More blasts from a bottled up past in Ballina

DECEMBER 18th, 1968: With the year 1968 drawing to a close, it is time to cleanse my conscience and finally commit to paper what transpired between myself and my employer Miss Cartwright on our ill fated "supper date" as she still refers to it. Otherwise my diary must be a mere charade.

It is now close to three months since the debacle, but what I recall, I recall all too well.

I entered Miss Cartwright's front room, or lounge, as she prefers to call it, to find myself in almost total darkness. The only light came from two candles on a low table, creating in my opinion a serious fire hazard.

Having called me in from the hall with a strange kind of tinkly laugh, Miss Cartwright now made a somewhat dramatic entrance. I have to say I was shocked. She was wearing what are apparently known as palazzo pants (she certainly did not purchase them in Ballina), made of very light material, along with a wispy lace top that concealed very little of her upper torso. No doubt I stared, and after a few moments she came rather close to me and said: "Well?"

I realised later she must have expected me to comment on her outfit, but I found myself unable to speak. All I could think of was how cold she must be, despite the fire in the hearth. This was, after all, October, and Miss Cartwright has not got central heating.

We then sat down on a low couch by the fire. This was just as well. I could hardly see a thing in the gloom but was practically knocked flat by Miss Cartwright's perfume.

My boss now went to the kitchen and returned with a jug of Martinis and two glasses on a tiny silver tray. I recalled reading of this drink in Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise and could not help being impressed with Miss Cartwright's sophistication. We each had two drinks out of superb cocktail glasses and I think I then began talking of Gerard Manley Hopkins's use of sprung rhythm.

Miss Cartwright then served supper - something she called a lobster salad. Where she got this I do not know - the only fish I have ever seen for sale in the Ballina is mackerel, sold for practically nothing from stalls on the street every Friday by wild seafaring men from Killala. I would have preferred pork chops or a Vespa curry myself, considering the time of night, but naturally did not say so.

Miss Cartwright now poured out about a teaspoonfulfull of white wine into a huge cut glass goblet (Waterford, I think, because we have the same at home in a press nobody is ever allowed open) and asked me if I would like to taste it. I had no idea what she meant surely it is not possible to taste wine without drinking it - so I did as she suggested. She herself sipped the tiniest drop and said it had good body and an aftertaste of vanilla and oak.

Perhaps because I had five pints in Geraghty's just before my arrival I really didn't appreciate any of this, but after a few glasses it seemed to me that wine was a drink I could get to appreciate. We ate in a sort of terribly meaningful silence. Then Miss Cartwright went to fetch dessert, taking my own unopened bottle of Mateus Rose between thumb and forefinger to the kitchen to dispose of it.

At this stage I got up, feeling a bit dizzy, and tried to examine the contents of Miss Cartright's bookshelves in the murky room. There were some rather dusty looking psychology volumes plus a lot of Mills & Boon and a large pile of Titbits, the same magazine my father hides under the cushions at home. I must say I was a little disappointed.

There is actually very little else to tell, because when I sat down again I apparently fell asleep. When I awoke, Miss Cartwright was cleaning vomit off the floor. I was not even sober enough to be mortified. She brought me two Anadin and a glass of water. Then I got sick again.

I do know that she walked me home, that she kissed me goodnight on the doorstep and that to my horror I felt myself react physically. Evvic Cartwright is certainly 40 or more. Am I a pervert?

Somehow I do not feel so bad now that I have put down the truth on paper. The Catholic notion of confession, though abhorrent to me in its religious connotations, has a good basis in psychology. I feel in a state of grace once again. I have learned a useful lesson, and life can surely hold no episodes more embarrassing.