by Russ Durbin
An Irish Love Story
By
RUSS DURBIN
Copyright © 2011 Russell L. Durbin
Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia
Part 1
ONE IRISH SPRING
By Russ Durbin
Chapter 1
LEAVING
The horsehair seats smelled musty. The steady click, click, click of the wheels on the rails was not comforting. The train was taking me away.
The day was grey and it was, of course, raining. Small streams of water made rivulets through the caked dirt on the windows. Tears. That thought flitted through my mind. Tears of good-bye. Even the clouds were crying.
So was I. Inside, of course. No hint of my roiled thoughts reached my composed face.
Chapter 2
FIRST VISIT
It wasn’t like this when I arrived three months earlier.
That day was cold and damp. A sharp wind whistled round corners and blew deep into the bones. I had never felt so cold, but I was excited. I arrived in Dublin on, of all days, St. Patrick’s Day. The city was full of Americans taking over the city and celebrating being “Irish” for the day, at least in spirit, if not in reality.
Officially, I was here on business; it also was my first trip to the home of my ancestors. It was with eager anticipation that I boarded the Aer Lingus flight in New York. To hear my grandfather talk Eire was only a wee bit short of heaven on earth. Now I was going to see it for myself, starting with the St. Patrick’s Day parade down O’Connell Street.
The purpose of my trip was to meet other members of the corporate team who were assembling at Jury’s Hotel from the U.S. and various countries of Europe. Our goal was to find suitable sites and develop plans for building a critical and much needed manufacturing plant in the European Economic Community. We had our corporate eye on one property in particular near Cork City. But first, we needed a meeting with the Industrial Development Authority (IDA). Its offices were located across the street from the hotel. IDA representatives advise foreign companies that want to locate in Ireland on complex governmental, environmental, and tourist board regulations, among other things.
My job was communications. Design a plan that would communicate to government and business leaders and local residents what we hoped to accomplish, with their help. The main goal was to avoid or minimize potential opposition to our plans and get the plant built as soon as possible.
It was March of 1975. Times were tough in Ireland. There was a 23 percent unemployment rate. Young people were fleeing to the continent and to America to find precious jobs. Time was right to talk to the Irish about new jobs. Unfortunately, a couple of environmental disasters with foreign companies had made the Irish wary and distrustful of “blow ins” as people in the local pubs called the outsiders.
Our team had spent an intense and exhausting three weeks delving into the myriad regulations, exploring potential building sites in County Cork, negotiating rights to the piece of land ideal for our plant and devising technical plans. I listened to the experts’ talk while perusing the Irish Times, the Irish Independent and the Cork Examiner as well as listening and watching radio and television programming on RTE, the national network. To develop an effective communications plan, one needed to know what was going on in the country. The national news media were a starting point.
Time flashed by and all too quickly team members were saying our good-byes to each other. As quickly as they arrived, my colleagues scattered to their respective countries, leaving me alone to scout the countryside for the next month or so to find out what was on the minds of the average Irish worker, farmer, fisherman and housewife. To do that I needed to immerse myself in Irish culture.
Chapter 3
THE TOURIST
The best way to learn about the Irish was to be a tourist. The Irish love to talk, especially to tourists. The streets of Dublin were a trove of information as I strolled about. Then, renting a Ford Cortina, I saw Dublin dwindle in my rear view mirror as I meandered about the green fields and villages working my way south toward County Cork, shopping occasionally, asking questions, and giving rides to rain-soaked mothers and their equally wet children walking in the rain to the nearest village to do their shopping. In doing so, I received a plethora of ideas, opinions and suggestions. Finally, I arrived in Cork City and checked into the Jury’s Hotel.
One does not go to Cork as a tourist unless one visits the hallowed ground of Blarney Castle and, of course, kisses the Blarney stone. Doing so proved to be not as easy as it sounds since one must lie on one’s back, lean down over the parapet and upside down kiss the ancient stone, set in the battlements facing toward the holy land from which, according to legend, it came. There was a man of indeterminate age, (Johnny O’Dell was his name), who holds one’s legs so one doesn’t fall. Falling would not be good for tourism.
As it happened, the day I visited Blarney Castle was dark, cloudy and wet. I was the lone visitor. After doing the expected, I inquired of Johnny whether the hotel was a good place to lunch in Blarney town.
“Ah, boy, you don’t want to eat at the hotel; too expensive,” he declared, grabbing me by the arm. “Come with me; I’m going to take me lunch, now,” he continued, pulling me along. “I’ve got a widow lady who fixes me food. 'Tis good and more than I can eat. Come along and share it with me.” He shivered and pulled the collar of his ancient tweed jacket close as sprinkles gradually changed to rain.
Since my job was to learn about the Irish people and how they think, I couldn’t pass up this gracious offer. Across the wet grounds of Blarney Castle we went, cold rain blowing against us like a grey sheet. We hurried down a cobblestone walk and across a bit of green to a back alley. By this time, I began to wonder where old Johnny was taking me.
We wound up at the back door of a cottage where my companion opened the door, and shouted, “Halloo, there Molly. You ready for me?”
A pleasant looking woman, her cheeks flushed from cooking, appeared in the kitchen doorway and beckoned to us, pointing to two chairs at the table. “You’re late, Johnny. I was wondering if you were coming.”
“I had me a late visitor,” he replied, nodding in my direction. “I brought him along to share some of your fine cooking,” Johnny finished with a grin.
“Off with your blarney Johnny.” One quick glance and Molly had sized me up as expertly as a seasoned cop on his beat. “Well then, I better put on some more eggs; the lad has a lean look about him.”
“No, no Molly. I’ll just share my meal; you always fix too much for me,” said Johnny.
So I sat in the warm, friendly kitchen sharing old Johnny’s eggs and a rasher of ham and listened to the talk. Molly poured some of Barry’s black tea, put in a little hot milk for the three of us and sat down, wiping her hands on her apron.
I learned a lot about the Irish that day. Proud of their island and their heritage, they were fiercely protective of their green fields, clear brooks and grey stone cliffs. In sum, they were independent, opinionated, caring, friendly, argumentative, and ready to welcome a stranger and take him at face value. To the Irish I had met so far, you were accepted as okay unless you proved yourself otherwise.
When asked if I had come to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day, I explained I had come for business meetings but was taking some time to get acquainted with the country and its people.
“My name is Pat O’Connor and my grandfather originally came from Kinsale or somewhere near there, so I’m told,” I offered.
“Aye, lad, there’s many an O’Connor down there,” said Johnny, “and down Bandon way, as well.”
“So, Yank, I guess that makes you one of our boys,” Molly declared, immediately settling the matter. I took that to mean I was “in.”
My little v
isit to Blarney turned up a wealth of information about the “blow ins” that people in the area were concerned about. “Blow ins,” I learned, was the name local people had for the foreign companies wanting to move into Ireland. For that matter, anyone who wasn’t Irish was one. The rough outlines of a communications plan began to form in my mind. Immediately I began making mental notes as ideas tumbled over ideas in my mind.
By the time I returned to Jury’s on Western Road in Cork, my body and mind were on the verge of exhaustion. Wearily, I asked at the desk if room service was available. No, I was told, it was too late and the restaurant was closed, but I could get a sandwich in the bar.
Chapter 4
NEW FRIENDS
As I settled on a bar stool and gave my order, I noticed a face that seemed familiar across the room. Frankly, I was too tired to try to remember and turned back to my drink.
“Say, Yank,” a voice behind me said. Yank seemed to be a popular Irish term for Americans. “You probably don’t remember me, but I saw you and your business associates at Jury’s in Dublin a few weeks ago. I was the front desk manager.”
As I turned, he held out his hand, “I’m Eddie…Eddie Murphy.”
I dutifully took his hand and offered, “I’m Pat. Patrick O’Connor.”
“Nice to meet you, Patrick.” He pronounced it Padraig in true Gaelic fashion. “I want to invite you to join my friends and me at the table over there, seeing as you’re all alone.” He gestured to a semi-circular booth in the corner where two women were sitting.
“Thanks very much, but I am pretty tired. I think I’ll just finish my Guinness and sandwich and head back to my room.”
“Oh, come on, Padraig. It’s too early to turn in,” he said with a grin, taking my arm and pulling me off the stool.
Well, since my business was getting to know the people, maybe I should accept his invite. My first invitation of the day in Blarney proved to be golden so maybe this would be too. Grabbing my sandwich and glass, I followed Eddie to the table.
Seated together on the far side of the table were a tall, slender blond with boy-cut hair and a short red head with a green knit hat jammed on her head. The upturned brim and the tassel on top gave the girl a comical look. Eddie made the introductions and gestured toward the seat next to Green Hat while he took the one opposite next to the blond.
Clear enough to me that Eddie wanted to make time with the blond and dump on me the other one, which I mentally characterized as a “tag-along” buddy of the blond.
That was okay; I didn’t plan to stay long. Eddie played the congenial host and ordered a round for everyone.
“So what do you do?” asked the blond, whose name was Mary Kate. The last thing I wanted to do was talk business, but I found myself explaining. Green Hat remained silent, frowning slightly.
As I paused to sip my pint, Green Hat spoke for the first time—a low voice barely audible. “You’re a Yank!” Her tone made it seem like a fungus or a socially unacceptable disease. Tempted as I was to make a sharp reply, I simply smiled and said, “Yep!”
“I suppose you’re going to dirty up our beautiful rivers and poison our fields,” she said somewhat belligerently. Her attitude left no doubt that she thought I was the worst kind of “blow in.”
“Quite the contrary. It is to our advantage to keep the rivers clean and the countryside beautiful,” I replied, giving it my best public relations spin. “Our people will live here and almost all of our employees will be Irish.” There, take that Green Hat!
She slumped lower and glared. Eddie quickly jumped in, changing the subject, and explaining that Mary was a buyer for Cork City’s leading women’s store, Le Femme. I ignored Green Hat and tried to focus on Mary and Eddie as they talked.
“Sorry, kids,” the barman interrupted. “Bar’s closing.”
“Let’s head over to Good Time Charlie’s,” said Eddie, jumping to his feet. Mary hesitated for a moment, and then nodded in agreement. I tried to bow out, but Mary and Eddie each grabbed an arm and hauled me upright. Green Hat rolled her eyes but remained silent.
“What the hell,” I thought. It had been a very long month full of meetings and hectic schedules. I just wanted to relax tonight.
“Count me in.”
Chapter 5
GOOD TIME CHARLIE’S
Good Time Charlie’s, it turned out, was an underground dive in a tiny alley off St. Patrick’s Street, the looping main street in Cork City. Filled with psychedelic lights, Charlie’s was a discotheque for mostly teeny-boppers hopping, twisting and jerking to raucous music. The air was heavy with smoke, body odors and cheap perfume. Definitely not my scene. Being probably the only 40-year-old in the room (besides Charlie), I distinctly felt out of place and wished I had never allowed myself to get sucked into this little adventure.
Eddie and Mary immediately disappeared into that seething mass of humanity in motion. That left Green Hat and me on opposite sides of the table, trying to ignore each other.
I snagged what looked to be a waiter hardly old enough to shave and ordered drinks. Green Hat, whose name turned out to be Maggie, ordered a baby cham, non-alcoholic champagne. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I said.
“Sorry, sir, we don’t serve alcohol in here,” said the pimpled face. That figured. “Make it two baby chams,” I said, glumly.
The noise made conversation difficult, but despite my weariness, I tried. I could see Maggie seemed tired as well and had no particular liking for the place.
“Why did we come here?” I asked.
“Eddie likes this place; he can pick up young girls,” she explained.
“So what are you and your friend Mary doing with Eddie?” Although I didn’t say what I thought, it was obvious to me that both Green Hat and her friend were somewhat older than most of the kids in the place.
“Oh, we’ve all been friends since we were kids. He’s from Cork, you know.” I didn’t. I barely knew Eddie.
Since talking was difficult, we sat in relative silence. Maggie removed the green hat and haphazardly combed her red hair with her fingers. I saw the slight wrinkles on her forehead and around the corners of her eyes, causing me to revise upward my earlier estimate of her age. Somewhere in her mid-30s, I guessed. Her face was freckled and somewhat plain, but not unattractive. She wore no makeup. Good Time Charlie’s definitely was not her place.
As the night drifted into the wee morning hours, the noise subsided somewhat. Eddie and Mary were visible from time to time as the crowd thinned. Since Maggie showed no inclination to dance and I certainly was not in the mood, I tried some polite conversation. Leaning closer so we didn’t have to shout, I talked about my experiences that day, including kissing the Blarney Stone.
Maggie’s green eyes flamed at the mention of Blarney. “A right shame it is,” she shook her red hair. “It’s so over-commercialized.” Actually, I thought it quite the opposite, especially compared to tourist attractions in the United States, and I said so.
“You would, Yank,” she declared. “You Americans over promote and cheapen everything you touch.” With this she gave me the full impact of her angry green eyes, daring me to argue and relishing the forthcoming debate. Up close, she smelled faintly of fresh soap.
“You’re right; we do over promote our treasures,” I agreed, not about to be drawn into an argument. As her anger faded, I told her about my experience meeting Johnny O’Dell and his “widow lady,” and sharing lunch and conversation with them at her kitchen table.
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes unreadable. Then she said softly in her low voice, “Sure then, he must have taken to you Yank.” For another long moment she stared at me, then abruptly turned away.
She sighed and leaned back against the booth. “Ah, I’m waahed out.”
“What does that mean? I never heard that expression before.”
She turned her head to look at me. “You know, flat down. Worn out.”
During the girls’ trip to the loo, Eddie shared the i
nformation that Maggie and her mum had run a boarding house. Since her mother died six months ago, Maggie was left with the full responsibility to do most of the washing, cooking, and housecleaning. My respect for her rose. No wonder she was waahed out.
When the girls returned, a young man asked Mary to dance. Eddie quickly grabbed the hand of a girl passing the table and spun her onto the dance floor.
I was left with Maggie Green Hat and her silence. Might as well give it one more try, I thought.
“I heard you telling Mary about some new beach you found this week. Do you mind telling me about it?” I prompted.
That brought her to life.
“Ah, the beaches! I love walking the miles of lonely beaches, especially near Youghal,” she quickly replied, her green eyes sparkling for the first time that night. “I found one near the bog, a vast stretch of sand where you can walk for miles and see no one. I could spend hours there, picking up shells or just sitting, watching the waves roll in.”
She was silent as she contemplated the scene in her mind. “And the mountains in West Cork. Oh, my beautiful mountains!” She had a way of drawing out the first syllable of the word “beautiful” that I couldn’t begin to duplicate but found pleasing. And the passion with which she spoke struck a spark in me.
As I listened, suddenly I wanted to see those mountains and walk those beaches. With an idle weekend ahead and no meetings scheduled, I just wanted to see the scenes that had so captured her soul.
Impulsively, I covered her hand with mine and said, “Show me these mountains you love and the beaches you like to walk. Go with me tomorrow and be my own private tourist guide.”
Again, she gave me the full impact of those green eyes, this time softer than before. Without answering, she took my hand in hers and turned it over, examining the lines as would any professional psychic reader.
