I would watch for her to reappear outside at going-home time. Her beautiful auburn hair was instantly recognisable. Sometimes she wore a scarf over it. That meant she had gone to the hairdresser’s — a monthly treat which was a gift from my father. I would ask her to remove the scarf so I could smell the hairspray; she’d bend down to my level and I’d sniff the pungent aroma.
My teacher was a woman from Galway. She drank tea all day. Her only topic of conversation was the weather, and how cold it was. She wore a beaded hairnet on her head and refused to speak anything but pure Irish. She wasn’t the worst of the teachers.
Mrs Crinnion, our headmistress, had no competition. She had the power to stop us breathing. When she walked in, we stood up like soldiers. The only other person we did that for was Father Sheehy, the local parish priest. ‘Good morning, Father,’ we’d chant in unison. It was always relaxed and informal.
When Mrs Crinnion entered the classroom, chairs screeched as they went backwards. Girls stood terrified and the obligatory piss was done on the floor. She terrorised us with her giant frame and equally large voice. She quizzed us with her fluent Irish. At that delicate age, we were hardly proficient, and she knew this yet derived great pleasure in asking us questions. She knew quite well we wouldn’t be able to answer correctly. Then came the mandatory threat.
‘I’ll turn you inside out, and hang you on a rusty nail.’
One day, a wasp landed on my friend’s neck. I watched in horror as it crept around her collar and made its way down the front of her shirt. She saw it. Her eyes opened wide with terror. Still she would not call out for fear of ‘The Dragon’. When the wasp stung her, I could see the red mark swell and the tears cascade down her cheeks. Such was the fear instilled in us.
We weren’t even children yet. We were aptly named low babies and high babies. That’s exactly what we were. One day ‘The Dragon’ charged in and proceeded to recite the ‘Hail Mary’. The class struggled to repeat it with her, none more so than myself. She was watching me intently and I didn’t know why. She called me to the top of the class. I stood there, tiny and terrified.
‘You are not listening, child. Repeat!’
Repeat what? What was I doing wrong?
‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…’
‘Wrong!’ she bellowed into my face. ‘Repeat from “Blessed art thou”.’
I did. ‘Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…’
‘Wrong!’ she screamed at me. ‘Hold out your hand, child.’
I held out my lily-white palm. She produced an enormous ruler — the kind you find on a building site, a foot long and half an inch thick. She whacked it across my hand.
I winced.
‘Repeat!’ she demanded.
I repeated. I was wrong again. Of course I was wrong again! How could I correct my error until she enlightened me? I had no choice but to repeat what I had said before.
Another lathering across my hand. I heard some muffled cries from the other girls. A slow trickling river of urine poured from under someone’s desk.
My hand was swollen and it ached. The only thing that made it tolerable was that she would not be able to keep it up for ever. She was getting bored.
‘Don’t you know that when you take the Lord’s name, you must bow your head immediately afterwards? ‘Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,’ and she bowed her head like a donkey to demonstrate the point. I had not known that. How could I have?
Now that I had been put in the picture, I repeated the words. Lowered my head when I said ‘Jesus’ and said I was sorry. It was all over.
I went home that afternoon with a broken thumb. I was only four years of age. I guess that was when I had ‘conveniently’ forgotten how to say my prayers.
My mother noticed my hand and my tear-soaked face. She took my hand in hers and inspected the swelling. ‘What in God’s name did you do to deserve this?’
When I explained what had happened, my mother was enraged. Mam enraged was a force to be reckoned with. First, she took me to the family doctor, who swathed my hand in linen and ointment, that wonderful red stuff we got on our grazed knees when we fell in the school yard. The following morning, I was frog-marched up to the principal’s office. My mother stood firm and dignified while ‘The Dragon’ did a complete transformation of character and suddenly became the perfect headmistress.
She greeted my mother with a smile as big as china, but her beady eyes gave way to her fear. It was the only time I ever saw her grovel. She went out of her way to tell my mother what a wonderful child I was. Her apology was stifled and lacked sincerity. Mam was no fool. She told her that if she ever raised her hand to me again she would report her to the police. In those days, of course, it would not have been taken seriously. The threat did do something, though. It worked some kind of magic. I never had any more trouble with the ‘The Dragon’ ever again. She was sickly sweet and nice to me from then on.
She still supervised our class when our teacher was ill, or on holidays. She also gave me a part in the school play in sixth class. It was about Oliver Plunkett. I rehearsed it for weeks on end. ‘The Dragon’ coached me herself.
On the opening night, I stood in the wings, waiting for my entrance. I knew my parents were in the audience. ‘The Dragon’ was behind me, counting down. Then it was my turn. I walked out onto the stage. The spotlight turned on me. It was my moment of glory.
I cupped my hand around my ear and strained my neck outwards. ‘The Dragon’ was aping in the wings.
‘List (long pause) le fum an gcling!’ My lone voice rang out. That was it — I only had one line. My mother jumped to her feet and started clapping. My father joined in and together they gave me a standing ovation. Other parents shushed them and they eventually sat down. It was a wonderful moment. I felt loved, and very proud.
When I was older, my father decided I should have weekly pocket money; every Saturday, he would hand me a beautiful shiny threepenny bit. I loved its bockady shape and fiddled with it all the way to the shops. I could never make up my mind what to spend it on. Jelly snakes. Blackjacks. Lucky lumps. Delicious orange and spearmint bars from ‘Joyce’s of Cork’ (no relation). Real orange ice pops. Fizzle sticks that you could suck into a spike. Liquorice pipes with those tiny pink seeds stuck on the bottom. Fizz bags. Gobstoppers that lasted for days.
I laughed out loud at the memory, and the assistant ‘shushed’ me. I had forgotten I was in the library.
I had finished anyway. I gathered my belongings and walked along the North Strand, where I saw an ad for Christmas trees. Christmas trees already? The festive season seemed to be arriving earlier and earlier each year. It put me in mind of Christmases past.
Unlike the other children in our road, we were never allowed our presents until we had had our breakfast, and had been to Mass. We prayed the priest’s sermon wouldn’t be as long as the one last year. My father spent an age on his knees after receiving. We amused ourselves at the back of the church watching the crib. It went from night to day in sixty seconds. Every year it was the same beautiful scene.
I had sent a hundred letters to Santa Claus, always asking for the same thing. The one thing I truly wanted as a child was a real doll’s house. I could never understand why year after year it failed to materialise. In truth, we didn’t care what we got for Christmas — the sight of the crisp bright paper was enough to send us into a spin — but still I hoped my doll’s house would arrive. Every year, I hoped, I prayed, I crossed my fingers, but Santa always let me down. When we returned from church my dad would start ‘The Game’. He had locked the sitting-room door the night before.
‘Meta? Meta? Where did I put that bloody key?’ He would rummage in his pockets, muttering and mumbling. ‘Now, let me think — when did I have it last?’ He would rub his chin, put his hands on his hips, until we could stand it no lo
nger.
‘Please, Daddy! Please, Daddy! Let us in. Let us in!’ I think he loved this part more than us.
‘Not until you’ve formed an orderly queue.’ That was an impossible thing to ask of us.
The feigned searching would go on for a few more moments until, eventually, even he could not wait any longer. He would produce the key and hold it above our heads as we squealed and screeched and jumped to try and get it. He slowly opened the door, and we charged in like bulls. It was like Aladdin’s cave…
I smiled to myself and pulled my coat collar up. The weather had turned nastily cold. I let myself into the flat and was greeted with warmth, for which I was grateful. I remembered cold nights when we huddled together under my dad’s Crombie coat. It kept us warm but we still caught colds. ‘Pipe down with that coughing!’ my dad would yell at us. We couldn’t help coughing. The cold was cruel and I lay awake watching my foggy breath go in and out in the dark.
I always had to have the door slightly ajar to let in some light. I could never just get into bed and fall asleep. I was convinced there were monsters under the bed with their hairy hands that would reach out and grab my legs. I usually made a run from the door and jumped straight on to the mattress. It was in bed that I did all my thinking and worrying, as children are apt to do. Secrets lurked, just like the monsters under my bed. The whispering wind outside spoke in foreign tongues. Just like my mam and dad in the next room.
As I got into bed tonight, warm and cosy, and not drunk for once, I thought what a strange day it had been. I was tired but quietly calm. I immediately drifted into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
Chapter 12
The last few weeks in work had been hell on earth. Today my manager Gerard Shannon had called me into his office for a ‘little talk’. I knew what was coming but couldn’t have cared less. I was only there to pay my bills and I knew I would eventually get a better job.
Gerard Shannon was the ugliest man I had ever laid eyes on. He had a mouth like a slit orange, crossed eyes and he spat when he talked. Being in his company made my stomach sick. In the poky little office he remarked that I had been on sick leave for an average of two days every month. It wouldn’t do. He wanted an explanation.
‘It’s my periods.’ I heard the words coming from my mouth but I hadn’t planned they would come out so sweetly. ‘I suffer terribly from PMT,’ I told him, knowing full well he was squirming with embarrassment. I went on to inform him of the ‘tablets’ that I had to take before my period came, and how they affected me. They made me sleepy. You see, I was practically bedridden with the tiredness not to mention the pain. I had no plans to stop talking. Gerard Shannon, the lecherous ugly manager, finally interrupted.
‘Yes, well, the point is, Ms Joyce, that we are concerned about your continuous absences and have decided that we may well have to deduct pay if you are seen to be constantly missing days at work.’
I tried to imagine his wife having sex with him and nearly heaved. I fobbed him off with promises that I would try to do better. Pressure was mounting daily. I didn’t want to think about anything, anything at all.
I decided to go back to the course. I was not giving in, not by a long shot. I was also curious to know how everybody else had gotten on with their exercises. I was feeling strange, almost disconnected. Besides, I had nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go. I also wanted to see Matt. I wanted to prove something to him. I was driven by pure frustration, and loneliness.
Inside the classroom, everybody had gathered. Diane waved — I was glad to see her. Matt was handing out leaflets. Brian was reading something. I took my seat along with the others, refusing to look in Matt’s direction. Come to me, baby. Come to me.
‘Hi, Jack.’ Matt appeared at my side.
‘Hi there,’ I said coolly.
I felt calm and collected. I had managed to keep my eating at a minimum, and was thrilled when I weighed myself that morning. I had lost three pounds. It spurred me on to persist. I had put on make-up, and had managed to squeeze into a pair of jeans.
‘I’m glad you came back,’ he said softly.
So am 1. So am I.
‘Jack, can you spare a half-hour or so after the course? Perhaps we can grab a cup of coffee. There’s a little place across the road — how about it?’
I was surprised. ‘OK.’ I tried to sound uninterested, as if I was doing him a favour.
The second session started.
‘Welcome back, everybody. I’m pleased to see you all returned. I hope you had fun doing your written work. Perhaps we’ll have time to discuss that later. This evening, I want you all to pair off in groups of two. Take these handouts and complete the questions as briefly as possible — say in about ten minutes. Then we will regroup and have a discussion about it, OK?’
Brian was wasting no time. Thank God. I was like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. No time to think. No time to think.
Diane crossed over to me immediately. I was glad. I was going to go in her direction anyway. We read the questionnaire and I saw her frowning.
‘What does it say?’ I asked.
‘Where in the family did you come? Oldest? Youngest? Middle child? Read the following family roles. Circle the one that you feel would most appropriately describe you:
Caretaker [Fixer]
Lost Child
Scapegoat
Clown/Mascot
‘I don’t need to write any of this down. I know it off by heart. Do you understand this, dear?’ She passed the piece of paper to me.
‘I think so. Hey, what did you think of last week?’
‘I must say, it brought up a lot of things I didn’t really want to remember. I guess I found it painful. My childhood was a nightmare,’ she answered.
‘Yes. I found it difficult too,’ I lied. ‘I feel funny,’ I added, trying to put some truth back in.
‘Funny, dear?’
‘Yes, strange. I can’t describe it any other way.’
‘Maybe it’s been a long time since you thought about it all?’ she remarked.
‘Didn’t you feel strange?’ I asked her, like a child in need of confirmation.
‘Not really, dear. I’ve done two years of counselling already. There’s nothing new in what I’m doing here today.’
‘I admire you,’ I said genuinely.
‘It’s not easy, dear, believe me. It’s not been easy, any of it.’
I didn’t like her tone of voice. A warning tone of voice. It made me feel uncomfortable. I was almost getting used to the feeling of being uncomfortable. It was like my shadow, following me everywhere I went. My lifetime companion.
Brian called us all together again and collected the written pages. ‘Now…’ he started browsing through the papers. ‘Yes, this is very interesting indeed. OK, let’s see. Connor? Perhaps you’d like to tell us why you see yourself as the Lost Child.’
Connor blew his nose, and proceeded to talk.
‘Well, it’s quite simple, really. I was the middle child. One of three. While completing last week’s exercise, I realised something quite startling. I was prompted to root out the old family snapshots. The photograph albums are packed solid with photos of the eldest. That would be my brother Luke. There are photos of him sitting, crawling, his first steps, his first day at school, et cetera. Then there was my youngest sister Peggy. There were plenty of her as well, though not as many. Then there was me, the middle child. There are two photographs of me in total. That epitomises my life, really. Not important, not ever. I seemed to go unnoticed most of the time.’ He let out a big sigh, then trumpeted his nose.
‘Well done, Connor.’ Brian nodded his head up and down. ‘OK, let’s go to Diane. You have clearly marked the Scapegoat. Would you tell the group why?’ He smiled encouragingly at her.
‘Well, I chose the Scapegoat because I was always the centre of attention. I was a rebellious child. My parents were workaholics. They were never at home. I did everything in m
y power to get their attention. It always backfired on me. They used my “always being trouble” as an excuse to avoid what was really happening. They were never there for me. Yes, I was the Scapegoat all right. As long as they could focus on me, they never had to focus on themselves. It’s taken me years of counselling to forgive them. There really wasn’t anything wrong with me at all, except that I wanted to be noticed too. I guess I might have qualified for the Lost Child as well. Sometimes I’m not sure,’ she finished.
‘I can see you’ve received some counselling, Diane. I can tell by the way you talk that you have already begun the healing process. Well done. Now, who’s next? Yes. Let’s go to Bertie. Bertie, you have yourself ringed as the Clown/Mascot. Care to elaborate?’
Bertie the talkative salesman took the stand. ‘I am the eldest of three. I see myself as the Clown because I was always making them laugh, you know. It wasn’t much fun being brought up in an orphanage. I was very funny. I was able to do these great impressions. Can I just say I was interested in what Connor said. I wouldn’t agree that he was a Lost Child at all — a man able to stand up for himself and talk like that. Could I just say to Connor that I found it very helpful myself to — ‘
‘Well, hold it there, Bertie.’ Brian put up his hand. It was like trying to stop a runaway train. ‘Stick to your own story for the minute. We shall invite input from everybody later. Fine. Go on, Bertie.’
‘Oops. Sorry, everybody! I didn’t mean to offend anyone. It’s my nature, you see. I’m very perceptive. Always diving in to give advice. My wife said I drove her crazy doing it. I’m only trying to help where I can. I see something, I say it. Anyway, where was I? Yes. As you can see, I’m a kind of funny guy.’ He laughed to himself.
You could have fooled me, I thought for everyone.
The House that Jack Built Page 15
