Learning to Love Ireland by Althea Farren

happy Nina and Ian were in Australia. It hadn’t taken them long to settle – they were delighted to be with their family again. Teresa and Anthony had moved to Perth some years before, and they’d missed them terribly. Nina spent much of her time now looking after her grandchildren. Ian still played golf as often as possible and had an interest in two or three businesses. They both loved the climate in Perth – it was similar to the type of weather they’d been used to in Bulawayo – and they enjoyed being near the sea. They had a ready-made social circle – over the years many of their friends from Zimbabwe and South Africa had immigrated to Perth. They said they’d never go back to Zimbabwe, even for a visit. Apart from the fact that the CIO might still be interested in Ian, they no longer considered themselves to be Zimbabweans. They were Australians.
    Was I Irish or Zimbabwean? I wasn’t sure.
    When I thought about Zimbabwe and Bulawayo, I felt desolate.

    On my drives to and from work, I tried to dispel my sadness, confusion and loneliness by listening to the radio. After a while, I was able to identify the voices of the different newscasters, reporters and politicians. Soon I could distinguish between a Wexford accent and a Dublin one. The radio was more intimate and friendly than television – those voices seemed to be addressing me directly.
    â€˜Solitude’, our farm in Southern Rhodesia, was 33 miles from the nearest village. There was no electricity and no telephone. We did have a wireless, though – an old-fashioned contrivance that had to be attached to a battery. Since there was no spare, our father would ‘borrow’ the battery from the tractor. Our wireless was used only for the BBC evening news in the late 1940s and early 1950s.
    After we moved to Marandellas in the late 1950s, the BBC ritual continued in modified form. When we’d gathered in the dining room for lunch or dinner (meals were always on time), my father would fiddle with the dials and we would hear those infuriating pips followed by the words: ‘This is London calling... Here is the news...’
    We had to be on our best behaviour during the news. There were to be no interruptions. So we ate silently, while the important things we wanted to say were thwarted by that irritating plummy voice that droned on and on about the most boring subjects imaginable.
    As boarders at school in Salisbury in the sixties, we didn’t have much to do with the radio during the week. At weekends, though, it was a different story. On Saturday mornings we listened to our local Lyons Maid Hits of the Week – the top ten in the country – with Martin Locke. We were even more passionate about the hit parade on Lourenco Marques (LM) Radio. This privately-owned radio station broadcasting from Mozambique was much livelier than the South African Broadcasting Corporation. It played a major role in promoting South African artists and their music, and broadcast the top twenty on Sunday nights when we were supposed to be asleep. There was a delicious feeling of excitement and anticipation each Sunday, as we prepared to break the rules. The aerial would be stuck out of a window. The owner of the radio would have her finger on the volume dial throughout the show. Those of us in beds near the door had perfected the trick of tuning in to the music with one ear, while the other ear tracked the footsteps of the teacher on duty like an alien’s antennae. If she caught us, she would confiscate the radio, and return it only on the last day of term.
    The years fly by and it’s 1974. Pregnant with Brian, I’m a hippo reclining in the sunshine. There are so many interesting programmes on the Rhodesian Broadcasting Corporation: music, talk shows and serials. I’m knitting a few simple garments for our new baby and this requires frequent consultation of the patterns, since I’m a novice. The radio