t want to go now. The air hostess was urging me to hurry. I squashed Sam under my arm and picked up my bags. It was only when I was seated on the plane and belted in, that I realised I had walked away, not really saying goodbye.

  Perhaps it was meant to be that way. I relaxed back on the headrest, and wondered if Matt was still in Dublin.

  Chapter 5

  I proudly donned my sod of shamrock, and touched down in Dublin on a typically wet and dreary St Patrick’s Day. My family were there to greet me, including my sister, who was appropriately dressed entirely in green. I swore there and then I would never go away again. I moved immediately back into my parents’ home. My father had painted the spare room. It was his way of acknowledging his acceptance of the baby. It was a beautiful gesture.

  However, I was a moody, bad-tempered bitch for the rest of the pregnancy. A sadness descended, so great that I thought I would die. This was not what I had planned. I didn’t mind having the baby; I just didn’t want to be alone with it. How would I cope? Where would I live? What would I do for money?

  I had a long wait ahead of me; it was probably the most boring few months I have ever experienced. I spent my days crying, and dragging my tired swollen body from room to room. I passed the time doing crosswords, baking bread and walking. The summer was ferociously hot, and my ankles swelled to elephantine proportions. I went to Dollymount Beach with my sister but felt like a beached whale on the sand. I was stigmatised and humiliated. I was now an unmarried mother who sponged off the social welfare system. The slut who got caught.

  I played Chopin on my Walkman and swore the baby jumped every time he heard it. I spent one sleepless night after another trying to get into a comfortable position. I would be just about to nod off and the swine would start kicking. I sweated like a pig and ate in the same fashion.

  I had cravings for Jaffa oranges, and could eat up to six a day. It’s no wonder I had nightmares, and chronic indigestion. My doctor told me I was retaining fluid. It felt more like I was retaining the rainforests’ tropical monsoons.

  Towards the end of my pregnancy, haemorrhoids also became a problem. Still, there was one advantage. For the first time in my life, I had breasts. I had gone from a puny 32AA to a size 36AA. However, the joy was short-lived. Nobody got to touch them or see them, and when Baby finally did arrive they disappeared mysteriously overnight, never to be seen again. I had also lost contact with my vagina; it vanished around the sixth month when my stomach expanded. I thought my body would never be the same again. I was correct, of course.

  I watched television a lot. I recall the incredible snooker final between Joe Johnson and Steve Davis. I also remember the heart-stopping Wimbledon tennis match between Connors and Pernsforth. Stephen Roche, of the cycling profession, paraded through the streets of Dublin, celebrating his success with thousands of delighted Irish men and women.

  My mum and I amused ourselves in the evening watching The Colbys and tearing the characters to shreds. We watched the Late Late 25th-Anniversary Show and the ‘Aids’ special that was broadcast nationwide, bringing the much-needed information about the deadly virus into people’s living rooms. I still kept in touch with Jill and Joe on the phone. I wrote many boring letters and Joe always replied. Jill was doing very well in her job.

  Karen was delighted when she heard I was back in Dublin, and was extremely supportive of my predicament, making many phone-calls and house visits during my internment. Joe promised to make a visit as soon as he had the money for an aeroplane ticket. My parents were just as delighted to know he would return home soon. Secretly I suppose they were hoping that our relationship would develop. They had known Joe as long as I had, and had always liked him. I was too preoccupied with the baby and my future to contemplate romance. I needed friends and he was one of the best.

  In early September, Karen and her boyfriend Mick and I took a Dart out to Howth. The heat was stifling and my ankles were swollen and sore. Climbing up Howth Head was almost impossible. Mick stood behind me and with both hands pushed me up the rest of the hill. It was a comical sight. An elderly couple passed and looked on us dotingly. I knew what they were thinking. Inwardly I screamed: No! We are not a couple. No! He is not the father.

  The last few days of pregnancy were hell on earth. I hardly slept at night, and had to roll out of the bed.

  I couldn’t actually manage to sit upright. It took hours to get into a comfortable position, only to want to go to the toilet yet again. On 20 September I lay on the bed crying. I had been to see my doctor that day and he had told me that the baby’s head was not even engaged; it would be at least another two weeks. Time for me was condensed into hours and minutes. I thought it would never end.

  The house had become a battlefield. The happy times when I was a teenager and my brothers’ friends gathered in the front room were long gone. The atmosphere was tense with apprehension and the endless waiting. I was cranky and miserable and frequently lost my temper when my father hid the butter, or the bathroom was occupied. Jason had taken to staying out most nights, claiming he couldn’t bring friends home, because the ‘dragon’ was there. I had begun to sense that I was a burden on the family and I also knew that things would be even more difficult when the baby was born.

  Then suddenly, as I mulled over all these gloomy things, I felt an incredible rush of water pour forth from between my legs. My waters had broken!

  My father broke the lights all the way to the maternity hospital. I kept telling him it wasn’t necessary, there wasn’t a solitary sinner on the roads, only us.

  At the reception desk, there was great confusion. It was hard to tell who needed the most attention, my dad or me. He was sweating profusely, and his breathing was erratic. Anyone would think he was the one in labour. I was surprisingly calm.

  The nurses gave me an enema, which basically means they thrust a hose of warm soapy water up my arse in order to bring on a ‘motion’. They told me to hold on for ten minutes. However, the ‘motion’ had a notion of its own. If you ever have to go through this humiliating experience, make certain that you have access to a nearby toilet. It is not fair to innocent bystanders.

  The nurse kept asking me had I pains in my stomach, and I kept replying I hadn’t. It was the truth. I only had pains in the base of my back, similar to a rhinoceros set-dancing on my spine. They were increasing in length and intensity but I didn’t think they counted. Oh, what abysmal ignorance!

  My mother arrived with my bags, which she had packed when I was six months pregnant. ‘Be prepared,’ she had said. I knew they wanted rid of me but the packed bag really took the biscuit. She fussed incessantly and harassed any doctor or nurse that would listen to her. Eventually the midwife arrived and convinced her that I was not even in labour yet. I was horrified when I heard this, imagining what the pain must be like when labour really started. I was already in agony.

  ‘Mrs Joyce, I can assure you that your daughter has a long, long way to go. There really is no point in you hanging around. Why don’t you and Mr Joyce go and have some breakfast? It will be at least six o’clock before this baby is ready to co
me out.’

  I had to hand it to her. My mother stopped talking. I tried to help things along as my mother was making me feel worse, not better. After a while, my parents decided to go away for a few hours.

  I stood at the window on the third floor of the hospital and saw them get into the car. My father stopped short, just before he got in, and looked up. I waved and blew him a kiss. He waved back. They drove off. I then burst into uncontrollable tears. I was alone. Completely alone.

  Eventually I was in such pain that the nurses decided to examine me again. They discovered I was 8cm dilated and almost ready to give birth. I was almost ready to inflict a heinous injury on someone too. I suddenly discovered some choice words that were definitely not in the Oxford Dictionary.

  ‘Touch me again and I’ll fucking kill you, you cunt,’ I screamed at the midwife.

  ‘Now dear, calm down. Breathe deeply… concentrate.’

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! Jesus, I can’t stand the pain! You bollox! You fucking bastard! Matt! Matt Howard, I hate you! You bastard!’ I verbally abused everyone who came into my mind. Then I started yelling, ‘I want my mam. I want my dad.’ I was hysterical. They had gone away and it was all the midwife’s fault. ‘You fat bitch, you sent my parents away.’

  ‘Now love, come on. Baby isn’t quite ready yet. They’ll be back in time, you’ll see.’

  I knew inside they wouldn’t make it. I knew the baby was coming. I knew I was alone.

  She rammed a needle into my thigh and the pain subsided a little. The gas mask was beside me and I wrenched it from the stand. In, out. In, out. Breathe. Breathe. I felt light-headed and giddy. A combination of the two drugs had me distracted. I was laughing one minute, and crying the next. I thought of Matt. I thought of Andrew. I thought of Joe. Then I thought of Sam. That made me worse than ever; I had forgotten to pack Sam. It’s hard to believe, but I needed that stupid toy more than ever.

  ‘I want Sam!’ I cried. ‘I want Sam, I want Sam, I want Sam!’

  The midwife was losing patience. She turned to the assistant nurse. ‘Who the hell is Sam — the father?’ I heard her whisper.

  ‘He’s a chicken, actually.’ When I heard Joe’s voice, I thought I was imagining it. Then I saw him standing over me. It was him, wasn’t it? The drugs had me raving. I didn’t know if it was only a hallucination.

  ‘A chicken?’ I heard the midwife repeat.

  ‘A chicken,’ confirmed Joe with his wonderful smile.

  ‘And who are you, Henny Penny?’ the nurse turned around, unable to contain her aggravation any longer.

  ‘I’m Joe.’

  ‘Are you the father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe it’s Matt,’ the younger assistant nurse interrupted.

  ‘No. He’s not the father,’ Joe assured her. The assistant nurse nodded her head up and down.

  The midwife exploded. ‘Excuse me, what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘Look — I don’t care if you’re Jack the Ripper, do you understand? This is a labour ward and this girl is about to give birth. Only family are allowed in here. I must insist that you step outside at once.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to physically throw me out… Nurse Ratchet,’ he added.

  I let out a scream as a contraction ripped through my spine.

  ‘I’m her family,’ he finished, looking quite grim.

  The midwife relented. ‘Well, steer clear, Matt, Joe, whoever you are.’

  The anaesthetist was turning me over on my side. An impossible position to get into as the rising and falling pain was continuous without any break.

  He ordered me to stay still for sixty seconds. Somehow, I managed it. Joe knelt down beside me, his face directly before me. He took my hand and held it. Suddenly, I felt a cold numbness creep through my legs then into my hips then into my back. All of a sudden, the pain was gone. It was a miracle. Maybe my legs had fallen off?

  ‘How do you feel now?’ the midwife asked. ‘We’ve just administered an epidural, you should begin to feel the pain subsiding.’

  ‘Dear Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ I sobbed pitifully. No more the brave strong woman, swimming around with the dolphins, and squatting for a brief moment, while Baby just slips out effortlessly. ‘Pick that up, darling, would you?’ If they had offered me morphine, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have injected it myself.

  I was exhausted, emotional and very frightened. I concentrated on Joe, who commanded me to look at him. I was a baby, having a baby. I had read the entire Mothercare books, seen all the videos, gone to all the ante-natal classes but nothing could have prepared me for this. I knew it was nearly over, and I knew that I could feel nothing. I pulled myself together. The midwife and assistant nurse propped me up with some pillows and I could see my reflection in the window in front of me. I saw the first sprouts of black hair protruding from my vagina. It was the most incredible sight.

  Time stood still. I remember the total silence as, with one last push, my son David entered the world.

  ‘It’s a stubborn boy!’ the doctor laughed.

  They laid him across my belly; I picked him up and kissed him. I did not care that my face was covered in his blood. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. I was overwhelmed with pride. His soft skin felt beautiful against my cheek. My baby, my baby, my beautiful baby boy. I kissed him over and over, and over.

  ‘Would you like to cut the cord, er… Joe?’ the doctor asked.

  The cord was cut and tied into a knot. The doctor secured it with a pin. Then the nurses insisted on taking my baby son away. I asked the doctor why he was blue. He assured me that it was normal. They removed him for a few minutes and when they returned him, he had changed colour and was wrapped in a blue blanket.

  I stared down at the tiny hands and feet and counted his fingers and toes. They were all there. Ten fingers. Ten toes. On his left cheek, one simple, solitary dimple; and a massive pair of lungs that would put Pavarotti to shame.

  Joe sat quietly. I could see the colour returning to his face. The whole ordeal had taken its toll. His courage and commands had pulled me through.

  ‘You were brilliant,’ I told him. ‘Where did you learn all that? How did you know what to do?’

  ‘I didn’t. I hadn’t a fucking clue what I was doing.’ We both laughed till we cried.

  During my stay at the hospital, I became full of maternal aspirations. I would never allow my child to suck a soother. I would make sure that it was breastfed. It would sleep peacefully in its own cot, and I would not give in to its crying during the night, no matter what. By the end of the first week I had bought a collection of multi-coloured soothers, a sterilising kit, and a bottle warmer.

  My son slept peacefully beside me in my bed after a marathon four-hour screaming session. I had abandoned the breastfeeding when my nipples began to crack and bleed. Besides, he was starving to death and I felt guilty. I had had sixteen stitches inside, and my breasts had swollen with unused milk. Coupled with the piles and enemas, I was confused as to which end to hold on to, when I went to the bathroom. (Jaysus my arse, oh my boobs, Christ my fanny.)

  Jill sent a bouquet of flowers, and Karen came to visit. My family piled in every day. I was perched precariously on a rubber tyre, unable to sit any other way. They thought it was hysterical. I was depressed and tired, and really wasn’t up to people peering in at me like some monkey in a cage. I just wanted them all to go away. I couldn’t stand them picking up David, waking him, and then leaving me to settle him back down again. Visitors should be banned from maternity hospitals, I thought.

  After a week, I was allowed go home. Home? I wondered where that was. My parents went out of their way to make David and me feel welcome.

  They had made the box room into a nursery and bought a beautiful Moses basket for Baby to sleep in. They were trying their best but my depression was great, and I must have seemed very ungrateful.
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  The days rolled into nights, and the nights rolled into days. I slept when he slept, ate when he ate, shat when he shat and basically had no time or energy left for anything else. I spent the best part of six months in doctors’ surgeries and hospital wards, worrying about his sleeping and eating patterns. I was still overweight and self-neglected, and hadn’t had one night out since I had returned from hospital.

  One Saturday evening, Joe and Karen called together. Joe was home on a weekend visit; it was a delight to see two adults call for me.

  ‘We’re taking you out,’ they said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you know I can’t go anywhere. Besides, who’ll mind Junior?’

  ‘I will,’ my mam said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I was delighted but worried.

  ‘He can’t do much damage in a few hours, can he?’ she asked innocently. Nobody in their right mind was going to answer.

  I enjoyed getting ready to go out. It reminded me of the old times. The living situation in the house had been deteriorating rapidly. It was all very well in the beginning. My mother went out of her way to help, even taking over the midnight feeds, so I could get some sleep. David’s crying frequently woke up my father and brother who had to go to work the next day. They were getting sick of tripping over shitty nappies, baby baths, finding rusks stuck down the couch, and not being able to hear the television. It wasn’t their fault. I knew I would have to start looking for alternative accommodation soon. I tried to put it out of my mind and went to get dressed. To my horror, nothing in my wardrobe would fit me.

  Karen could sense my frustration. She picked up a pair of jeans. ‘Here. These will fit.’

  ‘They’re my maternity jeans.’