The House that Jack Built

by Catherine Barry

  ‘It’s simple really, Jack,’ Matt said gently. ‘No tricks. You go to a meeting, and don’t drink in between.’

  I hadn’t the foggiest notion what the fuck he was talking about. I felt confused and overwhelmed by the whole thing.

  ‘You need help, girl. Lots of it. I told you — it’s going to be a very hard struggle. You’re going to need all the strength you can muster and a lot more. You must concentrate on this alone and nothing else. Even David will have to take a backseat. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s OK if you don’t. You will.’

  ‘You said that before,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Was I right?’

  ‘Yes, you were. You fucking bastard.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’

  ‘Yes. Your misery is refundable at any stage.’

  ‘Har, har,’ I said.

  He left me at the bus stop and I made my journey home. I almost fell asleep on the bus. On the way to the flat I ran past the off-licence, terrified that if I looked in, it would engulf me whole. When I reached Alice’s flat I knocked on the door. ‘Alice, I really need to talk to you.’

  She invited me in. I explained everything. Every tiny detail. It poured out of me at a hundred miles an hour. When I had finished Alice just stared at me.

  ‘I haven’t a fucking breeze what you’re on about, love, but if you need a drink I have one in the fridge.’

  ‘No, Alice! Look, I really need your help with David. I’m going to be out most nights. I’ll pay you, say, £5 per hour? Would you mind him, please?’ I begged her.

  ‘Ah Jaysus love, no need to beg. Course I’ll mind him. Hope it’s not one a those religious cults you’re getting yourself messed up with. Fucking mental, them lot. Sure, you’re not an alcoholic, love. I should know. That fucking swine what called himself a husband — now he’s an alcoholic. Poxy waster. You’re not one of them, love. I’ve never seen you piss in your pants.’ Please, dear Jesus, shut her up. This was not what I wanted or needed to hear. One slight turn to the right and I was out of there. Up to the off-licence. Matt or no Matt.

  ‘Thanks, Alice!’ I cut her off and left immediately. Back in the safety of my own flat I heaved a sigh of relief. But the relief was short-lived. An ominous brown envelope beckoned me to open it. I knew as soon as I did that it was from Brady Insurances. I was temporarily suspended without pay until further notice, they informed me.

  I had enough to cope with right now. Sod the lot of them.

  I took out all the literature Matt had given me and began to read. I read and read until my eyes were heavy, and eventually I fell asleep. An elephant shouldn’t have been able to wake me after the day I had had.

  However, I slept fitfully, waking up with horrific nightmares and sweating and shaking. I searched the flat for something to drink. There was nothing alcoholic in sight. I drank at least a gallon of orange juice. I awoke around 7 am glad that there had been nothing to drink.

  Once David was in school I phoned Matt and arranged to meet him in the city centre that evening. As we climbed a winding staircase in an old dilapidated building, I could hear voices and chairs being scraped along the floor. A big sign hung on the door. A A meeting in progress.

  I stepped inside and the door closed behind me.

  Chapter 20

  In early December 1993 the new Jack was launched. Icy winds had arrived without warning and the dark evenings were with us once again. I had just survived my first seven days without a drink. It had been incredibly difficult. I had attached myself like glue to Matt. I followed his instructions to the letter and had expected to feel better. If anything, I felt worse.

  Now, without my crutch, my anaesthetic, every feeling, emotion and thought that I had buried in a bottle surged forwards in a volcanic eruption. I was a walking Montserrat. It was like waking up in the middle of a nightmare. Then realising the nightmare was real. My mood swings went up, down. Up, down. I hardly knew what to do with all of it.

  If it hadn’t been for Matt who was readily accessible by phone, I would never have made it. He ordered me to call, no matter what time it was. I guess he was sorry he had done that when I rang him for the fourth time after midnight. The nights were the worst. I tossed and turned, fraught with worry about everything. The court case. My job. David. I laid my head down on the pillow, exhausted, revelling at the thought of soon being asleep. Then the buggers would invade my mind, like enemy troops marching to the front line. My head was a padded room of shame and guilt. I was in the no man’s land of ‘early recovery’. Very early recovery. Every minute and every second seemed like an eternity.

  I had my list of tasks, constructed with the help of Matt. Each time I did one of them, I crossed it off with a sense of satisfaction. It was all I could do. Follow instructions, and hope for the best. I put my trust in Matt and got on with the chores of the day and a lot more besides.

  My first stop was to make a call to my doctor. He examined me thoroughly from head to toe and gave me a clean bill of health. I explained the recent developments and still found it strange to hear myself using the term ‘alcoholic’. After all, my definition of an alcoholic was a tramp-type wino staggering wildly across traffic-laden streets. He would be wearing an old torn overcoat, held together with a piece of string, and have a bottle of cheap port peeping out of a brown bag. His hair would be shoulder-length, wild and matted from living outdoors, and he would shout obscenities and talk to himself. I didn’t look anything like that.

  My doctor asked me, had I experienced any withdrawal symptoms. I told him I hadn’t. I then asked him, did that mean I wasn’t an alcoholic? He told me it meant nothing of the sort. I was sorely disappointed. Secretly, I still clung to the last remaining illusion that perhaps I had escaped this wretched affliction. I was quick to point out that I very rarely drank during the day. That I was never hospitalised. That I mostly drank beer, not spirits. That I didn’t drink anything like two bottles of vodka a day. That I had only had one blackout. That I wasn’t in debt.

  Each illusion was gradually eradicated as I went to my meetings and listened to others’ experiences. I realised Ireland was rampant with alcoholism. One man described it as ‘three and a half million alcoholics clinging to a rock’. It got a great laugh. Most of the people who attended AA meetings were ordinary types, just like me. In fact, the vast majority of them could have been me. The Skid Row bum was virtually non-existent. I was reluctant to accept that these people were suffering from alcoholism. They looked jolly and laughed a lot of the time.

  Anyway, my doctor wrote an explanatory note to my employers, saying that I was being treated for alcoholism. He also prescribed some mild medication to tide me over the first few weeks. I was certain there was no need for the pills. By the fourth day, I had taken them all. I had not expected my nerves to be in such a bad state. Doors banged and cups slammed as if they had loudspeakers attached to them. Large crowds and voices terrified me. I heard a chainsaw serial killer trying to break into my flat, and dreamt the Nazis were following me. But I didn’t have any real withdrawal symptoms. No rodents or spiders or anything like that. Just Nazis. I got away lightly.

  When I shamefacedly explained to my doctor that I had been temporarily suspended from work, he told me the company would take a sympathetic view, if I was willing to accept appropriate treatment and own up to my problem. He advised me to wait until they had received his note before contacting them. I agreed. It was the best I could do for the moment.

  One day, while following my new regime of housework in the flat, I opened David’s schoolbag, for the first time since he had started school in September. Inside it were four unopened letters addressed to me, several newsletters, memos and a mashed pear stuck to the bottom. The bag reeked of old sandwiches and leather and I had to wash his books down with a damp cloth. I opened the letters and read in shame. The school principal had been concerned about his absenc
es. She was also concerned about the poor quality of his homework. In addition, she expressed dissatisfaction with David’s attire. It was not right, she wrote, to send a child to school without a full uniform.

  Full of guilt, I walked straight over to the school, which wasn’t more than five minutes away. I put my hands over my ears to protect them from the biting cold and the screech of oncoming traffic. I was a nervous wreck by the time I reached the principal’s office.

  The woman greeted me kindly and asked would I like a cup of tea. I was expecting to get a good lecture on the finer points of parenting but came away pleasantly surprised. I realised, all I had to do was tell the truth. The more I did it, the more I got used to hearing it. Nobody had turned me away so far. The principal showed great compassion and interest as I relayed again my story and what I was trying to do. She offered to work with me and suggested a few small things that would help. I took them on board and put a plan of action into practice immediately. I left the school and returned home to consult my list again.

  I found it extremely difficult to venture outdoors at all. It wasn’t the weather that was putting me off. Every corner that I turned beseeched me to Drink this! Drink that! Eat this! Eat that! Billboards on the street. Posters in the train station. There was no escaping it. Drink me! Eat me! I felt like Alice in Wonderland and wanted to put a plastic bag over my head. I had even had to leave the cinema on my one and only trip out with David. I counted seven ads for alcoholic drinks and then promptly got up and left. I took David to Burger King instead, but even there I could not escape the constant barrage of lunchtime drinkers exhaling their alcohol-scented breath all over me. I had taken to unplugging the television after 6pm. It, too, was an endless provocation. How was I going to stay sober in this alcohol-soaked culture?

  While David was at school, I attended to the flat, and the million boring jobs that I had omitted to do in the last two years. Every day I recovered more and more evidence of my drinking habit. I found two small baby vodkas stuffed inside David’s Barney pyjama bag. I ran screeching to the sink, holding the offending articles out from me like they were dead vermin I had found in a trap. I emptied them down the sink and threw in a good measure of Parazone to drown out the smell. The flat had begun to stink like a swimming pool. I tidied, I swept, I mopped, I washed, I polished.

  Everything was filthy. The lace curtains had turned brownish-yellow in colour. I watched them spin in the washing machine and the dirty grey water gather at the bottom. Then I prepared a proper dinner for David. I had forgotten how to cook. We had been living out of the local Chinese take-away for months. I put a nice tablecloth on the table and set two places. It looked pretty, almost normal. Knives and forks and glasses. I stared at it for a long time and forgot what I was doing. I wondered, had I been abducted by aliens, returned to earth and suffered loss of memory in the intervening lapse of time?

  At 1.25pm I left the flat again for a second journey up to the school. David was ecstatic at the sight of his mam waiting outside. It filled me with joy. I had never collected him from school. Only once, and then I was late. All the other kids had gone home at 12 pm, I remembered sadly, as I had scolded him outside the gates for not telling me. He pointed to the unopened letter in his schoolbag. I hadn’t even apologised.

  Now he ran out with his arms waving. He lost his balance and fell over in the excitement. ‘There’s my mam!’ he shouted to anyone who would listen. Collecting a child from school. It was such a simple thing that I had taken for granted. I remembered seeing my own mother outside the school and how good it had made me feel.

  I had forgotten the simple things in life, and their importance. David straightened himself out and charged into my knees like a bull. I grabbed him and kissed him, feeling like a proper mam. It felt good. I looked around at all the other mams. I was going to be like them from now on. Back at home, David turned his nose up at my culinary efforts. I didn’t mind. I had made the effort. I was doing everything Matt had told me to do. He said it would take time, that routine was very important, to establish it as soon as possible and to keep doing it. When dinner was through I sat down to tackle David’s homework. That was a nerve-racking experience. His homework was simple and uncomplicated but David’s attention wandered and his concentration was poor.

  How long had he been like that?

  I knew he was not a stupid child. He just hadn’t had any assistance. By the end of the first week he had started to write a little bit better. I wrote notes at the bottom of his homework and the teacher responded the next day. It was a wonderful scheme. We kept in touch daily and both recognised his progress, no matter how small. She informed me of his conduct in class and any improvements. She turned out to be a great ally and friend.

  In the afternoon, I made an appointment to join an Easy-Slim club. I had continued to lose weight ever so slowly, but I was bingeing on chocolate all the time and was concerned that I would put on even more weight now that I had quit drinking. I went to my first class on a Monday evening and weighed in. The instructor talked with me and we set a goal. I found it helpful and useful. My admission and action had shown determination. I was not going to tackle one thing. I was going to tackle them all, one day at a time.

  I went to an AA meeting every evening as agreed. I argued with Alice that it was too much to ask her to baby-sit every night, so she introduced me to a young teenager who lived three doors down and between them they shared the workload. Alice refused to accept any payment. The teenager was delighted with a packet of cigarettes. Everybody mucked in to help as best they could. I realised I was very lucky.

  As the days passed, I could see what a bitch I had been. I knew I didn’t deserve the help I was getting, but that only spurred me on to take full advantage of any that was offered. It was the only way I could repay people — by showing them that the effort on my part was at least sincere.

  Matt had made an arrangement for me to see an alcoholic counsellor once a week. The counsellor was kind and informative. She encouraged all my other activities. I discussed the course I was attending and she was fascinated with the resulting changes that were taking place in me. She was a very important and much-needed part of my recovery. In the confines of her private room, I was able to express my fears and anxiety and troubled heart. I was still devastated over the loss of Joe and my other friends. She insisted that I continue with my work and routines. The right time would come along, she promised, and warned me that it would be unwise to do anything just yet. I used up ample boxes of Kleenex and drove her insane with the same whining Matt refused to indulge.

  In the late evenings, I read recovery books and literature. When my mind wouldn’t be still, and when I couldn’t concentrate, I listened to light music or nature tapes. I once played a tape with the sound of dolphins splashing in and out of water. It didn’t do me any good but it sent David off to Noddy Noddy Land in seconds.

  I invested in a new personal stereo and walked for at least half an hour every day. Matt had said it would help me. It certainly did. I complained and whinged down the phone for as long as he would let me. Especially about David and the hardships of trying to get sober and mind him at the same time. He then told me about a woman who had six children, no husband and no job and who was sober for sixteen years. I never mentioned it again.

  After two weeks, I contacted Greta Leahy for the second time and asked her to see me again. To my surprise she agreed. I told her my story as honestly as I could and she was agreeable and responsive. She gave me a notepad and asked me to keep a daily record of my activities. She also decided to reply to Andrew’s letter to explain the situation in the hope that the whole thing would be settled out of court. There was only one week left to negotiate. I couldn’t believe it was only three weeks ago when my life had been changed so dramatically. It felt like three months.

  I brought up the question of fees with Greta and asked what I would be expected to pay for her services.

  ‘Nothing for the moment,’
she replied.

  I was surprised and didn’t know what to say. I thought it was probably a favour she was doing me because she knew my father so well. I went to let myself out and was about to close the door behind me when she raised her head for a moment. She assured me that all would turn out well on the day. I had no choice but to believe her and start praying. I was too focused on staying sober to think about it in great depth.

  ‘By the way, Jack,’ she said, scribbling in her file, her glasses perched on the end of her legal eagle nose, ‘my son is in AA. Sober many years now.’

  I smiled at her and she smiled back. Outside I marvelled at the coincidence.

  When I visited the local Community Welfare officer, they allocated a social worker to my case. She was a warm-hearted and compassionate individual who offered her support and assistance. She informed me of all my entitlements — medical, social, tax, employment, and so on. I realised there were a lot of services I was not availing myself of, and they were all free. There had been a great deal of change in the social welfare system. I was not claiming half my entitlements.

  The people at the office helped me fill out the necessary forms and they were duly posted on the way home. Two days later I received a cheque from the Tax Office for £200. It threw me into a complete spin. There is only one thing worse for an alcoholic than bad luck, and that’s good luck. I rang Matt immediately.

  ‘I just got a cheque for £200 from the Tax Office. What am I going to do with it? I have to get rid of it — I’m afraid I’ll drink it.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Matt laughed. ‘Give it to your solicitor,’ he said calmly.

  ‘What? But she doesn’t want any money from me,’ I explained.

  ‘Give it to her,’ he ordered.

  ‘OK!’ I said and slammed the phone down. I put the cheque in an envelope and posted it to Greta immediately. I rued the day I laid eyes on Matt. Then I visited the local Interflora shop and sent Mam a beautiful bouquet of flowers. The message was simple. I love you, from Jack.