CHAPTER 1 – The Sheet on The Line

Introduction

I grew up in Cherry Orchard, Ballyfermot, a working-class estate in west Dublin during the 1990s. This book is a work of fiction, but like many stories, it’s rooted in truth: real conversations, real places, real events and the raw, unfiltered connections that shape a life.

To protect the privacy of the people who’ve shaped mine, I’ve changed names and altered some identifying details. But the heart of it, the feeling of it, that’s all real.

What you’re about to read isn’t told by an all-knowing narrator or some distant observer. It’s told by the author, we’ll call her Jenny, writing as her older self, to her younger self.

A kind of letter.

Something she started typing one day, trying to make sense of everything she saw, felt and survived. At first, she thought maybe she’d send it to a publisher. But the more she wrote, the more she realised: She didn’t need permission to tell her story.

So here it is.

A love letter to the girl she was.

And to the young people of Ballyfermot, Dublin and Ireland, past, present and still coming up, who’ve been handed heavy things and somehow found ways to carry them with humour, fire and heart.

This is for you.

This is for us.

It was impressive how they got into and out of our back garden because the perimeter wall was like a smaller version of the wall around Cloverhill Prison. Except, instead of barbed wire, we had broken glass set in cement along the top, like icing on a cake, just sharper.

I was in the kitchen when I spotted Git, Ma’s younger brother, standing out by the entrance to the shed with his arms folded, staring at the ground.

I slid the aluminium door open. God, remember the racket it made? And stepped out into the back garden, slippers barely clinging to me heels. It would remind ya of a miniature version of the courtyards of Kilmainham Gaol because it had a couple of different sections separated by small walls and patches of grass. The grass was too long, again. Ma used to call it “a jungle fit for Tarzan.” But no one had cut it since Da left for the job in London six weeks ago. It was only meant to be for 2 weeks.

The place stank of damp muck and stale rainwater. A packet of Monster Munch flapped against the coal shed wall, clinging on like it had nowhere else to be. I walked down the concrete path under the clothesline towards Git.

The shed door hung limp, barely holding on to its hinges. The lawnmower was gone. So was the strimmer. The big old toolbox covered in faded Guinness and Dublin Bus stickers was gone too.

But it wasn’t just that.

I don’t know if you remember…

Right inside the entrance of the shed there was an actual pile of shite. Fresh. Still steaming. The robbers not only stole stuff from the shed but took a shit in the process.

And guess what they used to wipe themselves?

Michael’s old Power Rangers pillowcase off the clothesline and left the evidence in the flower bed.

I couldn’t believe it.

Welcome to Cherry Orchard.

I remember reading something once, probably in one of those CSPE books no one read, that places could carry trauma the same way people could. Cherry Orchard had trauma soaked into the walls. They called it “the last stop before eviction.” A dumping ground for anyone evicted from anywhere else by Dublin Corporation. Even the guards treated it like a warzone. Trackies, sovereign rings, buzzcuts, it didn’t matter who you were. If you lived here, you were the enemy.

Even the robbers had no shame.

“The little toerags,” Git muttered, squinting at the shed. “I’ll find out who did it.”

“How?” I asked.

“Because people can’t hold their piss.” “Or their…..”“Stop.” Git said…smirking.

“It’s kinda funny.” “Which is” I said

“Breaking into the shed and robbing tools or taking a shite in the garden and using the sheets to wipe yourself?”Honestly, if someone told me this story I’d probably think they were lying.

“I’d be thinking, hardly, like.

“Do we ring the garda?.“No, said Git.” You needn’t ring the garda. Sure they’d be too busy if nothing else. Heard there was going to be a raid round Croftwood today. “Where did you hear that? I asked him before holding my hands up and saying “Actually, ask no questions tell no lies.”

I cleaned it up before Grace and Michael could see but I was dying to show the girls. Partly so they would believe me and partly because I didn’t know what they’d make of it.

Do you remember Goldie? Our Golden Labrador. I was real young when Ma said they gave him to a farmer. We named him Goldie because, well, he was golden. That’s how things were named where we grew up. If it was black, it was called Blackie. If you limped, you were Limpy. We said what we saw.

Back inside, Michael and Grace were watching Bosco in the parlour, their legs swinging off the couch. I’d already fed them.

For the kids they’d both have two bricks of Weetabix in the bowl and a handful of cornflakes on top. I’d heat up a pot of milk until it boiled and pour it over the mound like petrol on kindling. Mornings were always a mad rush.

Ma’s coughing started again. It echoed through the box room walls like a car engine about to pack it in. She was still sleeping there, even though she said it was “just till I’m better.” It had been months.

I tiptoed in. Her face was pale, her skin pulled tight like dough that never rose. I poured water from the chipped jug into her glass and placed it beside her hand. Then I tucked the covers around her, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “We’re off to school, Ma. I’ll drop Michael and Grace on the way.”

She stirred but didn’t reply.

“How’s Ma?” Grace asked as we stepped into the hall.

“Yeah, grand,” I said.

Neither of us believed it.

We grabbed our schoolbags and stepped outside. I locked the porch and slung my bag over my shoulder, the key jangling as I zipped it away.

Outside, the estate was already roaring. Not with birds or anything poetic like that but with people shouting, alarms going off, dogs barking and the 79a bus coughing up the road. The train heaved in the distance just over the walls of Gallenstown.

It wasn’t our first rodeo. In 1995 there was the infamous Halloween Riots. They even made national news.  Halloween had been mad most years since. We were only 9 or 10 when those riots took place but I’m not sure which is worse? To watch from your bedroom window or beside the flames of the fire?

I only got just past the gate when I thought. “Me lunch.” Didn’t matter. I’d grab something from Doran’s. Michael ran ahead, only delighted to wear his Buzz Lightyear schoolbag like a badge of honour. I missed primary school because I missed not having to think about lunch. I missed the cheese or corned beef sandwiches. I missed the lukewarm cartons of milk. And I particularly missed chocolate muffins of a Friday. Ms Hennessy was the lunch lady and she was always so polite.

At the lawns I saw the girls, Ciara, Shauna, and Jade, perched on the stone wall like crows in school uniforms.

Ciara was mid-song

“Batterryyyy” So far….. You never had my heart. I love that song”.

“Battery”? Asked Shauna.

“What? Laughed Ciara as she asked.

“Batttery? You think she says battery.

Why? What do you think she’s saying?

“Out of reach”

“Oh”

They all laughed.

Jade held out a crumpled copybook and asked me “Jenny, do us a favour, what’s the capital of Sweden? We’ve got history first.”

“Stockholm,” I said “And you’re doing geography, not history.”

“Same thing,” Jade shrugged. We were in fits.

I told the girls to walk on. I had to go to Dorans.The cream cakes and coffee slices looked divine behind the glass counter. I asked for a packet of King and a buttered role. 1 with no butter for Michael. He’s fussy. Although he didn’t lick it off a stone.

I dropped Michael at St. Louise’s first gate and he ran in. Then I dropped Grace into St. Louise’s up to the door of the hall in time to hear, “Colour the World With Gladness, Colour the world with song, colour the world with a rainbow of love, colour the world with song.” Ms Smithe with her blond hair and small hands directing the choice from the stage.

I just about got into Assembly before the doors closed.

The P.E.hall smelled like polish and tension. Sr. Roletto stood on stage, giving out stink about takeaways and Liffey Valley, calling them “the devil.” Every class lined up in single file. 1st Years nearest the stage, 6th Years at the back wall. And behind Sr. Rolette, was that big statue of the Virgin Mary on the table. Everyone said her eyes followed you if you moved.

We didn’t have hymns like St. Louise’s, thank Jaysus, but sometimes I missed them. “Colour the World” was a banger.

As we filed out of the hall, Ms. Hyland stood at the door like a hawk, eyes scanning uniforms. No jewellery. No makeup. Black shoes only. Green jumper. Manky green trousers or manky green skirt.  Take your pick.

I took art with Ms. Hyland in 1st Year. Regretted it. She asked us to draw our hands once and I looked around, everyone else had perfect sketches. Mine looked like your man’s hand from Scary Movie 2.

When she came around asking what we were picking for 2nd and 3rd Year, I told her I was switching to music.

“Probably best,” she said.

Do you remember Sr. Marie Ann? She was a wagon.

“If you’re not going to do it properly don’t do it at all.

We had her for Typing.

She held her fingers in the air on an imaginary electric Brother typewriter and said

“A, S, D, F. Semicolon, L, K, J,” And I saw you sneak into Assembly this morning.

“Me?” I asked.

Yes.

Probably off smoking somewhere instead of coming into school.

You’re wasting your life miss.

If only she knew the truth of what life was like at home.

I mimicked the moves, but my pinkies wouldn’t stretch properly. A few weeks back, the nun had snapped, “If you’re not going to do it properly, don’t do it at all.”

I was genuinely trying and it wasn’t good enough. So I just sat there. Sure Fiona used to called us Safety Queen.  

You might wonder why I didn’t tell Sr. the truth. And that’s easy. No one knew really what was going on in our gaff. Only really me and ma. And neither were telling anyone. My aunties half knew because they hadn’t seen ma much but there was only so much they could do.  I don’t remember much else from the rest of school that day.

I walked home with the kids and threw my bag under the stairs when we got in. I made boil in the bag spaghetti Bolognese from Dunnes for dinner for me, ma and the kids. I’d always set a plate for ma but she didn’t join us at the table in the kitchen. I dropped it in to her. I don’t know what was louder… The three of us slurping our spag bol or Saved By The Bell, The College Years blaring from the tv on the wall.  The wall paper in the corner was atrocious. Navy wallpaper with a diamond border. The kids went out on the road to play with their friends in Gino’s garden at the corner.

I knocked into Theresa, one of the neighbours to ask her to watch the kids while they’re playing with her ones. “Just heading down to Tommy’s would you mind watching the kids til I’m back?”“Yea course”, she said. She was always so kind. “Do you want anything I asked? “No” she says, “I’m grand. How’s your ma?she asks? Grand, she’s not feeling great though. Tell her I was asking for her, will ya?

I met the girls down at the corner at the train station. You might wonder how we knew to be there at the same time? We just agreed a time in advance, and we were there at that time. We walked to Tommy’s Shop I was mortified when I asked David behind the counter if they had Vienetta.

“Vienetta?” He said.

“Where dya think this is, Foxrock?” And laughed!

“Will I give ya 99s instead?”

“No they’ll melt before I get to the house.”

“Give us two Freaky Foots and two Fat Frogs then please.”

I walked back up the road with the girls to the roundabout and we all went our separate ways. I remember that night lying in bed. This is what I wrote:

1st October 2002:

Grace is asleep in the bunk above me. She still talks in her sleep. Tonight she whispered something about jelly and a horse. She’ll forget it by morning.

Michael’s across the hall, curled up in his Spider-Man duvet. He kicked off the sheets like always. I went in earlier and tucked him back in. His hair was all sweaty. I don’t think he even noticed.

Ma’s coughing again. You can hear it through the wall. She always says she’s grand, that she’s just tired. But it’s been months. She hasn’t had a proper dinner with us in ages. I left her plate in again tonight, spaghetti hoops and toast. She didn’t touch it.

She left a note on the counter though: "Bread. Milk. Teabags. Toilet roll and get something nice for the kids.” That's how she shows she cares now. In lists.

Sometimes I feel older than fifteen. Not just because I mind Michael and Grace. But because I see too much. I feel like I’ve seen the inside of things most people never do.

I don’t say any of that out loud. I’m not thick. No one is coming to save us. I mean, look around. No one has saved them either.

Sometimes I wish I could just… be a kid. Like properly. Not thinking robbed cars or worrying about putting washing on the line in case someone uses it to wipe themselves.

But even now, as I write this, I know tomorrow morning I’ll get the uniforms ready, butter the bread, check Ma’s alright, and walk them to school before going into mine.

It’s just what you do.

I’m tired, though. Like deep-tired. Not just from school or helping at home, it’s like my brain never stops. Always thinking. Always on.

I saw myself in the mirror today and barely recognised the girl looking back.

She looked like she was trying.

Trying to be strong. Trying to be normal. Trying to not let it show.

I pulled the curtain back again just now. The gang are still there. Laughing now. One’s doing that shout-laugh, like they’re trying to sound tougher than they are.

Part of me feels sorry for them. The other part wonders if they’re the same ones who broke into our shed.

Anyway, I better try get some sleep. Grace has her reading test tomorrow and I promised I’d help her in the morning.

I’ll probably dream about nothing, like always. Just grey stuff. Fuzzy stuff. Half memories.

But I’ll get up. And I’ll try again.