by Donal Conaty
‘That's extraordinary Dermot. But something must have happened to cause it? Did you have an argument?’ I asked.
‘There was no argument. It was a straightforward coup,’ Dermot said bitterly. ‘I should never have told her that I had signed over the house to her. I knew it would cause problems.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, she watched that damn Prime Time program on NAMA and the next thing you know she asks if I had to sign our properties over to her. I should have known better than to tell the truth. I really should have known,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Why on earth would you have signed over your properties to your wife?’ I asked, although I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the explanation.
‘Sure I had to when we were going into NAMA.’ Dermot looked at me like I was a simpleton.
‘You're in NAMA?’ I sank into a chair across from him.
‘Of course,’ he said as though I had asked him if the sky was blue. ‘You're nobody if you're not in NAMA.’
I put my head in my hands. What would Ajai say to this?
‘Anyway, NAMA's not the problem,’ Dermot said, ‘Sinéad is. She has the house, the holiday homes, the yacht and the two hotels. She has all the apartments, including this one. She's your landlady now. I wouldn't like to be in your shoes.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I'd say the rent will be going up,’ he said. ‘Anyway, enough of her. You'd better put the oven on or this bird will never be cooked.’
‘Where did that come from?’ I asked weakly.
‘From the kitchen, of course. The window was open. I couldn't climb in without damaging my suit but I managed to pull the turkey through it.’
‘You took your family's Christmas dinner?’
‘Too right I did,’ said Dermot. ‘She's robbed me of everything; she wasn't getting the turkey too. That reminds me. You wouldn't pop down to the lobby and pay the taxi driver, would you? She took my wallet.’
After handing over €50 to the taxi driver, I left Dermot to his own devices while I went for a shower. He had asked me if he could stay for a few days until he sorted himself out. Stupidly I told him to make himself at home. The powerful shower jets gave me some relief from the excruciating pain in my neck. When I got out of the shower I couldn't find any of my clothes in my bedroom. Dermot was in the living room playing on the Xbox.
‘Where are my clothes?’ I asked him. ‘What have you done with my clothes?’
He pointed to the smaller second bedroom which I had been using as a study.
‘I moved them in there for you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘My suits will be arriving in the morning.’
‘But ... but ... you've taken my bedroom?’
‘Yes, I have,’ he said. ‘The waterbed must have been playing havoc with your neck. I'm sure you'll feel much better after a good night's sleep on the sofabed in there.’
There was no point in arguing. There was never any point in arguing with Dermot. Anyway, I knew my basic needs were catered for in the smaller room and none of Dermot's needs could be described as basic. He is probably allergic to a lack of luxury.
For dinner Dermot and I shared the turkey, a tin of lentils and some fizzy water. I hadn't expected to be in the apartment over Christmas.
The next morning Dermot was on the phone ordering in food and drink for a party. Apparently, he had been due to host a poker game at home that day and was relocating the event to my apartment.
From mid-afternoon the Chiefs of Staff of various government departments began arriving, each one more exquisitely turned out than the next.
‘What are we playing for?’ I asked innocently as Dermot dealt the first hand.
‘Our departmental budgets,’ the Chief of Staff at the Department of Education said happily.
‘Fine by me. I don't have one,’ I said, laughing. I presumed he was joking.
This caused some consternation around the table and there were questions as to whether or not I should be allowed to play. ‘I know,’ said Dermot, ‘you can bet portions of the loan.’
Obviously I was reluctant to get involved in such a dubious practice, but they were very insistent and I fancied my chances as I had put myself through college playing poker. As it turned out my opponents weren't very good at the game and within two hours I had won the budgets for a new prison, two intensive care units, a cancer treatment centre of excellence and a university research department.
‘You know, I really don't want any of this,’ I said during a break from the game. ‘Couldn't you just keep the money and provide the services?’
Everyone looked at me, completely aghast.
‘We couldn't possibly,’ said Dermot. ‘You must have a very low opinion of us.’
Everyone around the table glared at me as I tried to rescue the situation.
‘Far from it,’ I said. ‘I've just had a great time. This is the best ... what do you call it on this side of the Atlantic? Oh yes – Boxing Day. This is the best Boxing Day I can remember and I'd feel bad taking the money after such a great afternoon.’
A grim silence descended on the room. Nobody talked to me as one by one they got their coats and left. They shook their heads in sorrow as they bade farewell to Dermot at the door.
‘What did I do?’ I asked Dermot. ‘Was it something I said?’
He wouldn't look me in the eye as he walked to his room. ‘It's St Stephen's Day,’ he said as he slammed the door.
Apparently you can squander a country's wealth and blight a people's future with gleeful impunity, but never call 26 December ‘Boxing Day'. Dermot didn't speak to me for several days. I still had a lot to learn about this country.
I tried several times to get into the office in the days between Christmas and New Year but Government Buildings were like a ghost town. They were lonely days. Dermot ignored me as he sat for hours playing on the Xbox, eating Cadbury's Roses and Marks & Spencer vol au vents straight from the packet.
Then suddenly and mysteriously I was forgiven. Dermot called me from my room with tears in his eyes. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we're going to the office.’
‘We won't be able to get in,’ I said. ‘I tried yesterday. There's nobody at work.’
‘It will be open,’ he said. ‘This isn't work. This matters.’
A small group of civil servants had gathered under the portrait of former Taoiseach and Finance Minister Bertie Ahern where it hung in Dermot's office in the Department of Finance. One by one they placed offerings under the portrait and whispered prayers. Candles were lit on the makeshift shrine and there were some garlands of flowers. Most of the offerings, however, were simple brown envelopes.
‘It's a tradition,’ Dermot told me.
On the way to the office, he had explained that Mr Ahern had announced that he would not contest the upcoming general election. ‘It's the end of an era,’ he said.
‘We worshipped him,’ Dermot told me, as we stood beneath the portrait. ‘We felt he was one of us; he had no respect for anything.’
‘He had an instinct for how government worked,’ he continued. ‘He would set up a new inquiry or tribunal at the drop of a hat. He didn't look for results – he knew better than that. Nothing fazed him. You know what?’ Dermot turned to face me. ‘If he was still our leader the whole country would have celebrated bringing in the IMF. He would have made it seem like the best thing to happen to Ireland since independence. We would have welcomed you with great festivities. Bertie would have announced a bank holiday for your arrival and arranged a parade on an open-top bus. Bertie loved bank holidays. He had style.’
While Dermot was talking I could hear other civil servants paying tribute to Bertie as they placed their gifts under the portrait. Some of them scrawled personal messages on the brown envelopes. ‘We'll never forget you, the leader of the pack,’ one note read.
Department of Finance officials were weeping openly. ‘You know he didn't even have a bank account? He didn't believe in money,’ one of them sa
id to me. ‘That became our philosophy too. We learned so much from him. He was a saint.’
‘He was a socialist,’ another man said.
‘He was superb,’ Dermot said. ‘When he left the Department we escorted him to the door with a guard of honour. When we went back inside, everything was gone. Desks, computers, carpets, light fittings, wallpaper. I mean everything. We looked up every tree in Drumcondra for them. We couldn't search his house though – he didn't have one. None of it was ever found. He must have made everything miraculously appear in the office of a poor civil servant in Calcutta or some such awful place. Athlone maybe. He was that type of man. Material goods meant nothing to him.’
Suddenly my eyes were drawn to an older gentleman sobbing quietly to himself. Dermot said he was a retired Chief of Staff of the Department. ‘Look,’ the old man said suddenly. ‘The portrait just sighed and raised its eyebrows. It's a miracle!’
Dermot immediately announced that he would organise a petition to have Bertie beatified. From now on no major decisions were to be taken in the Department of Finance without first consulting the portrait of Bertie the Good.
Later, as we walked back to the apartment, Dermot was in unusually reflective form. ‘You know,’ he said reverentially. ‘Bertie could make a pint of Bass appear without putting his hand in his pocket. We'll miss him.’
FIVE
THE ODD COUPLE
Dermot started the New Year as he hoped to continue. On our first day back after the Christmas break, he sent out a memo to all staff informing them that they would receive a 10 per cent windfall bonus because tax revenues for the fourth quarter of 2010 exceeded expectations by a fraction of a per cent. I found out about the ridiculous memo when I noticed a commotion as staff members emerged from their usual inertia to congratulate each other on a job well done. One man actually lifted his head off his desk for the first time since I had been there. As they high-fived each other, whooped and whistled and went on eBay to spend their newfound riches, Liam told me about the contents of the memo.
‘Can I do a Reply All on that?’ I asked him. I was still getting to grips with SuperSpaceMail2000, the Department of Finance email program.
‘Of course you can. It's just like Outlook,’ Liam said helpfully.
‘Why don't you just use Outlook, like the rest of the civilised world?’ I asked him.
Liam looked slightly worried, as though he was afraid someone might overhear our conversation. ‘We really should,’ he said, all the while looking anxiously around the room, ‘but Dermot insisted that we had to have our own system because the Department of Justice use Outlook and he thought it looked boring. It sort of does the same thing as Outlook, except not as well. You can make your emails pink or yellow though.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I should have known.’
I typed my brief message:
‘As some of you may have heard, your economy has been the subject of an IMF-EU bailout to the tune of €85 billion. With that in mind, and despite any other information you may have received, there will be no bonuses paid to Department of Finance staff unless authorised by me acting for Ajai Chopra and the IMF. This is extremely unlikely to happen any time soon.’
The news spread quickly, as did the murmurs of disapproval when the staff realised the implication of the memo. Gradually they returned to their desks and their slumbers. Several civil servants approached me and offered me enticements to change my mind. Within the space of a few minutes I was offered four houses on ghost estates and three timeshare apartments in Spain. I'm not sure they understood the principle of bribery – the bribe should at least have a value.
Dermot, of course, was livid. ‘I want those bonuses reinstated,’ he demanded.
‘Under no circumstances,’ I said. ‘We are far removed from bonus territory, Dermot. You have to make serious changes to how things operate here before any kind of bonus could even be considered.’
‘Excuse me! We operate perfectly well,’ he said. ‘We've imposed all the cuts you wanted in the Budget. What more do you want? Blood from a stone? Feathers from a frog?’
‘We want to see that you can manage your economy,’ I said. ‘There is no point in us bailing you out if you come back looking for more money in six months’ time. We want you to slash spending on all but the most essential services and then maintain those services while imposing further cuts wherever you can.’
‘Well that won't be hard,’ said Dermot. ‘Services are rubbish here anyway. We could get rid of the Departments of Health and Education for a start.’
‘You see no benefit in the continued existence of your Departments of Health and Education?’ I said, aghast. Even by Dermot's standards this was staggering.
‘Well, of course not,’ he said. ‘Apart from the obvious benefit, and only real purpose, of providing jobs for people.
‘How can you say that?’
‘How could I not?’ he said. ‘Look at Education. We have one of the most highly educated workforces in Europe but 25 per cent of them are illiterate. And the rest of them got top grades because of our policy of grade inflation. As for Health, I've never seen the point of it. I mean, we're supposed to get sick and die aren't we?’
‘So are there any government departments you would keep?’
‘Ah, sure you'd have to have a few,’ Dermot said. ‘We'd be lost without Finance, wouldn't we?’ he winked knowingly at me. ‘And Justice is vital, otherwise the prisons would be empty. There wouldn't be much point in paying all those prison officers if there were no prisoners, now would there? Any fool can see that.’
I looked across the office at the man who spent every working moment fast asleep with his head on his desk. I was beginning to understand that his might well be the only rational response to working at the Department of Finance under Dermot Mulhearn.
‘You're unbelievable, Dermot,’ I said. ‘But you're still not getting those bonuses.’
‘To hell with you,’ he said. ‘We can default. All I have to do is say the word.’
I couldn't contain a bitter laugh.
‘You probably will default on the bank debts. And you wouldn't even be paying those if you had the courtesy to negotiate with your European friends in 2008 before you sent Lenihan out to guarantee the deposits. But if you don't play ball with us, Dermot, you'll have no money to run the country. You have nowhere else to turn.’
Dermot wasn't happy. He checked the time on his Rolex.
‘I can't stand around here gossiping with you,’ he said. ‘There is work to be done. I have a Finance Department to run. I'm going for a cappucino.’
I hurried home immediately after work to get a few precious moments of peace in the apartment before Dermot turned up. His domestic habits are in sharp contrast to the suave image he presents to the world. The sitting room floor was littered with his dirty socks and discarded crisp packets. There was rotting food down the side of the couch and cereal blocking the kitchen sink. Despite having his own en suite Dermot regularly relieves himself in the main bathroom. To be honest I'm not sure he even aims for the toilet. In fairness he does clean up his splashes – I just wish he wouldn't use my towel to do it. I now drink my coffee black as Dermot simply doesn't understand that milk is kept in the fridge and not beside the radiator. If only he would pay some rent we would be able to afford a cleaner.
I broached the subject of rent with him on several occasions. ‘Don't you see my hands are tied?’ he said. ‘I can't pay rent to my wife while my solicitor is telling her solicitor that I am completely overextended. Surely you understand that?’
I could see his logic but it grated that as he explained this to me he was drinking a glass of Romanée-Conti that must have cost €1,500 a bottle.
‘Perhaps if you bought cheaper wine?’ I suggested.
‘Don't be so silly. You don't really think I would be relying on your kindness while going out and spending a fortune on wine, do you? What must you think of me? I didn't buy this. It was a gift from the Department,’
he said.
Dermot's wife collected the rent from me in person. She is an intimidating woman, about six foot tall and probably bulletproof. She has the look of Cruella De Vil about her, only orange.
‘Just do exactly what she tells you to do,’ Dermot told me before she was due to call for the first time. ‘Don't look her in the eye and don't make any sudden movements.’
‘You make her sound like some kind of wild animal,’ I said.
‘Have you seen Alien vs Predator?’
‘Yes,’ I said, becoming a little nervous.
‘She's sort of like Predator – but in couture. Let's just leave it at that,’ he said and went to hide in his room.
When I opened the door, she looked me up and down for a very long minute.
‘So you're the man with the money,’ she said with a sneer. ‘You don't look it.’
‘Those that look it spend it,’ I said, trying to hold my nerve. ‘We like to hang onto it.’
‘We like to hang onto it,’ she mimicked in a grotesque high-pitched sing-song voice. ‘Well you're not hanging on to mine,’ she thundered. ‘There are two of you living here now and I want an extra €600 per month. There'll be a double deposit for Dermot. I know he'll ruin the place with his filthy habits.’
‘That's out of the question,’ I said.
Sinéad stepped forward, sandwiching me between her breasts and the wall. I could feel the pressure on my chest as she leaned into me. There was more give in the wall than in her breasts. ‘There are no questions, only instructions,’ she said in a low whisper as she ground the heel of her stilletto into my foot. The pain in my foot competed with the pain in my neck, which had increased dramatically since meeting Sinéad. She put her index finger under my chin and lifted my head so that our eyes met. ‘No late payments,’ she said. She stepped back and I slumped slightly almost as a reflex action. She studied me coolly from a few feet away like a cat deciding how to disembowel a trapped mouse. I noticed her skin was the same burnt-orange colour as Dermot's, but whereas his had the smooth texture of a luxurious couch, hers was so tough and weathered by the sun that it might still be on the cow.
