Guess what, Anne-Marie’s got a new fella called Robert. He’s from Westport and he looks after thousands of pigs on a pig farm. Maw, Anne-Marie and I were sitting on our garden seat last Friday night when he came along. My first impressions are that he is very nice.
Now, finally, I bet you’ve been going out of your mind about Anne – well, so have I. I’ve phoned Sue twice hoping to get some more info, but there was no one there. I met Anne herself one day and was about to ask her about ‘Teddy Bear’ but two friends of hers came along and so I didn’t get a chance. But, gee, you wouldn’t know Anne. That day you should have heard her talking to the others about – FELLAS. Imagine, our Annie! All I found out is that she met him in Kildalton and he is from Adare and I’m not sure but I think she went out with him once or twice.
Listen, that’s about all for now. I’ll write sooner next time, okay? Keep me posted about the skiing, etc. Maw and Paw send you their best.
God bless.
Lots of love always,
Mary
Letter 23 / My first date in France!
Trégunc
Saturday, 16 June 1984
Mary, chicken,
You can blame your fortune on receiving this letter on my misfortune at having a terrible tummy-ache. Y’see, there’s a concert in Concarneau this afternoon, which is given by the music students. And dear Delphine is one of this gifted bunch and has for the past month been practising her piece from 7 a.m. ’til 8 p.m. Vivianne had a beautiful navy smoking made for her. And even me this morning, well, I went to Concarneau and having visited every clothes shop there finally got a print blouse to go with a cream skirt for the big occasion. But due to the torture I’m now undergoing (i.e. sheltered from the TOASTING sunshine by the covered terrace, listening to the radio, forcing down a slice of fruit tart, despite the agony, which is due, I think, to eating too many apples), my ensemble is laid out tidily on my bed, and I won’t get a chance to have a last glimpse at Delphine’s gorgeous music teacher. Sob, sob, sob.
And while on the subject of the other sex … well, where do I start here? With Richard? With Michel? With Anne-Marie’s new fella? Yes, with the latter, I think. I’d imagine by the time you get to write back to me (better be soon!) it will have developed a bit more. Don’t forget to keep me up-to-date, not to mention filling me in – i.e., what does he look like, how old is he, where does he live, etc. But please pass on all the latest in romance, won’t you? If you, like me, haven’t any news of your own in that field, then trespass elsewhere!
If you’ve been in touch with Sue recently and, as I hate repeating what I write, I hope you have, then she may have told you about Richard. In brief detail, he works in the bakery next door, is quite good-looking, and always seemed very nice. But then, well, I hardly ever really spoke to him. Anyway, about three weeks ago, I was going for a walk, and he came along in his car, stopped and said he was going to Ireland for Sept and what was it like, etc. So anyway the conversation ended with his promise to pick me up on the following Saturday night. I’m sure you can imagine how happy and delighted and nervous and so on I felt. My first real date and in France too.
To make a long, boring, depressing story short, we spent from ten ’til two bar-hopping while not one of his friends opened their mouths to me all night, and Richard himself acted as if I wasn’t there and went off playing pool. Remember what a bad-tempered cow I am? Well, at 2 a.m. I asked him if he wouldn’t mind dropping me off on his way to the next bar. (It was only thirty–forty miles out of his way.) And the … – cannot find suitable description of what the French call a ‘salaud’ – was SURPRISED I wasn’t enjoying myself. As you can see, even after three weeks I’m still mad at him. As a matter of fact, I should entirely avoid mentioning this subject as doing so doubles my pulse rate (with anger) and all resulting heat released is not good in such warm weather.
I try to avoid him as much as possible, but as he lives, or rather lodges, ten metres from the restaurant, that can be difficult as you can imagine. The couple of times I have seen him, I just said a quick hello and kept going. But as well as that, you see, I’d borrowed a tape from him, and was faced with the problem of how to give it back, avoiding all conversation in the process.
Please don’t think I’m being vain or big-headed, etc. But, y’see, he was very insistent that I go out with him again and, frankly, even if he is really nice when his pals aren’t around, I’d rather stay at home and knit! I mean, he was well up on the speech line and all, and said I was ‘charmante’, ‘ravissante’, ‘terrible’ (that’s a compliment here by the way!) and that he wasn’t able to sleep since I said I’d go out with him, blah, blah, blah. Well, he can take his bloody poetry book, and choke himself on it! And good riddance to bad rubbish! Hey, careful, pulse rate’s just tripled.
So, I was most eager to avoid all conversation while giving back his tape. But one day, I noticed he was just about to go somewhere in his car, rushed for the tape and got thru the whole ordeal with polite comments and nothing personal. Phew!
The other day, Thomas and I, making the best of the arrival of a beautiful summer, were heading off for the beach, when who should we meet en-route mais Michel, the guy who works in the kitchen for the summer. So what should be more natural than that the two of us proceed – not hand in hand, but together nevertheless – to the golden seaweedy sands, where we stayed together for two hours ’til he had to leave.
Well, what can I give you in background info? Not much, really. I know he worked in St Phil last summer – he told me he left the day I arrived, which gave us a good laugh. He did his Bac last year, but is repeating again this year. As a matter of fact, he started it Thursday. He’s very shy and quiet and I think I’m REALLY going to like him a lot. When the Bac’s finished he’s going to work in the restaurant for the season. I’ve got a (impulsive!) feeling that he’s clever and intelligent. But maybe that’s only because he looks like – guess who? Gerard. Well, maybe not really like him, but he’s got dark curly hair and, Mary, the most beautiful blue, blue, blue eyes. Pity he wears goggles! And his smile is really lovely and makes me feel happy. Do you know what I mean?
I don’t know much else about him really, except that he lives near the restaurant and goes to boarding-school in Quimper, and hates apples that are in any way bad, and gets Reader’s Digest every month – he gave me a loan of one, which I’d already read (Viv gets it too) but I’m just a girl who can’t say no!
I went for a spin on the bike (Chrystelle’s) last night and he passed me in a car. He was driving and had three or four friends with him. He gave a huge big wave, which, while not making my night, cheered me up.
(Oh, a beautiful thrush is eating some crumbs just a metre from my feet. I love the terrace: it has a beautiful atmosphere and is full of bright flowers and singing birds, and as it’s just on the side of the road I can watch the world passing by!)
I wish I could ask Vivianne about him, but she’s like your maw, and’ll just tease me dreadfully and in front of everybody too and I’ll die of embarrassment and’ll end up hiding myself in the bathroom ’til 1 Sept. And, anyway, maybe he’s just one of those Tom, Michael, Gerard people, y’know, who are so damnably friendly and smiley and nice with everybody. And maybe nothing’ll come of it – whatever the ‘it’ might be. And maybe if something does happen, I’ll just be disappointed and cross, the way I was with Richard.
Am I boring you with all this nothingness? I hate the insufficiency of pen and paper! Y’know, I’d swap all the beauty of my present position for a hard chair in the ice-cream parlour with rain pouring down the windows and a real conversation with you (excuse me, I’m going to cry!).
Can I say something without offending you? Remember last year when myself and Sue used to drive yourself and Anne nuts dinner time after dinner time with our endless conversations on Michael, C— and so on? Remember our minute dissections and analyses of all of their actions and words? Even though nothing was ever said out in the open, I got the impression you weren’t happy with us. Well, looking back over your letters of the last few months and your comments on Anne in your most recent letter, all I can say is, ‘Welcome to the club!’
Isn’t it a great, marvellous, uplifting, depressing, agonising, etc., feeling? I think just the mere fact of knowing that they’re (boys, dum-dum) there, well, it changes everything, doesn’t it? But it can be so frustrating trying to figure out what they’re thinking and, more importantly, what they’re thinking of you.
Wish you were here! But in the meantime, let’s do something this summer that’ll take over all of our conversations for Sept. Get the drift.
I never realised that people like your classmates still existed. I thought ‘Commie bastards’ died in American films during the fifties. I believed all people of our generation wanted a world where everybody is equal and the words ‘class distinction’ needed to be looked up in dusty dictionaries. Just shows that ivory towers have very thick walls, doesn’t it?
But to tell the truth, I understand great riches, i.e. three or four cars per family, regular holidays abroad, and all that type of stuff, the same way I understand the cruelty of the Nazis and Auschwitz during the last war. D’you know what I mean? Perhaps I am narrow-minded but I tend to think that most people’s lifestyles are more or less like ours. Sure, there are some who can afford to have beautiful clothes for the summer, etc., but otherwise, with some exceptions, well, we’re all the same. Thick, aren’t I?
Don’t take the next paragraph wrong. I never really put myself out looking for info. on the WRTC but I always felt it was a kind of inferior college, where people (like us!) who couldn’t really afford to go to Trinity, etc., went to get the first foot on the ladder. So, I was really amazed when you first started telling me about all of these silver-spoon-fed friends of yours. But I suppose that’s life, isn’t it? And everything you learn in third level doesn’t come out of books.
Had a letter from Celia a fortnight ago. She was working in an office for a couple of weeks for experience. Apparently, there’s this guy who worked for the same company and she got sweet on him. But unfortunately she’s now back in college for a block period and probably won’t get to see him again for ages. She seems to have gotten on really well at work. Everybody bought her a present for her birthday in May, and when she left, they all chipped in and got her some expensive French perfume, and they went out for a drink together. I believe she had a great holiday when she was home at Easter. I felt homesick reading her letter afterwards.
Oh, yes, about Avoriaz – that’s the name of the skiing station for the ignorant among you! About a fortnight ago, there was a documentary on TV about it. Wow! It’s just gigantic, full of hotels and chalets. All in modern architecture. Really beautiful. I’d understood that the family were supposed to write back to me a few weeks after I’d seen them. But Viv says, no, they’re supposed to do so at the end of the summer. That makes things rather difficult for me. I’d prefer to have everything fixed up now. I mean, supposing I’m in Ireland when the letter arrives at St Phil? By the time Viv forwards it, well, that’ll be cutting things close for the beginning of October. But anyway, for now, I’m going to enjoy the sun, and let the snow take care of itself.
What else have I in the line of news? Oh, yes, went to Quimper with Viv the other day. While she went to get her hair done, Thomas and I did some window shopping. I felt great. I wore my new(ish) red trousers with my white jumper, which has bat-wing sleeves and is see-thru and I love it. I had a pair of white sandals that I got cheap in Concarneau and a matching white bag. Without boasting, well, I knew I was … presentable. I love that feeling, don’t you, when you’re all dressed up and looking your best and you can feel people’s eyes following you? (No smart comments, okay!)
Only when we got back to the car again a tyre was flat. And this dishy hunk came to our rescue. Only the spare was flat too. So Viv disappeared in search of a garage with Thomas, while I was left car-sitting. Two hunks who parked their car in front of ours came up to me with offers of assistance. Unfortunately I had to decline. And they disappeared into the sunset. In the end another Knight in Shining Armour ended up putting on the flat spare and we limped off to a garage.
Even though the day was ruined, well, my faith in men was restored. Did you know that there are still males who, despite the curse of women’s lib, come to the aid of Ladies in Distress? I didn’t, but now I do, and feel happier because of it. Soppy and thick, aren’t I?
Thomas was three on 11 June. Vivianne’s grandparents (yes!) are currently staying at her parents’ and so were invited for the festivities. François made a beautiful strawberry cake, which went really well with the champagne – Dom Ruinart no less. Only £25 a bottle! The most expensive in the restaurant’s cellars. But afterwards there was a minor earthquake or, at any rate, I noticed all of the walls shaking!
A couple of days later
I put this letter aside in the hope that something worthwhile committing to paper might take place over the interval, but nothing did. Except that the weather was absolutely gorgeous and I’ve been practically living on the beach. Consequently, my tan is coming along nicely.
Please write soon. I’m sure you’ll have more time to do so on account of the holidays. Have a great summer, and keep your eyes and ears open for gossip, won’t you?
A big hello to your parents.
Lots of love,
Catherine
PS Hey! Almost forgot, your job! Tell me every little thing that happens won’t you? And GOOD LUCK!
PPS Were you watching Roland Garros? I only saw a little bit but it was great. Dreadfully disappointed that Connors lost. But looking forward to Wimbledon, are you?
Letter 24 / My first proper dance … in Piltown!
Carrick
Sunday, 1 July 1984
My dearest Cathy,
Here I am again all set to compose another letter – except this time I have very little gossip. You know, I half believe that the entire population of Carrick has decided to watch their Ps & Qs just to deprive you of it. But never fear, I’ll rack my brain for sommat.
Meanwhile, the door is open and I can hear the birds twittering, the cars passing to the seaside, children laughing (or crying) and flies buzzing. Martin is in Clonmel at the horse show (Civil Defence duty). Maw is in bed snoozing and Paw woz reading the Sunday paper up to a while ago.
I thought perhaps there might be tennis on the goggle box today but there wasn’t. I haven’t seen much of Wimbledon so far ’cos of my job (more about that later) and they didn’t cover Roland Garros here at all. Ya know, it’s so long since I’ve played tennis that I’d probably hit the racket with the ball!
(Deviation: ya never said what instrument Delphine plays – a tuba?!)
To get on to the subject we all seem to be preoccupied with at the moment (romance – not the weather, dum-dum), I’ll start with Anne-Marie’s new fella – Robert. Talking to me this morning, she said he’s gone home for the weekend. It’s a fair journey on our bad roads. To enlighten you a bit more: he’s about two inches taller than me, fair hair and nice eyes (as eyes come – usually with pupils, irises and eyelids! Tee-hee. Sounds like a Macra stock-judging competition). Seriously, though, he is quite nice. Just an ordinary everyday sort of guy.
Somehow I think they’r
e all trying to get me fixed up over here. There I woz the week before last, coming home with wallpaper for my room, and coming up the road I could see a gang of the neighbours congregated around our gate (‘Where else?’ I hear you ask!) while across the road Adam was painting (again!). As soon as I woz in earshot it started, ‘Hey, Adam, here she’s comin’ now’; ‘Wouldn’t ye make a fine couple – she papering and you painting?’ – to which I replied, ‘Yeah, how romantic.’ Adam’s mother was worried in case ADAM would be embarrassed, but nothin’ about poor Muggins. To her amazement, he didn’t get embarrassed and now she’s conjuring up that perhaps he ‘has notions’ about me. D’ya ever hear the likes?
Meanwhile, Maureen’s (from across the road) nephew came home yesterday morning to Maureen’s. I dunno if you remember him from other years but he’s dark and good-looking (sounds like an ad for Guinness!) and who should be talking to Maureen when he should arrive? Only my maw! I was mortified as I heard her say, ‘Come over to my place now. I have a grand daughter for you with a good job an’ all.’ How in God’s name will I be able to face the fella if I meet him?
Now to you, Kitty chicken. You’re a crafty one all right; leaving out all the details of the return journey home with Richard. Come on, I want all the sordid details of your goings-on (if it wouldn’t be detrimental to my innocence, that is!). Do you really expect me to believe he kept his hands on the steering wheel (especially since he called you ‘ravissante’)? Wait’ll I see your grandmother and she’ll have you home and in a convent before you could say, ‘Je n’avais fait rien.’ If Reggie could have seen ya …
Dear Cathy ... Love, Mary Page 16