Dear Cathy ... Love, Mary

by Catherine Conlon

  Next, the boys. There are two brothers here, Louis (three) and Vincent (six) either of whom could accompany Anne in her poster. Louis particularly is gorgeous. Huge big eyes and thick blond hair. The two of them have lovely characters and along with Anne are my favourites, though naturally I don’t show any favouritism, I hope!

  Nicolas (don’t pronounce the s) has beautiful, almost white hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, terrific smile, and is the greatest monster since King Kong! His hobby is fighting, kicking people, belting them over the head, and other such gentle pastimes.

  Patrice is a pig! In plain simple language. I won’t go into descriptions of any of the others, but I’ll give you a few of their names. There’s Erwan, Yvon, Ewann, William, Stefan, Philippe, Julien and another Nicolas, who’s as bad as the first one!

  I go back to the restaurant for lunch at 11.30 a.m. every day. The kids all eat here at school at midday. The meals always smell and look good. I don’t know about the taste, though. I usually get back in time to spoon Thomas’s dessert into his mouth.

  Now that we’re on the subject of food, I must shamefully admit that all of my skirts are getting too tight for me! I was hoping the food here would be revolting and that I’d soon lose weight but not a snowball’s hope in Hell!

  But there’s one thing guaranteed to put you off your food here. You wash your hands before going down to eat, and you’re halfway through eating when the fellas from the building site up the road, or down the road, as the case may be, come in early for their lunch, and with a ‘Bonjour, bon appétit’ stick out a paw to wag your hand. And you’re left with millions of little creepies on it. Yuk! It’s quite a custom over here, shaking hands, that and the pecks on the cheek!

  There’s a kid at school called Jean-Christophe whose absolutely gorgeous father brings him to school every morning about half an hour late. I declare to God if I was sitting on the roof JC’s father would climb up after me to shake hands!

  I’m sure you remember Nolan jabbering on about Johnny Hallyday. Well, everybody is nuts about him over here. He’s National Hero No. 1. One day I was late for lunch and ate later with Delphine. Normally we eat the half-hour immediately before the restaurant opens. Well, this day, some of the regulars were eating at the table beside us, and we were sorta talking to them. I asked if JH was married and honestly one fella just gaped at me in open-mouthed astonishment: ‘You mean, you don’t know what he eats for brekkie every morning?’ kinda thing. But then the other fella stood up for me. ‘It’s not her fault that she’s an ignorant twit and doesn’t know his life story – she’s Irish.’

  There was a JH Spectacle on TV one night. He was dressed up with piles of make-up and wore an outfit with chains. Halfway through the programme he had a fight with cavemen carrying Star Wars type machine-guns! All of the songs were heavy rock, almost punkish, and, what’s more, they were in French! Not my kinda thing. But as Fran and Viv have explained a hundred times since, he was only dressed up like that because it was a ‘spectacle’ (that is French – I’m too lazy to look up the English equivalent). Usually, he’s much different and much better.

  They have piles of his tapes here. The only one of their tapes I like is Elvis’s. It’s called Rendezvous avec Elvis. I believe the English title is simply Love Songs. But if you ever get a chance to hear it, take it. It’s terrific. I love it and play it as often as possible, which isn’t very often. I could rave about it for the next few pages but I’ve done enough raving for today.

  And the reason I’m meanly writing on both sides of the page is because paper like this is like gold. Remember we could never figure out why our penpals always wrote on graph paper? Well, it’s because nothing else is sold here.

  Wednesday, 5.00 p.m.

  Same beach as yesterday

  Y’know, the weather here is really changeable. Yesterday, it was so cold and windy and today it’s like the middle of July, and I’m not exaggerating. Hopefully, the heat of the sun won’t draw the lizards out – it’s bad enough being chewed to bits by the flies. I’ve been assured by both Annique and Vivianne that lizards are ‘très gentils’ but just looking at them is enough to give me the creeps.

  I kept my promise and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to you this morning. Myself and Chrystelle were having brekkie; being the last two up, we had the table to ourselves. I suddenly remembered my promise and burst into song; I think Chrys’s mouth is still open! I remember my eighteenth birthday; it was all of six months ago. Ooh, the nostalgia of days gone by. It was just after Sue’s party and I was still on Cloud Nine …

  Well, enough of sentiment and a bit more news. This morning Viv brought me to Concarneau to buy a tennis skirt, as we go to Port Manech every Wednesday to play. There are six courts there and you don’t have to pay during the winter months; which is terrific. I got a tour of Port Manech last week and I’m still goggling. It’s right on the coast. A very small town, which I believe is exclusively for the rich. You should see the houses. Most of them are sitting on the cliffs like eagles’ nests, with a beautiful view of the bay. It’s really gorgeous, kinda like Beverly Hills. I should mention that the majority of the houses are summer homes!

  The tennis courts are just outside the town and you go down a beautiful tree-lined road to them. Here and there you get a view of the abodes thru the trees – very Castle Park* type, as are the people who live in them, I believe. That seems to be a universal thing, doesn’t it?

  Well, anyway, we go there for about ninety minutes every Wednesday afternoon. Viv and I both play equally badly, but are improving at an equal rate. She goes every Monday too with François who, I believe, is a very good player. This week Yvan also went with them. He called to the house first and, wow!, my knees are still weak. He was wearing the most fantastic red tracksuit. But, then, on Yvan a flour sack would look fantastic.

  (By the way, by devious means I found out that he is married, sob, sob. Chrys is too clever so one day I asked innocent Delphine if Yvan’s wife can drive. She said yes and that was why he sometimes comes to work on his motorbike – his wife takes the car. Also I asked Chrys what his wife was called as I wanted to send you a sample of Breton names! Clever, eh?)

  Well, where was I? Honestly I’m worse than R. L. Stevenson for diversions (it was him who used to divert the whole time in our prose book, wasn’t it?).

  Oh, yes, in the sportswear shop in Trégunc. Well the fella behind the counter there makes Mark Jennings from Dynasty look like Mr Hyde. He’s the tennis coach in Trégunc (the fella in the shop, not Mr Hyde!). There was very little left due to the fact that they’ll be soon getting their new stock in. I was lucky enough, though, to get a gorgeous tennis dress. It’s made of rather clingy material, is mostly white, with blue stripes on the bodice, has two pockets, isn’t very short, is closed by fasteners, and is currently covering me, hence the accurate description. But, my God, the price of clothes here is really staggering, no matter what you go to buy. It cost about £22! But a skirt and top would’ve cost nearly £30. You’d get ’em at home for less than half that. Viv bought a tiny towelling panties to go under her skirt. It cost £8!

  There was a good film on last night. It starred Kirk (my hero) Douglas with James Farentino (‘Nick Toscanni’ from Dynasty). Nimitz, an aircraft carrier, goes through an electrical storm in mid-Pacific in 1980 and is transported back to the day before Pearl Harbor is attacked (was it the Germans or the Russians that attacked it?). It’s fairly good. Also the late film was Village of the Damned (y’know Midwich Cuckoos by John Whatshisname?). But I was tired and went to bed halfway through it, knowing I’ll be able to watch it tonight on the video (great invention, don’t you think?).

 
I suppose I should shut up now and give my tennis arm and your eyes a rest. Please write immediately and let me know how you’re getting on AND what Gerard said about me! Be sure and tell your ma and pa I was asking for them. Did Cheryl go to England? Is Anne-Marie working? Is everyone from school keeping in touch? Is there a new biology teacher? Is James Bond on TV every week? Is Miss Carrick really Rose of Tralee? Is the Old Bridge still standing? Is there still a castle in Carrick?

  Please write soon.

  Tons of love, Catherine

  PS Keep me up to date on Dynasty!

  PPS I don’t get the significance of you and Sue making a fuss over my letter to arouse the suspicions of P—. Please explain (if you can). Also, don’t try to do the same with this letter as I have a feeling I said something nasty about Sue earlier!

  Letter 6 / I really LOVE my new class!

  Carrick

  Saturday afternoon, 15 October 1983

  Dear Cathy,

  It’s me again! I got your lovely fat letter. Thanks ever so much. Me voici on a really rotten, cold, miserable, windy Saturday (and that’s an understatement!). Honestly, the weather here over the past week is really changeable. One day, it’s like the Arctic Circle and the next it’s like the Mediterranean. I was going to say Italy but I’m so sick of hearing about it from F— over the past weeks. She was there on holliers for three weeks. The people she worked for during the summer brought her out there for nothing. Imagine!

  Anyway, since today is Saturday, Aunty Joan was just in. I nearly died laughing with her. You see, Dada and Nanny Gough* have just got in a telephone (yep) and Joan and Teresa† called out to see it in action on Thursday night (they need excitement!). There they all were, gathered round the shining black object in the corner (great material for a thriller, huh?) but nothing was happening. They couldn’t get through to anyone. Off went Teresa to the public phone box in Rathgormack promising to phone home (ET-style). In the phone box she asked the operator for Rath 150. By this stage, the excitement being too much, Teresa was in the fits. When the number was answered T burst out ‘Tee-hee, Joan, hee-hee, it’s me, hee-hee’, whereupon this not-too-impressed stern voice bellowed, ‘THIS IS NOT JOAN!’ and slammed down the receiver. After consultation with the telephone exchange T discovered that (a) Nanny’s number was not 150 but 151, and (b) Nanny’s telephone wasn’t connected to the exchange yet anyway!

  Meanwhile, in a little cottage across the fields sat three people intermittently glancing from television to telephone. Suddenly a shrill bell rang. ‘There it is,’ shouts Nanny, while Dada eyes the phone with mounting trepidation. ‘Sit down, ye bloody eejits,’ says Joan. ‘That’s the doorbell on Terry and June on the telly.’ Nanny declared that she had a pain in her stomach and wished she’d never got the contraption in the first place; Dada moved back his chair and declared that he wouldn’t ever go near ‘it’. In comes T and explained that the phone wasn’t connected properly and that they wouldn’t be getting calls for another while (honestly, you’d think there was a fan club ready to bombard ’em). Back they all went to the goggle box, when the clock decided to play a prank – off went the alarm and up jumped Joan to the phone before the whole house became enveloped in roars of laughter. That’s all for this week, folks. Tune in next week for another edition of The Revels of Rathgormack!

  Meanwhile, back to the relative sanity of Carrick and ME. Since I last wrote I started at the WRTC. So now, Kattie chicken, prepare to shield yourself as I prepare to give you a blow by blow (or puff by puff, as I have a cold) account of the goings-on. If you find it heavy going and feel like tearing out your hair (or hairs) with boredom, you have my full permission to omit the next few pages as I rant and rave about it. Yes, I really LOVE it down there.

  But first, I’ll begin at the beginning. I set off one bright morning (Tuesday, 27 Sept, to be exact) and arrived outside the Garda Barracks in Carrick where I stood waiting for the 7.45 a.m. CIE Expressway bus. Ber Cooney came along and told me she was travelling too. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I got sick before the bus came. ‘Oh, God, here I go again,’ says I. Anyway, nothing was going to stop me and I set off for Waterford on the bus. Arriving outside the college I walked up the steps while everyone (waiting outside as the front door was locked) proceeded to goggle. Then I spotted Niamh or should I say we spotted each other. Only then I realised that it was her first day too. She had just come back from holidays the previous day and I needn’t tell you I must have looked like death warmed up beside her, me being as sick as a dog an’ all.

  When the doors opened we sat in the hall while literally hundreds of students began streaming in. Honestly, Cathy, I have never ever seen so many dishy fellas in all my life. While I made my way to powder my nose I got separated from Niamh and that started my search for my class, which continued for the whole morning until dinner time. Honestly, no one behind the desk knew where ACA 1 (my classmates) was. That gives you an insight into the size of the place. I was told by the janitor (a name given to the fellas that hang around looking important even if they’re not) to sit outside room D11 until the class (my class) broke up. I did this and, luckily enough, Janette Keevan sat with me for a while as she had no class until after dinner (she’s doing music down there). The class broke and – yep, you’ve guessed it – they weren’t my class at all. Anyway, to cut a long story short I finally found them after dinner. I sort of snook in (is there such a word?) but I couldn’t get over how friendly everyone was and is.

  I think the reason I like WRTC is not my course so much but the class. I was only just thinking that if I was doing a course I liked better then the WRTC would be without fault.

  I guess I’ll have to tell you about the class so that you can picture my setting. (Catherine Cummins is doing Certified Accountancy and so isn’t with me.) My class consists of fourteen girls and twenty-one fellas (go on: turn green) and they’re such a zany bunch that I can hardly imagine some of ’em as qualified accountants.

  Firstly there’s Aidan, who sits in the top right-hand corner all the time. The rest of us change places every day. He hardly mixes at all. I sat beside him one day, and after I’d tried to make conversation without results I gave up. He has a steady girlfriend since Christmas and is so totally wrapped up with her he hardly notices the rest of the world. He’s with her every moment of the day, between every class, down in the canteen, just gazing into her eyes. He’s really (and I mean really) brainy. He answers all the questions and asks such intelligent ones himself that I don’t even understand the question never mind the answer.

  Then there’s Mairéad, she’s very nice but very quiet. Wears glasses too. There’s Rita. She’s very friendly and always salutes and smiles a lot. There’s Majella, who reminds me of Tina Kennedy in character, you know … sort of bubbly. There’s Margaret who is really quiet and reminds me of Anne Maher in character. Anna is next to her and is very chatty; we had a great chat down in the canteen yesterday. There’s Oonagh from Thurles, who is very blunt, which can be hurtful, but she is very down to earth, which I like. There’s Bernie from New Ross, who is a bit of a dark horse although I had lunch with her yesterday and found her very nice. There’s Nuala who is very … sort of suave, she drinks her soup ever so politely, but she’s very friendly. Then there’s Shane from Limerick who usually sits beside me. He’s crazy out but I like him. Then there’s Niamh, whom I don’t have to describe to you!

  The back row consists entirely of fellas who are so witty they made even Tricia Colleton look like an amateur. Honest. They’ve an answer for everything, which usually leaves me tongue-tied. There’s George, whom they’re always teasing. There’s Maurice, who is absolutely nuts. Himself
and Killian sit together and are crazy. They pass all sorts of comments and last week kept imitating hens. You should have heard them. You couldn’t help liking Maurice, though. He’s sort of boyish (he’s only seventeen – just a baby, huh?) and is blond with blue eyes. We had lunch as a crowd a few times in the café in Lisduggan Shopping Centre. We go there instead of the college canteen, which is packed to the hilt. Killian is dark and looks sort of Italian. John is posh and he’s got this drawl to match. On the whole he is friendly enough. Then there’s Liam, who is the wit of the class. He’s really tall and has a cheeky grin which lights up his face. I like him a bit! Then there’s Brian, whom we all rag. He was zany the first week but he’s quietened down a bit since. He’s got lovely deep eyes. There’s Mike, who’s blond and very friendly.

  Then there are two Martins, an unknown fella and a guy called Tony, who’s so brainy. There’s a girl called Perry, who’s brilliant at sketching the teachers. There’s Anne and her friend Margaret. There’s Dave, who is really nice, from Kilmac, and Niall. There’s Joe, who’s from Wexford and has the most original accent. I’d like to get to know him better. There’s Kay also. Brian Butler from Carrick is there. There are two Eamonns and a Harry, who’s a great football player. Finally, there’s Robert, the new guy, who’s over six feet tall and is the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. Honest, ‘pretty’ is the word. He’s sort of punkish and has his dark blond hair highlighted on top. He’s a lovely tan and bright blue eyes. So that’s all of ’em.

  The lecturers are really nice, especially Scott, for Law, who keeps giving brilliant examples of law cases, like the magistrate in England who said, ‘As long as I’m sitting in this court prosecuting these blackguards the women of Birmingham can walk the streets in safety.’ His classes are really great fun. The classmates are really gas. A lecturer asked us the other day what drisheen* was and a bright spark shouted up, ‘What’s her second name?’