Dear Cathy ... Love, Mary

by Catherine Conlon

  Thirdly, I don’t stay in digs so that sort of hampers friendship-making. All the rest of ’em are in clubs together. On Wednesday night there was a Hallowe’en Ball. A good few of the class went and didn’t get in until 4.30 a.m. You should have seen ’em on Thursday. Michael had a king-size hangover and spent the whole day going out for fresh air. Lastly, there’s Niamh. You see, we seem to go everywhere together (even to the Ladies!).

  As well as that a good few of the class are ‘bourgeoisie’ (or should I say bore-geoisie!). One day I nearly fell asleep at the lunch break as a few of ’em discussed the merits of a Triumph Spitfire over an Austin something-or-other. Now you know me, Cathy, I haven’t even gorra rusty bike and here they were going on about Daddy’s Merc and Mummy’s Jag and how they’d learnt to drive and who they were insured with and … yawn, yawn, yawn. Another day it was all about holidays. Not for them the Ring of Kerry or Ballybunion. It was all the South of France and Spain and Switzerland, etc. And there was I whose only holidays were in Glen Lower and Ballypatrick! So you see I usually just sit there trying not to yawn or get sick or both!

  On the whole, though, I enjoy the college experience, especially travelling – I’ve met some really nice people on the buses. But again they’re merely acquaintances and not true friends. One thing all of this has taught me is how valuable our friendship is and that’s why I’m sending you a boat to come home for Christmas. (Okay, it’s only a folded paper one but maybe if you cut down on the sweets you’ll manage it! Talking about sweets, I’ve never eaten so many as I have lately. You should see my skin. Even as I write this I’m chewing KitKat.)

  Come to think of it I might be expelled tomorrow. Yep, EXPELLED! You see, the VEC aren’t paying the college fees to the school until January and the principal below in WRTC is broke and wants us to pay the fees now. But if we do, the VEC won’t refund us the money so the Students’ Union has advised us not to pay (anyway, I haven’t 220 pence at the moment, never mind pounds). Well, the principal sent around letters last week saying that if we hadn’t paid by tomorrow we will have to ‘discontinue’ our studies there. The Students’ Union have vowed to go on strike if anyone is thrown out. Just think … by the time you get this I might be ploughing up and down the Cork Road with my placard shouting nasty things about Gemma the Hussey!*

  Last Sunday, myself, Eleanor and Sue went on the Macra Treasure Hunt (in cars) out your way. It was really great fun. Sue left her bike at the guards’ barracks and since it began to rain in the evening she got a lift home. Martin had to call for the bike. Sue’s mother called up for it on Saturday. You know, I never noticed before the way she ignores remarks about Sue but brings in Ger instead. For instance, I asked her did Sue get home okay. She said, ‘She did, but Tommy had to go for Gerard because his bike got punctured.’ When my mother asked did Sue have a cover for her saddle she said, ‘Oh, Gerard’s got one all right. He keeps his bike carefully.’ When I admired the jumper Sue was wearing on Saturday and asked if she had knitted it, she said, ‘I did, but you should have seen the beautiful silver-grey one I knitted for Gerard. It’s only gorgeous.’ I never really noticed this before, have you?

  By the way, I got an invitation to a wedding. No, it’s not Anne-Marie’s but Shawn’s.* Yep, in comes this envelope with an invitation in it – no letter or nothing. Out fell a piece of paper. ‘Oh, goodie,’ says I, ‘she’s sent the ticket as well!’ Wishful thinking! It was only a scrap of tissue paper. (Anyway, I ain’t going, though I’d really love to.) Talking about paper, don’t worry about what sort of paper you write on, I’d read your writings even if they were written on loo paper!

  How’s your tennis going? (or should I say where are the tennis balls going?)

  Hope you enjoy the Carrick Opinion.

  And now for another episode of The Revels of Rathgormack. The black object is working and strange voices can be heard coming through the wires. Anyway, Nanny finally got through to Johnny (one of the brood across the water). ‘Hello, son,’ says she. ‘This is Mother,’ whereupon the rest of them went into convulsions because Nanny always called herself ‘Mama’ before going all mod. Daddy Gough picked up the receiver and, after shouting the weather forecast into the wrong end, proceeded to exclaim to all and sundry what a marvellous invention it was!

  Listen, I’d better go. Mamaw wants to visit the cemetery because she wants a plenary indulgence for all of her sins but she’s afraid of the ghosties so I have to hold her hand! She tells me to tell you that the coffee-table is still in the corner. (I bet you’re the only person to have a coffee-table as a monument!)

  Cheryl went for an interview for AnCO for a secretarial course. She’ll have to go for another one after that. Listen, Maw’s having kittens so I’d better go.

  All my love, God bless and for heaven’s sake, kid, keep that chin up. Be a proud Irish gal!

  XX Mary

  PS You’d better write soon.

  Letter 9 / Snails for supper!

  Trégunc

  Monday, 7 November 1983

  Dear Mary,

  You said you wouldn’t mind if I wrote on loo paper – so here goes! As you can see, it’s really quite legible – well, as legible as my writing will ever be, that is! However, as you will discover if you endeavour to copy me, one must be extremely careful, as this particular type of stationery is rather fragile and tends to disintegrate under pressure.

  PTO

  Due to that fact, I’ve replaced the rest of the roll back where it belongs, and where it will serve equally as important a purpose as the notepaper with which I’m going to finish this encyclical.

  Okay?

  Love always,

  Catherine

  Dear Mary,

  Thanks for your little parcel, which arrived yesterday while I was at Quimper. Boy, were you down in the dumps when you wrote it! If I remember I was in the same type of humour the last time I tried to blind you! However, I’ve cheered up considerably since then, and black depression rarely hits me – only once or twice a day!

  Well, what’s been happening since the last time? Oh, yeah, there was a week’s mid-term break. Franck, one of the Parisian cousins, was here for ten days or so. He’s only twelve but you’d think he was our age, and I’m really not exaggerating. He’s terribly nice – an absolute nut!

  I’m fairly sure I mentioned my visit to Paris for February to you? Well, thanks to Franck, I got a bit more info on my guide. Y’see, he’s a very good friend of Franck’s family – a kinda adopted uncle, I believe. From what I can figure out he’s twenty-three-ish, smokes eighty cigarettes a day (my poor lungs!), is an ardent Communist, and loves discussing this subject. He works in the Mairie (town hall) with Annie, Viv’s sister, and is taking his holidays at the same time as her, just to have the honour of showing me around! Generous, huh!

  I’m really looking forward to going, though. If you remember I always wanted to visit Paris. I think that goes back to third class and Sister Marie Antoinette, who was the first to introduce me to the guillotine and Revolution and so on.

  And speaking of the Revolution, Mary, I made a disappointing discovery relating to it last week. You know it was all about Liberty, Equality and Fraternity and so on. But in their own way, they’re just as snobbish and class-regulated now as they were when Marie-Antoinette suggested everybody eat cake! ‘What the hell is this unbearably long, winding paragraph leading to?’ says you. ‘Well,’ says me, ‘it’s all this dreadfully complicated tutoyer-ing and vouvoyer-ing that they have over here.’ And if I hadn’t taken your dictionary you’d be able to look it up and discover that those words refer to the fact that certain people are addressed as ‘tu’ and o
thers as ‘vous’. Sure, I know Nolan mentioned it, but rather briefly. And the French use ‘vous’ about 90 per cent of the time! I mean practically everyone is referred to as ‘vous’. Even in many families the parents are called ‘vous’ by their children. Awful, isn’t it?

  Viv was saying that they’d told the people in the restaurant to say ‘tu’ to her and the rest of the family. But no go! They stick to the more formal one. I’ve kept my ears open over the past week and am pleased to report that they say ‘tu’ to me! ‘Vous’ is considered to be a mark of respect but I don’t think I consider it so. Well, enough of this boring French lesson! Just keep it in mind when you visit this neck of the woods.

  Almost forgot! Guess what I had for supper on Sunday night! Yep, you’ve got it! Those slimy creepy-crawlies with shells on their backs. And, boy, were they gorgeous! And as I’ve told you a million times before, I don’t exaggerate! Really, though, they taste lovely, and are served with a terrific sauce. François came out of the kitchen and presented me with a plate with the escargots on it. He told me to eat it, and afterwards he’d tell me what it was. Well, now, Molly dear, y’know what a bright spark I am. So I chirps up, helping myself at the same time, ‘Them there’s snails, no?’ (In French, of course.) I was surprised, though. The next time you go to the Central Grill you should order them! (Please get someone to film the waitress’s face and send a copy of it to me!)

  Unfortunately, I’ve been promised Kermit’s little footsy-wootsies next week. And that I’m not really looking forward to. But then I suppose there really isn’t much difference between frogs and snails. But to tell you the truth I’ve always been petrified of frogs since a boy – I think it was Paul Healy! – chased me with one in High Babies.

  Oh, yes, an example of François’s sense of humour. We had rabbit for supper one night. As he spooned the accompanying carrots onto my plate he explained that as rabbits eat carrots when they’re alive it’s considered good taste to serve that particular vegetable with them when they’re dead, funny, eh? Bet Bugs Bunny doesn’t think so!

  And while I think of it, I’m in very bad humour with you. You didn’t send me a bit of news in your letter, ya nit-wit, ya! Hence I am dying to know if Denny is or isn’t. And you never said! Also not a word about any mutual acquaintances; well, admittedly you mentioned a few!

  On the other hand, I’m very grateful for the Carrick Opinion. But, my God, the price of the stamp! Look, I know how tough it is on you poor students (are you still a student?) so, if you like, mutilate the paper and send me the relevant bits. I’ll suffer in silence. There’s no point in throwing away your money like that. But then, let’s face reality, money spent on ME is NEVER wasted, now, is it?

  Speaking of money, myself and Vivianne went to Quimper (it’s on the map, look it up!) yesterday on a bit of a shopping spree. We were supposed to start at around 9 a.m. but by the time we (well, truthfully, she!) were ready to go, it was after ten o’clock. I went down to the restaurant just before we left, and got a wolf-whistle from Bruno, who is rather tight with that commodity! A real lift for the spirits! Remember the sky-blue trousers I got in Mirror Mirror? I wore them with a pair of navy leg warmers that I knitted, as well as my navy jumper and bright red shoes.

  Well, where was I? Oh, yeah, Viv had something to do in Nevez, Trégunc and Concarneau, in that order. Got to Trégunc, went to the bank, came back to the car, and the blinking thing wouldn’t start. I felt like crying, as we were supposed to go to Quimper twice before that, but each time something cropped up.

  Well, anyway we walked to the garage a kilometre up the road; mechanic gave us a lift back to Trégunc, belted the engine with his hammer and, hey presto, no more trouble!

  So, anyway, it was nearly twelve when we got to Quimper. Viv had to do a bit of business for the restaurant, something to do with the bookkeeping aspect. Then, we’d the rest of the day to ourselves.

  The city is really, absolutely truthfully, gorgeous. It’s just won a prize as France’s most beautifully flowered town. That translation isn’t terrific, but I’m sure you know what I mean. The streets are cobbled and the shops go back to the Middle Ages. Not all of them, of course. The cathedral is breath-taking both inside and out. At the risk of giving me grandmother a heart attack, I’ll have to criticise the richness of the Catholic Church. And I’m not speaking of spiritual richness either! I said something to that effect to Vivianne yesterday, and she said to me, ‘Yet you go to Mass every Sunday!’ (At Mass, I’m the only one who hasn’t grey hair or milk teeth, if you know what I mean. The church attendance rate here seems to be worse than the Irish one. End of diversion, back to Quimper.)

  After lunch we spent ages in this huge shop specialising in material. I want to make nightdresses for the twins for Christmas. Also, I bought some white cotton to make myself a Slavic-type blouse with embroidery.

  Then Viv spotted a pair of shoes that she liked. She’d tried for the same type everywhere from Paris to Trégunc with no success. So in she goes to the shop and wow! My mouth is still open. It was a place where they sold all leather and leather-related stuff. You should have seen the dresses. Absolutely gorgeous, and the belts and the shoes and the bags and the prices!

  Well, Viv bought her shoes. They’re black, like dolly shoes but in leather, and have a tiny ankle strap – £35! And we complain at home about the price of stuff.

  On the way back to the car park, we started looking in the boutique windows. (I don’t think ‘started’ is a good choice of verb as we’d been doing that all day!) So, she spotted a lovely dress. In she goes, tries on a half-dozen, and emerges with a gorgeous grey skirt and blouse. I cannot describe the material very well, but it’s like a hyper-soft leather or something. That cost around £150.

  Now you may get the idea that she does nothing but buy clothes. Well, that isn’t true. She’s never bought anything for herself since I’ve arrived. Also, she holds onto things. For example, the last time she bought herself a coat, she was pregnant with Delphine who’s 7½ now! But when she does get something, it’s good quality.

  So, after all that, I stumbled in the door last night at around six o’clock with aching feet and bulging arms to be greeted by your letter. What’s Chris de Burgh’s album called? At the End of a Perfect Day.

  Last week, I went to the hairdresser in Port Manech. I got it cut quite short with very little layering and a flick. It’s quite difficult, though, to keep the flick! The place is run by a girl and a boy. I was quite surprised when I saw the guy at first. But I nearly had heart failure when I saw the bill – IR£11.50. It’d have cost about £5 in Hairport. Can you imagine what a perm’d cost over here?

  Unlike you, I’m going to answer a few questions that you posed in your letter!

  The subject of Gerard … I must admit I copped on ages and ages ago that he’s Mummy’s favourite. Hadn’t you? Go and get your goggles changed! He’s her No. 1 topic of conversation. In fact I’d go as far as saying that he’s her only topic of conversation. But to tell you the truth it was only after Joan got to know Sue’s mother that I really noticed. Joan copped on immediately and remarked upon it to me. Then I too began to keep all my eyes and ears open.

  But I’m sure you’ve noticed by this stage that Sue herself does the same thing. No matter what you’re talking about she finds some way of dragging Gerard in. Cast your mind back to when we first knew Sue – I mean we got to know Sue and Gerard at the same time, didn’t we, despite the fact that neither of us met him for, what, three or four years?

  I doubt that you’ll get the wrong impression about what I think of Gerard, but better safe than sorry, I suppose, so I’ll keep on going for a few more paragra
phs about him! (God, wouldn’t I love to be sitting with you in the Grill or ice-cream parlour and be able to talk with my mouth instead of my pen!)

  Despite the fact that Sue has been singing his praises since I first knew her, I haven’t been turned off him. Of course there were times when I got fed up of hearing about him and longed to tell her to shut up. After I first met him, though – summer 1982, I think – it wasn’t so boring, as I was able to give her my own opinion about him too. D’you understand what I’m trying to say? I’ve a feeling I didn’t say it too clearly!

  You probably felt the same way? But despite the fact that the whole family have him on a pedestal, and try to carry out his every wish before he even utters it, he’s not in the least bit spoilt-brattish or nasty or all other similar descriptions. In fact, I’m probably repeating myself: he’s one of the nicest persons I know. Please note the underlining and leave Cupid out of this.

  AND FOR THE THIRD TIME, WHAT DID YOU TWO SAY THAT NIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR GARDEN GATE (WITH ALL THE NEIGHBOURS PEEPING OUT THE WINDOWS) ABOUT ME? YOU KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME SOMETIME SO WHY NOT NOW? I NEED SOME CHEERING UP (EM … WILL IT CHEER ME UP?) BUT PLEASE JUST GIVE US SOME CLUE – PLEASE.

  I’ve got a heck of a pain in my hand, so I’ll have to shut up soon. Mind you … I’ve had the pain since page 4. Hey, ya never filled me in on the details of your eighteenth birthday. Please do so!

  As of yet, I haven’t had a chance to discuss Christmas with Vivianne. I’m waiting for a suitable opportunity to present itself. But I’m getting a bit homesick now and I miss all the lads* from school more than I thought I would! I really want to go home for 25 Dec.