Field of dreams out of reach

SIGNING ON: A new life in the country spent fishing and growing vegetables is attractive, but our columnist cannot uproot the children again

ALTHOUGH SHE IS still ill, his wife suggests he take a break from the kids. He’s reluctant to do so, not just because he feels two or three days of getting up at 5am (the baby is teething) is not what she requires. No. The children have become a substitute for work for him. The dressing, feeding, changing, dropping off and collecting from the crèche, visits to the playground, to grandparents – all these provide focus and routine. But she is adamant, the business they were planning is not yielding dividends so they need to clear space in their heads to come up with something new.

He phones some friends down the country.

***

Previously, when he had to sign on, then collect the money and also attend Fás interviews, it was difficult to organise a break. Now, with the money lodged into his account, and no need to queue, he has a degree of freedom.

He takes the train and is met by his friends. (Pensioners get free travel, so why not the unwaged?) Their car is 36 years old and seems incapable of doing more than 88kph, but the husband explains that road tax is just €48 a year, insurance just €150, and that vintage cars are exempt from the National Car Test.

It’s an attractive proposition (his own car needs tyres and pads, again) but then he remembers the husband, an engineer with whom he shared student digs, could rebuild a motorbike engine without breaking a sweat.

He’s not in the same league.

***

His hosts are hippies in the best sense. They interact sparingly with the modern world of supermarkets and petrol stations, don’t buy newspapers or watch television, listen only to music on the radio (“How could you listen to Joe Duffy without wanting to shoot yourself?”). They are vehemently apolitical (“Come on, it’s the same old, same old”).

The cottage they restored while living in a caravan on-site is littered with downloaded manuals on how to install everything from a rainwater collection system to a geo-thermal pump. They grow most of their own vegetables, smile a ridiculous amount. Over dinner, they decry the nanny state; how it has killed off basic survival skills; how the arts of improvisation and self-reliance learned during the Emergency and subsequent recessions, have been vanquished.

He shows them videos of the kids he has on his phone. A job and freedom from debt might be his dream; having a family is theirs. Nobody gets the whole package. But learning to curtail dreams to suit new and harsh realities is, he understands, also an essential skill.

***

There are other skills he has begun to master. The art of mending and making do. The art of separating emotions from facts. Figuring out why you feel low: because of the state of the nation, or the state of your own mental health?

The art of letting go of what seemed, once, like simple, attainable dreams.

***

He would gladly sell their old house in the city and move from the rented house they’re currently living in to a place in the country (their rent is €1,450 per month, but the cottage next door to his friends is €500), but houses on his old street are now selling for €180,000, which would mean negative equity of almost €100,000. In any event, the little ones deserve some continuity. He reminds himself again that it is no longer about him.

(Though for a week he dreams of a cottage by the sea, a row boat and a hand reel, a vegetable plot, and almost a grand a month which could be used to pay off debts. And to live, just a little).

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They take in a student, and just as quickly ask him to leave. Nice kid, but needy and forgetful. He showers twice a day, leaves the immersion on, forgets to close the child security gate at the top of the stairs. He is also a ludicrously fussy eater. The money would have been useful. But the worry was too constant.

(Bottom line: €650 a month wouldn’t cover a baby’s broken neck.)

***

The au pair leaves and a new one arrives. She studies Chinese and Russian. The Italian education system seems better geared to the demands of the real world. While other European youngsters will be able interact with emerging superpowers, new markets, his kids will be able to chat to pensioners in the Gaeltacht. (Unless, of course, in another 100 days’ time the Government has waved its wand over the land, transforming all.)

The writer of this column wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the editor