Heaps of Trouble (9 page)

On the second week back after the school holidays, one morning just after ten, the principal came into our class with a new boy in tow. After introducing him to the teacher and the class in general, he looked around, spotted the empty seat alongside me, and directed the boy to sit there. During lunch hour we discovered that we had several things in common, since he lived on Moran Road, Drimnagh, which was just across the canal from Inchicore. His name was David and he told me that his father worked for CIE as a bus inspector; what with my father being a Home Assistance Officer, here was yet another thing we had in common to draw us together and distance us from the rest of the pupils. Of course David had to go through the obligatory inquisition with the mother on his first visit to our home, running along the lines of, ‘Where do you live and what does your father do?' He just about scraped by with his responses, and we began visiting each other's houses after school on a regular basis. David had one great advantage over me, which quickly manifested itself as the school term progressed. Namely, he could read, write and, more importantly, spell much better than me. In fact the whole class could. More and more I found myself standing outside the classroom door awaiting the arrival of ‘the Black Death'.

Every evening, as part of our homework, we were given a page from our spelling book and had to learn to spell and pronounce the list of random words off by heart. Arriving home every evening, I would first get the father to help me pronounce the words and, once remembered, endeavour to commit their spelling to memory. That book was the last thing I read before going to sleep at night and was brought back out on the bus ride into school every morning. The next day I would I sit in the classroom, with perspiration running down my back and my palms sweating, listening to the priest firing out words at the other pupils. They, in turn, leapt to their feet and rapped out the correct spelling, until inevitably, working his way randomly through the class, he would call my name. The demand, ‘Heaps, spell “emancipate”', sounded like a death sentence to me.

The whole class would hold its collective breath, waiting to burst out laughing after I had made a complete balls-up of my effort. After giving me a few more words to try, all ending up with the same result, he would point to the door with an expression that said, ‘Dear Lord, what more can I do?' Whereupon I would get up and, to the ‘tut-tuts' of the others, make the now familiar walk to take up my usual position in the corridor waiting for ‘the Black Death's' arrival.

David tried to assist me during the first week by whispering the correct spelling; but, when he was caught and had to join me outside as a result of his one-and-only personal conflict with Father Dooley, he abandoned that idea. After about six weeks of this daily entertainment at my expense, the priest finally gave up on me and we settled down, as far as spelling was concerned, to a truce whereby he simply ignored me. Just throwing the odd comment in my direction, such as, ‘Think yourself lucky, as dustbin collectors don't need to be able to spell.'

It was a great pity that in those days schools didn't understand or recognise dyslexia, because if they had it might have eased the embarrassment, frustration, fear and constant ridicule I suffered until I finished my education.

Around that time the father decided that he needed a rest. Or at least that was the story issued for the sake of the neighbours, since the truth was that he had admitted himself into St Patrick's Hospital again, but this time with a vast difference. So the mother and I entered the long, and now familiar, corridors of the hospital once more. However, instead of going directly to his room on our first visit, we were diverted to see the psychiatrist who was in charge of the institution. Once we were seated in front of him, he leant forward across his desk with his arms folded and began to explain in very simple English exactly what was wrong with the father.

‘Mrs Heaps, your husband is an alcoholic and has been for many years, and the most difficult part of his treatment will be getting him to admit to himself that he has a drink problem. As a family unit you must all encourage him to quit, for the sake of his children and marriage and, while he can never drink again, once cured he will be able to enjoy a normal, happy life. Now have you any questions?'

The mother hit him with a litany of what she had had to put up with over the past years and told him that if the father had not admitted himself this time, she would have left him with the children. ‘Especially since the last ‘holiday' he spent in this place was better than anything you'd get in a first class hotel,' she added.

‘Now, now, Mrs Heaps, you can rest assured that when he comes out of here this time he will be a new man.' Turning to me he continued, ‘…and, young man, you, particularly, must be on your guard, as he will try to convince you that he is not an alcoholic and maybe…ha, ha…be so bold as to even convince you to bring him drink.'

At that statement I went bright red, remembering the last time, when I had not only brought booze to the father, but had probably supplied half of the hospital as well; no wonder they were all back in drying-out again. I had visions of the inmates compiling their drink orders at that very minute, having seen me arrive, and resolved that no matter what the father said or promised me I would not bring him any drink.

Concluding, he said that if the father did not kick the habit he would eventually kill himself. Then he stood up and led us off to see him. But this time, instead of going to a private ward, we went through two sets of locked, double doors, which were opened by a nurse on duty sitting in a small office between them, and finally entered a room with six other beds.

The room was in semi-darkness and, as we approached the bed, I thought that we had been directed to the wrong person. The man I was looking at could not my father? Before me was a gaunt, sallow-faced figure, heavily sedated, unshaven, with the appearance of some wino who had been collected off the street and dumped in here to sleep it off. As I turned to move away, I suddenly noticed features about him that were familiar until, with cold terror creeping over me, I finally grasped that this man and my father were one and the same. The mother led me out of the ward down to the canteen, still in a state of shock. She sat me down and began to explain why she had been so strict with me and what she had endured over the past few years with the father.

Since the father had spoiled me from an early age, she began, by the time she realised he had a drink problem it was too late to change my view of him. She recognised that I would side with him and, if Catherine had not been born, she would have walked out on the two of us. Over the past couple of years, with his drinking going from bad to worse, her main concern had been to protect my sister and that was why she had insisted that I be sent away for every holiday.

Crying openly, she went on to tell me how almost every evening after he returned from drinking with the boys he would be ‘at her'. Not fully understanding what being ‘at her' meant, I did realise that it was something she recoiled from and hated, for as she was saying the words she began to shudder. With tears streaming down her face, she continued as if talking to herself, which caused the other people seated in the room to cast reproachful glances in our direction. She told me that over the years she had looked to the church for help. One evening, after pouring her heart out in the confessional, the priest had leapt out and dragged her from the confessional box, sending her on her way with the words ‘for God's sake woman, go home to your husband'.

The two of us were now crying and I began to think that I was the cause of most of the problems: if I had been a better son to both of them, well, perhaps this would never have happened. When we finally left, I cast a last glance down the corridor that led off in the direction of the father's room and I resolved that whatever happened I would make sure Catherine would never be subjected to this.

We were not allowed to visit him for the next six days. On day seven, when I arrived after school and was admitted into his ward through the locked doors, I was greeted by the same gaunt figure I had seen lying in the bed on the first night. His face lit up with joy at the sight of me, he grabbed me by the arm and, sitting me down on his bed, he whispered, ‘Now look Em, I don't know what lies they told you about me, but you have got to believe me when I tell you that I don't have a drink problem. It's just living with that mother of yours that has me in here with all of these other lunatics, now be a good lad and run off and sneak me in a small naggin.'

When I responded with ‘No, Dad, I won't', it was like hitting him in the face with a baseball bat and he staggered back until he hit the bedside locker. Reaching for a Player's cigarette, he lit it with hands that were shaking so badly it took him nearly a minute to co-ordinate the timing, between his trembling hands and vibrating lips. After exhaling a cloud of smoke, he stared at me with blood-shot eyes and said in a low voice, ‘So the bitch has got to you as well.'

‘No, Dad, I've been talking to the doctor and he told me that you have a drink problem and, for me and my sister's sake, you have to get better.'

‘Get out, get out,' he roared, getting up from the bed and reaching out as if he was about to strike me. ‘You're no son of mine, go home and tell that bitch of a mother of yours that I will die in this stinking place.'

I ran to the door, which was being opened by two nurses coming to investigate the shouting, and, pushing past them, I ran all the way home. Before entering the shop, I made up my mind to tell the mother and Catherine that he was still sedated and I was not allowed to talk to him. Every evening after that I made excuses to the mother as to why I could not visit the father. Instead I looked after Catherine in the evenings, while she made the trip to the hospital. Finally, about three weeks after my visit, the mother announced that the three of us were going in that evening to visit him.

I was full of apprehension as we entered the canteen, but there, already seated and awaiting our arrival, was the father that we all remembered. Clean-shaven, well-dressed, clear-eyed and with a weight gain that seemed to suit him, he greeted us all as if the past few weeks had never happened. Sitting us down, he told us that, while he didn't believe he had a drink problem, for everyone's sake and to keep our mother happy, he had decided to stop drinking. In a teasing voice he added, ‘And I'll attend the AA meetings after I've been discharged from this nut-house, even though it's a complete waste of time.' With Catherine bouncing on his knee and me hugging him around the neck, the mother smiling and looking years younger, he set about telling us amusing stories about the ‘crackpots' and ‘cranks' that he was forced to put up with in hospital.

I celebrated my ninth birthday in a room off Williams Square filled with men and women of all ages, some with and some without their families, trying to suppress the feeling of jubilation that had come over me. Finally, when it was my father's turn to speak, I watched him walk up to the top of the room and turn to address the assembly. I took my mother's hand with choking pride and a sense of release washed over me as I heard him begin his address with the words: ‘Good evening ladies and gentleman, my name is Ron, this is my first visit, and I am an alcoholic.'

Two days before the father was discharged from the ‘nut-house' the mother and I had another meeting with the resident psychiatrist. We found him lounging back in his large office chair and he beckoned us over with a wave of his hand, like the Pope summoning his cardinals. Without once looking in our direction, he began to address the ceiling: ‘We've done very well, yes in-deedey, yes in-deedey.'

I couldn't tell if his reference to ‘we' referred to us, the family, or his assortment of white-coated bouncers called staff. So I decided not to show any outward sign of emotion and sat on the edge of the chair with my back as straight as possible. He continued, ‘But the real battle is just beginning, for when he leaves our fine establishment diligence, yes, diligence will be required if we are to continue the work that we have begun here.' He swivelled upright in his chair and swung around to face us with a speed that caused us both to recoil into our seats with surprise.

‘He will, of course, remain on the anti-booze tablets for the foreseeable future and you must insure that he takes them every day. He must also continue to attend the AA meetings that I believe you accompanied him to? Yes, yes, encourage, encourage, is what I say.'

He tapped the table with his fingers as if to beat out a rhythmic tattoo that would make us remember his words, ‘…and hopefully we will not see him back here for treatment ever again.'

He stopped abruptly, as if suddenly unplugged, and the room was thrown into silence while he leant both of his elbows on the desk and, cupping his two palms together, trapped his nose with the index finger of both hands, as if in deep thought. When his nose began to turn bright red the mother and I glanced at each other thinking that we had lost him, that he was going into a trance – and remembered that the father had warned us that all psychiatrists were a little mad themselves. Suddenly, he bolted out of his chair as if it had unexpectedly become red-hot, strutted over to the bookcase, leant on it and continued speaking, while taking a great interest in his books, almost as though he had just noticed that he had bookshelves.

‘Before he leaves here you must search your home from top to bottom, leave no stone unturned. You must check the bathroom, the car, the bedroom, even the dog if you have one. Take my word for it, these people can hide their supplies of booze anywhere, even in their pyjamas.'

That's it, I thought, the man has spent so many years trying to cure mad people that he has become one himself. Just as I was beginning to imagine calling in a brace of his white-coated bouncers to restrain and carry him off to one of his own beds, the mother thanked him for all his help in curing her husband and most especially for his advice.