Continuing the unexpurgated diaries from Ballina in the late 1960s
Monday, November 7th, 1966
Mr Jack Lynch has succeeded Mr Seβn Lemass as leader of our benighted country. The Irish Independent is full of wordy analysis of what this will mean for the party, the country and no doubt the universe. Does anyone really imagine anything will change?
Father is pleased: he admired Lemass, but was always perturbed about his lack of sporting prowess. Now, says father, "the hurler on the ditch is on the pitch". This is probably as good as any of the headlines in the paper, and Father has been repeating it to anyone who will listen.
Tuesday November 8th
I dropped into Paddy Jordan's last night and bumped into Karl. Halfway through a pint, he was busy writing what I presumed was one of his regular (unpaid) contributions to Chaos, the international anarchist magazine, but it turned out he was "formulating" what he said was a message of support to Ian Smith in Rhodesia.
I do not imagine that Ian Smith, busy as he is with the proposed independence of Rhodesia and the outraged British Prime Minister, will welcome the support of a German anarchist living in the remote west of Ireland, but I may be wrong. At least Karl is able to rise above our tawdry national politics.
I myself seem quite unable to rise above sexual envy: because this is definitely what I experienced when I passed through the back lounge and saw Harriet playing her fiddle to an adoring audience, prime among them Mick Naughton, our local artful dodger, gambler, Moy Club snooker hotshot, salmon-snatcher supreme, all-round chancer and good-looking (or so it is said) local ladies' man. Harriet as usual was looking casually devastating, in a white blouse and a long black skirt. I caught her eye briefly and got a wicked smile. But what is Mick Naughton getting?
Thursday, November 10th
It seems Lee Harvey Oswald was not working alone when he killed John F. Kennedy. According to yesterday's paper, a second assassin has now been identified in the pictures of the murder taken on the day.
I was not surprised then when my sister Mary arrived in our house last night, baby Antoinette tucked under her arm, to discuss this momentous development with Mother: both are obsessed with the Kennedy legend, and Mary has even given the name Camelot to her sadly dilapidated house in rundown Tyrawley Park, where she lives with her feckless husband Korky. I ask if it is not strangely coincidental that this second assassin has been identified just as the (third) anniversary of Kennedy's death is approaching, i.e. to propagate further interest, but am treated with disdain. Mother and daughter resume discussing developments with the assurance and breadth of knowledge of forensic scientists present at the moment of death.
Friday, November 11th
Karl really has some very strange notions. In honour of what he calls "the travelling Irish gentleman", i.e the common tinker, he has given the name No Fixed Abode to the shack (or "studio" as he calls it) in which he lives out beyond Pontoon.
No Fixed Abode is therefore his official address, and he tells me that he even gets the odd dimwitted guard arriving there looking to arrest someone, more often than not one of the numerous Maughan tribe. As an anarchist, Kurt enjoys baiting the law and showing up its supposed stupidity.
Saturday, November 12th
I bumped into Harriet up town this morning, on her way to work in Moyletts, and as usual was almost speechless in her presence. Harriet however was as forward as ever: she has invited me to dinner for this day next week. I am to arrive on the dot of eight o'clock and to bring a bottle of Paddy, nothing else. I am to wear a collar and tie.
I am not even capable of replying before Harriet, laughing, disappears.
What does this mean? I know that Harriet rents a room in Maureen's mother's house in the Brook. The mother, Bella, is entirely mad, and talks all day to her budgie Bella. Maureen herself and her mongrel Zero are also part of the household. Is this where I am invited to dinner?
Sunday, November 13th
This morning I received a brief note from Harriet. Mother delivered it to my bedroom at about midday, saying it was dropped in by "that blonde Protestant one from Moyletts".
Well, there is only one of those. It seems that, thankfully, the dinner is not to be in the Brook but at The Gables, Killala - "my parents' house", as Harriet explains.
I have never heard Harriet mention her parents. Nor have I any idea where "The Gables" is in Killala. It may well be one of those vast intimidating Protestant mansions. And will her parents be there? Will Mick Naughton be there? I am full of apprehension, excitement, fearfulness, lust and jealousy. Perhaps this is life, but it is certainly not easy.
bglacken@irish-times.ie