I HAVE BEEN inundated with a request to publish further extracts from my Ballina diary of 1968.
Sunday, November 21st, 1968
Ballina, 9 p.m. I am back from Galway utterly shattered after a weekend with Jimmy and Seanin. They are in fine form, and do not seem overwhelmed with academic responsibilities. As we were passing through the UCG quad on way to the Skef, I asked Jimmy what the building on my left was: "The library, I think", was his reply. He has been at college eleven weeks now.
Monday
Mother, ludicrously starry eyed, asks me if I saw much of Galway. Apparently she has prehistoric romantic associations involving a former boyfriend and some long demolished guest house in Salthill.
I tell her I did a lot of walking in the city, neglecting to say this involved traversing only the limited route between the Cellar, the Skef, the chipper on Shop Street and the disgusting basement flat on Father. Griffin Road where S and J dwell like rats, (but happy rats).
Tuesday
I am at work in the library when a package arrives containing a dozen long overdue books, with a pompous note from the County Manager (JJ Cooney) asking us to investigate and find out what "miscreant" has kept library property for 18 years: we are also to seek "suitable recompense."
Large print thrillers, the books are covered in dirt and grease. Miss Cartwright is horrified and steps back as if from a bomb. She cannot abide dirt. I dump the whole lot in the bin outside the back door, while Miss Cartwright pretends to avert her eyes. So I have her complicit approval, and the County Manager can go to Hell.
Father says he knew JJ Cooney "when he hadn't an arse in his trousers." There seem to have been very few people in Father's day who had.
Wednesday
I am heading for the Estoria on my own to see John Beal in The Vampire when I am loudly hailed by the very attractive waitress from Moyletts' cafe! Before I realise what is happening she has linked arms with me, steered me into the cinema - and paid for my ticket.
The entire film is a blur to me as I try to come to terms with what is going on. I realise I should not be embarrassed but I am. Her name is Harriet (I learn between her shrieks at the vampire) but she insists on being called Harry. She has thrown me into turmoil re the nexus of male/female relationships.
Afterwards, she drops me with as much carelessness as she has picked me up (there is no other way of putting it).
Thursday
I am at the centre of a dreadful scene in the library this morning, as dreary as it has been predictable. Miss Cartwright bursts into a flood of tears. Apparently she saw me exiting from the Estoria with Harriet, and says she feels "bleakness, bleakness incomparable" at the realisation that I should fall so easily for blonde hair, a vulgar laugh and an over developed bosom. She had higher hopes for me.
Everybody from my mother down appears to have higher hopes for me. Why am I such a disappointment to so many? I will not give in to despair. Tonight I have started reading The Catcher in the Rye by Salinger. Holden Caulfield too has his demons.
Friday
I visit Moyletts' cafe but Harriet (I still cannot call her "Harry") is to busy to talk. Re her embarrassing purchase of my cinema ticket, I now realise she makes a lot more money than I do. Her official pay is undoubtedly low but I quickly - see that she gets enormous tips from middle aged men and heavy breathing ruddy faced farmers from the wild Bonniconlon region and beyond.
The day I get a tip in the library I will fall over. Even squeezing tiny overdue charges out of our clients is well nigh impossible. The excuses people come up with are embarrassing. Mrs Connor told me yesterday she would have had her books back ages ago if it wasn't for her piles. I fail to understand how getting up and walking to the library would not have helped her.
Saturday
I meet Harriet and talk of the Catcher in the Rye. She thinks it is a stupid name for a book.
When she is irritated she tosses her hair and it becomes a sort of golden nimbus around her head. I find this unbearably erotic. A physical reaction is almost instant band I have to adjust my clothing discreetly. When I try to tell her how I feel without using the word "erotic" she almost collapses in hysterical laughter. "If you want to grab me, why don't you just do?" she says.
I am transfixed at her audacity, but physically paralysed. Can it be that Catholic repression still holds me in its ugly grip, though it is now fifteen weeks since I have abandoned all superstition, or attended Confession?
