The House that Jack Built

by Catherine Barry

  I tried hard to save money, but David’s needs were neverending. Mam and Dad had been looking after me financially for so long, that I felt it was only right to offer them the biggest chunk of my wages. However, we all soon realised that if I continued to do that, I would never manage to save the deposit money needed to move into a flat. So I saved every last penny. I visited many flats and apartments in Clontarf, and other areas close by. To my despair, it soon became apparent that I would never be able to pay the rent. I had to start looking elsewhere. I simply couldn’t afford to live in Clontarf.

  In the summer of 1990, I packed my things and moved into a two-bedroom flat in the inner city. It was not my first choice, but I had to move somewhere. My parents complained that it wasn’t ‘suitable’; I already knew that, but pointed out to them that a ‘suitable’ place was out of my financial league. Eventually they came around to accepting my way of thinking. I had not planned to stay there indefinitely. It was only a temporary measure, until something better came along. In time, I told myself, I would get a better job, David would be older and go to school, and childminding fees would not have to be considered. That was the plan, anyway. I ended up staying in my two-bedroom apartment for six years. The best-made plans of men and single parents!

  When I went to live in the Good Shepherd flats, there were so many chips on my shoulder I was lopsided. Having come from Clontarf, the culture shock was immense. I still carried the ‘airs and graces’ that my mother talked about. In truth, I didn’t really know what to expect from the people there. I was scared. I looked down on them. I was sure they would reject me, so I rejected them first.

  A classic case of the ‘kill it before it kills you’ syndrome. I didn’t really belong there — I convinced myself of this. I was determined to convince them too. In all my arrogance, born of fear, I made enemies immediately. I made things very difficult for myself.

  I ignored them, mostly. I kept myself to myself. If I happened by chance to meet my neighbours in the shop, or on the street, I never acknowledged their presence. Frequently, I would cross the street to avoid them. I actively encouraged David to play indoors. It was cruel and unfair to him. He was now at an age when he needed as much interaction as possible with other children. It wouldn’t be long before his schooling years were upon us, and I was determined that David would grow up with the best education money could buy. He would speak correctly and behave in a civilised manner. I clung to my illusions for as long as I could. I was living in a self-made prison. My neighbourhood was the enemy. Even the Alsatians went around in packs. My father had always said, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do.’ I had my own saying: ‘When living in the inner city, do your best to stay alive.’

  Of course, the reality was, it was no different from any other area in Dublin. There were good parts and bad parts. There were good people and bad people. I was completely unfamiliar with their ways. They spoke differently and dealt with things differently. I didn’t know how to fit in. They had no interest in me whatsoever. They sensed my air of ‘class differentiation’. They had no choice; I imposed it on them.

  I was put straight some weeks after I had moved in. David had taken it upon himself to pick some flowers from a window box in a flat across the road. I watched from an open window, secretly delighted, as he went about destroying what was probably a lifetime’s work. I was only short of putting my hands together and applauding him publicly. Then a big lump of shite fell neatly through the window into my lap. It wasn’t too solid either. I heard the laughter from across the street.

  A man’s loud voice rung out. ‘Hey, gee bag. Get your snot-gobbler out of my fucking garden or I’ll break his bleeding legs.’

  David came scrambling over the wall, his face ashen and a clump of flowers still trailing from his hand. The laughter could still be heard from all corners of the street. I had got what I justly deserved. This incident taught me a thing or two. From then on in it was out-and-out war. I would never want or need any of them — I would make sure of that.

  The trip to and from the creche every morning and evening was hard, especially after the day’s work, but I was determined to manage things on my own. I wasn’t doing too badly really. Then, one day around Easter-time in 1991, I returned from work exhausted and hungry. I collected David from the creche and noticed that he looked rather pale. He was now a big, bold, burly boy heading towards the four-year mark. He wasn’t the angel I had envisaged in earlier years.

  This particular day, however, he just sat in his buggy staring blankly ahead. Normally there was the usual tantrum in the morning when the ‘clothes battle’ began, and then there was always the second tantrum when we passed the sweetshop on our way back from the creche. I watched him closely as we walked along. There had been no morning or evening tantrums. Could it be a miracle? Could he have transformed overnight into the blessed little child I had hoped for?

  On the way home, I stopped off at the shop anyway, and bought him an orange ice pop, his favourite. He just stared at it. I really began to worry then. The minute we got in the door, he vomited all over the carpet. I put my hand on his forehead and he was very hot. He had had temperatures before, but I just knew this was different; he was so quiet it frightened me.

  I thought of ringing my parents, but they were too far away. I thought of ringing Karen, but it would take her just as long to get here. I thought of calling on a neighbour, and then my dilemma became painfully apparent. The day was destined to arrive at some stage. Now it was here. I needed help, and there was no one here I could run to.

  Eventually I was forced to telephone a doctor, who took two hours to arrive. He examined David quickly.

  ‘Call an ambulance immediately,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Jesus, what’s wrong with him?’ I was panicking.

  ‘I’m suspecting meningitis. I can’t be sure; you will have to go to a hospital to rule it out.’

  I packed some things, stifling my sobs. I didn’t want to upset David. He just lay there listless and white as a sheet. I was really sick with worry. I felt so alone again. Suddenly, it dawned on me why I was alone. I had made it that way! Now I wished more than ever that I had a neighbour to turn to. My predicament was completely self-inflicted. It was my fault.

  The ambulance arrived quickly. A posse of kids had gathered outside to see what the commotion was, but not one adult came to the door to investigate. There were lots of single parents on my road — I had always behaved like I was the only one. I saw them peer though their curtains. I felt so humiliated as I climbed into the back of the ambulance.

  David was strapped and secured into a mobile chair. They placed a basin beside him. I sat opposite him and held his hands. I started to pray.

  Our father, Who art in heaven… What came next?

  In the hospital the doctors and nurses ran a series of tests. They eventually ruled out the meningitis scare. Instead, he had an acute ear infection. They put him on a drip and detained him overnight for observation. I was so relieved. I slept uncomfortably in a chair beside him. We returned a day later with David already feeling better. I was exhausted and worn out from the whole ordeal.

  I had phoned into work to say I had to take the day off, and I knew that the company wasn’t impressed. They weren’t interested in whether my son was ill or not. That was my problem, not theirs. I strapped David in a chair and put him beside me in the kitchen. I couldn’t bear to have him out of my sight. As he smiled up at me, I realised that he had become my world. If anything had happened to him, I would have been heartbroken. Whether I liked it or not, motherhood had taken over and grown. Despite resenting him, I could not help but love him too. Just then, he threw a cup of milk at the wall and it slowly dripped down on to the floor. I watched it with glee, for it told me he was alive and well. It was the only time I let him get away with it. I needed to see his boldness to feel safe.

  I wasn’t back in the flat long when there was a knock on the door. I opened it expecting to find my
mother or father. My nextdoor neighbour was standing there.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’

  I wanted to tell her to rev up and fuck off. You’re about six months too late. Before my anger took control, I reminded myself of the hospital saga. How much I had needed someone, how I had had no one to turn to. I bit my tongue and invited her in. I was never going to find myself in that position again. I set about making some tea for us and gave David a drink of orange juice in his special cup.

  My visitor’s name was Alice. She was a big fat woman with bleached yellow hair cut severely into the nape of her neck and a tattoo on her left arm that read Johnny. She wore it proudly. Her ears were pierced so many times they had vanished beneath the mountain of earrings. She had a big booming voice that could have travelled the length and breadth of O’Connell Street.

  She picked David up by the scruff of the neck and held him under her arm like a pup. I bit my tongue. Again.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with this young fella,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘If you ask me, he’s overfed. What did the doctors say?’

  ‘They said it was an ear infection.’

  ‘Ah, ear infection, was it? Ah, everything is a fucking ear infection these days. Or a fucking virus. Fucking virus this, virus that. It’s all a load of bollox.’

  ‘Well, I’m just glad it wasn’t meningitis.’

  ‘Melon what, love?’

  ‘He’s fine now. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Johnny had a bad dose of the flu just before Christmas. You know my Johnny, the little baldy bastard who’s always pulling the girls’ knickers down? The doctor said it was a virus. Ask me arse, I told him. I know me own child. Sure he was back to his usual self on the Monday, the little bastard. What’s the young fella’s name?’

  ‘David.’

  ‘A right little fat fucker if you ask me, a fine pair of balls on him and all.’ She whacked him across the backside and to my amazement, David smiled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with this child, missus.’

  Six dirty-looking kids had gathered at the door.

  ‘Get out the fuck!’ she roared at them and they scattered like rats. ‘If you want anything, love, just call in to me. You never have to be alone in this place, unless you want to carry on with your high and mighty shite. They’ll fuck you from a height, love. You need your neighbours. We all need someone.’

  Alice was right. From that day onwards things changed.

  I was never alone again — I made sure of it. When kids called for David, I invited them in. Alice dropped in every day; if she didn’t, I made a point of calling on her. Usually, after a trip to The Hill in the early morning we would have a cup of tea together. She picked up the oddest things at the market and always returned with something for David and myself.

  She was extremely kind. One day, she brought in a huge side of lamb. We cut it up into smaller pieces and rammed it in our freezer compartments. We were eating it for months. Lamb kebabs. Lamb chops. Lamb casserole.

  If I didn’t fancy going shopping in the city, there was no problem. They came to my door. Groceries. Clothes. Tobacco. Alcohol. Even electrical goods. I knew they fell off the back of a lorry, but it didn’t matter any more. I was now a pure-blooded Roman. I was just trying to make ends meet like everybody else.

  I was never robbed. They never robbed their own. They went out to Clontarf to do that. I thought it was funny. I bought a small ghetto-blaster and a portable TV that looked exactly like my mother’s. They only cost me £100 for the two. I was thrilled to bits.

  David seemed OK. I tried to look for things wrong with him. It was pure habit. A part of me still refused to accept we were both doing well. He was doing just as well here as anywhere else. As the culture shock began to diminish, I realized I had an army of good neighbours and friends to call upon when needed. I began to change. I began to see that it was up to me to fit in, not them.

  I wasn’t exactly happy. I was prone to spells of great loneliness that no one could fill. I still carried an air of separateness, but as the years passed I could see that that was part of my nature, and not my circumstances. I had always felt different.

  I qualified for the Unmarried Mothers’ Allowance. I christened it ‘The Scarlet Harlot Allowance’. That, coupled with my wages from the job and the children’s allowance payment every month, just about got me through. I didn’t venture out much, though; finances and baby-sitters prevented it.

  Instead, I joined the Annesley Bridge Library. It was free and easy to get to. I read novels by the score. In the evenings, I had a few cans of beer. Sometimes Alice and others would call in, when the kids were asleep. Sometimes they brought their children with them. They laid their pillows on the floor and nodded off eventually. Their children were so adaptable; they went everywhere with them. We drank cheap wine and sang songs. Sometimes we played cards but Alice always cheated and there would be a row. For the best part we were surviving. There were even moments of peace.

  Joe kept in touch, making his usual monthly visits home to Dublin. He took my letters for Jill back to London. The neighbours loved him. Alice was in like a shot when she saw him coming.

  ‘Here’s your friend, love. The big ride.’

  ‘Alice!’ I’d reprimand her.

  ‘Ah, why don’t the two of you settle down, love?’

  ‘You sound like my mother.’

  ‘A fine thing like that. I’d eat chips out of his knickers, I would.’

  ‘He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Ah, you’re full of shite. A good seeing-to is what you need.’

  Karen and Mick visited occasionally. It was difficult for people to get to me by bus or train and then make the long journey home. It wasn’t exactly safe to walk around the streets after 10 o’clock. I often sat on the edge of my bed when David was asleep and just listened to the noise outside.

  On New Year’s Eve of 1991 when midnight struck, the road came alive with gangs of people. The neighbours burst out of their doors and banged pots and pans and blew whistles. The kids raced up and down the road with bells and screamed, ‘Happy New Year!’ They hugged and kissed, and embraced each other lovingly. It was beautiful. I felt safer there than I ever had at home. Come 2 am it was a different story. The same people came flying horizontally out of their front doors.

  ‘You fucking cunt! I’ll bleeding burst you if you ever mention that young one’s name again!’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about our Joey — what about your child, the dirty pox-ridden spa! You couldn’t raise a cat, you whore.’

  Neighbours who two hours previously had been full of good cheer were now beating each other senseless. Empty beer cans rolled and bottles smashed. Doors slammed and ambulance sirens blared. Fire engines thundered past. It was the same scene every year.

  As time passed, I realised there is no cut-off point in life where you ‘arrive’. It is an endless journey. You have to take it day-by-day, sometimes hour-by-hour. Years passed quickly but the days were long.

  I was kind of happy around that time. As happy as I could have been if you didn’t count the loneliness. Everybody was lonely. David and I were healthy, we had a roof over our heads, and I had enough money to keep us going. Unfortunately, the next six months would prove to be the most difficult of my life.

  It started on Mother’s Day, 10 March 1992. I watched from the window as people crossed the street armed with flowers and chocolates. Alice called in with a bunch of dandelions, then Jill phoned to say Happy Mother’s Day and my mam sent me some perfume. Despite all this, I had never been keen on these man-made family celebration days, like New Year’s Eve and Christmas and Easter, when unhappy families are forced to come together, like it or lump it. There should be a ‘Dysfunctional and Abnormal Families Day’, I thought, grinning. There was nothing I hated more than discrimination.

  The phone rang abruptly, interrupting my thoughts. It was Joe.

  ‘Surprise, surprise!’

  ‘Where
are you?’

  ‘I’m in Dublin Airport.’

  ‘Great.’ I tried to sound delighted.

  ‘Hey, don’t get too excited.’ He sensed my low mood.

  I felt guilty for not being more responsive.

  ‘It’s Mother’s Day, I know,’ he said understanding.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?’ I asked. Normally he told me well in advance.

  ‘I have a surprise for you.’

  I was beginning to feel the first flutters of interest. ‘Oh? What kind of surprise?’

  ‘You’ll see. Meet me in St Anne’s, up by the pond — and bring David. I can’t wait to see him.’

  Glad of the distraction, I dressed David up warmly. There was a cold March breeze, and a chance it would rain. I didn’t care. Joe or no Joe, there was no way I was going to stay in today. I hopped on the Dart and got off at Raheny Station. I had to carry the buggy by myself across the bridge. Old women impatiently sighed behind me, as I struggled with the pram, but no one offered to help me. Didn’t they recall having children? I wondered. Why was everybody so selfish?

  I pushed David along Raheny village down to St Anne’s Park, and wedged myself through a break in the wall. When I let David out, he ran around in circles delighting in the freedom. Eventually he realised he was not restricted to circles, and I spent the next hour chasing him from field to field.

  It was sunny but cold. We walked to the Old Pond and David went crazy when he saw the ducks. Fortunately, I had had the foresight to bring some broken-up bread. Together, we threw it in to the starved birds. We were walking back around the pond and along the mucky hills when I heard a commotion. I looked up over the river and saw a dirty child tumble dangerously down the side. Then a girl followed on a skateboard. I thought they were going to hurt themselves. Then a man came tumbling down after them.