Got a lovely letter from Wendy. I was delighted. She was asking about youse and I told her all the spicy bits (what spicy bits? I dunno, you’d better get crackin’ and do sommat spicy!).
Oh, surprise, surprise, Y— eventually had her bambino, her petit chou, a little girl who’s supposed to be absolutely adorable with tufts of black hair. Guess she was worth waiting for after all!
Nanny is bent with bad arthritis at the moment and to crown it all the doctors have discovered she has a prolapsed womb (wouldn’t wonder after nearly twenty kids and no medical care of any description).
Now about college. Guess who went on strike on 13 Feb? You see there was this huge student protest over the refusal of Barry Desmond* to allow students be assessed for medical cards independently of their parents. Some students neither live at home nor have seen their parents for years. So, that Monday morning we were down in the Barracks† as usual when at around 12.05 the student union pres. John Doyle, came in and said that a strike had been called at a meeting in the college, that 1,500 students had marched to the Barracks to bring us out too, and that they were now locked out (’cos the college had phoned the Barracks, who closed the gates). We marched outside, climbed through the door and a big cheer went up from the crowd outside. We all marched to the Mall (receiving odd stares from passers-by) amid chants of ‘What do we want? Medical cards. When do we want ’em? Now!’ And ‘Barry – Out, Barry – Out, Barry, Barry, Barry, Out, Out, Out!’ I’ve never enjoyed myself so much. It was great. There was a sit-in on the Mall outside the Health Board offices, blocking traffic, etc. We thought it might get hot (as the guards began to be drafted in) so we slinked off – shame! During the strike I overheard one guy calling another ‘comrade’! Anyway, victory is ours – as the slogan in the canteen says. The whole question has been resolved and the students in Mountjoy (who were jailed for sit-ins) have been released.
To let you in on a secret, I’ve a giant-sized crush on a guy in the class. I don’t know why – he’s not over-dishy, can be very rude, sometimes uses atrocious language, etc., but somehow I can’t stop thinking about him. In some ways, he’d remind you of Catherine – a dark stranger, very profound – but he’s even wittier than Tricia Colleton. He’s an answer for everything and everyone. The same guy hardly knows I exist, I’d say, and at the end of the year he’ll be returning home and I’ll never see him again – boo-hoo … Ah, well, c’est la vie.
You wanted to know a bit about my course. Well, I’ll be two years in Waterford, during which I’ll sit my Prof. 1 and Prof. 2 exams. Then I’ll go into the office for four years and sit Prof. 3 and Final Admitting. Then I’ll be qualified (some hope! The failure rate is 53 per cent of all final students) and I’ll have the letters ACA after my name. (Taking into account that, by the time I’ll have done all that study, I’ll have been driven to the bottle, the ACA could well stand for A CHRONIC ALCOHOLIC!)
The big news in Carrick at the moment is the opening of Liam Bennett’s new shopping centre (on the site of the old Ormond Hall). I’ve sent you a piccy. It’s a strange monstrosity! Brendan Grace (Bottler) opened it officially last Thursday. It has a coffee shop so that’s another place to add to your list of places we’ll have to visit when you come home again. (You are coming home again?!) Actually, Paddy Farrell is having a double dose of kittens and canaries ’cos he’s afraid he’ll lose his customers to Bennett or to Tesco (who’ve just opened in Clonmel).
Listen, I’d better shurrup as I’ve got the most excruciating pain in my hand (no doubt you’ve one in your head!). Also I want to watch MT USA on TV which is three hours of non-stop music videos and pop music (actually quite good, too!). Maw sends you her love; the coffee-table is polished every day. (I actually do me homework on it and we play the odd game of cards!) Hope this letter makes up for the delay.
Write again soon. Slán.
Lots of love,
Mary
PS Like me paper? Bought it just for ya and it’s nearly all gone. You’ll have me broke!
Letter 17 / Maybe I’m too romantic …
Trégunc
Saturday, 10 March 1984
Dear Mary,
You’d be surprised (or maybe you wouldn’t!) at the number of names you’ve been called this past week, as the postman passed day after day, without leaving your customary parcel behind. I was beginning to think you’d never again write, when hope was finally restored today and I was able to pass my lunch eating and reading at the same time!
The combination of these two resulted in everybody having a good giggle as I tried to wipe magret de canard au poivre vert from one of the pages! By the way how did you get away with paying 30p when I generally pay 40p for a package of half that weight?!
Interruption No. 1 already! Bye!
I’m now continuing this letter three and a half hours later. Y’see, I’d a few little things to do. First of all, this morning Viv asked me if I’d mind nicking a few flowers from the local vacant houses, as they’re having a social in the restaurant tonight and she wants to do it up a bit. Then François wanted me to collect some seaweed for the decoration of the dishes.
Do you know what ‘fruits de mer’ is? No? Well, it’s a big plate and you put piles of crabs, mussels, lobster kinda things, and piles of other varied shellfish on it. But before you do all that you’ve to cover the plate with fucus vesiculosus, etc. It’s then garnished with very thin slices of lemon. The whole thing looks really gorgeous when it’s done, I must admit that, even though I don’t like shellfish.
(There was this Irish guy who came to eat here during the summer and he chose ‘fruits de mer’. Afterwards he complained to François that the SALAD had not been seasoned enough. The bloody idiot went and ate the seaweed.)
As well as all that, Thomas wanted to go for a walk. Hence, I combined the three chores. By the way, I didn’t spend 3½ hours at the beach. When I came home, I had a coffee, as is customary at four thirty, and then I finished my book (reading one, that is, not writing it!).
And guess what, I actually got to talk to somebody! Yippee! It was a woman (forty-ish) who was collecting sea shells with two of her kids. The little fella knew Thomas, consequently we got talking. She was a real chatterbox, for which I was very grateful. Have you any idea how absolutely BORING, NERVE-RACKING and INTOLERABLE it is to see the same people day after day after day? Any little ‘bonjour’ out of the ordinary is really marvellous.
And while speaking of out of the ordinary, I made my debut in French society at the Grand Bal Masqué à Trégunc about a fortnight ago. I went with Alain’s parents, Marcel and Marie-Thérèse, both of whom are forty-ish, as was nearly everyone else there, except for those who were eleven or twelve years old. There were a number of my contemporaries there, none of whom approached me, not surprisingly as human nature is the same everywhere and those in groups tend to stay in their respective groups. The fancy dress was fairly good and prizes were given at the end of the evening, by which stage I was three-quarters dead from the coldness, the cig. smoke, not to mention the boredom. There was one guy in a purple sheet who headed our way more than once but by 10 p.m. I was in such a bad humour I said, ‘No’! Perhaps if he hadn’t been wearing so much make-up (merely for disguise, I assure you!) and if I’d seen what I somehow guessed to be a good-looking face, I might have felt different. Anyway, even if none of us enjoyed ourselves, I’m still glad that I’d the experience of going.
The French version of Non-stop Pop was devoted to women and female groups last night. But I think somebody somewhere slipped up, because a video clip of Culture Club was included!
The subject of Sue … well, some of her activities wo
uld shock you to death! It’s a different fella every day of the week. Lucky there’s so many of them in college. Her cohabitants sound just as bad, and what’s more, there’s five male nuts living almost beside them. I think they’ll be hanging red lights up in that estate one of these days. I quite envy her really. She seems to be the typical college student and living life to its full. And you don’t seem to be doing too badly in that field yourself!
Is your mother reading this? Can I continue? Well, I’m going to leave that subject for a while as I’ve to go searching thru my archives as you neglected to give the name of your crush!
I expect that by the time you get this letter, Cath C will have given you the photos taken at Christmas. Can you be an angel and send them back the next time you write as they belong to Celia? I’ve two photos to take on a reel of twenty-four. I should get them developed in the next fortnight, and if they turn out well, I’ll send them on to you. I think the majority are of Thomas. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to take any of Yvan or Bruno (Chantal either!). But then I couldn’t very well say, ‘Excuse me, but can I take your photo? I want to send to my friends in Ireland and make them jealous when they see what kinda company I keep every day.’ For one thing, I’d have an awful problem trying to translate all of that!
I may have been a little bowled over by Yvan’s good looks when I first arrived here, but after six months, I know him a bit better. Okay, he’s got fantastic dark brown eyes, great sense of humour and charm but, my God, is he a bore! He seems to think that the world turns on his bloody culinary skill! Talk about vanity and big-headedness. He even takes photos of his creations! And he never shuts up about his mother, brothers, sisters, son, wife, divorce, car, mouldy apartment (shared with Chantal) and father (RIP since Christmas).
Bruno is much nicer. He’s not as good-looking (or at least I think not) but he’s ten times funnier, a terrific actor, the kinda person you can feel at ease with. You know you can be yourself, and not ashamed or shy of what you are. He makes me laugh. He was on two weeks’ holidays and, boy, was the place dull! Please don’t read anything that isn’t there into this. I’ve met his girlfriend two or three times. She’s just terrific. Very chic. Kinda smallish and plumpish and blondish. Totally uninhibited, not a bit shy, a perfect partner of Bruno. In a word, she’s FRENCH. She works (most surprisingly) in a paper and paint shop.
It’s around 6.30 p.m. now. Viv is doing herself up for the meal this evening. It’s a crowd of politicians coming for an annual meal, I believe. Viv never wears the waitress traditional apron. Just as I finished the last paragraph, she called me. She’s just put on her wedding dress. It still looks great after twelve years. It’s not a lacy thing. I can’t really describe the material, sorta linen, I suppose, with embroidery. It’s really beautiful and has class. But it doesn’t really fit any more. She was five months pregnant when she got married, y’see. She’d only put on the dress to please the kids. She went down to show it to François in the restaurant. I’m going to wait until she comes back up to finish this paragraph … Ah, there she is. Being his usual unromantic self – a typical hubby, in fact – he said nothing, just made a face. Must go now for supper.
11 p.m. same day
As you can see there is no rhyme or reason to this letter. At the moment, I’m sorta watching a Johnny Hallyday concert made in Nashville. François and Vivianne are still working downstairs. Delphine and Thomas are in bed. Chrystelle, as usual, fell asleep on the couch. I don’t really like Johnny, but now he’s singing a soft romantic song and I feel very lonely. Songs like that shouldn’t be listened to when you’re alone. There should be a fire roaring, wine glasses sparkling, a fluffy sheepskin rug with piles of cushions and a gorgeous hunk … Viv says I’m too romantic and she’s right, I suppose! But what other way can one be at almost nineteen years of age?
Your newly acquired cat – well, how about a really original name like ‘Blackie’? The cat here is fantastic. A huge big grey called Mimique (another suggested name), who got into a fight a while ago and tore a hole in his leg. I almost cried when I saw it. They all tease me here because I’m crazy about the cat, but can’t stand the dog. Dadouche is a fat, lazy, smelly, greedy, dirty spaniel sorta thing. She eats anything that waits for her – except cabbage. François says it’s because whenever she comes near me I always say, ‘Shoo, Dadouche!’ Get it?! Seriously, I think ‘Miou-miou’ is a lovely name (you say ‘Mew-Mew’). She’s a French actress that I can’t stand. She’s the type who doesn’t give the wardrobe department many problems, if you know what I mean! But I still like the name!
I know what you mean about the fantastic clothes for the summer. I haven’t actually seen them in the shops yet, but a few catalogues arrived here and the stuff is out of this world. Prices aren’t too bad either. But I’ve got the old problem, i.e. I find size twelve much better than size sixteen! But this year, I’ve got something to work towards. It’ll be worthwhile the starvation. I am absolutely determined to look presentable on the beach!
Speaking of which, what’ve you given up for Lent? I’m going to be really tough on myself this year – jam, cake, etc., and hardest of all, cheese, which is gorgeous here! Mind you, I was at Marie-Thérèse’s on Thursday, and had both jam and cake. Y’see, she’d made it herself and if I hadn’t eaten ’em she’d have been very hurt …
Incidentally, I felt very homesick looking at the catalogues. They brought back memories of when I used to plague your house on Saturdays, and after dinner we’d have coffee and biscuits and piles of more calories and look at all the fantastic clothes and wish we were rich (sometimes I feel like a really old little lady – with a yellow canary – writing my memoirs. I can’t help being soppy – excuse me).
At 00.06 hrs telly is finished so I’ve put on my tapes – Julio Iglesias – which reminds me of my next topic. He says he loves Paris every moment of the year – because his MOTHER lives there! (Ah, now he’s singing ‘Feelings’ and I’m really going to cry. I taped the record I bought Celia for Christmas.)
Well, where was I? Oh, yes, not in Paris. I think Viv’s sister’s plans have changed and so no Paris for me. As a matter of fact, she never even phoned to tell us I couldn’t go. Next time I see ’er I’ll give ’er a black eye! So, I think the only way I’ll get there is under my own steam (and no smart cracks about me looking like a steam engine, okay?). Maybe the two of us will make it there together!
I wrote to Catherine last week and as far as I remember I was in a very peculiar mood. Can you apologise to her for me for all the peculiarities in my letter? (I suppose when I write to Sue next week I’ll ask her to apologise to you for the same reason. Talk about a vicious circle!)
Sue twisted a few arms, and as a result a few of her NIHE friends wrote a few notes at the end of her last letter. As previously mentioned, they sound rather peculiar. But one of the guys, I think it’s a John, I’m too lazy to go looking up her letter now, appears very nice – you know the way you try to guess by the writing. Mind you, I hope they don’t try to divine my character from my writing. If they do, they’ll run like the hounds of hell (one of Nanny’s inexplicable sayings!) every time they see me approaching!
I must say, old chap (bowler hat, briefcase, brolly under one arm and The Times under the other!), your granny really seems to have hit a tough spot at the moment. What between arthritis and God only knows what else. Talk about being unlucky. Granny Gough didn’t build her house on a fairy fort or anything, did she?
Well, to date, I’ve apologised for content, atrociousness of writing and my letter to Catherine. So now I’m going to apologise for my paper. I feel all the more ashamed of it as I glance back at your lovely stuff. Fact of the ma
tter is I write to so many people at regular (you, Sue, Eleanor, Catherine and Glen) and irregular (Daddy, Celia, Anne M, aunts in England, Mag, Joan and so on) intervals that if I were to buy decent writing paper, well, I’d have to take out a mortgage on me jewellery! As it is, I’m stone broke buying stamps. And I’ve almost run out of typing paper – courtesy of Celia at Christmas.
Ah! Meanie, you did the crossword in the Messenger!
Wednesday, 14 March
Hi again, I’m determined to get this letter finished today and hopefully, if someone goes to Trégunc, posted tomorrow. Anyway, at last something has happened, i.e. got a phone call in the middle of the day Monday. First thought was ‘My God, the IRA has blown up the house in Glen’, or some similar catastrophe! Anyway, it turned out that it was just somebody who wanted me to give English lessons to her daughter. Yippee! At last!
So anyway, I went today between eleven and twelve. They live about two miles up the road and Marie-Claude, the oldest daughter (twenty), came to pick me up in the car. Anne is about eleven, and seems bright enough. But in the schools over here, there’s a little exam in every subject once a fortnight. Strict control is kept of all such notes, and at the end of the year, to pass into the next higher class, an overall average of 12/20 is required. Quite a good idea, I think. Anyway, Anne has something like 11.3. So she wants to push it up a bit.
Afterwards, I was talking to their mother, who appears really nice, and she suggested that myself and Marie-Claude (I think that’s her name) get together and go out a few times. Naturally, I was thrilled. Somebody my own age at last. And so now, even though there’s nothing definite planned, well, there’s something to look forward to.
Dear Cathy ... Love, Mary Page 11