IRISH LOVESTORY - The Dreamer

 

 copyright©2025

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, so different from what I had known back in my country, where rent was paid monthly and money was managed in larger stretches. Yet it suited the people here, matching the cadence of their lives: money earned on Friday, handed over by Saturday, and stretched carefully through the days that followed.

Each morning, I set out on foot along the main road, heading to the French Clothes Shop where I worked. The walk became part of my routine, a stretch of time to gather myself before the day ahead. Once inside, I stocked shelves, advised mothers with children, and endured the daily barbs of my colleague Jacinta. Her sharp tongue and icy demeanor kept me on edge; I could never tell whether her hostility was directed at me personally, or whether it was the quiet prejudice reserved for immigrants. My one real ally was Lisa, the boutique manager, whose kindness offered a small refuge. 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, and always on purpose. Alone in our ground-floor apartment at night, I was already jumpy—the back opened only onto darkness, windows and a balcony door that seemed to invite shadows in. One evening, as I sat on the sofa watching TV, a noise behind me made me jolt. I turned—and there was Jack, grinning like a mischievous schoolboy, clearly pleased with himself for making me jump. My heart hammered, but I couldn’t help laughing at the wicked glint in his eyes.

At that time, I was close to Martina, a Czech girl 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, his patience snapping. With a dismissive wave, he told me to leave if I wasn’t happy—he would not bend his life around complaints or strangers’ judgments. That was the end of it. I cried a little, not out of devastation, but from feeling foolish and too demanding. Deep down, I knew I wouldn’t leave him over something so trivial. And so, the matter was dropped, unspoken but unresolved.

Jack’s dislike for Martina persisted, and gradually, I distanced myself until the friendship withered. The mold remained, an ever-present nuisance that clung to the corners of our days, though strange quarrels with the landlord eventually resolved it. One evening, he suddenly told me to pack our things—we were moving. 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 breath of fresh air. Just five minutes’ walk from my workplace, it felt like a small luxury I hadn’t realized I craved. The ochre-colored, two-story semi-detached house welcomed us with quiet charm. Downstairs, a simple kitchen looked out onto the street, and the living room opened onto a small walled garden, bare but full of potential. Upstairs, two small rooms and a larger bedroom offered just enough space for privacy and rest. The work remained grueling, monotonous, and poorly paid, shared with colleagues whose company I could barely tolerate. Yet, at the end of each week, the wages were enough to cover rent, food, and the small comforts that made life bearable—a fragile sense of independence that, despite the drudgery, I clung to like a lifeline.

Early mornings were the hardest. From time to time—about once a week—I was sent to the lonely Dublin warehouse, a cold, empty space with no one to talk to and no kitchen or canteen. I spent the day unpacking sacks of brand-new children’s clothes, still smelling of novelty, tagging each piece, and preparing them to sell to visitors who ventured here from across Ireland. The work was physically demanding and monotonous, and I often came home late, exhausted. The journey itself was the hardest part—setting out in the pre-dawn chill and returning home through the darkness, my body tired and stiff, yet quietly relieved to have made it through another long day.

Around that time, Jack became consumed by a new dream: a company called Melaleuca, introduced by his older American friend Michael. His enthusiasm was feverish—hands animated, eyes bright, as if he alone had found a path to unimaginable success. I warned him, voice tight with worry, that it was likely another MLM trap, that cupboards would fill with unsold products and disappointment. He waved me off, insisting it was different, a golden opportunity, swearing I would see him succeed.

I met Michael and his wife, curious, skeptical. They were polished, practiced—everything Jack was not. And yet Jack threw himself into it with relentless energy: contacting hundreds, building networks, pitching products—tea tree oils of real quality, laundry powders meant to last months—yet sales barely moved. Every time I urged him to step back, frustration knotted in my chest. But Jack, always a dreamer, persuasive yet impatient, could not pause. The initial thrill tethered him, blinding him to patience, to endurance, to reality. Watching him so determined, so stubborn, was inspiring—and maddening. I felt helpless as the hours, weeks, and months slipped away.

Despite the schemes, the endless energy Jack poured into ventures, life still offered flashes of reprieve. We lived modestly in Anglers Walk, spent most of our time together, and for a while, it almost felt perfect. Jack, the eternal prankster, thrived on fear as much as laughter.

One evening, watching The Sixth Sense, he paused the film at the boy’s fateful moment in the kitchen. Excusing himself, he returned minutes later, asking me to fetch water. The kitchen was dark, silent except for the hum of the fridge. When I flicked on the light, every cupboard yawned wide open. My heart leapt, a sharp spike of terror, and for a breathless second, I froze.

I wanted to scold him—but laughter erupted instead, bubbling through the fear, sharp and freeing. Jack’s grin was wicked, triumphant, and I could see the thrill in his eyes. Whether he relished the scare itself or some darker impulse, I could not say—but in that instant, all the stress, the worries, the schemes melted away. It was just us, alive and foolish, caught in the intoxicating mix of fear and delight, bound together in that fleeting, unforgettable moment.