The decency of Irish people and an end to the weekly dole-office visits . . . life is looking up for our unemployed columnist
FUNDS FROM the Government’s pre-school scheme are finally transferred from his daughter’s previous creche to her new Montessori; she is duly invited to attend. The unemployed man has already taken her to meet her teacher, classmates. But on her first day he is nonetheless wary. They sing Row your Boat on the way; he’s not sure who the exercise is designed to calm.
At the door, she clings. Then spies a Snow White costume, steps in, already forgetting him. He wonders if and when he locates work, and steps back into costume (suit and tie), will things will run as smoothly? (No office politics at Montessori).
***
The unemployed man admits to the shrink that he misses the city, the opportunities it offers to disappear. Somedays he can feel marooned in the ’burbs, especially when commuters are filing out of the Dart station at the end of the working day.
(“Buzzy bees”, his daughter calls them; has he been disdainful – jealous – in front of her?).
He and the shrink talk of how easily children adapt. The shrink suggests the patient reflect on how well he has adapted, not to the move per se, but to the various upheavals. The patient realises he has long since ceased congratulating himself. Again, the notion of defining oneself, one’s achievements, through career – and the subsequent, casually-elevated status granted by wider society – steals in. Silence.
***
You have learned, advises the shrink, perseverance, self-reliance, honesty about depression, the need to communicate doubts and fears . . . (but not how to eat crap during interviews). “Time now to learn to cut yourself some slack.”
***
His daughter milks the situation, naturally. She wants a lollipop every day after school. “Lollipop” translates, once they enter the shop, to “ice-cream” – admirable negotiation skills. She mentions one girl at school as having tried to boss her.
What did you tell her?, he asks.
– That I’m from Drimnagh. And that no-one bosses me.
He is still smiling when they arrive home.
***
When debt mounts, decisions can be viewed either as “stark” or “simple”. They need at least four hours a day each to put their company on the road, yet there’s no way they can afford to place the youngest in creche. They’ll have to get an au pair. The issue of sharing their space is, frankly, irrelevant.
***
A representative of a local language school visits. She is French, charming. She assesses the house, them. They presume that she’ll recommend a compatriot, but she says an Italian student might be more suitable.
***
When she returns from the airport, he knows by his wife’s expression that they have scored. The au pair – who has studied law, and already lived abroad – is intelligent, polite. And has a beautiful Mediterranean smile.
The baby heads straight for her, arms wide.
***
The four-year-old puts up resistance. Typing in the home office, he hears her demanding (without a “please” – he’ll have a word later) to know where her shoes are, the au-pair advising that they are “on the coach”. Then his daughter: “It’s ‘couch’, not ‘coach’, you don’t speak proper, and you can’t be the boss of me.”
***
Because they were successful in their application for the Enterprise Allowance scheme, his dole is wired to his bank account. The relief of not having to perform the weekly shuffle is enormous. No more wasted mornings. No more listening to other people complaining. Or trying to keep calm.
***
Out of the blue, a biker friend rings. The caller thinks he has identified the unemployed man via his newspaper column. It is you, isn’t it? The unemployed man says “yes”, experiences embarrassment, then annoyance at himself for doing so: he has nothing to be ashamed of. “I recognised your gallows humour,” says the caller. “Listen, I have a proposal . . .”
***
The unemployed man hops on a Dart, hoping the friend has work. The friend waits by a “sold” sign outside his house, a highly-polished ’03 Ducati on the path. “I’m emigrating,” the friend says. “I tried selling this, only got insults. I’d like you to babysit it. For a year. Don’t even think of saying ‘no’.” (He doesn’t).
As he pulls away, grinning, the unemployed man decides that Irish people remain inordinately decent, even if the Powers That Be – and their overseas messenger boys – would have them believe they are crassly consumerist, culpable fools. (Time for everyone to cut themselves some slack?)
The writer of this column wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the editor