Continuing the unexpurgated extracts from the Ballina diaries of the late 1960s ...
Thursday, October 16th, 1996
I lie in my room and stare at the ceiling (which needs repainting: what does father do with all his spare time?). I suppose the word "disconsolate" is how I should describe myself, but really, I seem to feel nothing at all. Flicking idly through the pages of the Western People I am for some reason informed that "home on a visit to their sisters, Ms P.J. Coffey and Mrs Rita Horkan, Altamont Street, Westport, are Mrs M Laparo, Syracuse, NY and her son John, a NY Attorney. They are accompanied by their daughter Marion from Palm Beach, Florida. They are sisters of Mr John Savage of Rockfield, Sheenaune, Westport".
Of what interest is this supposed to be? Are we all, remote urban cave-dwellers in this one-horse town in the far west of Ireland, supposed to care about the affairs of these strangers, to be impressed with New York attorneys and their dowager mothers gracing us with their presence? Pathetically, it seems we are and we do. Because after I throw the paper down in disgust, I soon fall into a reverie involving Marion (from Florida) leading me by the hand along a sun-drenched beach (Palm Beach?), her blonde hair glinting, her tinkly laughter unsettling me with odd pleasure as we paddle together. I am wearing a rather loud pair of bathing trunks, only marginally too big, purchased from Ted Kingham's. It matters not at all to Marion that I am stuck in a dead-end job in Ballina. She adores me for what I am (but what am I?). When I wake up it is pouring rain on the streets of Ardnaree.
Friday, October 17th
I come home this evening to find a letter from my occasional Italian pen-friend Andrea, who lives near Pisa ("Home of the Leaning Tower" as he often reminds me) which I think is somewhere near Rome. Or perhaps Milan. I don't mean he is occasionally Italian, of course. I mean that he writes to me infrequently. It is just as well, too. Andrea has some rather strange ideas about Ireland, which he always refers to as the Emerald Isle, as in "Is life good in?" Well no Andrea, it isn't that great.
But the whole thing is a bit embarrassing. I originally wrote to Andrea, who was seeking a pen-friend through Ireland's Own, because (a) I felt I should expand my horizons beyond this benighted land, and (b) Andrea sounded like an attractive young woman.
Actually I wasn't really thinking about horizons, or expanding them, at all. I was more into option (b). But Andrea turned out to be male. What sort of name is that for a man?
I think I will put his letter aside until later.
Anyway, Noeleen and Jerome the Accountant have arrived, as I realise when I enter my room and note a terrifyingly immaculate arrangement of clothes on the spare bed. Jerome has laid out his shirts at the top of the bed, piled his underwear and trousers in the centre, and lined up four pairs of socks at the foot of the bed. The overall effect is of some oversized headless creature with eight legs, waiting to spring to life. I am glad I have not had a drink yet.
Mother, meanwhile, has the table set for "supper", which she primly informs me will be "served" at 8 p.m.
What, I ask her politely, is wrong with tea slapped up on the oilcloth square on the table at six o'clock, our usual arrangement, seven days a week? And why is just about every item of cutlery we own on display, along with the most expensive cake (a chocolate gateaux, three shillings and sixpence) from Moyletts Cafe? All of this is spread atop our "special" tablecloth, ie, the fading linen square decorated with grotesque green embroidered images of Irish whimsy, such as the Blarney Stone, the Colleen Bawn and Fionn McCumhaill (whom I doubt was even heterosexual, never mind a true Irish hero).
Mother does not grant me the courtesy of a reply, but of course the whole set-up is meant to impress Jerome and show him what cultured folk we are. Meanwhile, he and Noeleen have gone on the evening passegiata. This is a word I learned from Andrea: he says people in Pisa walk around the town in their finery every evening, passing comment on each other, taking tea at outdoor cafes and talking trivialities. Apart from the finery, and substituting alcoholic drink for tea, it doesn't sound that different to Ballina.
I have arranged to meet P.J. for a few pints in Geraghty's at half past eight, so I think I will skip the "supper". (I have warned Frankie to keep me a piece of the cake.)
(To be continued)
bglacken@irish-times.ie