The Village (6 page)

When our second son was born I was surprised to find that I could now tackle with confidence an occurrence that three
years earlier had disrupted my entire life. First-time motherhood is an experience that thankfully has to be endured only once in a lifetime.

O
N A WET
Monday in late summer I was sitting at the table in our small kitchen surrounded by potato peelings and dirty dishes. Gabriel had gone back to work and our eldest little boy was busy making a facepack of mashed potatoes while his baby brother banged his spoon off the tray of his high chair. The windows needed cleaning, the floor cried out for a wash and the laundry-basket upstairs overflowed with dirty clothes. The garden outside the window was obliterated by sheets of driving rain, and water ran in streams down the fogged-up glass. Hemmed in by the four walls of the kitchen, my head vibrated to the tempo of the banging spoon.

Wallowing in a sea of self-pity I thought: “Is that it?” Endless days of peeling potatoes, washing dirty clothes, and minding noisy children stretched ahead of me.

A few weeks later a “For Sale” sign appeared on the gable-end of the corner house next-door. George had come to the conclusion that he was too old for running up and down ladders and had decided to retire and live with his relatives. It was a large, rambling three-storey house with a big yard and garden at the back. “This is it,” I thought. “We’ll buy it and start something.” What we were going to start I had no idea. One smart friend suggested a house of ill-repute, which, she assured me, would do well due to an absence of competition. Despite our lack of plans, we gathered together every penny we had and
with the help of both our families we bought the corner house. Having bought it the next step was to decide what exactly we wanted to do with it, bearing in mind that we had no money for restoration. After making enquiries regarding grants we discovered that the tourist board, Bord Fáilte, was the only avenue open to us and, not quite knowing what to expect, we wrote to them and sat back to await developments.

Some weeks later, on a cold, wet, miserable winter’s evening, just as I was about to bath my two grubby, tired and cranky children and put them to bed, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, hoping that it was not somebody who had to be invited in and entertained.

Outside stood two well-groomed young men. They informed me that they were from Bord Fáilte and had come to view the premises about which I had been in correspondence with their office. Tucking one child under my arm and taking another by the hand, I led the Bord Fáilte executives around to the corner house. Any old house bereft of furniture and left empty for a period does not look its best, but as well as that I had strung a temporary clothes-line across the Dickensian kitchen and from it a line of nappies hung like grey ghosts in the shadows. As I led these impeccably-dressed men around the dusty rooms and up the creaking stairs to the dark attic, I suddenly saw it through their eyes. How shabby the whole place looked! From the expression on the face of the slightly older man I could see that he was wondering what this crazy female, already overburdened with two fretful children, intended to do with this rambling old house.

He placed his polished leather briefcase on a dusty window-sill, snapped it open and sifted through some official-looking documents.

“Well now! To bring this place up to the required standard for a registered guest-house you are talking about an investment
of about twenty thousand pounds,” he informed me matter-of-factly.

“Twenty thousands pounds,” I repeated parrot-like, trying to keep the shock out of my voice and the shattered look off my face. He might as well have said twenty million as far as I was concerned.

Then, as if to drive the final nail in the coffin where he had lain my dreams, he concluded, “You are planning this at a very difficult time, what with the present credit squeeze in the banks. They are not giving out any money right now, not even for necessities – not to mention something like this.” He waved his hand dismissively at the peeling wallpaper and thumped his young, aggressive heel on a sagging floorboard. It creaked in protest. Then, having informed me that I should employ an architect on their approved list in order to qualify for a grant, the two dashing young men sat into their car and swept out of the village.

The following week the list of architects arrived by post. I got on the phone and tried to choose an understanding architect who would prove a pleasant working companion. It was almost like choosing a husband because I felt that our whole future depended on him. One came out the following day to view the premises, and he turned out to be a charming man of middle years. His attitude was so helpful and positive that I began to think that the creation of a guest-house might yet be possible. I tentatively mentioned the twenty thousand pounds estimate and he smiled sympathetically, “Ah well,” he said, “we might be talking about half of that.” But that was still big money, so the bank manager was about to become the next man in my life.

Up to then bank managers were to me an unknown species. I imagined them rather romantically as portly gentlemen with gold watch-chains draped across their chests, who lived behind high mahogany counters deep in the hallowed recesses of the
bank where they sat in brown leather armchairs consulting weighty financial ledgers. They had had no bearing on my lifestyle because my financial resources had never necessitated the services of a financial institution. As thrift had never been my strong point, my pocket had never been more than a temporary resting place for my liquid assets. But all that was about to change.

The mahogany desk was the only thing that came up to expectations in his office: the manager looked like a footballer, and a grumpy one at that. Despite the gloomy forecasts of our two Bord Fáilte officials, I sailed into the bank full of enthusiasm, but the banker was not long in pouring cold water over me.

“Do you realise,” he demanded, “that there is a severe credit squeeze on?”

“Well, we heard about it,” I admitted, “but we need the money now whatever about the credit squeeze.”

Because Gabriel was more of a realist than I, he had sheets of figures prepared. As the bank manager pored over them he shot another arrow.

“What makes you think that there is an opening for a large guest-house in your little village?”

I assured him that tourism was on the move, but he looked unbelievingly at me across his wide desk. I began to feel my confidence dwindling into a cold hard lump of rejection in the pit of my stomach. Bank managers, I decided, were very bad for the morale. The result of this unsatisfactory interview was that he would apply to head office for a loan, but, he assured us, he was very doubtful of our chances. He told us to ring him on a certain day when he expected that he would have the head office’s decision.

Gabriel made the phone call while I stood beside him, praying. But God must have had his phone off the hook that day because our application was turned down. I stood rooted
to the floor with shock and disappointment. Even though the bank manager had warned us that our chances were poor, I had still believed that the loan would come through. The alternative was unthinkable. All our hopes and the money we had scraped together were tied up in the corner house, and without development it would become a white elephant.

We went back to the bank the following day and after much negotiating came away with a loan of hundreds instead of thousands. It was far short of our requirements but enough to get moving, and we were determined to make a start. In the meantime the architect had begun to draw the plans and gradually our guest-house began to take shape. The entire plan was for seventeen bedrooms – as it had to be above a certain number to qualify for a grant – but this was to be reached in two stages. Part one reckoned on eight bedrooms opening in the first year, and the remainder would follow the year after.

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.

W
E 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 and 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.