by Jack Dylan
They both sat back with their coffees, watching the other crews emerge into the sunlight and inevitably pause to gaze around the bay. Half an hour went by as the various nationalities of crews talked in their respective competing languages over cereal, drank their tea, and listened to skippers organising their day. Before long Maggie was stifling her comments as charter yachts began to leave the jetty. One nearly caught the lazy line in his propeller motoring away too quickly, another trailed long mooring warps astern as disorganised crews gradually learned what to do. Most motored away from the jetty at unreasonable speed, not yet having learned that the most experienced yachts generally looked the most relaxed and unrushed, as they slipped gently and under calm control away from the jetty and into the waiting breezes.
That night in Fethiye, Alex and Maggie were securely moored in their berth in Ece Marina. Maggie bustled round the yacht and then disappeared to the luxurious shower block that was part of the marina experience. By 7:30 pm she was sipping her gin and tonic in the cockpit as they planned their evening activities.
“Let’s go to the Locanta tonight,” she begged.
“That’s just what I was thinking. Anyway we need to say goodbye there and make sure they are going to do the same deal for us next year.”
All the local restaurants depended on good relationships with the permanent crews of visiting yachts, just as much as the couriers from the package holiday companies. Most visitors took the advice of their courier or skipper about where to eat, as they were often uncertain about the food and the local customs. The lead crews from flotillas didn’t spend any money all season as the competing restaurants fed them free of charge so long as they remembered to shepherd their customers to the right place. The same applied to the bars and night clubs – where good relationships made for cheap living. Alex didn’t bother with the clubs and bars, but he had a good relationship with Bulent, the Locanta manager, who made sure that Alex and Maggie could always find a table and paid remarkably little for their food.
“What about the marina people?”
“Already sorted. While you were contributing to the serious water shortage in southern Turkey I paid our fee for tonight and managed to get the rate for next year agreed – so all is well, and it really was worth making the trip. They’ll give us the good berth near the office again if they possibly can, and they aren’t raising our price for another year. Well worth the visit.”
They nibbled their pistachio nuts, sipped the gin, and chatted quietly about the shops they wanted to look in and the route they would take to the restaurant. As usual they debated the visit to Bulent’s cousin’s carpet shop. Should they buy one this time? Nearly half their charter visitors did, and Alex always worried about the excess baggage charges they were going to have to pay on the way home, on top of the surprisingly high prices for carpets rugs or kilims. As usual they decided not to buy anything but to pop into the shop on the way back to the boat so that they would keep the relationship with the carpet seller fresh and warm for next season.
The rest of the week passed peacefully with visits to Gemiler Island, Sarsala, and Tomb Bay before finally tying up for the last time that year in their berth in Club Marina. The warm feelings and friendly farewells at each stop jarred painfully with the nagging anxiety about the package in the anchor locker and the hazards of carrying it through customs. However Alex allowed the warmth of the late sun to push the worries of chilly Gatwick from his mind most of the time. He finally packed and prayed that he would be safe again from discovery, but his tense smile, his sweaty back and his nervous jumps told Maggie that he was more nervous than ever before on the journey.
“I reckon it is a matter of probabilities,” he confided to Maggie. Do it once and there is a good chance you’ll get away with it. The next time the risk increases. Do it every week and you are bound to get caught. This is my fourth this year. I think I need a gin.”
They were sitting near the back of the charter plane as Alex ordered the drinks and tried to concentrate on his book. It was no use. He couldn’t concentrate and he couldn’t sleep, so he fretted and fussed and generally annoyed Maggie all the way through the four hours from Dalaman to Gatwick.
“At last,” she groaned as they stood to queue for the exit from the plane. “I thought that would never end. I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“Nor me.”
“Exactly. That’s why I couldn’t. Anyway – home in a couple of hours.”
“I’m actually quite looking forward to Clapham! What a thing to say. Never thought such words would leave my lips.”
“It’s all to do with the company you keep.”
“You’re right. It’s you I’m really looking forward to.”
Alex slipped an arm round Maggie’s shoulder, as she cleverly took his mind away from his guilty conscience, and transformed his appearance into that of an impatient and preoccupied lover.
Chapter 20
Lavinia: Dublin 2004
The first book group meeting
“So who’d like to start?” asked Lavinia in a brisk businesslike tone.
No-one spoke. Steve studied his notes carefully; Sinead blew her nose and fussed with the tissue; while William looked absently out of the window at the fine autumn colours that already lined the visible road.
“Would you like me to begin?” asked Lavinia, fearing that this was going to be one of those catastrophes that featured in her worst nightmares. She had floated the idea of the book-group to each of those present and all had responded with caution. Steve really wasn’t sure if it was his kind of thing. Sinead wasn’t sure if she had time, given her accountancy course commitments. William didn’t confess it but really read very little apart from the antiques magazines and the Irish Times – particularly the racing section. But they all agreed to give it a try.
“Well let me get things rolling,” Lavinia bravely continued. Steve picked up his cup and saucer, thinking he would much prefer a mug with its reduced rattle potential. Sinead chose a clean page in her notebook and sat pencil poised like the efficient secretary she was trying not to be. William yawned and didn’t make eye contact.
“First of all I have to confess that I haven’t finished it yet, so I can only talk about my reaction to what I’ve read so far.”
There was a murmur of support and an easing of anxiety round the small group, none of whom had made it past the first few chapters.
“I think it can be very funny in parts, but I’m finding it really hard to get to grips with.”
The atmosphere eased further, as Lavinia seemed to voice what they had all feared they would be the only one to say.
“I somehow feel that the student character is Flann himself, and he’s painting a picture of the sort of aimless, self-indulgent, work-avoiding wastrel that most older readers expect students to be. But then he goes into all the mock Irish epic poem style and I get a bit lost. I even feel a bit awkward about him making fun of the folk heroes we were brought up on.”
“I’m so glad you said that,” sighed Steve. “I know we’re all supposed to think this is a classic example of modern Irish humour, but I’m finding it hard to connect with. I love the ‘Pint of Plain is Your Only Man’ poem, but then I suddenly find I’m lost with this Pooka character, and frankly I’ve felt like giving up.”
“I’ve found exactly the same,” chimed in Sinead, who could sense that a rebellion against persisting with the book might be on the horizon. “I know my father used to find O’Brien’s column in the Irish Times absolutely hilarious, but when I tried it I didn’t really get it the way he did.”
The discussion continued among those who had valiantly tried to get into Flann O’Brien’s ‘At Swim Two Birds’, and they shared their reactions to the scenes and language that they had found amusing.
“William, you haven’t said much yet,” said Lavinia trying to include William without putting him on the spot too much. William by now was more comfortable that he wasn’t out on too much of a limb, so he was able
to confess,
“To be totally truthful, I’ve picked the thing up about six times in the last two weeks and within a few minutes given up. I don’t really find the story comprehensible, and I don’t get the references to the Irish myths and legends that you all seem to know”
“Perhaps I didn’t make a very good choice for our first book,” worried Lavinia.
“On the contrary,” responded William, ever more confident now he wasn’t going to have to actually discuss the content of the book. “On the contrary I think it has been really useful because everyone has had the same problem. It has given us all the chance to share an honest reaction and find we’re pretty much in agreement.”
“But I feel as if we should persist with it,” Sinead could see the direction that William was going, and her personality, training, and self-discipline had never allowed her to give up on a book she had started.
“I think it might be good to switch to something we can all get our teeth into, and then maybe come back to ‘At Swim Two Birds’ later. It would be a shame to drop it completely, but maybe there is something that we could get going more easily on.” Steve was trying to be a diplomat, allowing everyone to satisfy their preferences, but maybe not just yet.
“OK, I think that’s a good idea. We’ll come back to ‘At Swim Two Birds’ when we have got into our stride, as it were.” Lavinia was glad of the potential solution.
“Could I suggest,” began William, still buoyant from his reprieve from exposure as a philistine, “that we each suggest a book we have read that we think would be good for the group to try.” A sudden panic overcame him halfway through the sentence as his mind blanked for the name of any book he had ever read. His worst fear suddenly came true.
“Good idea William. I think it would be very practical as a way forward. So why don’t we start with you, as you are probably already decided on your suggestion.” Lavinia innocently called his bluff.
“Catch 22,” blurted William, unable to remember the author, never having read it, but sure at least that everyone would have heard of it and would probably think it worth reading if they hadn’t already done so.
“Good choice,” supported Steve.
“But do tell us why you chose it,” Sinead blithely punctured William’s rising confidence.
However, you don’t succeed in William’s business without a good combination of always being able to find something to say, and being a reasonably convincing bluffer.
“Well it’s such a classic really. Everybody uses the phrase ‘catch 22’, it’s part of the language, and it’s such a long time since I read it I’d really like to revisit it.”
“Right William. That’s one good suggestion. What about everyone else?” Lavinia was enjoying her role in leading the group, and had recovered from her momentary panic when it seemed as if her first choice might have brought the group to a stuttering standstill before it had taken off at all.
They shared suggestions, compared their rationale for choosing, and enjoyed a relaxed, unthreatening chat about their likes and dislikes. Lavinia excused herself when she noticed the time approaching 9:30, since they had agreed to stop at 10:00. She emerged a few moments later from the kitchen with a tray, a bottle, and four glasses.
“I say!” William rubbed his hands at the sight of the bottle of Veuve Cliquot. “I say, what a splendid idea!”
“This isn’t going to be a regular feature,” cautioned Lavinia, “but I thought we should celebrate the launch of our little group.” She passed the glasses and expertly popped the cork on the bottle, using a linen cloth to grip and retain the cork.
“I think you’ve done this before,” laughed Steve, impressed by the style and panache of his hostess.
“Oooh,” squeaked Sinead, who had never drunk really expensive proper champagne before.
They toasted each other, their group, and their already promising friendships. The night was judged a great success, each of them relieved in their different ways that their worst fears were not going to be realised. Lavinia was relieved that she didn’t have an embarrassing flop on her hands. Steve was relieved that the others seemed not too stuffy. Sinead was relieved that she was valued for her English literature degree, and was listened to in connection with something other than office accounts or biscuit recipes. William was the most relieved of all. It was perhaps the champagne that did it. And not just any old champagne. Somehow the choice of Veuve Cliquot seemed so right for Lavinia. He liked her style; he hadn’t been rumbled; and best of all he was basking in the fact that they had accepted his suggestion of the next book to read. “There’s a trick or two in the old dog yet,” he thought happily to himself as he grinned his way back to Sandymount from the leafy loveliness of Lavinia’s apartment – he was feeling quite literary just then.
Chapter 21
Dublin: summer 2006
Sinead
Sinead, at 32, was thirteen years James’ junior. She had joined Lavinia’s reading group because she was ambivalent about abandoning her arts degree and background for the harsh-seeming world of accountancy. No-one had explained to her class of convent-school girls that going to university to study an arts degree wasn’t an end in itself. They all had vague ideas that careers would follow, but unlike the few who opted for social work, or catering, they didn’t have a clear perception of what the career might be. It was sufficient success to achieve the grades and get the offer of a place in UCD, or for the more adventurous, in TCD. The challenge, the excitement, and even the fear of going to study at one of these famous institutions overshadowed the need to think any further ahead. Questions of what to do after university were drowned out by the more pressing questions about where to live; how to live; what to wear that first day; what to say to the male students who just as nervously, but with more bravado, would surely crowd the student bars and coffee shops. It was all too preoccupying to leave much room for longer term plans.
Sinead’s first year at Trinity had felt like an accelerated learning course about life. She moved into the women’s accommodation in the legendary Trinity Hall in Rathmines. It seemed safer than finding a bed in an old-fashioned student digs, with who knows what sort of landlady. Her parents approved, and Sinead found herself thrust into the company of a hundred similarly excited girls from every sort of background. There were relatively few other convent educated girls as they had mostly gravitated to the more traditionally Catholic UCD. Those who had faced the disapproval of the Mother Superior and applied to Trinity felt a little braver, a little more emancipated than their more obedient and malleable friends. For the first time Sinead was experiencing girls from Northern Ireland; from England; from USA; and in single or small numbers from all corners of the world. To her inexperienced eyes, they had exotically different skin hues, accents and names.
Sinead had opted for an English Literature course, which seemed safe, as she had always scored well in the subject before. Throughout her first year she learned to read and to write in a far more critical way than the prescribed school teaching had allowed. She was introduced to authors and styles of writing that took her tentative convent-taught insight, expectations and confidence, and shook them like a blanket exposed to a hurricane. All she thought she knew about what was permitted to be written was suddenly redundant and laughable. She by turns felt prim; shocked; liberated, and even titillated by the unabashed sexuality of Nabokov, the raw rough rudeness of Behan, and the sad, doomed desperation of Hughes and Plath.
Little wonder she found herself in a turmoil of uncertainties when it came to life outside her lectures and the library. Gradually able to loosen her thinking and her expression in the weekly essays, she struggled to permit herself a matching freedom in her social life. She gravitated despite herself to the safety of the less adventurous inhabitants of the coffee bar and the dining hall. While inwardly angry with herself, and cursing the ingrained caution that curtailed her exploration and self-expression, she still walked to the seat kept for her by similarly constrained friends. W
as it a process of unconscious socialisation that ensured the girls at her table were more plump, less fashionably dressed, and less likely to attract the attention of male students? Sinead longed to be at the tables with the languorously confident jeans-clad English girls, who had an air of comfort with their bodies that was foreign territory to her nun-taught self-consciousness about anything remotely sexual. She noticed that her friends from similar backgrounds either remained intact within their social and sexual caution, or went overboard in denying it, rebelling, and adopting an extravagantly explicit sexuality. There didn’t seem to be a moderate middle way for the products of her safe education and conservative catholic family wrapping.
While the emancipated girls made plans for sharing flats in their second year, Sinead clung to the institutional safety of the Hall. As first year ended, with the satisfaction of surviving the year, and the cosy comfort of her social equals, she still fretted at the failure to achieve any romantic adventures to whisper to her old friends at home. She opted for the mysterious hints and suggestive silences when pressed for the embarrassingly missing details.
Second year followed the same depressingly monocultural path at first. But Sinead’s determination to undo the tight constraints of her past pushed her to experiment a little. She decided to skip the routine daily safety of the coffee coven, and took herself nervously to the college bar. It wasn’t long before she was rewarded by a male approach.
“How’s that essay on Eliot?” was the easy opening from a spotty youth with an English accent and a dangling cigarette. She had forgotten how inseparable the cigarettes were from the bar. Despite the health warnings and the shortage of money, most of the inhabitants of the college bar seemed to be able to buy their packet of Silk Cut, or their cigarette papers and tobacco.
“Nearly finished it I think,” she replied in as confident a voice as she could muster, suddenly even more aware than usual of her unstylish cardigan, her positively frumpish tweed skirt, and those sensible shoes her mother insisted on buying for her.