The House that Jack Built

by Catherine Barry

  Dad often left loose change in his overcoat in the closet downstairs. At night, when I was certain everyone was asleep, I would creep down and stick my little hand in the big pocket. The coins rattled in the dark. Too scared to awaken my parents by turning on the light, I took whatever fell into my hand. At first one coin, then two; soon I was taking handfuls and didn’t know what to do with them.

  I lifted a corner of tintawn in my bedroom and hoarded them there. Each morning I arose early, and would leave the house before schooltime and go to the sweetshop. I had the best lunchbox in school. It was a far cry from jam sandwiches and milk. I gorged on large Granny Smith apples. The girls in my class would compete for the ‘butts’ — the juicy core of the apple which I didn’t eat. I soon came to see the advantages of being a robber. I had become very popular all of a sudden. I gave away sweets to anyone who asked me, and told lies about where the money had come from. One day, in the classroom, when everybody was out in the yard, I spied the ‘Black Babies’ money box. I reached up and dipped in. I grabbed a handful of coins and stuffed them in my pinafore pocket.

  The little devil was winning hands down. My guardian angel had taken flight to greener fields. I was a thief and an over-eater at eight years of age.

  The back of our house was a wild and unspoiled acre of land. It bore some of the best fruit going around — apples, pears, gooseberries. I planned The Great Orchard Robbery’ while I did my homework, deciding I would use Jason, my younger brother, to assist in pulling the whole thing off.

  I took an alarm clock and set it for 4am, when I was certain everybody would be asleep. I was so excited that sleep evaded me. I arose at 4am, being careful to turn the alarm off, and woke Jason. He got up sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, yawning and putting on his slippers.

  ‘You’ll see.’ I placed my forefinger on his lips.

  We crept down the stairs, making sure to avoid all the creaky ones. Jason followed like a lamb to the slaughter. Outside in the garden the birds were twittering sweetly. Everything was silent and the dew wet our feet as we ploughed through the field. The apples had already begun to fall and I gathered them quickly. I made a bag out of my night-dress and packed in as many as I could, scooping them towards me in great haste. I motioned at Jason to do the same. The apples were small, red and sweet. Delicious! I rammed as many as I could into my mouth.

  Finally, I motioned to Jason to get moving. We made our journey back, through the field, up the lane, in through the garden, sliding silently in the back door. As quiet as mice, we stole upstairs and climbed into our beds. Nobody had budged. The operation had been a success!

  I was alive with exhilaration. It was my first act of total defiance, and I had gotten away with it! Just to know that I had was enough. I vowed to do the same thing the next night, too. Feeling tired but happy, I snuggled up under the covers and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  The next morning at breakfast, Jason kept yawning. I kicked him under the table and he jumped to attention.

  ‘What’s up with the pair of them?’ Dad roared, shaving cream dripping on the lino.

  ‘Nothing,’ I nodded.

  ‘Not getting enough sleep. You’re to be in your beds early tonight, do you hear?’ He coughed loudly.

  ‘Yes, Dad.’ I winked at Jason.

  I had pulled it off. The Great Orchard Robbery. It was my first taste of revenge, my first rebellion against my parents. And like the apples, it was sweet.

  I stopped writing when a huge yawn came out of my mouth. I rose to put on the kettle and helped myself to some cereal, then I checked on David to make sure he was OK. Then I returned to the kitchen table and continued my tale.

  The following day I went to school as usual. I came home, had my dinner, did my homework and played out on the street. Dad was true to his word and had us tucked in with stories read by 8pm. I was tired and feeling a bit off-colour so I didn’t mind the early night. At about lam I awoke with vicious cramps in my lower abdomen. I tossed and turned for what seemed like an age but the rising and falling nausea only increased. Eventually I could stick it no longer and called out: ‘Mam, Dad, I think I’m going to be sick!’

  Dad appeared at the side of the bed, clutching his stripy pyjama bottoms with a bit of string. They always appeared to be falling down.

  ‘Quit that shouting and roaring!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘What ails you, huh?’

  ‘I feel sick,’ I whimpered. No sooner had the words come out than I felt the bile rising into my mouth. I dashed to the toilet, just about making it on time, and threw up. My eyes watered with the retching. Oh God — I knew there was more to come.

  ‘Were you out at that orchard? Answer me now!’ Dad was hardly what you would call supportive, in my moment of need.

  ‘I swear, Dad, I wasn’t near it.’ Another fountain of broken apples landed in the toilet. I felt a sharp smack across the back of my head.

  ‘And what’s all that then!’ Dad was fuming. ‘Bread and butter pudding, huh? Huh?’

  I looked into the sea of sick. Chunks of apple swirled around before my eyes. I heaved again, but nothing came up this time. It went on all night. Every hour or so I would be doubled up with cramp. My little tummy had nothing left inside it.

  Dad grounded me for a week. Jason got away scot free. I had been the ‘ringleader’ so to speak and had blackened his ‘innocent soul’. He was not to blame. I had to take full responsibility for my actions.

  To this day, I find it hard to keep apples in my belly. It’s probably the only food I can’t eat. It’s a pity it wasn’t chocolate or I’d be as skinny as a greyhound. My sweet tooth developed at an early age. I learned to stuff my feelings with sweet things, chocolate being the number-one offender. It made me feel better, or so I thought. That was all right when I was a child, but the bingeing continued when I grew up, and caused havoc with my figure. Each new faddy diet only resulted in a worse relapse. I wasn’t sure in the end which was the addiction, the food or the dieting. I guess it was a bit of both.

  To counteract my loss of dignity after ‘The Great Orchard Robbery’, I did the next wrong thing and introduced myself to another addiction. I robbed a cigarette out of my mother’s bag when she wasn’t looking. I puffed and puffed and wondered what all the fuss was about, until a local boy who was a year older than me — therefore deserving of the utmost respect — pointed out to me that I was not doing it right.

  ‘Here,’ said the expert. ‘Watch me.’ He put the cigarette in his mouth and drew the smoke in. Then he took a deep breath and pulled it all into the back of his throat. Then he worked a piece of magic that sold me once and for all. He spoke. No smoke came out of his mouth until a few seconds later. Then he did the same thing again. Only this time, the smoke came out of his nostrils.

  ‘That’s how you inhale properly,’ he instructed me. ‘That’s how you really smoke.’

  My back was against the wall. I had to be a real smoker, like them. I drew in the putrid smoke and held it there. I went green, then red, then white. I blew the smoke out.

  There, shithead.

  I was now also a drug addict, and I hadn’t even had my first period.

  I put down the paper and laughed to myself. It was funny, at times. I could see quite clearly what I had been trying to achieve. I was trying to be noticed, but I had learned to scream inside. Nowadays, with all the information at our fingertips, any one of those incidents would have alerted my parents to the fact that something was wrong with me. I was acting out so much I could have enrolled for Equity. They never took any notice of my strange behaviour, though — even when they eventually found out about my stealing from the supermarket. My dad had caught me eating sweets in the lane. He challenged me about where I had gotten the money from and I told him the truth. He scolded me and punished me severely, but it had no effect and was useless as a means of addressing the real problem.

  I was an innocent child
. I didn’t want to be bad, but I had begun to believe that I was. I had begun to internalise the constant squabbling as being my fault. I had to do something to convince myself it was my fault. So I robbed, I cheated, I lied. The more I did these things, the more I became the centre of attention. I certainly achieved that. That was not what I was after, however. I wanted their attention all right, but not this way. I was constantly in trouble from then on. If only we had had even a little family counselling. It might have done so much to stop it all from snowballing. We never talked about things at home, we just walked around the subject in our heads. I thought about this and it made me very sad. The real reason for the family dysfunction was dead. Yet he was still living in our house.

  Desmond Joyce, twin brother of Rachel, lurked behind the Venetian blinds, and in our suitcases. He hung out in the kitchen and was a fly on the wall. He was behind every argument, every slammed door and every turn of cheek. He had made our home into a bloody battlefield. The victims of war were my siblings and me. We were powerless to overcome something we could not see, hear, feel or talk to. If there was a survivor, it was Desmond himself, for he had escaped the living hell which his death had created.

  We were a family searching for answers. Mam and Dad were filled with something they could not understand. Someone once said, ‘You cannot change something, until it becomes what it is.’ As Desmond was dead, he would never present an opportunity for them to resolve their conflict. As for me, I was destined to spin uncontrollably out of orbit and land somewhere on a distant planet. I would also be thrown there without any map. I, too, had experienced a ‘little death’ in myself. I hadn’t stood a snowball’s chance in hell.

  This is the house that Jack built. A house made of cards. The faulty foundations had already been set. One strong puff of reality and it would all come tumbling down…

  *

  I was a little late for the next session of the course. As I sat down I realised that they had started without me. Frank had his head in his hands and looked clearly distressed. Not surprisingly. Bertie was being challenged at last.

  ‘Ever since I started this course, things have been steadily going downhill at home. Rather than helping me, it is making matters worse. I really don’t think it’s for me any more. I made a mistake coming,’ he complained.

  ‘Let’s see what the group has to say, Bertie. At least listen before you go.’

  Bertie tut-tutted and sat down.

  Connor raised his hand. ‘I wonder if Bertie’s wife resents his attendance here. After all, it was my wife who originally sent me here. Now she’s acting very strange too. It’s almost as if she doesn’t really want me to change.’

  ‘My wife only wants the best for me.’ Bertie was indignant and red-faced. ‘She doesn’t think I need to dig up all this crap about my childhood.’

  ‘What do you think, Bertie?’ Diane was quick to reply.

  Bertie sat silently staring at the floor. ‘I gave her a dog’s life, all her life. Why should I upset her any further? I owe my life to her. If she hadn’t stayed — why, I would have no home today.’ He looked defeated.

  ‘What’s her complaint, Bertie?’ I found myself asking.

  ‘She says I’ve changed. I’m not the same. I’m spending too much time writing this rubbish, thinking about myself all the time. I took away the best years of her life. I gambled it away.’

  ‘So she doesn’t want you gambling any more, but you can’t step out of line, or want anything for yourself — is that it?’ Brian got it in a nutshell.

  ‘It’s not as if you’re out there gambling now, Bertie. It’s only one night a week,’ I reminded him.

  Bertie put his head in his hands. ‘I know I hurt her in the past,’ he mumbled. ‘Am I always going to pay for it? I have to do everything her way.’

  ‘Perhaps the new you frightens her.’ Frank spoke up without a stutter in sight.

  Everybody went silent.

  Yeah, he’s right, I thought. Aloud, I said, ‘Bertie, what’s done is done. You’re doing your best to make it up to her, but you also have to be yourself, and look after yourself. If you don’t, who knows, you might end up gambling again.’

  Everybody nodded in agreement.

  ‘It would seem to me that your wife has the problem, but you feel responsible for everything,’ Diane said.

  ‘I think Diane is on the right track,’ Brian said quietly. ‘Bertie, what do you think?’

  ‘It’s no wonder I felt like the Lost Child.’ He hung his head solemnly.

  Diane continued: ‘You may very well have been a lost child, all those years ago. I don’t know about anyone else, but now I really feel you’re the Caretaker, the Fixer, and you’re trying to mend everything. It’s not possible, Bertie, it just isn’t.’

  Bertie looked around. Everybody was agreeing with Diane. To my astonishment he stayed put and was exceptionally quiet for the rest of the class.

  Connor related a similar story. ‘I’ve been Mr Nice Guy for too long. “Yes, dear. No, dear.” I lost my identity when I married Doreen. I always gave in, for the sake of peace and quiet, but I did myself a great injustice. Isn’t it ironic that she suggested I participate in the course? Now she’s behaving like I’m a selfish bastard. The truth is, I’ve been at her beck and call for twenty years. This is the first time I have ever completed anything in my life. I’m determined to finish it, if it’s the last thing I do. This is for me.’ He blew heavily into his handkerchief.

  Frank had his hand up again.

  Connor leaned over towards me. ‘What’s he do out there, anyway. Pull his wire?’ I tried not to smile.

  ‘You’re excused, Frank,’ Brian said automatically.

  ‘But I wanted to say something,’ Frank said, and we all giggled.

  ‘Sorry, Frank. I thought… well, go on.’

  ‘I’ve been getting h… h… help with my speech impediment.’

  Bertie stood up and started clapping. We all joined in. There were a few war whoops thrown in.

  Frank blushed and waved his hand for everyone to stop. ‘I wouldn’t have done it, only for the course. I didn’t think I was worth it. All I ever wanted was to be noticed,’ he said perfectly, without any mistakes. ‘People automatically think I’m mentally deficient. I’m not — OK?’

  Everybody was silent.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. People have been treating me like a paraplegic all my life. They talk over me, pat me on the head like an imbecile. They avoid my eyes. I’m shy — that’s all that’s wrong with me! I guess I ended up believing them in the end.’

  The silence continued. Frank rocked backwards and forwards, with his head down. His powerful words hung in the air. Nobody knew what to say. Diane was crying.

  ‘Diane?’ Brian gently urged her to speak.

  ‘My husband left me for a younger woman,’ she sniffled. ‘I let the garbage build up for three weeks. I lined the black sacks up outside the garden gate. Hoping he would notice that no one had taken them out…’ She broke down.

  ‘They were there for weeks,’ she continued, shuddering. ‘It made no difference. Eventually the garbage men took them away. All I ever wanted was to be loved. To be me,’ she sobbed into her tissues.

  At that moment you could have heard a pin drop. We could all have been Diane. We had all played the ‘garbage’ game, and lost. It was a moment of complete understanding. A turning-point for the group.

  Brian closed the session with a reminder that it was mid-term break in the school and that it would be closed next week. But it wouldn’t put a stop to my writing. It was like a river: if you blocked the flow one way, it always found another way out!

  Chapter 15

  The break from the course was a welcome relief. I was tiring a little of the clashing personalities and my endless longing for something to happen with Matt. I had recently taken on board what the facilitator had suggested, about not getting involved. Obviously, Matt had too. He still phone
d me the odd time and showed a great interest in my progress. That was enough to keep me hoping that, come the end of the course, we might get together finally.

  In the meantime, I was still plagued with my childhood past. Now when I went to the shops with David I was besieged with cravings for childish sweets. I saw a fizz bag one day and went berserk. The shopkeeper stared at me.

  ‘It’s for my son,’ I explained.

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled at me.

  I bought ten of them, plus some cola bottles, marshmallows and milk teeth. There was a row outside the shop because David wanted them. I guarded them as if it were a matter of life and death.

  I visited the family home a number of times. My behaviour was strange, to say the least. My parents finally started to ask questions when I arrived on their doorstep twice in one week. Mam hadn’t forgotten the odd phone-call she had received in the middle of the night. I tried hard to explain my actions but it fell on deaf ears.

  They thought I was reverting back to a second childhood and needed psychiatric help. They weren’t too far off the mark either.

  I asked Mam to pull out all the old family photograph albums and I pored over them with fascination. Upstairs in the attic conversion there was a secret door. I had hidden some things behind it before I left home. I was elated when I found that they were still there, especially my ‘bottom drawer’. It was a term my father used to use for something special. It was in fact an old brown leather suitcase that had seen better days. The locks had long since been broken and it was closed tightly with the aid of an old scarf. It took some time to get it off.

  I looked inside. It was a treasure trove of special memories. Some of the items made me laugh. I had held on to ridiculous things. A stud that had fallen off a boyfriend’s shoe. Huge Valentine cards filled with scruffy verses and 3D I love you’s. Cinema and concert tickets. A tissue I had cried into when I broke up with Matt. A piece of chewing gum from a pen pal in Germany. St Patrick’s Day Parade badges. My Communion rosette, and there, at the very bottom of the suitcase, was a diary. I took it out and examined the beautiful red hard cover. It was from 1974 — one of the worst years of my life. This was the biggie. I wriggled my hand into the inside pocket of the case and pulled out a tiny gold key. It slipped easily into the locked journal. Bingo! I had hit the jackpot.