IRISH LOVESTORY - The Dreamer

 

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The Dreamer

Our life together could hardly have felt more ordinary, yet in that ordinariness, there was a strange sweetness. Jack worked for a construction company, often returning home tired, dust-stained and mud-speckled in his overalls. I had never imagined him capable of building anything—he had no formal training, only the education of De La Salle. And yet, the work gave him purpose, and I was grateful for that small anchoring of stability. Each week, we paid our rent directly to the landlord, who came in person to collect it. The Irish system—weekly wages, weekly rent—always seemed to me a peculiar rhythm, but it suited them.

I walked the main road to the shopping center every day, stocking shelves, advising mothers with children, and enduring the daily barbs of my colleague Jacinta. Her sharp tongue and icy demeanor made me wary. I could never tell if her hostility was personal or born of prejudice toward immigrants. My one real ally was Lisa, the boutique manager. The owners, Eamon and Andrew from Dublin, monitored us constantly through cameras, scolding us the moment we paused, and sending us to Naas at dawn in winter, to ride crouched in the back of their pickup truck. One slip, one accident, and we might have been nothing more than smears on the road.

Jack frightened me sometimes, though not maliciously. Alone in our ground-floor apartment at night, I always felt uneasy. The back faced only darkness, windows and a balcony door opening into nothingness. I never knew who—or what—might emerge when I turned around. One evening, as I sat on the sofa watching TV, a noise behind me made my heart leap. I turned—and there was Jack, grinning like a mischievous boy, shadows flickering across his face.

At that time, I was close to Martina, a Czech woman who had lived in Carlow for years with her partner, David. Martina ruled their household, talking for both of them. David seemed timid, resigned, and silent. Martina’s frankness sometimes bordered on sharpness. Once, when I had them over, she perched in my wicker Spanish chair—Martin’s farewell gift to me—legs elegantly crossed, as if a queen on her throne, and interrogated me about Jack.

“Don’t you think you’re fussing over him too much? And the mold in your bathroom—have you told him? Mold gets into your lungs. You’ll never get rid of it.”

I had discovered the mold within a month of moving in. It crept behind wardrobes, along bathroom windows, and I began developing eczema on my wrist, or at least, I thought it might be related. It wasn’t serious, so I downplayed it.

“You should put your foot down,” Martina declared. “Tell Jack that if he won’t respect your health, you’ll walk away. No compromise.”

When I repeated her words to Jack that evening, he bristled. He told me bluntly to leave while I still could; he would not shape his life around a stranger’s opinion. That was the end of the conversation. I cried bitterly that night, realizing he cared little for my health, or perhaps even for me. And yet, I could not leave, and so nothing changed.

Jack’s dislike for Martina persisted, and gradually, I distanced myself until the friendship withered. The mold remained, a quiet irritant, though strange quarrels with the landlord eventually resolved it. One evening, he suddenly told me to pack our things—we were moving. Night pressed in thick and shadowed. I did not question him. Relief washed over me: a better home, free of mold, was enough. I turned a blind eye to the mystery of his dealings.

Our new home in Anglers Walk was a revelation. We were fifteen minutes closer to work, which felt like luxury. The ochre-colored, two-story semi-detached house was just right for us. Downstairs: a kitchen overlooking the street, a toilet, and a living room opening onto a walled garden. Upstairs: two small rooms and a larger bedroom. The work remained grueling, dull, poorly paid, shared with colleagues I could barely tolerate—but it was enough to survive.

Early mornings remained the worst. The boss summoned us to the Dublin warehouse, where we endured inhumane conditions: unpacking sacks of clothing, tagging old pieces, then selling them to customers from every corner of Ireland. I often came home late, drained, lifeless.

Around that time, Jack became absorbed in a new dream: a company called Melaleuca, introduced by his older American friend Michael. Enthusiasm consumed him. I warned him it was an MLM scheme, that we would end up with cupboards full of unsellable products. He promised it was different, a golden opportunity, and swore that soon I would witness his success.

I met Michael and his wife, saw the hours Jack poured into the venture. He contacted hundreds, built networks, pitched products. Tea tree oils of real quality, laundry powders meant to last months—yet they sold poorly. I urged him to let it go. But he never could. Always a dreamer, persuasive yet impatient, never enduring enough to see it through.

We lived modestly in Anglers Walk, spent most of our time together, and for a while, life seemed almost perfect. Jack, the eternal prankster, delighted in fear as much as in laughter. One evening, watching The Sixth Sense, he paused the film at the boy’s fateful moment in the kitchen. Excusing himself, he returned a few minutes later, asking me to fetch water. When I switched on the kitchen light, every cupboard yawned wide open. My heart skipped, terror and amusement mingling. Jack’s delight was always in the fear he could evoke, and in the laughter that followed.