After that, I sat down and wrote two letters: one to Jill in England and one to Karen and Mick, although it was really for Karen. They were short and sweet and I purposely didn’t ramble on. Just like Matt had told me, I simply explained what I was trying to do and I hoped they would believe me. I deliberately worded Jill’s letter so that there was no reference to Joe. I waited for a phone-call but nothing came. Matt had prepared me for that too.
By the end of the first couple of weeks, nobody could say I wasn’t trying. I had done everything Matt had told me to do. Everything except for one small item. I couldn’t pray. No matter how hard I tried to get on my knees, I could not do it. Matt said not to worry about it. I would be able to when I was ready.
I didn’t question him. I waited and waited. I waited for all the madness to go away. I waited for the nightmares to end. I waited for David to bound home from school and have scored a perfect 10 out of 10 in all his homework. I waited for Jill and Karen and Mick to ring at the door and shout, ‘Hip! Hip! Hooray!’ I still hadn’t won the Lotto, or even a car, or a holiday. I secretly waited for Joe too. He would phone me, I fantasised. He would start crying. We would meet and fall into each other’s arms. He would forgive me and get down on bended knee and propose marriage to me. Now that he knew my exceptional qualities, he would beg forgiveness for his heartless rejection, and we would all live happily ever after.
Yeah, yeah. Of course, none of that happened. I just put on my coat and went to another bloody AA meeting. The people there laughed and smiled and welcomed me and shared their wonderful lives. They were filled with happiness and hope. I wanted to kill them all. I had begun to pretend again. It kept Matt off my case and gave me some peace. Inside I was a wobbling mass of jelly, ready to topple over with the slightest provocation. I was not happy.
Where was the pay-off?
I had just received an invitation to the annual Christmas party at work. It was being held in a local hotel. Like all the previous ones, it was bound to be an all-nighter, sodden with drunken groping managers, just like Gerard Shannon, appalling food and crap entertainment. Just my kind of thing. I knew I would have to decline. At least I had a good excuse. I was sick. It was the truth. I sat looking at the invitation for a long time! I thought it ironic that they had invited me, when they had practically fired me at the same time.
I had been consumed with compulsions all day long. This was turning out to be the hardest day to date. I physically shook with the desire to drink, and tried everything to take my mind off it. I had some meditation tapes in my bag and played them over and over and over. Nothing worked. I phoned Matt but he was in college and I knew he wouldn’t be home until late. I had a £20 note in my purse. I had planned to use it to pay it off my ESB bill in the post office the following morning. I played with it for ages. Twisting it and turning it, making it into different shapes. A fan, an aeroplane. I bent it and folded it and looked at it. I suddenly wished I hadn’t got it, then the decision-making would have been out of my hands. No mon, no fun.
I was quietly going insane. It had been an absolutely horrible day. The rain had thundered down relentlessly without any let-up. I had spent an hour with David at the kitchen table trying to do four simple sums. My patience and tolerance levels were at an all-time low.
He slept now in his comfortable bed with his side lamp on low, and the door ajar. I envied his childhood. I wandered from room to room sighing, chewing my nails, drinking endless cups of coffee and tea. I ate two bars of chocolate and tried the phone again. Matt still wasn’t home. Then I picked up the phone again and rang Mam.
‘Mam, did you get the flowers?’ I asked.
‘I did, pet. What a thoughtful gesture. Of course, I didn’t tell your father. I can’t believe you remembered. It meant so much to me,’ she said tearfully.
‘Remember what, Mam?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Desmond’s anniversary. They arrived on his anniversary. Isn’t that why you sent them, love?’
I hadn’t got the heart to disillusion her. My higher power was having a field day. If I had been lacking in faith I was now certain that something much more powerful was working through me. I had had no idea it was Desmond’s anniversary. I heard the emotion in my mother’s voice. It was filled with relief. Someone in the family had remembered, had acknowledged her pain. She needed to hear a lie. I was not going to spoil her momentary peace. I had given her some joy. I didn’t want to take anything away from her any more.
‘Of course that’s why I sent them,’ I said gently, still reeling at the coincidence. ‘I love you, Mam,’ I told her.
‘I love you too, Jacqueline. It was such a lovely thought. It made me so happy that somebody did something,’ she said.
I hung up feeling humbled and grateful and wondered, was Desmond my guardian angel? Maybe I had a few.
Despite all this, I was still desperate for a drink. The devil had joined forces with the compulsion and was urging me to act on his prompts.
I tried to think what I was trying to achieve. What would happen if I had a drink? What would be the big deal? Just a couple of cans — I wasn’t going to burn the house down! Anyway, nobody would know. Not even David. Only I would. Look — I couldn’t do much damage with £20, could I? I would start again tomorrow. My need for a drink overrode the concerns of court cases, pending job termination and everything resembling responsibility.
Before I knew it, I had my coat on.
The off-licence wasn’t far. I hurried, not because David was alone but because it was 10.55pm, five rninutes to closing time. I cursed myself for having waited so long, and quickened my step. It was still raining and I was soaking wet through to the bone. I arrived at the off-licence with one minute to spare.
The shop keeper was releasing the shutters. They were already at half-mast and I dived under them just in time to find myself standing in the middle of Aladdin’s cave.
I wasn’t fussy. I grabbed the first set of cans I could see and then I took a bottle of white wine from a pyramid at the front door. I didn’t know what it was, nor did I care. It was cheap — that was all that mattered. I put them beside the cash register while the owner finished closing the shutters. There was a mirror before me and I caught a glimpse of my reflection while I stood there waiting to pay for my goods. I looked like a deranged mountain woman. If you’re wondering what a deranged mountain woman looks like, imagine, if you would, a banshee who has been caught in a thunderstorm. A few loud ‘keening’ sounds would have made me picture perfect. I ignored the woman in the mirror and got back to the one who was impatiently rapping her fingers on the counter. What was that fucker doing outside? Building an extension? He eventually returned inside.
‘Nasty night,’ he commented.
‘Indeed,’ I answered.
He carefully placed the six cans in a brown bag and then in another plastic carrier bag. Then he took the bottle of white wine and wrapped it gently in pink tissue, twisting the top and Sellotaping it down. Then he put that in a separate plastic carrier bag. I wasn’t Christmas shopping, I thought furiously. Just put the fucking things in a bag so I can get the fuck out of this place.
‘Looks like it’s going to be down for the night.’ He rambled on about the weather as he started to add up the amounts on a small yellow pad of paper at the till. For fuck’s sake! Why can’t you just ring it up like any other normal shop keeper?
‘Sorry about this, love,’ he said comfortably, ‘but the till is done for the night. Have to do it manually.’
I couldn’t fucking care less if he’d been mugged, beaten, or if his wife had been raped in between. I could almost taste the cans and the beautiful warm feeling surging through my veins. I was drunk already with anticipation!
‘Now, let’s see. That’s £8.99 for the beer and £3.99 for the wine — that makes… £12.98 altogether, love.’
Thank Christ I wasn’t having a New Year’s Eve party or anything like that. I made a mental note to order at Easter-t
ime if I ever got around to organising one.
I sighed with relief and stuck my hand in the back pocket of my jeans. I fiddled around with my fingers. No sign of the £20 note. It must have been in the other pocket. I lifted my wet coat again and slipped my hand into the other pocket. It wasn’t in there either. I moved to the two front pockets. Nothing. I checked the two coat pockets, even though I knew I wouldn’t have put it in there. I opened my bag and ransacked my purse. Nope. Fuck it! Fuck it!
I looked all around me. Just in case I had accidentally tossed it out while my hands were searching, I got down on my knees and crawled, retracing my steps over every inch to the door. The shopkeeper was becoming increasingly impatient with me. Besides, he was locked in a room with a mad witch, dripping wet and crawling all over the floor, shouting loud obscenities to herself.
‘I’m sorry, love, but you’ll have to move along. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave if you can’t pay.’
I looked at him with fire in my eyes. ‘I swear I had a £20 note. Just here.’ I pointed to my backside. By the expression on his face, I could tell that he would have preferred to see the £20 note. ‘Where’s the nearest cash machine?’ I asked him, panic rising in my voice as the minutes ticked by.
‘There isn’t one for miles, love.’ He began to unwrap the drink as slowly and methodically as he had wrapped it.
‘Look, I swear to you, I have the money. I must have left it at home. I can give you my address, and I’ll bring it down first thing in the morning. Hey, look — you know me, I’ve been in here before.’ I was desperate. My voice had transformed. It had a sad pleading essence. It was genuine too.
‘I’m sorry, love. No credit.’ He put the bottle of wine back in place. The cans went back on the shelf as well.
I was broken-hearted. I tried to calculate in my head if I got a bus to town and found a cash machine, I would have to go to a night-club, which would be the only thing open by that time. Then I would be OK. The man ushered me out of the shop. As I stood outside in the rain, it intermingled with my tears, which were coming down just as fast. I felt a desperate crushing of spirit. My mouth was dry. My clothes were stuck to me and my shoes sloshed noisily as I headed for home.
What the fuck am I doing? What in the name of Jesus am I doing? I said it out loud. A car fled past at great speed and drowned me in a fountain of muddy silt that had gathered like a pond at the edge of the road. I walked home slowly, shivering with cold and shock. What had come over me? This was useless! I’d never be able to stay sober if I was going to react like that every time I wanted a drink. For the first time, I saw the power I was up against and appreciated the need for a power greater than myself. I began to ponder it. I quickened my step as the reality began to seep through my rainsodden clothes. I had left David alone, in the flat. I began to run.
My old friends were back — guilt and shame, the only visitors I had these days. I charged through the front door and ran to David’s room. Thank God! He was wrapped around his Barney pyjama bag, still fast asleep. I was out of breath, and as I stood there looking down on him, my wet clothes dripped on to the carpet.
I went to my bedroom, turned on the heaters and stripped. I put on some warm night-clothes and dried my hair with a towel. After placing my jeans and jumper, which were heavy with wet, on the heater, I saw a piece of paper slowly descend. Like a feather in the air, it swayed backwards and forwards, finally coming to rest in the inside of my sneaker, which I had placed under the radiator. I picked it up. It was the £20 note — still folded in the shape of a fan.
I tried to figure out where it had come from. Perhaps it had got caught in my jumper or my sock? Only God knew. Hang on — maybe God did know? I was overwhelmed with a strange sense of coincidence again. Or was it? Could I make the necessary leap of faith? Could I perhaps believe that somebody, something, somewhere, had been looking out for me? That it had not been a coincidence at all, but divine intervention? I acknowledged the uncanny number of coincidences that had been occurring. Then I did something that I hadn’t done since I had made my Holy Communion.
I knelt down and blessed myself. I stayed there for a moment and tried to remember some prayers I had learned at school. I remembered the Hail Mary only because The Dragon’ in junior school had made sure I would for the rest of my life. I was loath to say it, because of the memories it invoked. I still couldn’t recall the full ‘Our Father’. So I opted for a short one-way conversation with this strange thing they called a higher power.
‘Dear Whoever You Are. Thank you. PS: Please help me.’
Then I blessed myself again and got up. There were no choirs of angels or flashes of light or the sound of flapping wings. I didn’t feel any different. I still wanted to drink.
However, I felt an enormous relief that I hadn’t. I was very grateful. I also had digested a big chunk of truth about this disease called alcoholism. It wasn’t going to go away, not ever. I lay on my bed, munching biscuits and listening to music. I thought back over my life, only this time I added alcohol to each circumstance and the picture revealed a startling common thread. Any event had always been followed by a drunken spree. I had put my bad luck down to circumstances in my life. I could see clearly that I myself had created most of the circumstances and then made them worse by adding alcohol to them. It was a bit like putting a match to paraffin.
I tried to accept responsibility for my actions, and then quickly discerned that if I was going to do that, I would also have to own up to the consequences. I shivered at the thought of what the consequences might have been, had I got my own way in the off-licence that night. The madness had begun to wear off now, and while the gnawing was still there, a clarity of mind was too.
There wasn’t an ongoing battle between them. They were both there in my mind but quite separate. Standing side by side. I realised I had a choice. I could get drunk if I wanted to. I could stay sober if I wanted to. Which set of thoughts was I going to choose?
That was going to be my dilemma.
I went searching for Sam and found him at the end of David’s bed. He had been neglected and looked dirty. A blob of jam had hardened on his left ear and I picked it off. I squeezed his hand and ‘Old MacDonald’ started off all right but then slowed down to a deep drawling sound. The battery had died. How ironic. A bit like our relationship. I thought about Joe. Allowed myself the luxury of a short fantasy. Just for a minute. It was a fatal mistake.
I had known for some time that I had begun to miss Joe in a way that was shockingly different. I was not just missing a friend. I was missing him. It had begun to sink in some weeks back when I heard Diane talk at the course about her husband. I was identifying with her feelings. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was talking about a lover. Joe was not my lover. Then I asked myself that awful question. Why? Why did I feel so differently about him? Did I want him as a lover? As sure as day follows night the answer came at me screaming wildly into my ears. Yes! Yes! Yes! I dismissed it, of course. I knew full well that that would have been a convenient decision to come to.
After all, I had just been rejected by a gay man, found out I was alcoholic, had the threat of a court case hanging over me, and hadn’t had sex for two years. Even with that clarity and vision the thoughts persisted. I had spent the best part of twenty years with Joe. It hadn’t mattered that we had not had sex. We had had everything else. We had weathered many storms together. Of all my friends, I would have described him as my best.
What was a lover anyway, if not a best friend? Then what is love? I found myself dreaming about him but not in a romantic sense. It was a curiously straightforward desire to extend what was already a good relationship, beyond the realms of friendship. Of all the people in the world, I couldn’t think of one with whom I would like to spend the rest of my life, except him.
He was already a huge part of my life. Now I didn’t even know if friendship was still possible. I had taken it for granted for so long. I had destroyed it with my
own two hands. And now I couldn’t bear to think of the future without him.
Why had I avoided my real feelings all this time? All these years, carefully tiptoeing around what was under my nose all along?
The answer was that I was afraid. I was terrified of trusting myself. It wasn’t Joe I had doubted. It was me. If the relationship had failed, I would have lost his friendship. Now I had lost the chance of both, and hated myself for it.
Look at you! You’re pathetic. You’re snuggling up to a yellow chicken. Aren’t you concerned? Are you proud of who you’ve become? No!
Well, an hour ago you were prepared to throw it all away again. I wasn’t really.
You think you’re in love with Joe, don’t you? I know I am.
What makes you think he’ll entertain you after all this? I don’t think he will. Fuck off, will you?
Not much work in loving a man you don’t have to see or speak to! There’s more work in it than you’ll ever know!
Perhaps you are in love with him, but is he in love with you? Go away!
When I got up to go to the toilet, the telephone beckoned me. Willed me to use it. I picked it up. I dialled the number slowly. Heard it ring. My heart thumped. Then I put it back down. I picked it up again and dialled a different number.
‘Hello?’ Juliet’s British voice answered.
‘Juliet, it’s Jack. I know it’s late.’
‘Oh — Jack.’ She didn’t sound exactly thrilled to hear from me.
‘I’m really sorry I haven’t contacted you before now. I wanted to. To be honest, I didn’t want it to seem like I was interfering,’ I finished.
She laughed hysterically.
‘Are you OK, Juliet? How are the kids, I mean?’ I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
‘The kids are fine. I’m fine too, I suppose. I just have to get on with it.’
The House that Jack Built Page 28