A privileged upbringing means our columnist feels obliged to give something back – if only others could do the same
HE GREW UP in a house where, coming in from school there’d often be some poor unfortunate at the table. A bearded man in a big overcoat, miraculous medals overflowing from his holdall. A sherry-drinker who liked to pretend she was part of the family. His mother would cook. After, his father would walk “the visitor” to the door, listening, as if they were doctors, priests.
He attended private school, where they were supposed to work for the “betterment of society”, though when he sees the Tribunal bills former school-colleagues have presented, he thinks “Men for Doing Others” might be more applicable.
Education and background compel: he helped prepare pre-Budget submissions for Sr Stan. Went into prisons as a lecturer, the inner-city as a coach. Created ad campaigns for charity . . . (possibly for kudos).
Money buys time. Elevated status permits downward sorties.
No: his is as myopic an existence as those of the politicians and commentariat he deigns to criticise. Do something.
***
He volunteers at a charity shop. A manager – who clearly has first dibs on silk and suede – interviews. Advises him she now has a choice of workers. Grants one day’s trial.
An African with impeccable diction asks how much for this cashmere sweater please? The manager strains, as if encountering Swahili: ‘‘Sorry, I don’t understand.”
He does.
Before lunch, she wonders would he mind spinning down to the Butler’s Pantry? He would: he’s going home to walk his dog.
At 5pm, she attempts a sit-down:
– I’m afraid you don’t have the right attitude. You need to smile more.
– It’s not BT.
– Still, we try to cultivate a certain . . . atmosphere.
– Tell you what: I’ll get you a number for Tommy Tiernan. He can entertain them while they’re searching the rails.
Maybe he’s not (here it comes) a “people person”? He thinks of saying he is, if the people are nice to foreigners. Best response is to leave. (And to “borrow” a loaf of still-warm sourdough.)
***
Yesterday’s bake, he tells his wife. She arches an eyebrow. He tells his tale. His wife laughs.
– She’ll blame the “foreign customers”.
– Nah, I think she’ll know it was me. (She will now.)
***
Spring brings renewed hope, lowered heating bills, children out on the green. Parents – and idle questions – to avoid. Renewed demands.
He rings a debt-collection agency. Is put through to a collector who informs him yes, he is looking at the relevant file.
– Okay. Well stop looking. And start listening: I don’t have it. Take me to court, you’re simply wasting your time. I’ll pay when I find a job. Not before.
The collector sighs, hangs up. Either the unemployed man is getting good at this. Or there are a lot of fathers taking deep breaths before they pick up, and pretend.
Not to be intimidated.
***
His eldest daughter would love a bouncy cattle and a ballerina dress for her birthday. The castle costs €150. He knocks it down to €120. But parents will still want a drink, something small to eat. He gets on the phone, looking for work, reversing the very union grades his father fought for. Nothing.
***
He embarrasses a college friend into reluctantly giving him a few days’ work. Hefting imported trees and enormous potted plants at the rural holiday home of a photogenic socialite. (Whose maid provides choice of teas, pink wafer biscuits.)
The views are stunning. The work a salve. He is the only “gardener” on site, but a local company has provided other workers – mostly eastern European. They are devoid of banter. Humour. They smoke, but don’t offer around. At tea break, the largest takes a handful of biscuits, leaving the unemployed man none.
He brings back in the tray. Flirts with the maid. Gets more bikkies. Which he crunches, noisily, beside the offender.
Next day an official arrives. Several workers scarper. He thought this happened only in movies.
His boss shoots him a look: “Now you see why I was reluctant to take you on.”
***
When it arrives in the post, the Certificate of Registration for the company they hope to set up is wonderful to look at, and hold.
To be able to match their approximately €22,000 “income” – ie to remain broke, but to be free from the poxy culture of dependency – seems unlikely in the first year of trading, especially with new levies, especially when banks refuse them, vehemently, either overdraft or loan facility. Starting up will mean surviving on less than the dole (how?).
May mean not paying the interest-only. May mean going into court. This, Mabs inform him, is called “strategic default”. (Another term the nation must get used to).
***
He loves the resilience in her voice when people try to knock her down on price. Before even hearing her pitch. She hangs up: We’ve officially become Weebles, she says.
– I don’t get you?
– Weebles wobble. But they don’t fall down.
He remembers the ads from childhood. Imagines hundreds of thousands of Weebles out there, falling down, getting up again. Watching their children watch them. Not working.
The debt collector sighs, hangs up. Either the unemployed man is getting good at this. Or there are a lot of fathers taking deep breaths before they pick up, and pretend. Not to be intimidated