Learning to Love Ireland

by Althea Farren

  LEARNING TO

  LOVE IRELAND

  An Immigrant’s Tale

  Althea Farren

  Zozimus

  Books

  © 2014 ALTHEA FARREN

  Cover design by Mike Dicey

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems—without the prior written permission of the author.

  ISBNS

  PARENT : 978-1-78237-599-9

  EPUB: 978-1-78237-600-2

  MOBI: 978-1-78237-601-9

  PDF: 978-1-78237-602-6

  Published by Zozimus Books,

  86 Main Street, Gorey, County Wexford

  In association with Original Writing Ltd., Dublin, 2014.

  To the People of Gorey and especially to those at ‘Tara Close’

  The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

  ‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

  This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, ‘I – I hardly know, Sir, just at present – at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’

  – Lewis Carroll: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  When you change countries, perhaps your old self stays fixed to your back, like a turtle’s shell.

  – Emma Donoghue: Astray

  THE AUTHOR

  Althea Farren grew up on a remote ranch in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe). She studied English Literature at university in South Africa and taught for several years. She married Larry (an Irishman from Donegal) in 1970. They have two sons, Sean and Brian.

  Between 1994 and early 2007, Althea and Larry ran their own printing and promotional business in Bulawayo, until circumstances following the collapse of the economy forced them to leave the country.

  They now live in County Wexford.

  ALSO BY ALTHEA FARREN

  It’s a Little Inconvenient: Memories of a Bulawayo Book Club

  WITH GLYN HUNTER & LARRY FARREN

  Voices of Zimbabwe: The Pain, The Courage, The Hope

  Arriving in Dublin

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  April is a riot of daffodils thrusting through the grass on the banks flanking the motorway.

  It’s a quilt of immaculately groomed green fields laid out across the hills.

  It’s a profusion of flowering gorse bushes, a brighter yellow than the gentle spring sunshine.

  Larry and Fran are talking about the effects of the Celtic Tiger. Fran herself has just returned home to Wicklow from America. For two weeks now, she’s been working for Safe -Home Ireland, an organisation that assists older Irishborn emigrants to find secure accommodation when they return to their homeland. We are her first ‘clients’. Their conversation purrs along with the car and I snuggle up to the large black suitcase wedged in beside me on the back seat of the Golf.

  ‘You can’t take that. Or that. Or that, or that, or that. Or that. Sorry. Put them in this bag, please.’

  Into the bag went the bottle of Pleasures Larry had given me for my sixtieth birthday. Two more perfumes – gifts from Sean and Brian – one for Christmas 2005 and the other for Christmas 2006. Then a cascade of small glass containers and jars, never opened: Margaret’s hand cream, Shirley’s bath crystals, Stella’s bubble bath.

  The sealed bag joined scores of others in a bin and he handed me back my vanity case where there was now plenty of space for my tooth brush, some cotton wool, nail clippers and a couple of eye shadows.

  I slumped onto a bench, and waited for Larry to come through.

  It wouldn’t have been fair to blame the official. He was just doing his job. Airport authorities were edgy again after the recent bomb scare. New EU regulations had been introduced for carrying liquids in one’s hand luggage.

  My containers were all under the 100ml restriction. South African Airways hadn’t given me any hassles. But at Heathrow, where we were changing planes for Dublin, my hand luggage evidently fell into the category of ‘over-packed open bags’.

  He couldn’t be expected to know how difficult it was to buy such luxuries in Zimbabwe.

  Like a squirrel, I had built up a cache of special gifts which I stored at the bottom of my wardrobe. For years I hoarded sachets of aromatic herbs, scented candles, fragrant soaps and perfumes and lotions in elegant bottles and jars. My wardrobe always smelled wonderful.

  Kneeling day after day in the mess of cartons and newspapers as I packed up the house, I resolved that I would never again allow lovely things to gather dust. In future, I would light my beautiful candles and enjoy their fragrance. I would use my fragile crystal flutes even if we were only watching TV. There would be no more waiting for special occasions that might never happen.

  I’d been a Rhodesian since I was three years old. My father had carved a farm from virgin bush with very little capital and a limited knowledge of agriculture. In 1980, thirty years later, Rhodesia had become Zimbabwe, and Rhodesians had become Zimbabweans. Through those difficult years of adjusting to black majority rule and to the gradual erosion of our economy and high standard of living, we’d always been able to make things work somehow. But after Robert Mugabe invaded the commercial farms in 2000, resourcefulness hadn’t been enough.

  I sat there weeping on the hard airport bench, overwhelmed by exhaustion and a terrible sense of loss.

  Leaving Zimbabwe had been traumatic. It had entailed a terrible sequence of desertions: we had effectively abandoned our home, our business, our wonderful housekeeper and our animals. While all were now secure in the care of people we could trust, we would no longer be a part of their lives. We knew we could never go back. And, as impecunious members of the diaspora, there would be very little we could do to help Zimbabwe and its oppressed people. We were committed now to a different lifestyle in a new country.

  And we had to make it work.

  We hadn’t lost hope when Robert Gabriel Mugabe, President of Zimbabwe, had declared war on his own people. When farmers and their employees were tortured, raped, killed or driven off their land by gangs of teenage thugs calling themselves ‘war veterans’. When farm animals were maliciously mutilated or cruelly butchered and when houses and crops were burned to ashes.

  We hadn’t lost hope when inflation reached impossible figures; when you couldn’t buy maize meal, bread or fuel and when more and more people, including our own two sons, Sean and Brian, left the country.

  Even after it became clear that the police no longer served the people and that they would not enforce the rule of law, we still hoped that common sense would somehow prevail.

  The hours dragged, especially in winter, when the power was switched off – sometimes for long periods. We tried not to whine when the city’s water supply faltered, as it often did, the taps yielding no more than an arid gurgle for hours, and sometimes days.

  We hadn’t lost hope then.

  In October 2005, Morgan Tsvangirai,
the leader of the opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC), caused a rift in his own party. He declared that the result of a secret ballot (on whether or not to participate in the contentious senate election to be held later in the year) was a tie. He was not in favour of participating, so he used a casting vote, which, according to the constitution, he did not have.

  That was when we began to lose hope.

  Suddenly, principled, accountable leadership and a regenerated, revitalised nation seemed farther away than ever before.

  We’d hoped that Morgan Tsvangirai was different from corrupt or weak leaders elsewhere in Africa. We’d believed that he would put the interests of the impoverished Zimbabwean people he had sworn to champion and protect before his own ambitions. We were troubled and apprehensive.

  Throughout 2006 we waited for clarity.

  We prayed that the two factions of the MDC would bury their differences. We hoped that they would unite and, as a strong opposition, continue the work of bringing down Mugabe and his Zimbabwe African National Union (Patriotic Front) party.

  It didn’t happen.

  Instead, the gulf between the two divisions widened. Friends and colleagues, who had been rock solid in their condemnation of a brutal government, began to carp at and censure one another.

  It was heartbreaking.

  We finally ceased to believe that there was a future for us in Zimbabwe.

  So we sold our home and our business and left Zimbabwe forever on 30 March 2007.

  ‘Lovely day,’ said a neighbour, smiling brightly.

  Larry and I looked up at the sky.

  It was grey.

  ‘Lovely day,’ said the girl in the shop, as we fumbled with the new currency, trying to fish out the right coins to pay for the Irish Independent.

  ‘Lovely day,’ said another neighbour, as we hurried back.

  It was very cold. We wished we’d had space for more warm clothing in our suitcases.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ we chorused politely.

  Safe-Home Ireland had found us a small two-storey house with two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Although it was right in the middle of Gorey town, Tara Close was peaceful and secluded. Brightly-coloured flowers bloomed in window-boxes and pigeons cooed from their perches in the tree near the statue of Our Lady.

  And there wasn’t a gun on Larry’s side of the bed. There were no burglar bars, no electric fences, no razor wire, no alarms and no electric gates.

  We were safe.

  But were we home?

  My dear Margaret

  I’ve been unable to contact you and other book club friends for the past few weeks, as we’ve had to use our limited time at Internet Cafés to sort out business matters. I couldn’t put emails on a memory stick – no one will accept input from ‘foreign’ computers. Yesterday, thank goodness, we had a phone line installed and are now on broadband.

  We were up early this morning. Larry went for a run and I went for a long walk. I don’t feel like a frustrated prisoner any longer. I can wander around on my own and explore the town. Everything is within easy walking distance.

  It’s great to have family around us again. Sean and Audra are in Bray, only 70 kilometres up the motorway; Brian is in London and my brother, Carl, is in Doncaster. Larry’s mother and brothers are four hours away in Ulster.

  Tesco’s is a Zimbabwean shopper’s dream of heaven – the choice is fantastic. Entire aisles running the width of this vast hangar-like building are devoted to bread or to biscuits, sweets and chocolates. Prawns, crayfish, salmon and mussels are apparently not luxuries. We can eat olives and feta cheese every day, if we want to. We can choose between seedless grapes from Chile or seedless grapes from South Africa. And the reason we couldn’t find soap was because everyone here uses shower cream or shower gel. It’s sometimes difficult to locate what you want, because the brand names and the packaging we’re used to don’t exist here. You must look for Vanish not Preen if you need a stain remover. You won’t find Pronutro, but you will find hundreds of other cereals.

  I think of Robbie or Charles having to queue for hours to buy one loaf of bread or one bottle of cooking oil. I remember the excitement in the factory when we heard that a truck was about to deliver bags of sugar to a shop round the corner. Here we’re trying to decide whether to buy Banoffee Fudge or Forest Fruits ice cream.

  Sean and Audra laugh at my ‘bargains’. Like all of us in Zim, whenever I saw something I needed, I bought at least six, as the next day there’d be none left, or the price would have gone up by 200%. I have to discipline myself to buy extras only if I’m offered ‘two for the price of one’, since I have very little cupboard space.

  The TV package here at our complex is disappointing, as we haven’t got Sky or CNN. There are heaps of sitcoms, cartoons, quiz and reality shows, but very little sport. No Super 14 Rugby. We’ll have to get into the Gaelic sports – and learn Irish.

  How do I feel? Sometimes happier, frequently confused, often discouraged, calmer, much less stressed and strung-out, worried about money, unsure about where in Ireland we will ultimately settle, more healthy, relieved and sad to have left Zimbabwe, coping with housework, not enjoying having to use a communal washing machine and tumble-drier, loving the bookshops.

  Ireland has just been to the polls (24 May). The whole election scene was exciting and so different from Zim. The various parties canvassed vigorously beforehand. Everyone was upbeat and could say exactly what they liked. It was very apparent that Irish politicians are answerable to the voters.

  How different from Zim. No intimidation. No manipulation of the poor and the hungry. No stealing of votes. Unfortunately, we missed registration by five days, but we’ll be entitled to vote in the next election.

  Motorists in Gorey are very courteous. The main street in the town is also the through road between Dublin and the rest of Wexford. Vehicles travel bumper to bumper in an endless stream. You wonder how you’re going to get to the other side. But there’s no need to worry. Motorists stop and indicate that you should cross in front of them.

  I find most of the accents very difficult to understand, and the people we meet consider ours strange. Yes, even Larry’s – and he was born in Donegal! They ask him whether he’s from South Africa or Australia.

  We think of you constantly. We know that life must be even more difficult than it was when we left...

  I wonder now about all those animated emails I used to receive from friends who’d emigrated to settle in New Zealand, South Africa, the UK, Australia and Ireland. Were those expressions of enthusiasm genuine? Or, like us, were they trying to focus on the positive aspects of their new lives?

  I didn’t tell Margaret that the first time we went to Tesco’s, we couldn’t work out how to disentangle a shopping trolley from the long line chained together. I didn’t mention how anxious I became when, early one morning, we found all the check-outs at the supermarket unmanned, and discovered that we were expected to scan the goods or key in the prices ourselves. I didn’t tell her that I was still taking too long to pack my purchases, and that queues tended to build up behind me.

  I did tell her that we’d bought a second-hand car in excellent condition – a Toyota Corolla. But I didn’t tell her about the first time I filled it with petrol. Sean’s demonstration some weeks before had made the procedure look fairly simple. I chose the ‘unleaded’ hose and inserted the nozzle into the car’s fuel tank. Nothing happened. The previous customer’s purchase was still there. So I shoved the hose in a little further and was relieved to see the meter click to zero. Petrol began to gush into the tank when I depressed the lever. Sean had promised that the pump would stop when the car’s tank was full. But what if there was something wrong with the sensor? What if fuel spilled all over the forecourt and someone chucked down a cigarette butt? It was all very worrying.

  In Zimbabwe there was always someone to pack our groceries, someone to carry them out to the car, someone to clean our cars when they got dirty, someone to put in fuel,
someone to do the washing and ironing, someone to clean the house... Jobs were scarce and people were desperate.

  Our friend, Colleen, who’d left Zim a year before we did, had confronted the trolley problem more directly. Having been unsuccessful in her attempts to wrench a trolley free from the line, she asked a woman who was returning hers if she could have it.

  ‘Of course you can,’ said the lady. ‘Could I have a euro?’

  Colleen found this behaviour odd. ‘I don’t want to buy the damn thing,’ she thought. ‘I just want to borrow it.’

  ‘Forget it,’ she huffed.

  And walked away in disgust.

  (It begins to sound like a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm...)

  Then she came upon a man, who was about to return his empty trolley.

  ‘Could I have your trolley?’ she asked.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘May I have a euro?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you people?’ Colleen asked. ‘Why do you want to be paid for helping someone?’

  Fortunately, he had a sense of humour.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  And he showed her what happened when you put a euro into the slot on the handle.

  Click.

  One trolley released.

  Our solution had been to latch onto a stray trolley that had a child’s chair attached. For some reason, it hadn’t been chained to the others...

  In the beginning we behaved like tourists.

  We walked with Sean and Audra down Bray’s beachfront promenade and then along the cliff path, which could have taken us all the way to Greystones if we’d made an earlier start. Every so often we’d pause to watch the waves thundering and crashing against the sharp, black rocks below. These weren’t well-mannered waves like the ones washing the beaches of Courtown, a seaside resort near Gorey.

  One grey, windy weekend, we drove down to Hook Head in Wexford’s ‘sunny south-east’ to see its famous 13th century lighthouse – the oldest working lighthouse in Northern Europe. The rugged grandeur of the Head reminded me of Salt Rock on KwaZulu-Natal’s North Coast in South Africa.