a politician.’
‘Thanks, Dad. Bye.’
Monday, 15 September 12.12
Internet café
‘Hi, Cecile. How are you?’
‘ Bien, Lola. On the pig’s back.’
‘… Yes…’
She keeps saying all these bizarre rural Irish greetings – like, ‘Sucking diesel, please God.’ And, ‘Mighty, mighty!’
Even I do not know what they mean and I am Irish!
‘Oh Lola, you ’ave a hadmire-air.’
‘A hadmire-air?’
‘Yes. A man hadmires you.’
‘Oh! An admirer! No! Really?’
‘My friend Jake. ’E says you har cute.’
Jake? The Love-God? No! He couldn’t. He could have anyone! Said as much.
Cecile shrugged. ‘You are holder woman. ’E likes holder women.’
‘How much holder? I’m only thirty-one.’
‘’E is twenty-five. Also ’e ’as slept with every other woman in Knockavoy. You har “fresh blood” ’.’
Cripes! You ever have something to sell? Don’t let Cecile do it.
Deflated, got on with my business of checking emails. But Cecile wasn’t finished.
‘Lola,’ she said, ‘what will I tell him?’
What will you tell him ? Are we back at school? My friend fancies your friend?
As fast as it had arrived, ire of indignation snuffed out.
‘Nothing to tell,’ I said. ‘Anyway, going back to Dublin on Wednesday.’
20.16
Two men tried to have drink in Mrs Butterly’s.
She said, ‘We’re closed.’
‘But you’re not.’
Pushy types.
She said, ‘Are you stag party?’
‘No.’
‘Dutch?’
‘No.’
‘Golfers?’
‘… Er, yes…’
‘Cannot serve you. Golfers barred. Have had trouble with your type before.’
‘You’re refusing to serve us?’
‘Yes.’
‘… but that’s…’
‘By order of the management. Unless you would like takeaway? Can of marrowfat peas? Box of matches?’
Tuesday, 16 September
Ready to go back to Dublin. Was like being on holidays here– first day or so, ants in pants. Then calming down, then enjoying it. Establishing regular routine, then days speeding up, until circle completed, back to start, ants in pants.
Agony about Paddy had levelled out. No longer felt curiosity or desperation to see him or even (rare) indignation that he discarded me so easily.
Not cured, of course. In a way, worse. When I was all tangled up in hope and shock and bad, burny feeling, couldn’t see full picture.
Overwhelming feeling now is that I am worthless. All my confidence gone.
Also feeling bad loneliness. Paddy was my one big love and I will never meet anyone else. I know everyone says that when their heart is broken and people roll their eyes at display of naked self-pity and say, ‘Don’t be so silly!’ But he was a unique man. A one-off. Never met anyone like him before. Never will again.
This is my burden. I accept it. My work will be the saving of me. Intend to devote rest of my life to doing missionary work – making women of Ireland look spectacular for very reasonable cost.
Wednesday, 17 September 10.13–11.53
Leavetaking
Visited all my Knockavoy friends – Ol’ Prune Eyes, Mrs Butterly, Kelly and Brandon, Cecile.
‘Yes, oui, goodbye, leaving Knockavoy, returning to metropolis,lovely, yes, thank you, you too, pleasure, if ever in Dublin. No, no plans to return.’
11.55
Drove up the hill, watching Knockavoy get smaller and smaller in rear-view mirror, wondering when – if ever – I’d be back.
18.30
Home
Could hardly get into my flat. Full of suitcases, suit-carriers and clothes. None of them mine. Nkechi had been busy. Calling in lots of stuff. Storing it in my flat.
Phone rang. Bridie. ‘How long did journey take you?’
Said, ‘Three hours twenty.’ (But had no real idea.)
‘I seeeee,’ she said. ‘Three hours twenty? Slap bang in middle of table. Mean journey time three hours twenty-seven.’
Heard clicking of keys, like she was inputting something.
‘Bridie, are you keeping record?’
‘Yes. Graphs. Pie-chart. Spreadsheets. Lovely software. Such variety of different ways to present things.’
Thursday, 18
‘Thanks, Dad. Bye.’
Monday, 15 September 12.12
Internet café
‘Hi, Cecile. How are you?’
‘ Bien, Lola. On the pig’s back.’
‘… Yes…’
She keeps saying all these bizarre rural Irish greetings – like, ‘Sucking diesel, please God.’ And, ‘Mighty, mighty!’
Even I do not know what they mean and I am Irish!
‘Oh Lola, you ’ave a hadmire-air.’
‘A hadmire-air?’
‘Yes. A man hadmires you.’
‘Oh! An admirer! No! Really?’
‘My friend Jake. ’E says you har cute.’
Jake? The Love-God? No! He couldn’t. He could have anyone! Said as much.
Cecile shrugged. ‘You are holder woman. ’E likes holder women.’
‘How much holder? I’m only thirty-one.’
‘’E is twenty-five. Also ’e ’as slept with every other woman in Knockavoy. You har “fresh blood” ’.’
Cripes! You ever have something to sell? Don’t let Cecile do it.
Deflated, got on with my business of checking emails. But Cecile wasn’t finished.
‘Lola,’ she said, ‘what will I tell him?’
What will you tell him ? Are we back at school? My friend fancies your friend?
As fast as it had arrived, ire of indignation snuffed out.
‘Nothing to tell,’ I said. ‘Anyway, going back to Dublin on Wednesday.’
20.16
Two men tried to have drink in Mrs Butterly’s.
She said, ‘We’re closed.’
‘But you’re not.’
Pushy types.
She said, ‘Are you stag party?’
‘No.’
‘Dutch?’
‘No.’
‘Golfers?’
‘… Er, yes…’
‘Cannot serve you. Golfers barred. Have had trouble with your type before.’
‘You’re refusing to serve us?’
‘Yes.’
‘… but that’s…’
‘By order of the management. Unless you would like takeaway? Can of marrowfat peas? Box of matches?’
Tuesday, 16 September
Ready to go back to Dublin. Was like being on holidays here– first day or so, ants in pants. Then calming down, then enjoying it. Establishing regular routine, then days speeding up, until circle completed, back to start, ants in pants.
Agony about Paddy had levelled out. No longer felt curiosity or desperation to see him or even (rare) indignation that he discarded me so easily.
Not cured, of course. In a way, worse. When I was all tangled up in hope and shock and bad, burny feeling, couldn’t see full picture.
Overwhelming feeling now is that I am worthless. All my confidence gone.
Also feeling bad loneliness. Paddy was my one big love and I will never meet anyone else. I know everyone says that when their heart is broken and people roll their eyes at display of naked self-pity and say, ‘Don’t be so silly!’ But he was a unique man. A one-off. Never met anyone like him before. Never will again.
This is my burden. I accept it. My work will be the saving of me. Intend to devote rest of my life to doing missionary work – making women of Ireland look spectacular for very reasonable cost.
Wednesday, 17 September 10.13–11.53
Leavetaking
Visited all my Knockavoy friends – Ol’ Prune Eyes, Mrs Butterly, Kelly and Brandon, Cecile.
‘Yes, oui, goodbye, leaving Knockavoy, returning to metropolis,lovely, yes, thank you, you too, pleasure, if ever in Dublin. No, no plans to return.’
11.55
Drove up the hill, watching Knockavoy get smaller and smaller in rear-view mirror, wondering when – if ever – I’d be back.
18.30
Home
Could hardly get into my flat. Full of suitcases, suit-carriers and clothes. None of them mine. Nkechi had been busy. Calling in lots of stuff. Storing it in my flat.
Phone rang. Bridie. ‘How long did journey take you?’
Said, ‘Three hours twenty.’ (But had no real idea.)
‘I seeeee,’ she said. ‘Three hours twenty? Slap bang in middle of table. Mean journey time three hours twenty-seven.’
Heard clicking of keys, like she was inputting something.
‘Bridie, are you keeping record?’
‘Yes. Graphs. Pie-chart. Spreadsheets. Lovely software. Such variety of different ways to present things.’
Thursday, 18
Similar Books
