THERE is a cousin of Fionnuala’s who is just back from Australia after a year on the working holiday visa. Bit of a cliché culchie: over-friendly, wears the brown boots and tight jeans of the country youth.
His name is Ryan and I only had one encounter with him, when he was supposed to power-hose our house and Fionnuala wasn’t satisfied with the work.
She tasked me to call round with the money but refuse to pay until he came back and finished the job.
“I can’t do it, he’s my first cousin,” Fionnuala insisted. “So, you have to say that you are not happy.”
“But I am happy.”
“That is a very depressing statement, Fabien. There are streaks down the chimney and the tarmac out the front isn’t even clean.”
“I didn’t really notice until you pointed it out.”
“That’s even more depressing.”
“So, I have to do your dirty work?” I asked.
If looks could kill. She didn’t even get the pun.
Anyway, I went to see him on his parents’ farm and got into a bit of a stand-off that actually emboldened me.
He was in his good clothes, which looked exactly like his work clothes except clean, and he eyed me up like I was a soft touch. He curled his lip and smiled, with shadowed eyes.
“Hi boy, don’t be saying I don’t do a job right if I say I’ve done the job right.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. “It just needs a quick going over.”
“Fionnuala is my cousin, you know.”
“Yes, I’m her husband, you know.”
“And she was as happy as a calf on spring grass as far as I could gather.”
Lol, I thought. “Well, I’m not happy, Ryan. And it’s me that’s paying.”
“You paying? Are you not the house-husband?”
I looked at the young fella and felt like smacking him: the confidence oozing out of him, the sneer, the smile that pretended to be shy.
“Well, Ryan, here’s the story. I have an envelope with £850. And you will get it when have tidied up the wee bit I want you to.”
He did, of course, come and finish the job, and he roared and laughed with Fionnuala in the kitchen and to his credit acted like we had never had the conflab in his yard.
He was immature, I figured. A man-boy, like many of these country men – a generational trauma inflicted on them by landlords and law-makers, teachers and priests. Damaged goods.
Anyway, the reason I am telling you about him is that he came back from Oz with a story – a tale everyone was enjoying.
He had left Ireland with the knowledge he would be staying with his aunt, who had emigrated years ago and married an Australian.
She was a well-known tyrant back in the day and had made good but decided that her nephew was going to have to pay his way while staying under her roof.
He had been messaging home all the gory details about how she broke down the costs: the electricity and the rates, the food and the water.
He moaned and cried and the whole family were whispering with joyous indignation: What a bag! Has she forgotten where she came from? Fleecing her own nephew!
But when his year was up, and he had packed his bag and his sunburn, and his aunt and uncle left him to the airport – after a final dip in their gorgeous pool – she handed him an envelope with “Ryan” written on it.
“What’s this?”
“It’s your savings,” she said. “All that money you put into the kitty, I stashed away for you.
“To show you how much you can save if you don’t know it’s there.
“Say hello to them all at home.”