The House that Jack Built

by Catherine Barry

  I kissed the top of his head and held him as tight as I could. I understood the irony of our situation. We were standing in a crowded arrivals hall in Dublin Airport. It could have been The Limit. Only this time, I was the strong one. The roles had been reversed. I could not move. I could not speak. That would come later. For the moment, I was a shoulder to cry on. Just like he had been for me, at different intervals in my troubled life. I felt an overwhelming love for him.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Joe’ was all I could manage. He nodded his head from side to side, desperately trying to hold on to his dignity. I wanted him to know he did not need to do that. It was me, Jack, his best friend. I would always be his best friend.

  We took a taxi to his mother’s house. She was absolutely thrilled to see us both. She, too, had obviously decided not to mention the estrangement just yet. We all knew that Joe would talk when he was ready. For the moment it was enough to let him know where he was and who he was with.

  ‘I’m really tired,’ he whispered.

  ‘I know.’ I rubbed his arm with my hand. ‘I’m on the phone. All you have to do is pick it up, day or night.’ He nodded in understanding.

  Back home, I was doubly confused, and not a little bit surprised at my own reactions. I had not planned to reach out to him at the airport. Yet it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t sexual, but intensely passionate. Are they the same thing? I wondered. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him vulnerable or needy. I had always played that role. He had always been the strong one, the rescuer. His vulnerability forced me to look at my commitments. He was only a human being too. I felt I had drained every one of my friends. Jill and Karen hardly ever rang. I wanted it that way, yet I didn’t. I couldn’t fathom my own behaviour. I was forcing people to do exactly what I didn’t want them to do.

  I wanted to be there for Joe and realised with shock that I didn’t actually know how to do that. I felt ashamed. Always taking people for granted.

  Always needing a crisis to wake me up. It annoyed me to see him this upset. This upset, over someone else. I wanted to be the heroine, without having done the work. Juliet was a good woman. Who did I think I was? How convenient for me to suddenly be all concerned. I sickened myself.

  The following morning I took David to school and went to work as usual. When I came home I tidied up. I remembered Brian’s handout at the course and rummaged through my bag until I found it.

  I read the first question: Describe in as much detail as you can an unhappy incident in your home.

  Well, well, well. That was a tough one. Which one to choose? My mind had been racing with unhappy incidents ever since I started the course. I had tried to push them to the back of my mind, but even while I slept they tormented me. Making themselves known in fragmented dreams and persistent nightmares. I frequently found myself waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and with tears rolling down my face. Then I realised I was dreaming again. I dreamt constantly of holidays.

  Holidays. Holidays. Before and after holidays were probably the worst times ever in our home. I often wondered, did other families go through this traumatic experience? What should have been something anticipated with joy and excitement, became the annual dread for me and my siblings alike. It usually started about a week before we were due to set off. My mother would become increasingly agitated and the normal arguing would escalate to fever pitch. Dad would disappear more and more to escape Mam’s wrath. That only increased her bad mood and that in turn only increased our misery.

  I was about nine years old when we had the ‘famous’ holiday in Courtown.

  Every year we went to a mobile home, usually in Kerry, Cork or Galway. This year it was Courtown, County Wexford. It was the best Mam and Dad could do by way of vacation. Some families only got as far as Donabate. The holidays themselves were nearly always a success.

  I could never quite figure out what got my mother started. It was almost like she had no control over herself. A bout of madness would overtake her and she was powerless to stop it. She simmered under the surface like a volcano, slowly building up, day by day, finally exploding in a pyroclastic cloud that devastated everything within a mile radius. It would generally begin with the odd smart comment to my dad, who had become accustomed to the yearly onslaught. It was the day of our departure. We scurried around the house like lunatics looking for last-minute items.

  ‘Mam, I can’t find my sandals.’

  ‘William, where’s my comb?’

  ‘Dad, have you got the camera?’

  ‘I hope you paid the milkman on the double, William. I don’t want to be facing into any bills when we get home.’

  ‘Yes, I paid the milkman,’ Dad would sigh.

  ‘Did you ask Mrs McCarthy if she’ll keep an eye on the house?’

  ‘I asked Mrs McCarthy,’ he said flatly and shook his newspaper vigorously. This was always a sign that he was losing his patience.

  ‘Did you cancel the newspaper order at the shop?’

  ‘Ah, for God’s sake, woman, stop prattling on and on. Why don’t you give your mouth a rest?’ he’d snort loudly and Mam would start to slam the dishes on the table.

  ‘I only asked you a question — no need to snap the head off me. Someone has to check these things.’

  ‘Well, if you’re such an expert, why don’t you check them yourself, instead of hassling me while I’m trying to read the paper.’

  ‘Oh, put the paper away, for goodness sake. Can’t you see I’m trying to get things into the car?’

  Rachel was pulling at Dad’s trousers.

  ‘Ah, what in the name of Jaysus do you want now?’ he yelled at her.

  ‘Don’t shout at the child like that.’ Mam’s voice had gone up slightly. ‘What is it, love?’ Mam pulled her over.

  ‘Are we going yet?’ she asked. Too young to appreciate the tense atmosphere.

  ‘We’ll go when I’m ready, do you hear? Young pup! Get out from under me feet, go on, be off with you.’ Dad shooed her away like a dog.

  ‘Don’t call her a pup!’ Mam bellowed at the top of her voice, her hands on her hips.

  Dad got up to leave the room.

  ‘That’s right, leave the room. Go on, insult the child and leave me to deal with it!’

  ‘It’s a bloody good kick in the arse she needs, then she’d be in the manure business, wouldn’t you?’

  Rachel’s mouth had begun to turn downwards.

  ‘She only asked a question. You treat her like she’s an enemy. Get in the car, Rachel, there’s a good girl. We’re ready to go now.’

  ‘I said I’m not ready! Do not contradict me in front of the child!’ Dad was turning twenty shades of purple.

  ‘The “child” has a name, or haven’t you noticed?’ Mam was right up into his face.

  At that point, Dad lost it. He slammed his fist on the table, and the milk jug overturned. It spilled over the side making a perfect white waterfall.

  Rachel started to cry.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done, you big bully. You do it every year!’

  Mam was screeching. Rachel had scampered under the table, whimpering.

  Where was I? Behind the kitchen door. My refuge, when they went to war. I had my colouring book and crayons with me, the ones Dad had bought me for school that year. Big fat waxy ones in bright colours. I started to draw on the wall. I knew it was bold. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘It’s you! You started the whole thing, with your bloody whinging and moaning. It’s you that has her acting like a baby, and her almost five years old. Shut up, you bloody whiner! I’ll give you something to whine about!’

  ‘You hate her! You hate her! You’ve always hated her!’ Mam was hysterical. All semblance of sanity gone out of her face.

  I was drawing a picture. A picture of the Archangel Gabriel. I looked over my shoulder. He wasn’t there. Father Sheehy had said — Father Sheehy had promised — ‘Your Guardian Ange
l is always watching over you.’ I had started to cry now; the snot rolled down my nose and into my mouth. I daren’t sniffle. I wiped it on my T-shirt.

  ‘May God forgive you, woman. If I hate anyone, it’s… it’s…’

  Mam whacked him across the face. I heard the impact and winced. I could almost feel the hot burning sting of it. They both stood staring at each other. The only sound was their rapid breathing, and Rachel still cowering under the table trying to stifle her sobs.

  ‘You’ve always blamed Rachel. She’s only a child. It wasn’t her fault that Desmond died.’ Mam was crying, her words tumbling out in rapid succession.

  ‘Godammit, I forbid you to talk to me like that, woman! I forbid it! As God is my judge, I’ll break every bone in your body if you open your mouth once more.’ Dad’s voice had cracked.

  Mam made a maddened lunge for the back door. She was completely out of control. She pulled Rachel out from underneath the kitchen table.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said, breathless. ‘I’m leaving. I’m leaving and I’m taking her with me. I’m getting away from this fucking house and I’m never coming back.’

  Rachel was screaming and kicking. ‘No! No! I want my dad!’

  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

  ‘Let her go!’ Dad ordered. Suddenly calm with fright. ‘Let her go now, Meta. You don’t know what you’re saying. Come on now, get a hold of yourself

  Blessed art thou among zvomen, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. I bowed my head.

  Dad reached out to grab a hold of her and she tore at the air with her arms. Her face was white with rage.

  ‘Don’t you fucking touch me,’ she spat.

  Where are you, Jack? I’m here, behind the door. I am crouched in a sitting position, hugging my knees close to my chest.

  I have destroyed the wall and broken my crayons. I can’t get past thy womb, Jesus. I remember the prayer that Father Sheehy had taught me.

  Oh, angel of God, my guardian dear,

  To whom God’s love commits me here,

  Ever this day be at my side,

  To light and guard,

  To rule and guide.

  Mam is still struggling with the back door. Eventually she frees it by kicking it violently. She drags Rachel down the pathway. My sister is still screaming hysterically.

  ‘Dad! Dad! I want my dad.’

  I can’t take any more. I can’t. I can’t. My dad is crying. I scramble to my feet, panic-stricken, and make a run for the back door. Mam has slammed it closed after her. I can’t reach the handle. I try climbing up the glass panels.

  Open the door! Open the door!

  My fist smashes through the glass pane. I am bleeding but I can feel no pain. I am beside myself with fear and panic. I am running down the garden, tripping, slipping and sliding.

  ‘Mam! Mam! Come back, Mam! Don’t forget me! Don’t leave me behind! Mam!’

  The garden gate is swinging in the wind. Backwards and forwards it swings, banging against the wall every couple of seconds.

  Mam is gone. Mam is gone for ever. She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t love me. She left me behind. She only took Rachel.

  I can feel the warm blood trickling down my wrist. Dad is trying to pick me up. I can see his hand coming down to me. I am biting hard into his hand. I fucking hate him. I hate my mother. I hate Desmond. And there are definitely no such things as angels.

  *

  I woke up screaming for Mam. I was crying. Great big sobs, the kind that make your shoulders heave. I was in my flat, surrounded by empty cans and bottles. I looked around me for more. There was nothing left. I reached for the phone.

  ‘Mam?’

  ‘Jack? It’s one-thirty in the morning. What’s wrong? Don’t tell me David’s sick again. Or did someone die?’

  ‘Mam, why did you leave me?’

  ‘Jack, have you been drinking?’

  ‘Mam, I just wanted to know. Why did you take Rachel, all those years ago? Remember that awful row with Dad? You left me behind.’

  ‘Jack, for goodness sake, child, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is anyone there with you? What’s the matter?’

  I gave a long, shuddering sigh. ‘It’s all right, Mam. Forget it. I just had a bad dream. I’ll phone you tomorrow.’ I hung up.

  I sat for a long time. Smoking. Thinking. I had never forgiven my mother for that. I had never even tried. I really thought she didn’t love me. Now I realised how much pain they must have been in. I had always thought it was my fault. Otherwise she wouldn’t have left me behind.

  I went back into David’s room. He was snoring loudly, with his arse propped in the air and his arms bent under his chest. I laughed to myself, and thought about all the times I had resented him. All the times I had thought I wanted to be free. All the times I had held him responsible for the lack of love in my life. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t my parents’ fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was life.

  *

  I was wide awake now and the memories were clear. I picked up Brian’s paper and read the second question. It was easier. Describe a happy incident in your childhood.

  Ironically, one of my fondest memories was the hours following the big showdown. I recalled being in a small room in the Mater Hospital. I had inflicted quite a nasty gash across the main vein on my wrist. Dad had rushed me to the hospital. I still had no pain because my fear had not abated, despite Mam returning. She had left home for an entire twenty minutes. She walked up the garden path, with Rachel in tow. Silently, she let herself in the back door. I never heard them discuss what had happened. She obviously realised there was a new crisis. I guess I became the focus of attention.

  In the hospital room a nurse was about to stitch my wrist. My father sat in a chair opposite me and commanded that 1 look at him. I did what I was told. I focused on him and didn’t feel the needle. As he smiled bravely at me, I thought of all the times he had sat me on his lap and cut my toenails. I loved it when he did that. It tickled. In the mornings I used to creep into their secret domain, and kiss him on the cheek. His face was always rough and unshaven. I used to complain about the ‘arrows’ scratching my face. What pain he must have been in, watching me being stitched up. What self-blame he must have been feeling. What remorse.

  The nurse finished the job and my hand was bandaged. Dad led me through the long winding corridors of the hospital, and stopped at the exit. In the corner was a huge bulky machine. It had words on it, but I didn’t understand them. I had never seen anything like it in my life.

  ‘Watch this!’ Dad said, like a child himself. He put some coins in the giant monster and it made a loud thumping noise. I thought it was going to take off. Then it did a big belch. There was a slit at the bottom. Dad put his hand in and I thought it would never come out again. He winced and twisted his hand around. He then put it behind his back.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he said.

  I did.

  ‘Now hold out your hand.’

  I did.

  ‘Now open your eyes.’

  I did.

  And there was a Cadbury’s Crunchie in the palm of my hand. A full one, in a glorious gold wrapper. All for me.

  Just for me. I had never, ever had a whole chocolate bar for myself. I looked at the magic machine, the chocolate heaven.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said.

  As he bent down and kissed me, I wondered was he the Guardian Angel?

  Just then I heard David cough from the other room. It was late in the evening and the flat was still and quiet. I sobbed quietly into a paper tissue, not wanting to wake him up. I tried to remember the holiday itself. Details were sketchy at first, but soon the memories were clear as a bell. It was amazing that we still managed to go to Courtown, Wexford. It turned out to be the best holiday we had ever had. We set off in our dad’s black Ford Anglia, all three children’s bodies wedged into the back seat.

  Dad arose
early every morning with his razor and toilet bag and slung a towel over his arm. He greeted the other dads as they made their way to the public washrooms. They compared weather reports and local entertainment. The women queued on the other side, forming an orderly line, and washed their hair in freezing cold water. They swapped tips about washing clothes, and what was cheap in the local supermarket. On the odd night, Dad treated us to ‘real’ chips from the chipper van. We would get the scent and beg him, until he couldn’t resist the wonderful fatty aroma himself. They came wrapped in newspaper, crisp and steaming hot. We blew on our fingers. We smothered them in salt and vinegar. If we were lucky, a dollop of tomato ketchup might be thrown in.

  During the night, Dad would place our makeshift toilet — a bucket — in the centre of the floor. Inevitably, somebody got up to use it. A different body would be allocated the dreadful chore of taking it out the next morning to dispose of its vile contents. On one occasion, Dad was taking a leak and dropped a shilling in it by mistake. I offered to do the honours straight away. I took the bucket to the back of the mobile home, rolled up my sleeves, closed my eyes and plunged my hand into it. I swirled it around in the urine and faeces, until I felt the cold coin slip into my palm. I ran to the site pump and washed it under the running water, until it gleamed in the sun. Then I set off for the amusement arcade, stinking of shit and piss. I was delighted with life.

  At night, the town centre came alive. Amusement arcades filled with ‘bowsies’. Neon signs screeched through the dark. The combination of noise and flashing lights was magical. Coins clanked. Sirens wailed. Every now and then a Jackpot would ring out and screams of delight would echo. We would gather around the lucky winner, feigning our best ‘urchin’ look. We hoped the nice man or woman might toss us a coin.

  We searched the slots for forgotten pennies. I spent hours rolling them on to the black and white lines. If they landed in the middle, you won, and six new pennies would come pumping down the glass panel.

  It was the only time I remember the family being almost normal. Mam and Dad seemed content. I felt loved, happy. I thought it would last for ever. Within hours of returning to Dublin, the squabbling had started up again. It was a short reprieve. Thinking back, the house must have represented something ugly, something perverse. There was something at home that ignited their resentment. That awful word ‘reality’.