If she thought she had to spend the
rest of her life here she’d go mental, she assured herself.
When she left secondary school in Waterford she was going to Dublin to live life to the full. Dublin was like an unbelievable dream to her. An Aladdin’s cave of delight. All the shops and
hotels. The cinemas, the theatres and art galleries and restaurants. How wonderful it would be to be able to hop on a bus and be in the city centre in ten minutes. If you wanted to get to Waterford
from this Godforsaken back of beyonds you had to hitch. Except for going to school, of course. There was a school bus for that. Louise was going to live in Waterford with her new husband, but
Waterford was really only a town, not a city, not like Dublin, and Dublin was her Mecca, living there her ultimate goal.
There was no way she’d miss Maggie’s Bay, that was for sure, she assured herself as she stopped to look across at the pier where Lancy Delaney was chatting to Mattie Fortune as
Mattie sat mending some fishing nets. Lancy Delaney, according to her mother, carried a torch for Helen. Imagine! An ould eejit like that with Wellington boots covered in cow-shit and a jumper
nearly down to his knees it was so stretched. Paula grimaced at the thought of him and her precious Helen, who was the height of elegance and Paula’s ideal.
Gulls circled above screeching and diving as one of the trawlers disgorged its haul from a night’s fishing. The sun cast prisms of sparkling light on a tranquil sea that glittered more
brightly than the most expensive chandelier ever could. Along the curve of the coast, green and gold fields were fringed by miles of clean white sand lapped by gently surging waves. The melody of
birdsong echoed from tree to tree and shrub to shrub. The air was so fresh and sea-scented it invigorated mind and body. Yet Paula appreciated none of it. She had grown up with the view and the
fresh unpolluted air and took it totally for granted. Dublin with its fume-filled streets and noisy traffic was a far more attractive proposition in her eyes.
She couldn’t understand how tourists would prefer to come to somewhere as quiet as St Margaret’s Bay in preference to a place where they could shop in huge department stores and
visit places of interest such as Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, or the Zoo and the Phoenix Park, or hundreds of other fascinating places. They could eat in the fanciest of restaurants
and then go dancing in the night-clubs in Leeson Street. Or
The Strip
as it was known, according to Monica Boyle, who boasted of having been there.
Paula grimaced as she turned into the manicured, landscaped lawns of the Sea View Hotel, where she had been employed for the past six weeks as a chambermaid, or house assistant as they were
called in the hotel. The Sea View was only in its second season, having been purpose-built by Gerry Murphy, who owned the site. It had been left to him by his uncle. Gerry Murphy was a young man in
a hurry. He had plans for St Margaret’s Bay. Big plans. Hotels, resort centres and leisure activities. Gerry wanted a big slice of the tourist action and he was determined to get it. The Sea
View had been built in record time and nothing but the best had gone into it. With sixty bedrooms, a swimming-pool, hairdressers and a crèche, it seemed like the
crème de la
crème
of hotels to Paula’s innocent way of thinking.
She loved working there, not particularly as a house assistant . . . reception was where she aspired to be. But the air of hustle and bustle and glamour and elegance were like an injection of
adrenalin into her veins. She loved watching the guests. Their clothes, their expensive luggage all fascinated her. Some day, she too was going to be able to swan into a hotel and order drinks or
room service at the snap of her fingers. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Monica Boyle heading up the path on the other side of the large dividing lawn where Tony, one of the
rest of her life here she’d go mental, she assured herself.
When she left secondary school in Waterford she was going to Dublin to live life to the full. Dublin was like an unbelievable dream to her. An Aladdin’s cave of delight. All the shops and
hotels. The cinemas, the theatres and art galleries and restaurants. How wonderful it would be to be able to hop on a bus and be in the city centre in ten minutes. If you wanted to get to Waterford
from this Godforsaken back of beyonds you had to hitch. Except for going to school, of course. There was a school bus for that. Louise was going to live in Waterford with her new husband, but
Waterford was really only a town, not a city, not like Dublin, and Dublin was her Mecca, living there her ultimate goal.
There was no way she’d miss Maggie’s Bay, that was for sure, she assured herself as she stopped to look across at the pier where Lancy Delaney was chatting to Mattie Fortune as
Mattie sat mending some fishing nets. Lancy Delaney, according to her mother, carried a torch for Helen. Imagine! An ould eejit like that with Wellington boots covered in cow-shit and a jumper
nearly down to his knees it was so stretched. Paula grimaced at the thought of him and her precious Helen, who was the height of elegance and Paula’s ideal.
Gulls circled above screeching and diving as one of the trawlers disgorged its haul from a night’s fishing. The sun cast prisms of sparkling light on a tranquil sea that glittered more
brightly than the most expensive chandelier ever could. Along the curve of the coast, green and gold fields were fringed by miles of clean white sand lapped by gently surging waves. The melody of
birdsong echoed from tree to tree and shrub to shrub. The air was so fresh and sea-scented it invigorated mind and body. Yet Paula appreciated none of it. She had grown up with the view and the
fresh unpolluted air and took it totally for granted. Dublin with its fume-filled streets and noisy traffic was a far more attractive proposition in her eyes.
She couldn’t understand how tourists would prefer to come to somewhere as quiet as St Margaret’s Bay in preference to a place where they could shop in huge department stores and
visit places of interest such as Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, or the Zoo and the Phoenix Park, or hundreds of other fascinating places. They could eat in the fanciest of restaurants
and then go dancing in the night-clubs in Leeson Street. Or
The Strip
as it was known, according to Monica Boyle, who boasted of having been there.
Paula grimaced as she turned into the manicured, landscaped lawns of the Sea View Hotel, where she had been employed for the past six weeks as a chambermaid, or house assistant as they were
called in the hotel. The Sea View was only in its second season, having been purpose-built by Gerry Murphy, who owned the site. It had been left to him by his uncle. Gerry Murphy was a young man in
a hurry. He had plans for St Margaret’s Bay. Big plans. Hotels, resort centres and leisure activities. Gerry wanted a big slice of the tourist action and he was determined to get it. The Sea
View had been built in record time and nothing but the best had gone into it. With sixty bedrooms, a swimming-pool, hairdressers and a crèche, it seemed like the
crème de la
crème
of hotels to Paula’s innocent way of thinking.
She loved working there, not particularly as a house assistant . . . reception was where she aspired to be. But the air of hustle and bustle and glamour and elegance were like an injection of
adrenalin into her veins. She loved watching the guests. Their clothes, their expensive luggage all fascinated her. Some day, she too was going to be able to swan into a hotel and order drinks or
room service at the snap of her fingers. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Monica Boyle heading up the path on the other side of the large dividing lawn where Tony, one of the
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