Now, Michel, he seems a nice, respectable, sensible boy. Seriously, though, Richard doesn’t sound much different from your typical Irish Romeo (or Irish Paddy or Tom or Dick). Are you sure ‘terrible’ is a compliment?! Anyway, keep me up-to-date on any further developments. After all, someone has to look after yer welfare! Meanwhile, happy hunting (in its truly literal sense!). Something tells me you’re onto something good – I can feel it in me bones (if I could only find my bones).
I nearly forgot about the Macra Field Evening. It was on last Thursday week (21 June). I wasn’t intending to go but there I was getting ready for Mass that morning (for Corpus Christi) when Sue’s letter came. Briefly, it said, ‘Ya better be at the Field Evening tonight or else!’ At Mass, I met Anne Cummins (who incidentally had the most magnificent outfit on – from Moons of Galway, no less). She woz going too, so I said, ‘Ah, here, what the heck?’ Sue called that evening and her father drove us down to the mart. We were greeted most heartily – by a powerful stench of cow dung! We walked around and then Eleanor came along. We walked around some more, did a few quizzes and competitions. I helped Mary Rose with the ‘Guess the Peas’ competition – I carried the money – what else would an aspiring accountant do? Tom said hello (incidentally, he’s suffering badly from shingles at the moment). It was peculiar to see all the old faces again – you know, sort of like walking backwards through time. John was trying to persuade Eleanor to milk an artificial cow by saying that the present leader was a girl. Eleanor said, ‘Sure that must be me?’ and he replied, ‘Ah, no, this wan was good-looking!’ Eleanor was bucking!
Sue, Eleanor and I then snook in for tea and after that we sat into Eleanor’s brother’s car. We had a good natter there. Seems Sue had some trouble with her college landlord over the state of the house. I guess she’ll tell you all about it, though, herself.
Anyway, we then went on to Piltown to a dance. Gina, Dale Haze and the Champions were there. You know, this was my first proper dance – all the others were improper! There we met Anne Maher, Mary and Helen, too. I saw Alma Grace, talking to Teresa Dungan, and saw Tricia(s) O’Shea and Colleton. Had a good time dancing around. Got a few slow dances from Willy Parle (a friend of Martin’s!). Then this guy asked me out. Now, it’s a policy of mine never to refuse a fella a dance unless he’s drunk or has been put up to it by his mocking mates. So I sez to meself, ‘Here goes.’ Oh, Kitty chicken, he held me so close I could barely breathe and he insisted on dancing cheek to cheek. It wouldn’t have been so bad only for he mustn’t have shaved for a few days and his chin was like sandpaper! Ugh! He started to talk then – well, shout, actually, as we were near the stage. Turns out he was from Mullinavat. He asked me wot I was doing so I told him and he said, ‘Yeah, begorrah, ya look fierce brainy!’ No kidding. The song ended but I couldn’t get away as:
(1) We were in the middle of a packed floor.
(2) All the surrounding couples were giving each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation – must have been the heat!
(3) He had a vice-grip hold of me.
After the second song (which seemed to go on for ever), I broke away (perhaps I dug him in the ribs – I can’t remember).
‘Ah, come on,’ says he, ‘just the next wan.’
‘Ah, no,’ says I.
‘Pleeeze,’ says he.
‘Naw,’ says I.
‘How about seeing me later?’ says he.
‘No thanks,’ says I.
‘Another night maybe?’ says he.
‘No,’ says I, ‘thanks for the dance, though,’ and with a toss of my head I glided across the floor and walked out of his life for ever!
I really enjoyed the night, but I don’t think I will join up the Macra full-time again. It still amazes me that such good-looking fellas have no other interests. Pity (comments, please).
You know you said I might have been mad with you and Sue last year. Well, it wasn’t that way at all if I recollect rightly. In some cases, perhaps some of the fellas mentioned just didn’t interest me. And in retrospect, I woz probably envious in relation to some others! (By the way, I know exactly how you feel when you speak of the frustration in determining wot certain males are thinking.)
I finally got my head examined – well, eyes, actually – in Waterford. I’m waiting to hear from the medical card crowd at the moment but the optician seems to think that contact lenses are very suitable for me so I have to wait and see. Incidentally, Maw asked me what the optician looked like but I couldn’t see him!
I’m going for my tea now (ta-ra).
Meant to ask you – how often d’ya get letters? The poor postman must have his shoes worn out or have you hired out your own postbox?!
Did you know that Gemma (Anne-Marie’s sister-in-law) has a new baby girl? Everyone’s delighted especially since she lost Sandra. The baby’s getting christened today. Do you remember Jim from the bakery at the top of Bridge Street? He’s very bad at the moment – suspected cancer of the throat. You know, a man called Micksy Whelan from Seskin died a while ago and everyone thought it was my paw!
I think you’re right about WRTC. Most of the courses down there are looked down upon by the unis, etc., but our course is different because it is a professional course not taken by the unis anyway. So that’s why my classmates are a little different from other WRTC students (except for the computer students).
Well, that’s about all except to say that I’ve been working in Gilligan and Co for the past week. I was nervous as hell going in on Monday at nine thirty. Couldn’t see anyone around so there I was with one leg in the front hall and the other in the office when Jim Gilligan walks into the office through another door. We wag paws and he says, ‘I’ll bring you upstairs now.’
‘Ho, ho,’ sez I. ‘I knew it!’ I followed him up the gold-coloured carpeted stairs, I look into his eyes, he smiles, he opens the door, we walk in and there before us – a big wooden desk. Actually, Siobhán Babington was there too. There are four desks in my office: one for me, one for Siobhán, one for Anne Connolly and one for Greta from Galway. (They all are in their twenties, except Greta who is forty-ish.) In walks John Walsh and starts me working on cheque journals.
Basically, I have to make records of all cheques paid, analyse them, lodgements made, analyse them. Downstairs work Angela Danagher and Margaret Friend. Margaret phoned me up to ask me whether I’d like tea or coffee! Next door to our office works Martin O’Sullivan. Upstairs works a guy whose name I can’t remember but I think he’s Michael and is very nice. Out the back office works Jim Raleigh from Dublin. Up the stairs is the computer room. And that’s about it. I also work on milk accounts, doing analysis of Avonmore statements, etc., and goods accounts, recording purchases of goods from Avonmore. Greta is really patient and shows me what to do.
The atmosphere is really nice over there and I think I’ll like it as the others are very friendly. The guys are very mannerly – holding doors, etc. Pity they’re married! I got my cheque from John on Friday – IR£40. Not bad really for the amount of work I do. I was using an adding machine all week, which uses tons of paper in printouts, and I finally found out on Friday I needn’t use the paper! The only problem is that I think most of their clients are farmers and if so my training will be deficient in other areas, i.e. industry, sole traders, bank audits, etc., but I guess I’ll wait and see.
I’m glad I’m returning to the college this autumn but I suppose it won’t be the same without certain people. I’m toying with the idea of writing to ’em but I think I’ll wait until after the results – when I’ll have an excuse. Well, that’s about it for now. Missing you a lot! I’m going to take September off when you come ho
me, by the way, so take care until then.
Lots of love,
Mary
PS Martin came home from the horse show. Brenda Hyland, the Rose of Tralee, got kicked by an ass, broke her nose and sprained her wrist up there. Civil Defence brought her to be bandaged and get her nose splinted and guess what – she’s in a beauty contest tonight!!
Letter 25 / Finally, someone to talk to!
Trégunc
Friday, 6 July 1984
Dear Mary,
I was delighted to get your letter today. I’ve been expecting one for the past week and had me poor peepers worn out watching for the postman. I was really disappointed when I’d nothing at all day after day. In fact, I was beginning to give up hope of ever again hearing a word from you. But then I kept saying to myself, ‘Give the kid a chance, she’s probably up to her eyes in work.’
Where do I start? With my news or with yours? Well, first, I should congratulate you on your job. It sounds great. Be sure and keep me up-to-date on it, won’t you? I never realised it was so big there and that they had so many people working for them. But do you like it yourself? Is the work interesting and do you get to apply what you learnt in college? Do tell all.
I’d imagine you’ll be surprised at the manner in which this letter arrives. Hopefully Lena delivers it by hand! I’d love to see your face. Anyway, it turns out that Lena is doing au-pair for a family about a mile down the road. Only she has an interview for nursing in Dublin the third week in July. Unfortunately, she couldn’t change it, so she’s to go home for it. So I’m going to give her this letter and also one for Sue. Can you be an angel and phone Sue for me?
I am just DELIGHTED that Lena is here. She’s terribly nice. I never dreamt that I’d actually get to know her one day, but we go to the beach together every day and it’s just terrific having someone of my (or, indeed, ANY) age with whom I can talk about everything and anything. I don’t think you can have any idea of how terribly lonely I’ve been since I left Ireland and how much I missed you and all the girls. And I just feel so happy again being able to say what I want to and talking about fellas and period leaks and clothes and, and, and … do you know what I mean?
Anyway … remember anytime we ever saw her in Carrick, we always whispered, ‘That’s Lena!’ in bated breath, as if she were some kind of Sophia Loren or Brigitte Bardot or whomever. You know the way she always looked so sophisticated and sure of herself and kind of … above us? Well, she’s not a bit like that. She’s as nervous and self-conscious and shy as the rest of us. Really, it’s true!
She said that for the first fortnight or so when she arrived, she was so lonely she bawled her eyes out every night. Then one day at the beach, these guys were playing football, and the ball hit her. They came over to apologise and she kinda got to know them that way. Otherwise she said she’d have never ‘got in’ with anybody by herself.
So this year, naturally enuf, she wanted to look up her friends again, but it took her three days to pick up the courage to go over to the beach where they were. So, off we went to see them yesterday. I mean, they are SO nice and friendly and welcoming, not to mention gorgeous and tanned. Just sensational. I’ve already given Sue a run-down of them, so I’d imagine she’ll read the letter under your roof and’ll probably give you a synopsis or if I’ve said nothing nasty about 63, the letter itself!
But there’s this guy called Hervé and, in Lena’s words, I fancy him. Lena with her big mouth went and told the people she’s staying with that I was ‘in love’ with him. It’s funny, but I don’t consider I’ve ever been in love. I’ve always called it ‘having a crush’, even when it was quite serious like Tom and Michael.
Anyway to get back to Hervé, I don’t know – it’s just a feeling that, well … How do I explain it? I like him a lot. I don’t know him but I like him. I noticed him looking over at me a few times and we chatted about books for a few minutes. I’m really keeping my fingers crossed that it’ll get off the ground. I really want it to.
I was talking to Lena about him afterwards. She said she doesn’t know him very well either, as she only saw him a couple of times last year. Unlike me, she thinks he’s gorgeous-looking. I think he’s just attractive. But she offered to find out from his brother Olivier if I have a chance. I offered to rub sand onto her sunburned shoulders!
Well, that was yesterday. But, you know, I think Thierry is also worth a mention. I don’t fancy him. But I think he’s terribly nice. He’s the best-looking of them all. Raphael is next. He looks like a guy out of the Blue Lagoon type films – you know, you’d sink the ship yourself to get stranded with him. He is just marvellous with kids. I said that to Lena and Big-mouth went and told him. Luckily enuf, I hadn’t added on that I think he’d make a terrific father. Lena said that he’s terribly possessive when you’re going with him – you know, clinging onto you and all that. It was very obvious that he’s presently going with one of the girls in the gang.
They seem totally uninhibited over here about … well, bodies. I think that the Irish tend to be rather shy about physical contact, unless you’re actually going out with somebody. Over here, it’s not a bit like that. I mean, first of all, all the guys kiss all the girls on the cheek when they meet (beautiful custom!) and the guys shake hands. And there’s no awkwardness when everybody’s wearing swim-suits or anything. It’s just all natural and ordinary and not a bit dirty.
Well, where was I? Oh, yes, that was yesterday. So today we went over to ‘their’ beach to see if they were there, but most of them, including Hervé (sob, sob), weren’t. You see, a lot of them have gone to the South of France on holidays. Lucky things. So, they’ll be away for the next two weeks or so!
By the way, Thierry is supposed to be going home with Lena. If he does BE SURE AND GET A GAWK at him. It’s worth it. I’ve warned her not to let him out of her sight in Carrick. I also suggested she bring a dark-haired baby with her. Give the town something to yap about for the summer.
If (and I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed) anything interesting happens with Hervé, I’ll be sure and let you know, okay?
Unlike the LeClercqs, the family Lena is staying with have piles of friends, one of whom is seven months pregnant and swims and sunbathes topless! Incredible, huh?
There’s these people from Kilsheelan I met on the beach on Monday. Matter of fact they came over on the same boat as Lena. Anyway, they are just really nice. Most days, I spend about an hour gossiping with them. I get to catch up on a bit of the local news. I didn’t know them before, but I do now. They’ve got three kids who are lovely. We got around to talking about food today and, y’know, afterwards I think I’d have sold my soul (if I have one!) for a big plate of spuds, cabbage and bacon, followed by a whole pot of tea and five or six slices of Nanny’s apple tart! Isn’t it true about not appreciating things until you no longer have them? Y’know – ‘Gratitude is flowers on a grave.’
Lena says I now talk English with a French accent. I feel totally demoralised because I talk French with an Irish accent! D’you think I’ll have to give up talking altogether? I think that’d be harder than giving up eating! Bruno keeps slagging me, because every time he sees me I’m eating. I really must do something serious about it.
Am I beginning to annoy you with ‘Lena this’ and ‘Lena that’? If so, apologies. Hopefully the next time I write Hervé’ll take precedence over Lena!
I must say (old chap) the Macra thing sounded like a real reunion of the class of ’83. Did you all get misty-eyed with reminiscing or was it looking ahead to the future? Off with the old and on with the new kinda thing?
(You know the pregnant one I was on about? W
ell, she was wearing a T-shirt/dress with the Pink Panther on it and ‘Tout le monde est fou pour mon corps!’ Funny, huh?!)
By this stage, the only way my poor peepers will stay open is if:
(1) I stick matchsticks in ’em.
(2) Hervé puts in an appearance.
And as both of these are as unlikely as me growing wings and flying to the moon, I’ll have to shut up, but before I go, I picked up the mail on the way to the beach and consequently read your letter there. I started giggling like hell when I was reading your conversation with yer man at the Macra thing. Audine and Chantal (pregnant) who were lying next to me must have thought I was a right nut. Mind you, they just might have put it down to the fact that I was Irish!
See you tomorrow, I suppose! Nighty night, sleep tight. And please, God, don’t let the mosquitoes bite!
Sunday, 8 July
Hi again! I just have twenty minutes or so to get down a few happenings before I go and break my neck in a donkey derby.
Well, as you most likely know, the crowd from Carrick are over this week for the town-twinning celebrations. So last night there was a ‘Fest Noz’ (céilí) for them, and naturally enuf myself and Lena went. It was held just down the road from me in a big barn, commonly used for such happenings. The two of us walked together and just as we got to the place this crowd of girls were coming towards us. One of them threw herself at Lena, so that was when I copped on they were from Carrick.
How do I describe what I thought of them? My God, they were all babies when I left home, clad in orange and brown uniforms. And there they were last night with punk (almost) hairstyles and Bananarama-type clothes. We did a thing that would never have occurred had we all met at home: we gathered around in a circle and blabbered away like a pile of long-lost friends. Who was there? Jean Crowley, Denise O’Sullivan, Miriam Walsh, Carole Reddy, nobody that I really knew. Oh, yeah, Claire Fitzgerald. All girls anyway; mostly third and fifth years.
Dear Cathy ... Love, Mary Page 17