The House that Jack Built

by Catherine Barry

  ‘Fuck it! Fuck it!’ I hissed into the empty room. I got up, stumbled over to the bedroom mirror, and slowly started to undress. I forced myself to look, really look, at my naked body. It was horrific.

  The layers of fat overlapped one another. I looked like the Michelin man. There were nasty stretchmarks on the inside of both my thighs. They had taken on that ‘cellulite’ look, pinched and flabby. My legs had never, ever been this fat. I had always had beautiful legs. My mother claimed that I had inherited them from her. It was the only thing she and my father agreed on. I turned sideways. Jesus Christ, what a sight. I still looked about six months pregnant.

  The fat hung disgustingly over my pubic hair. 1 could have been in training as a Sumo wrestler. But the worst part was to come. I held up the small hand mirror behind my back and gasped at the reflection. My arse had spread so much that it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of me. If there hadn’t been that slit in the middle, I could have mistaken it for a second torso. Sweet Jesus, how did I get like this? How long had I looked like this? I was absolutely devastated. Putting my night-dress back on, I was tearful and filled with self-disgust. The sight of my naked body was so upsetting to me, I could hardly expect anyone else to look at it. My confidence plummeted. What really disturbed me most was the thought that I was powerless to do anything about it.

  Every morning I awoke filled with determination and resilience, only to have scoffed my breakfast, lunch and dinner by 10 am. No matter how resolute I was, my willpower weakened at the mere sight of someone chewing. I was a glutton, a pig. A big fat ugly pig. I touched my face and peered into the hand mirror. I looked old, wizened and wrinkled. Why? It wasn’t like I was out on the town every night! I only had a few cans of beer on my own. My cheeks were red, like a woman with hot flushes in the middle of her menopause. I knew it was all the excess food. Why else did I feel so sick in the mornings?

  Those bloody take-aways. They often gave me food poisoning. How many times had I woken up sweating and shaking? I knew I had to stop ordering food from the Chinese. God knows what I was eating. I’d eat anything. It could have been shite on a stick, for all I cared. The overdose of food was responsible for my ill-health. It had to stop. The midnight promises were made again. Never again. Never again.

  When I awoke the next morning, David was standing beside me. He was holding a can opener in one hand and a can of beans in the other. A dessert spoon peeped out of the top. I looked at the clock. It was after n am. I had slept it out again. I realised I was on the couch; my clothes lay strewn around me. I sat up straight and put my feet on the ground and stumbled on an empty bottle of wine. Where had that come from?

  I grabbed the can off David and yelled at him. ‘What the hell are you trying to do! You could cut your hand on this, you dope!’ I was so angry I slapped him across the face.

  ‘I was hungry!’ He started to cry.

  ‘Then why didn’t you call me?’ I screamed right into his face.

  ‘I did! I did!’ he screamed back at me.

  I was shaking and sweating and feeling very unwell. I wasn’t in the mood for this drama first thing in the morning. I pushed David out of the way and went to the toilet. My stomach was churning and my head was pounding. It felt like there was a bunch of screaming monkeys running wild in it. I probably had another dose of food poisoning. I took two Anadin Extra. Another day had begun. I called in to ‘Brady’s Urinals’ and threw a sickie. I knew I was running out of sick leave. Fuck them anyway. I’d soon find a better job.

  Late in the afternoon, I managed to call Joe. I knew they would be returning to London that night, so I left it as late as possible. It was a deliberate move.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked me.

  ‘She’s great,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?’

  ‘Ah, I just didn’t. I don’t know why. I’m just as surprised.’

  ‘Joe, you’re really fond of her, I can tell.’

  ‘The feeling is mutual, I think. I hope.’

  ‘Are you kidding? She practically drools every time you look at her. It’s great. I really mean that.’ I did. I really meant it.

  ‘You don’t sound as if you do,’ he observed.

  ‘Look, I had one too many last night, is all.’

  ‘Too many what?’ he joked.

  ‘Too much to eat, as per usual, what’s new?’

  ‘Look, I’ll have to fly, Jack. We’re catching the evening ferry.’

  ‘Joe. The kids are beautiful. I can see they trust you. I’m so happy for you. I wish all of you the very, very best.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, and I wasn’t too sure who had caused it.

  ‘You’re still my best friend,’ he said softly.

  ‘I know.’ I was hurting.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘When are you going to start living again?’

  ‘Just as soon as you hang up! OK?’

  He hung up.

  And I died.

  Chapter 9

  The business of life had me baffled. Day in, day out, I did what was expected of me, never really knowing why. It wasn’t long before Christmas had come around again. It was now the end of 1992.

  My phone-calls from Joe had become more and more sporadic. When he did phone, our conversations were strained and difficult, to say the least. I was happy for him, but I was also envious, although I had no right to be — I realised that. So I tried to be jolly. Often, when he phoned, I would talk more to Juliet. We chatted about our children, how they were growing up so quickly.

  David liked to talk to them too. My son was now five years old. He had started school that September. It was one of those precious milestones. He mixed well with the other children and was already showing talent, particularly with art and music. He still maintained his cheeky personality, although I never thought of him as a cheeky child. It was more of an overt confidence. I was rather proud of it. I knew he would learn to stand on his own two feet.

  That was all I had ever hoped for. If he was happy, I was happy. I didn’t really care any more if he didn’t go to college and become a professor. Strange, how children change your whole perspective on life. What seemed to matter years ago could hardly be remembered now. Life before David was dim and distant, a foggy dream. He was my life now. I was determined to concentrate on him fully.

  This Christmas, I decided, he would take his first trip to see Santa Claus. I hadn’t taken him in previous years, as it seemed a waste of money. How were little ones to understand what was going on? I had been looking forward to this for a long time. I even bought him some new clothes for the special occasion.

  ‘What’s he like?’ he asked me, chewing on a biscuit.

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full, David.’

  ‘Well?’ He completely ignored me.

  ‘He’s big and fat, with a red roundy face and a white beard. He wears a lovely red outfit with fur, and he goes “Ho! Ho! Ho!”‘

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he’s happy,’ I answered.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he makes all the children happy. That’s his job.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh David!’ We were still only halfway into town and I was exhausted from the endless questioning. ‘Just wait and see.’

  He cuddled up to me and kissed my hand. I felt guilty. I had screamed at him that morning. That wasn’t unusual. I just felt so bad about it. I wondered, did other mothers lose their tempers as often as I did? David was a handful. Still, that was no excuse for shouting at him, or hitting him.

  When I recalled hitting him I felt even worse. And what made me feel extra guilty was the fact that he always, always, forgave me. It was as if nothing had happened. I now understood children of violent parents — why those children always remained loyal to them, no matter how cruel their parents were. The vulnerability of children was
startling. It was a frightening realisation. I could do what I wanted — it was possible that nobody else would know. But I would know. The screaming monkeys always let me know. Like now. My head ached with remorse. I pulled David closer and kissed his forehead. He was still my baby boy.

  In the city centre, the Christmas season was in full swing. The Christmas lights dazzled brightly, illuminating Henry Street. David leapt with glee when he saw the enormous tree in the centre of O’Connell Street.

  ‘Can we buy one like that, Mammy?’ His eyes were as big as saucers.

  ‘No, darling. It wouldn’t fit in the flat.’

  ‘Aw,’ he smiled.

  Such complete acceptance. Such sweetness.

  We passed the street traders. Voices competed for business, the racket was deafening. I loved it, the hustle and the bustle. Irate parents dragged toddlers from shop to shop. Bags entangled in black market cigarette trading. Lighters five for a pound. It was chilly cold with a sharp breeze, but the colours and energy of Christmas cheer surrounded us in a blanket of childlike charm. I felt I was going to see Santa myself for the first time. I was so excited for David.

  We joined the long queue outside Clery’s department store. As we moved forward, inch by inch, we took in the window displays — of Christmas scenes, accompanied by Bing Crosby. My eyes welled up. It happened every year.

  Soon we were at the entrance to Santa’s Cave. A bored-looking elf shuffled us along and we found ourselves in a dark winding tunnel. I could see it had been made out of cardboard and painted black. Lights flashed on and off. David was a little apprehensive. We passed more moving puppets. A particularly sad-looking snowman was having a hard time of it. Its mechanism had gone haywire. It jerked its head back and forth, completely out of sync with the rest. A group of children had congregated around the window causing a bit of a traffic jam. David thought it was hilarious and began mimicking. The elf was really pissed off and pushed us forward.

  All of a sudden we were in Santa’s Cave and standing in front of us was the big man himself, old St Nicholas. Only he wasn’t very big at all. He was about average height. To David he was an ogre, a monster of a thing. He stared up at him wide-eyed.

  The dozy elf yawned.

  ‘Come here, son,’ Santa boomed in a feigned voice.

  David moved hesitantly, not surprisingly, for Santa wasn’t exactly very merry. Or if he was, it certainly wasn’t his personality that was making him so.

  Santa patted his lap, indicating to David to sit there. I urged him forward and he climbed up.

  ‘Now then.’ Santa tugged at his beard, which had seen better days. His moustache was crooked and I could smell a hint of tobacco from his clothes.

  ‘And what’s this little boy’s name?’

  ‘David.’

  ‘David, is it? And tell me this, David, where are you from?’

  ‘I live in me Mammy’s,’ he said.

  ‘And where might that be, son?’

  ‘Down the road.’

  ‘I see.’ Santa smiled at me, then he gave me a cheeky wink. ‘And Mammy, tell me something else, has David been a good boy this year?’

  ‘Oh very good, Santa,’ I played along, feeling like a complete prick.

  ‘And David, has Mammy been a good mammy as well?’

  Pardon?

  David smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said finally.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. The elf let out a second big yawn and threw a loud cough in for good measure.

  ‘And what would you like for Christmas, David?’

  David thought, as only David could. The elf was tapping her foot impatiently.

  ‘A fire engine, a computer, a bike and a spud gun.’

  ‘I see. And what would Mammy like, do you think? A bottle of vodka, perhaps?’

  The bearded bollox! I glared at him.

  ‘I think she’d like some beer,’ David nodded.

  ‘Well now. You stand aside and watch that chimney there and a present will come down the funnel just for you.’

  David was so excited he held on to his penis and jumped up and down.

  Santa gave a big ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ As the pathetically wrapped present plopped on to the ground, David grabbed it and tore it open. Then he ran around in circles for about five minutes. Santa was laughing his head off. There was something disconcerting about his laugh.

  We stood huddled in the corner as the disinterested elf took our photograph. Santa stood behind me.

  ‘Perhaps Mammy would like to be Santa’s little helper someday,’ he whispered into my ear. Then he pinched my arse.

  I let out a scream. Enough was enough! I pushed my way through the heavy crowds and stormed up to the reception desk.

  ‘I would like to see the manager, please,’ I demanded in my best Clontarf accent.

  ‘Certainly, madam. I am the manager, what seems to be the problem?’

  I explained about the sexually molesting Santa and he apologised profusely. I refused to accept his apology. I wanted to see Mr Arse Grabber personally.

  The manager asked me to come into the office. I was creating a scene and he didn’t want the fuss to be open to public view. I was extremely upset. This first visit had meant so much to me and it had been ruined.

  The manager made me some tea. I would have preferred something stronger but it wasn’t forthcoming. They offered me my money back and a voucher for £50. The assistant manager took David to the restaurant for some refreshments.

  I was not leaving until I’d given that bastard a piece of my mind. The manager was whispering on the phone. Every now and then he glanced over the wire and smiled. I was furious. The whole event had been a complete fiasco. Suddenly, the door burst open and in came the Santa from Hell himself.

  He stood grinning at me like I was some long-lost friend. I stared back indignant and full of pride. Then he pulled the bedraggled beard from off his face and removed his cap.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ he grinned triumphantly.

  ‘Matt Howard, you dirty bastard!’

  *

  My father always said, ‘When the student is ready, the teacher appears.’ But meeting Matt Howard under such cruelly embarrassing circumstances was the last thing I needed.

  I had spent weeks, even months, fantasising how it should be. I would be slim. I would look beautiful. I would devastate him with my charm and wit. I would impress him with my achievements. Er, what achievements? Oh foolish, foolish girl! It always happens when you’re least prepared. After the initial shock wore off I began to see the humorous side to it all. When I thought about it, it was obvious there had been something fishy about Mr Claus right from the start. Of all the Santas in Dublin, I had chosen for us to visit him. The irony was too much.

  Sitting in the restaurant of Clery’s, I tried hard not to stare at him. I ate cigarettes and would have killed for a strong drink. Matt looked older. Why was I surprised? Tiny crow’s feet had appeared on the corner of his eyes, but they only enhanced his beauty. The years had been good to him. David had no idea who he was, and was still babbling away to himself. He had eaten at least four Club bars and drunk a hundred additive-ridden orange squashes. I could see he was entering a ‘hyper’ state of mind. I tried hard to calm him down, while selfishly wishing that he were not there at all. I wanted to savour every moment, and find out as much information as possible. I wasn’t letting Matt slip through my fingers again.

  ‘You snake in the grass.’ I couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘I really had you going, hadn’t I?’ He poked me playfully with his finger. ‘I spotted you immediately. All I had to do was look at David — he’s a carbon copy of you. Jesus, you have no idea how much I enjoyed that.’

  ‘I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how boring it is. Three hundred children a day, same old, same old — I couldn’t resist.’ He gave me that broad beautiful grin.

  We talked about everything, and frequently talked at the same t
ime. It was rushed and intense. Despite our meeting five years before, I still had the guts of fifteen years to tell him about. I could have stayed there for ever, but David was getting more and more difficult. At this point the manager appeared by Matt’s side. He gave me a wink, then he motioned to Matt that the queues were getting longer.

  ‘How in God’s name did you ever get involved in something like this?’ I asked him.

  ‘I need the money, plain and simple.’

  ‘I can think of lots of nicer ways to earn money.’

  ‘Well, I could always sell my body.’ Hmm, I thought hungrily. ‘Look, I’ll have to get a move on.’ He stood up and replaced the ridiculous red hat and beard.

  Don’t go, don’t go, I thought wildly. I cannot bear for any more years to separate us.

  ‘Yeah. I have to go myself,’ I stuttered. David was tugging at my arm and beginning to whine. I hated it when he did that, especially in front of strangers — when he seemed to do it the most.

  We reached the entrance of the tunnel.

  ‘Well, my career beckons,’ Matt joked.

  Please ask me for my phone number, I begged silently.

  ‘Guess I’ll see you around, Jack.’

  OK, ask me for my address, anything, just please hurry! I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what else to say.

  Just then, a little curly-headed girl spotted him and screeched at the top of her voice. ‘Look! There’s Santa. There’s Santa!’ She ran up to him and grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the tunnel. I wanted to strangle her lily-white neck. I was even prepared to pay the consequences.

  I was losing him again. ‘I’m in the book,’ I croaked after him, but he had already been swept inside. I could have cried with disappointment. I took David by the hand, a little roughly.