Continuing the unexpurgated diaries from Ballina in the 1960s...
Wednesday, October 1st, 1966
A letter arrived from Noeleen in Dublin this morning, and when mother read it at breakfast she was so excited I thought she would have a heart attack.
It turns out that all is "on" again between Noeleen and her former boyfriend Jerome, or "Jerome the Accountant", as mother reverentially refers to him, though he is actually just Jerome the accountant-in-training (for five and a half years so far).
Anyway, the born-again young lovers plan to grace us with their presence in a couple of weeks╣ time in order to celebrate the renewal of their understanding.
I am pleased for Noeleen, if that (i.e. Jerome) is what she wants, but she probably has no idea what disruption her weekend plan will cause.
Apart from the manic cleansing regime which mother will now put into action, there will be the usual frantic and tedious re-ordering of bedroom space: Johnny will move in with mother and father, Noeleen will share with Frankie and I will have the pleasure of Jerome's nocturnal company.
Not for the first time, I suggest to mother that it would be much simpler, and a great deal more natural, to allot one bedroom to Noeleen and Jerome, and leaves the rest of us in peace. She reacts as if I have suggested removing the Sacred Heart from over the kitchen table and replacing it with some Satanic icon, perhaps a portrait of the Devil himself.
Naturally, or I should say unnaturally, the purpose of the complicated sleeping arrangements is to ensure that Noeleen and Jerome have every possible barrier in place against the possibility of sexual congress between them under mother's roof (though she still lives in mortal fear of a nocturnal get-together in the bathroom or on the landing).
I point out to mother that it is clearly her life's ambition that Noeleen and Jerome become joined as soon as possible: why then the contradictory attempt to stymie such a longed-for conjunction?
"Joined at the altar is what they have to be first", she says, so delighted at the thought of their marriage that she forgets to be scandalised by my perfectly logical suggestion.
In my sleep I am visited by strange disturbing images of my sister and Jerome, grotesquely conjoined within a large wooden altar block, while the mother-of-the-bride, in a new two-piece green suit, smiles like a demented cherub in the background.
Catholicism has a lot to answer for, particularly in the West of Ireland.
Thursday, October 2nd
Escaping the overpowering fug of the library - steam was actually rising from the wet coats deposited, against all regulations, on the radiator - I walked down by the Moy at lunch-time today.
The river evokes many memories, from fishing on its banks with a sally rod (many years ago, as a child), to falling in fully-clothed from one of the illegally-borrowed Moy Fishery boats (as a young teenager), to envying the young couples wrapped lasciviously round each other in the dark on the wooden riverside seats (last night).
The rain suddenly cleared and the sun came out. As I perched on my sandwich wrapping on the wet seat, looking across towards Ballina Cathedral - that symbol of local and national repression - who should appear but Harriet, the blonde siren from Moylett's Cafe, wearing an oversized black army greatcoat with brass buttons, in which I must say she looked unbearably attractive. I have not seen her for ages.
Harriet has a naturalness which paradoxically throws me into severe confusion. She is so at ease on this occasion that she has helped herself to half my lunch (a red cheddar cheese and tomato sandwich) almost before I realise she is sitting beside me. Very close beside me.
- So, tell me, what's wrong with Moyletts for lunch? I began babbling some ludicrous reason for not frequenting her place of work, though of course the truth is that I cannot afford to eat out (I can hardly afford to eat in).
- Sure you could drop in for a chat anyway.
The thought of "dropping in" to Moyletts Cafe for a chat with Harriet has never occurred to me. But why not? Apart of course from the fact that as the most sought-after waitress there, particularly by sex-obsessed middle-aged unmarried farmers with red-rimmed eyes, she is perpetually busy. Before I could sort out my confusion, Harriet thumped me playfully on the arm and was gone.
Back in the library, I am unable to concentrate.
After an hour or so, I discover a bruise on my arm, where Harriet thumped me. Miss Cartwright meanwhile is throwing me quizzical looks. I massage the bruise and don't want it to fade. I think I have Harriet on the brain. What is it about the lure of women?
(to be continued).
bglacken@irish-times.ie