The Village Read online

  When the plans had been completed we posted them off to Bord Fáilte and waited for their decision. Back came a letter stating that they did not approve and recommending certain changes. We implemented the changes and resubmitted the revised plans to Bord Fáilte. Back they came again with further recommendations, and again we did as they requested, but despite this they came back again and again and this game of volleyball continued for weeks. Gabriel had already begun work by taking down worm-eaten partitions and was coming home late at night covered in cobwebs and dust. But we could not begin any structural changes without Bord Fáilte’s approval or we could lose the grant which was vital for our financial survival. Christmas came and went but still we received no decision. Yet summer and the forthcoming tourist season were hovering on the horizon, and we just had to be ready for it.

  Then another dimension to our problem came to light. A friend living in Kent pointed out that most English holidaymakers booked their holidays in January and February. As they were the backbone of the Irish tourist industry it was necessary to let them know of our existence. What were we to do? I felt in the marrow of my bones that somehow we would be ready despite all the obstacles, so I placed advertisements in the Observer, The Lady and some other English publications and took bookings for bedrooms that were, in my mind, fully furnished. We would have guests: now we needed a guest-house for them.

  Bord Fáilte were still dragging their feet so in late January we decided the only way to get things moving was to go to Dublin, plans in hand, to get final approval.

  DIVINE MECHANIC

  WE AWOKE IN the early darkness of a wild January morning to the sound of rain pounding on the roof. Our plan was to leave home before 5 a.m. and drive to Dublin. We had a 2 p.m. appointment with Bord Fáilte, and detailed plans for every minute of the rest of the day. The January sales were on in Clery’s department store so we were taking advantage of the situation to buy our bed-linen, towels and blankets. We had calculated our exact curtain requirements, and felt that we might succeed in getting the material for them as well. I carried the entire colour scheme for the guest-house around in my head. We had worked out exactly what we could afford to spend on everything, and though our miniature budget was stretched to breaking point, with careful buying and a bit of luck all would be accomplished.

  The deluge we met when we opened the front door was not an encouraging start to the day. The street was flooded and a harsh wind full of rain blew us back into the hallway. We collected raincoats and umbrellas and I rooted around under the stairs for an old pair of red wellingtons which I usually wore going up the garden to feed Jacky’s hens. I walked through the flood in my wellingtons and threw my shoes in the back seat of the car.

  As we drove out of the village water was gushing down the hills into the street; along the road to Cork it was pouring out over the ditches. The car purred on determinedly through the floods, but as we rounded a corner I held my breath: water stretched before us as far as the eye could see. It was like driving through a river, and just when we though that we were going to make it the car hiccupped and shuddered to a standstill.

  We sat in the car surrounded by water. It flowed over the wheels and streamed down the windows. Up to then we had thought that all our problems were financial, but now even the weather was against us!

  The possibility of not making it to Dublin could still not be considered. We had got our friend Margaret from across the road to mind the children and someone to help Jacky in the shop. It had taken a lot of phone calls and patience to get an appointment with the key people in Bord Fáilte. We just had to get there. There seemed to be no solution to our problem but divine intervention, so we sat there in the dark and said the rosary. I decided on the Glorious Mysteries beginning with the Resurrection, because we badly needed something to lift us. I know nothing about the Holy Spirit’s mechanical training, but at the third Mystery the car purred into life and we were on our way.

  The weather forecast on the car radio told us that road conditions all over the country were atrocious, so we decided to leave the car at Glanmire station and take the early train. It was a relief to get off the road and know that we were sure of getting to Dublin. But as I sat in the warm comfortable train looking out over water-filled fields and swollen rivers, I suddenly felt that something was not quite right. Looking down at my feet I saw to my horror that I had forgotten to change into my shoes. They were on the back seat of the car in Cork and I was on my way to Dublin in my red wellingtons.

  That morning in Clery’s went like a dream. We bought all our blankets, bed-linen and towels within budget. The selection of material was good value so we got curtaining for all the bedroom windows as well. The material for the lounge curtains was of a soft brown colour and cost eleven shillings per yard but before finally deciding on it we went upstairs to pick out a matching carpet. We had a long list of measurements and details in a little notebook and as I crossed them off one by one after each purchase we felt that we were making headway at last. When we had all our purchases made we decided that we had taken a big step forward.

  However, when we went out to the Bord Fáilte offices in Ballsbridge we took two steps back again. We were directed to the top floor where an efficient-looking lady sat behind a large desk. As we walked across the wide expanse of carpet I found I could cost it down to the last penny after my morning in Clery’s carpet department. I got an uncomfortable feeling when I noticed the lady behind the desk staring at my feet, and for the second time that day I became conscious of my red wellingtons. She was joined by two male colleagues. Together the three of them interviewed us, and again they pointed out all the problems we were facing. Finally they assured us that even if they approved our plans we would be unable to get finance for them.

  We had made our journey to their office so as to get them to point out everything that was wrong with the plans, and then sit down to work on the necessary changes together and finally get the plans approved. Before leaving home it had seemed feasible that all this could be accomplished by a coming together of minds, but the longer the conversation continued the more impossible everything became. The Holy Spirit, whose job was supposed to be the enlightenment of minds, had apparently taken the day off after starting the car.

  We left the Bord Fáilte office in a state of subdued shock. We were tired, cold and wet, and I felt like sitting down on the street and crying. We ran to get the bus to the station. It was packed with dripping people, some of whom looked as miserable as I felt. On the train home we were too tired to talk, and after a while Gabriel fell asleep. The day churned over in my mind. Was the whole idea crazy? The bank manager had discouraged us. Was he right? The crowd in Bord Fáilte thought we were for the birds. Were they right?

  We arrived back in Cork station where a whipping cold wind chilled us to the bone. It was difficult to imagine that only that morning we had got on the train with such high hopes. A day is a long time when the wind is blowing you backwards. Stepping between pools of water we reached our car. My shoes sat forlornly on the back seat.

  We were glad to get home. We made tea and sat by the fire analysing the day’s happenings. As the security and comfort of home warmed us I began to feel better, and we had a long discussion on what course of action to follow. No matter what angle we viewed our problem from, there was no ideal solution: it was a question of compromise. But we had some bookings and bed-linen and a burning urge to get started, so it seemed feasible to take a chance and start building. In any case, Bord Fáilte would not pay the grant until both parts of the plan were completed, and that was a long way down the road, so the sooner we began our journey the better.

  We started rebuilding the corner house in mid-February and there followed three months of dust, mud and organised chaos. But through all the mayhem there was one bright beam and that was the determination that all the confusion was going to result in a well laid out guest-house which would be open for the early summer. It was a case of the end justifying the means a
nd the only means available to us were hard work and long hours.

  The entire building was gutted, parts of it were rebuilt, and it was completely rewired and plumbed. It had only one cold-water tap in the kitchen and an outside toilet, but we were putting wash-basins in all the bedrooms, and showers and toilets throughout. When Lizzy May had the plans explained to her she counted the number of toilets, then shook her head in wonder and remarked: “It would surely be a great place to be if you had taken a dose of salts.”

  The work was done by our local builder, Jerry, and his cousin Davey. Jerry was a small wiry dynamo who worked so fast that you would get a reeling in your head just watching him running up and down ladders and across wobbling scaffolding. He followed the architect’s plan for the most part but when he came across something that he did not agree with he did things his own way. In the plan one long corridor was designed to have three windows. I insisted on the three but Jerry argued determinedly for only two, maintaining that three would weaken the roof. In the middle of the argument he decided that he needed more cement, and dispatched me off to Bandon for a few bags to keep him going until the lorry brought more. When I got back from Bandon the wall was built. It had just the two windows. Jerry smiled wickedly at me and said, “Alice, when you’ll be building as long as I am, you’ll know that I was right.” And he was.

  His cousin Davey was a tall, quiet young man whose tentative manner belied his prowess on the hurling and football fields, where he raced like a hare and fielded like a swallow, winning many a match for the local Valley Rovers. The two of them, who worked wordlessly and speedily, had built houses, pubs and cattle-sheds all over the parish. With them on the job was Charlie, who delivered post in the morning and always had another job lined up for the afternoon. He was a big, hefty man who could mix concrete like a cement-mixer and toss concrete blocks about as if they were tennis balls. For all his size he was a beautiful dancer, and whenever we met in the parish hall I loved to dance with him as it was like floating on air. From around the corner came Paddy, a quick-tempered, impatient little fellow. He started every morning but sometimes went home during the day if anybody said something to annoy him, though he always came back when he had cooled down. From further up the street came Mike, a light-hearted teenager who was full of the joys of life. He was witty and versatile and a great lad to have on a restoration job as he could turn his hand to anything. The plumbing was done by Kevin, an imaginative storyteller who had an assistant who sang continuously, and as Mike also had a fine voice the whole building resounded with song.

  Every day I cooked lunch for the builders in our small kitchen; they packed into it leaving a trail of yellow mud back through the hallway and sitting-room. It was pointless washing the entire area daily, so we left it till Saturday night and had a big scrub-up then. In the afternoon I brought out sandwiches and tea to the men and sometimes stretched myself to make apple-tarts; they sat around on concrete blocks and bags of cement and while they ate we discussed progress. Because the work was taking place in the centre of the village the neighbours wandered in and out, and customers visiting the shop felt free to come and offer their comments and advice. I began to put a few extra cups in the tea-basket for all the extra advisers on site.

  Our two children had a great time wandering around in the sea of mud, especially the older one. The workmen had erected a pulley system to carry buckets of cement to the top floor, and he climbed up on the scaffolding and rode down in the empty bucket. The baby’s chair was hooked off various support systems and though he began each day clean and pink-cheeked, by evening he was grimy, his clothes covered in a film of dust. But because he was at the centre of all the activity, he was as happy as a pig in muck.

  On the site I became the clerk-of-works, ordering the building requirements and keeping supplies co-ordinated. I learned a lot about building but a lot more about builders’ suppliers and every other kind of supplier as well. Nobody delivered when they said they would: the constant assurance was, “You will have it tomorrow.” But it did not come tomorrow and often not for many tomorrows. I spent hours on the phone enquiring, complaining and sometimes losing my cool. I learned that if you wanted to get anything done you had to develop tunnel vision, and this I did with just one object in view: a complete guest-house ready to receive guests in the summer.

  While the work progressed we went around with our heads full of costs, details of light-fittings, wash-basins and wardrobes, kitchen and dining-room requirements. My pockets were full of lists and my mind fully occupied in implementing them. Samples of carpet and other floor coverings and a collection of paint charts were laid out on the table around us as we ate, and around us in bed as we slept. While I worked on the colour plans Gabriel worked on the electrical ones. He was helping to wire the building and worked late every night while I attended to the all-night telephone service. In the early hours of the morning we fell into bed exhausted. There was no time to worry about the financial situation, which was far from healthy.

  One day a salesman remarked to me as he watched the work in progress: “All this must be costing you a fortune.”

  “It is indeed,” I answered.

  “You must have a lot of money or the name of it,” he said, “and one is as good as the other.”

  I did not enlighten him that all we had was a conviction that it would work out, and that if we could get the front door open for guests we would make enough money to pay off what we owed and reduce the bank manager to silence. As the building rose around us so did the bills, but opening-day was edging closer, too. The bank manager’s voice was the background music to which the building rose, and I was grateful for the respite of Saturday and Sunday when he could not ring.

  THE OPEN DOOR

  AT LAST THE curtains were hanging, the carpets had been laid and the dining-room was ready for action. My sisters had come to my rescue and helped by making the curtains and cleaning up after the builders. As we washed and polished, some of the neighbours dropped in to help. One lady, however, came not to help but to examine everything in great detail. She gushed effusively about how beautiful the whole place looked, but as she was going out the front door she met Mike and, raising her eyes to heaven, remarked, “Those doors upstairs look like cat’s shit!” For months afterwards every time I looked at those doors her judgement of my colour sense made me smile. The doors were actually sunshine yellow and as Gabriel had wanted a darker shade her comment amused him highly.

  We had been so lucky with the people who had worked with us and, in the midst of all the mud and long hours, there had been a great sense of comradeship and enjoyment. As he finished off the painting on the last day Mike laughed and said to me, “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one day you pressed a light switch here and water came out through the bulb.”

  As I walked around our guest-house that night I felt a glow of satisfaction. Double glass doors led into the front hallway from where a door on the left led into the residents’ lounge and one on the right opened into the dining-room. At the end of the hallway was an open office with a window into the yard and garden. Beyond it the kitchen looked out onto the street. Upstairs there were six bedrooms on the first floor and two attic bedrooms above them. Everything was in readiness for guests. We had aimed to be finished in time for the tourist season and had succeeded. But the money we owed did not bear thinking about. An underlying apprehension mingled with my sense of satisfaction. Would it all work out? As I stood there wondering about the future the phone rang. It was Mrs Matchette, the wife of our local clergyman.

  “I want to congratulate you and Gabriel and wish you every success,” she said. “I feel that it’s going to succeed beyond all your expectations.”

  Her phone call warmed my heart. She and her husband were two of the best-loved people in our village, and when in later years the rectory was sold and their church was serviced from the next parish our community lost a valuable dimension. Her words, coming as they did at a very opportune moment, were a great
comfort and I never forgot them.

  Margaret, who lived across the road, came to help me run the place while her sister took over the post office switchboard. We had to capitalize on every potential source of income and began serving meals to non-residents. It was very hard work but it had its lighter side. An old bachelor who lived alone on a hilly farm – but spent very little time there as he preferred the life of the pub – came every day for his lunch. One day when Margaret was serving him he demanded, “Did you cook this?”

  “I did,” she answered.

  “I’m on the look-out for a wife,” he told her. “Would you be interested?” At least he left her under no illusion as to his motivation.

  Margaret and I got on very well together and had many moments of panic and laughter. Neither of us were very good at making brown bread so her mother came across the road every morning to turn out rows of crusty brown loaves. Margaret had previously worked in a hotel, and everything that the nuns had taught me in Drishane about household management was put into practice, too. At night we fell into bed exhausted – when we had a bed to fall into. We slept in the guest-house in case any of the residents might need something during the night, and simply took whatever room was vacant when our bedtime came. Often, however, they were all occupied, so then we slept on couches in the lounge.

  Most of our guests were English, some French and German, and we had a scattering of Americans. We knew very little about catering but what we lacked in expertise we made up for in dedication and enthusiasm. We were so delighted to see our guests that we treated them all like visiting royalty. I felt so responsible for the success of their holidays that I almost felt accountable for the weather! Whatever they needed, we came up with it. We chatted with them late into the night, planned their driving routes, fixed their fishing tackle and dug for worms in the garden with them.