Dear Cathy ... Love, Mary

by Catherine Conlon

  Catherine Conlon and Mary Phelan

  * * *

  DEAR CATHY … LOVE, MARY

  The year we grew up – tender, funny and revealing letters from 1980s Ireland

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1: Change – Autumn 1983

  Letter 1 / Je regrette … all the hours I slept during French class!

  Letter 2 / A visit to the metropolis of Clonmel!

  Letter 3 / Where are all the young folk?

  Letter 4 / Signing away the rest of my life!

  Letter 5 / Diversions! Diversions!

  Letter 6 / I really Love my new class!

  Letter 7 / I wanna go home!

  Letter 8 / The novelty has worn off!

  Letter 9 / Snails for supper!

  Letter 10 / Isn’t it great, being eighteen?

  PART 2: Celebration – Winter 1983–4

  Letter 11 / I can’t wait to see you at Christmas!

  Letter 12 / Christmas in Carrick!

  Letter 13 / Champagne and chopsticks!

  Letter 14 / A revelation – boys do discuss girls!

  Letter 15 / The curse of Mills & Boon!

  PART 3: Awakening – Spring 1984

  Letter 16 / Tragedy in Granard

  Letter 17 / Maybe I’m too romantic …

  Letter 18 / My crush keeps rejecting me!

  Letter 19 / Where am I going from here?

  Letter 20 / Writing to you instead of swotting!

  Letter 21 / I might be moving to the French Alps!

  PART 4: Blossoming – Summer 1984

  Letter 22 / Mary, the raving Commie!

  Letter 23 / My first date in France!

  Letter 24 / My first proper dance … in Piltown!

  Letter 25 / Finally, someone to talk to!

  Letter 26 / The lost letter!

  Letter 27 / I’ve fallen in love!

  Letter 28 / I’m coming home!

  Epilogue: Summer 2015

  Mary

  Catherine

  Follow Penguin

  To the memory of

  Mary’s parents, Peggy and Mickey

  and

  Catherine’s father, Jack, and grandparents,

  Kattie and Neddie

  They gave us wings and encouraged us to fly …

  … thirty years later our wings are only a little singed.

  Prologue

  My friendship with Catherine goes back to 1974. It was a special year for me. On the August bank-holiday weekend my family moved to a new house in Carrick-Beg, a terraced council house with running water. Our old home, further down the road in Carrick-Beg, was being knocked down by the council to make way for a scheme of sheltered housing for the elderly. Carrick-Beg is on the southern banks of the River Suir in Carrick-on-Suir, south Tipperary.

  For me, the happiest aspect of the move was that it meant I had girls my own age living on either side – Anne-Marie to my right and Cheryl to my left. The following month, I returned to school. It was an exciting time as our school, the Presentation National School, had just merged with the Mercy National School so there were a whole lot of new faces to get used to.

  Catherine Conlon’s was one of those faces. She sat beside me that first day of third class and we hit it off straight away. She had glossy brown hair, which she sometimes wore in pigtails, and dark brown eyes. She was nine and five-twelfths while I was eight and eleven-twelfths (fractions were important that year). She was an inch taller than me. She spoke with a slight English accent, having been brought back to Ireland to live with her paternal grandparents, Kattie and Neddie, a few years earlier after her parents’ divorce in London. Catherine idolised her dad, Jack, who stayed on in London, coming home each summer on holidays. She had no further childhood contact with her mother.

  It may sound strange, but Catherine having divorced parents didn’t seem like a big deal. Maybe it was because when I met her she was already living with her grandparents so I didn’t know any different. And maybe it was because a lot of us had relations in the UK (where they had emigrated for work) and inevitably some of their marriages broke down and they got divorces there.

  Catherine, on the other hand, recalls being acutely aware of being different. ‘It was very difficult growing up in 1970s rural Ireland in a broken family. I thought “normal” people had a mam and a dad taking care of them, not grandparents. It was embarrassing and shameful to be children of absent parents. Looking back as an adult, I now see there were others in similar situations, but at the time I felt we really stuck out. Mary’s home and family were a refuge for me. I not only had her friendship but also the love and support of her parents.’

  Having had to grow up fast as the eldest of four girls, Catherine came across as much older than her years. Celia, her sister, was in the class behind us, and the twins, Lolo and Tish, were one year younger still. As a result, Catherine was a bossy big-sister type.

  I had yearned for a big-sister type, bossy or otherwise. My brother, Martin (Matty), was seven years older than me. We were the much-wanted ‘pigeon’s clutch’ of Peggy and Mickey. Before Martin, they had lost five babies (including twin boys), each born prematurely. My sister, Winifred, had lived only six weeks. I knew I had angels in Heaven looking out for me but what I wanted most was a real live sister to play and share with. Then along came Catherine.

  Catherine introduced me to reading real books (i.e. those without pictures) and we borrowed all the Secret Seven and Famous Five books that were in Carrick library. Together we figured out how to sort out life’s great questions. In third class we had a wonderful teacher called Sister Antoinette. She was much younger than the other nuns and had new, interesting ways of teaching. Nonetheless, she also drilled us in spellings and maths tables. We had a spelling test every single day, one of those where you had to write down the spellings of ten words called out by the teacher, then hand over your copy to your neighbour to correct as the teacher called out the answers. Ten out of ten got a gold star. Catherine and I loved those gold stars. One day when we had both got one spelling wrong, we gave each other ten out of ten so we could each get a gold star. That night, neither of us could sleep with the guilt, thinking we were on the road straight to Hell for having lied and obtained a gold star by deception. Nothing would save us from eternal damnation except to own up. So first thing the following morning, we made our way up to Sister Antoinette with trembling knees to own up to our wrongdoing … only for her to allow us to keep the gold stars for being such ‘good, honest girls’ (while struggling to keep a straight face).

  As we got older, we moved to Scoil Mhuire secondary school (Greenhill). We were thrilled to find we were in the same class and continued to sit beside each other. Catherine used to call to my house on Saturdays where I introduced her to music, playing whatever cassettes we had taped from the radio. We drank coffee and ate Peggy’s apple tart. Peggy bought a coffee-table especially for us to use, and for years it was known in our house as ‘Catherine’s table’.

  We were always chatting. When we weren’t sitting chatting in our front room, we were sitting chatting in the Central Grill or Babby McCann’s ice-cream parlour. And whenever we couldn’t chat we would write to each
other, especially during the long summer holidays from school. Very few houses had phones back then.

  In 1983 Catherine and I sat the Leaving Cert. I was the first of my family to finish secondary school. It was the height of the recession and jobs were like hen’s teeth. Most of Ireland had been hit badly but south Tipperary particularly so. Every year our French teacher in Greenhill arranged au-pairing jobs in a small town in Brittany called Trégunc, with which Carrick was twinned, and Catherine decided to go to France. By the end of that summer I had decided, after much angst, to become articled to a local firm of accountants in Tipperary while attending the Regional Technical College in Waterford.

  Catherine and I promised faithfully to write to each other and we did pretty much every two weeks for a year. I well remember the thrill when I’d see the French stamp, the thick envelope and Catherine’s familiar handwriting. And you could always tell the important bits – her writing would get messier because she’d been scribbling so fast to get all her thoughts down on the page. I kept Catherine’s letters tied in a ribbon and in 1991 they were joined by my own when Catherine, home for her father’s funeral, handed them back to me with the parting words, ‘Sure, you might get these published some day.’ We laughed at the idea that our girlish ramblings would ever mean anything to anyone. There they sat in my family home until last year. Peggy passed away in February, and in going through her things I came across the bundle of letters, still tied up with a big red ribbon.

  In compiling them to be published we have either changed some names, or used fake initials – Jane Austen style – and left out some of the really gossipy or private stuff that could land us in the courts. The letters that follow are most of what we wrote that year, and all of what we felt.

  Mary Phelan

  Dublin

  Summer 2015

  Part 1

  * * *

  CHANGE

  Autumn 1983

  Letter 1 / Je regrette … all the hours I slept during French class!

  c/o Mme LeClercq

  Le Restaurant

  St Philibert

  Trégunc

  France

  Friday, 26 August 1983

  Dear Mary,

  And before I say another word, let me warn you that this letter is most likely to be written at different intervals over the next few days, and consequently will be rather disjointed and somewhat peculiar.

  At the moment I’m one of the few left sitting on the decks, watching the sun going down. Unfortunately it’s rather cloudy so things are not as spectacular as one might hope. Nevertheless, the golden streaks of the sea, foam which is the most amazing shade of green (well, I suppose it is the water that is that colour), noise of the engines, smell of the chips and babble of French-accented voices all makes a rather pleasant calming scene.

  Unbelievably, I’m not feeling sick and at one stage only felt rather dizzy. I can hardly believe it myself! I didn’t even feel sick coming down to Cork from Tipperary in the car this morning.

  I suppose I should give a quick rundown of the day. Left home after ten. Mrs B was giving a French girl a lift to Cork. She too is going to Roscoff. Her name’s Valerie and she had been staying with Margaret Cooney as part of the town twinning. I thought I’d have a companion for the journey over. But she has a berth and I have a reclining chair. Therefore, once we got aboard at about 2 p.m. we split up. I think it’s just as well anyway. It would be too difficult and embarrassing to make conversation and besides I’d rather be independent, and not feel guilty every time I feel like taking a stroll or something.

  Surprisingly enough, it took very little time to explore the boat. (Mrs B insists that a ship is bigger than this one! Maybe we should compromise and call it a ferry?) There are three decks all linked by stairs. The view of Ringaskiddy as we were pulling out was absolutely marvellous. Piles of colourful houses on a steep slope with a lovely church right in the centre. The boat is blue and white, smaller than I expected and surprisingly clean.

  This afternoon it was really warm and I sat on a step reading. All of the chairs had been swiped before I came outside. Now, as most people have gone in for dinner, chairs are once more available. Mind you, they’re not much more comfortable than the steps, which are made of steel.

  I’m glad Mrs B was picking me up. But for more reasons than one. There was no time for last-minute goodbyes and emotional scenes this morning. But on reflection I cannot imagine any of my family getting all soppy and weepy. I suppose I’m being a bit premature but I don’t feel homesick yet.

  I was talking to Lena for about five minutes, who worked as au-pair for the family last year. She says the middle child, Delphine, is a bit of a handful. You wouldn’t think it with that name, would you?

  Oh, by the way, I rang Mrs Denny* to say goodbye to her on Friday evening. I was talking to her for quite a while on the phone. I told her what Reggie* said about repeating the Leaving. But Denny said is there any point when I’m not really dying to take up a specific career – or words to that effect. Anyway, I think that by the time I got home on Thursday evening I’d decided not to repeat. I wish I could make up my mind and stick to one particular thing, but I seem incapable of doing so. I suppose you’d say it’s a case of welcome-to-the-club!

  Monday, 29 August, 10 p.m.

  Hi again! Right now I’m curled up on a couch trying to balance a bowl of coffee, write this letter and understand a film on the TV. I suppose I should finish off where this letter began. On the ship I wandered around, ate, drank coffee, knitted and read until about twelve. Then, after much effort, I slept on my reclining chair to finally awaken at 4 a.m. Then I got up and wandered around, stepping over the sleeping bags of scruffy, bearded, greasy-headed French students (only the beards defining male from female!), hoping in vain to see the sun rise over the sea. But here the sun gets up after seven o’clock, and so I was out of luck!

  Do us a favour, will you? Go up to Clonmel and punch the girl in the travel agency on the nose pour moi, because we docked in Roscoff at 6 a.m.! Got through Customs (could have had a case full of drugs and no problem) and waited ’til 7.15 a.m. when M. & Mme LeClercq arrived with son, daughter and nephew. Got into car, drove to St Philibert, a small village six km from Trégunc, and arrived at 9 a.m. Had brekky, went to visit Mme LeC’s mother, returned to restaurant, leaving kids at Grandma’s, had lunch, slept a little, read a little, wrote a little. Visited Grandma’s again in Trégunc at about 4 p.m. Talk about being thrown in at the deep end!

  For the first time in years, she had her four kids and their families gathered around. That left me struck dumb – well, slight exaggeration, I could say ‘oui’, ‘non’ and ‘merci’ (mercy!). In the crowd, ten adults and an army of kids. I wasn’t ignored, far from it, but I was so tired and felt really shy and awkward not knowing what to do. Then the kids were all grumpy at each other and decided to demolish a tent. Only by chewing very hard on my lip could I prevent myself from bursting into tears. If there had been a ship home on Sunday night I’d be delivering this letter by hand! And I’m not joking. Well, the silver lining in yesterday’s cloud is my first glass of champagne and that lining was only silver-plated. Perhaps one has to develop a taste for these things. Today, after a good night’s sleep, I feel much better and perhaps I won’t jump out of my dormer window after all.

  I suppose I should describe the family. M. and Mme are both very nice, early thirties, I’d say, both dark-haired. She’s very brown, but he looks positively anaemic. If I glued some of his skin onto this page, you wouldn’t notice it! The oldest girl (twelve years) Chrystelle, after three meetings, strikes me as being very nice. But I have nothing to do with her. Delphine
I’ve been warned about, as previously said. She’s staying at her grandmother’s now, so I cannot say more about her. Thomas should count himself lucky not to be floating face downward in the bath (pronounce the name as ‘Tomah’). He’s about two and I’d imagine is a very nice kid when he’s not over-tired or sulking, which he has been for the past two days. He’s a peculiar kid, really. Perhaps he’s just shy at the moment. Lena liked him anyway, and I suppose I will too, when I’m leaving.

  I love their house. I’d say at one stage it was a two-storeyed one, the second storey being extremely high. The first floor is the restaurant. It’s quite large and furnished with wooden tables and red-white checked tablecloths and lamps and curtains. Nine people work there. I don’t know if that includes Mme and M. But I’ve met some of the staff as we have lunch and supper together, before the place opens to the public.

  There are two girls – both fairly nice. Then there are three boys; one blond, quite attractive, one dark, very attractive, and one curly-haired, dark and sitting beside me, so that’s the end of that description! (The other two sit across from me.) The third boy is getting some teasing because he is eating very little. I don’t know if it’s because he is on a diet or waiting for the results of the Bac. They’re all pleasant enough, I’d imagine, even though I’m incapable of speaking to them!

  To return to my original description of the house – well, I’d say the second storey was divided in two. Downstairs is the huge kitchen/sitting-room. In a corner is an adorable spiral staircase leading upwards (where else?). About half of the second floor then is covered by our bedroom and the bathroom and toilet which we use – there being another one downstairs for the parents.

  I share a room with Chrystelle (I love the spelling of it) and Delphine but have it to myself at the moment as they are both away. They have bunk beds. I think they have the same type on Diff’rent Strokes. My bed is just under the sloping roof, beside the window.