One Hundred Names (24 page)

They were all looking at her.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she apologised, making her way to the pews under their stare. ‘I’m Kitty Logan from
Etcetera
. I spoke to Jedrek on the phone.’

‘Ah, yes! Miss Logan.’ A rotund man jumped up from the table and she immediately recognised his voice and his energy as the jolly man over the phone. He appeared to be in his fifties, a large pot belly as big as a six-month pregnancy on his cuddly frame. He came round the table, his hand extended, his head shaved to even the baldness, but a dark goatee around his mouth. He took Kitty’s hand, practically crushed it in his and violently shook it.

‘You’re very welcome, Miss Logan. I knew you would come,’ he said enthusiastically like a great big happy Buddha. He pointed a finger in her face in a ‘gotcha’ way. Kitty couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Alenka,’ he called to the woman at the table of cakes, ‘a cup of tea or coffee for our reporter.’

‘Coffee, please.’

‘Sit, sit!’ He practically took her by the shoulders and pushed her down in her chair. Kitty felt giddy. She looked at the journalist sitting beside her.

‘Are you Katherine Logan?’ the woman asked, eyes narrowing.

‘Yes,’ she cleared her throat. ‘And you are …?’

‘Sheila Reilly from the
Northside People
,’ Jedrek introduced her. ‘And this is her photographer, Tom,’ he said grandly, pre-senting the photographer. The photographer pinked as they all turned to look at him with a sandwich stuffed in his face. He mumbled something and then waved.

‘Miss Reilly, you know our new arrival? She is a star reporter?’ Jedrek asked excitedly, eyes bright.

‘Er,’ Sheila looked at Kitty uncertainly. Kitty held her stare, kept her head up, confidently. ‘Yes …’ She mumbled something and turned her attention back to Jedrek.

‘Excellent!’ Jedrek clapped his hands. ‘Miss Logan, you must meet this man beside me. Achar Singh.’ A man of similar age to Jedrek, of Sikh religion, wearing a bright orange turban, nodded and smiled at Kitty.

Kitty was served a mug of coffee and a shortbread biscuit by a friendly Polish woman.

‘My wife, Alenka,’ Jedrek announced happily. ‘The best cook in Poland.’

The table was filled with food and by the number of chairs set up, they had had high expectations for the turnout. And though only three people had attended, their spirits seemed to be high. Kitty looked up from dunking the home-made biscuit into her coffee to find them all looking at her. She closed her mouth and aborted biting into her biscuit. The soggy end fell into her mug, splashing her chin. She wiped it. ‘Sorry. Aren’t we waiting for more people to arrive before we start?’

‘It actually already started,’ the reporter from
Northside People
said, rising from her seat. ‘And finished. I have to get back to the office, so if you’ll all please excuse me …’ The two men stood and extended their hands, and she moved along, wishing them the best of luck. ‘See you later, Tom,’ she said to her photographer, and he lifted his cup to her in farewell.

‘When will the article appear?’ Jedrek shouted.

‘Oh. Uh. I’ll have to speak with my editor first and I’ll be in touch,’ she said quickly and closed the door behind her. The two men looked at one another, downhearted, then turned their attention to Kitty.

‘Okay.’ She put her fresh coffee down on the chair beside her and took out her pen and paper. ‘So I didn’t receive your press release, I’m here on an entirely different matter, but I’m intrigued by what’s going on. Could you please fill me in?’

Jedrek, the spokesperson, was only too happy to jump in.

‘I am from Poland and my friend Achar is from India. We both came to Ireland in search of a better life and we found it. Sadly we lost our jobs when the company we worked for, SR Technics, moved out of Dublin. We were among over one thousand staff who lost jobs within one month. It has been very difficult for us to find more work.’

‘What kind of work did you do?’

‘SR Technics is an aircraft maintenance company which provides turbine engine hot section component repair services for blades and vanes on large commercial airline engines. Our plant was based in Dublin airport. The company lost major contracts, and that, together with the high cost of operating in Ireland, meant there was no future for them in Ireland. However,
our
future was in Ireland. Our children and families are happy here, our children are in school, our life is settled here. Achar’s son is a star on the under-fourteens’ hurling team, which is why they kindly allowed us to use the hall for this occasion.’

Achar looked proud. The club caretaker standing by the door with a set of keys in his hand looked bored.

‘Congratulations,’ Kitty said.

‘Thank you.’

‘So …’ Kitty tried to get to the point. ‘Have you some kind of statement to make about your situation …?’ She was interested and moved by their woes but inside she was crying,
not another recession story, please, not another recession story.

They looked at each other and then back at her. ‘If you would like us to …’ Jedrek said uncertainly. ‘If you think it would help … but we are really just here to talk about our record attempt.’

‘Record attempt? You’re making music?’

‘No,’ Jedrek leaned in over the table, his eyes lighting up. ‘We are attempting to get into
Guinness World Records
by being the fastest two men in a one-hundred-metre pedalo dash, and we are looking for people’s support to come and join us and cheer us on. This country needs a positive story. We have been training every day – well, as much as possible as Achar is busy with his taxi – but we have been in training for nine months. The local yacht club donated a pedalo in support of our efforts and we would very much like to achieve this. We have held cake sales, garage sales, all kinds of community events, but sadly we could only raise four hundred and twenty-one euro and nine cent, not enough, so we will do it alone but we need people’s support.’

‘Why do you need the money?’

‘The cost of the adjudication service is between four thousand and five thousand per day, depending on the location. We would have to fly the adjudicator over from London. We have decided not to go through with this idea and so will attempt the record alone.’

‘But isn’t the adjudicator necessary?’

‘No. We can still attempt to make the record and send our evidence to them but they reserve the right not to get back to us.’

‘But we do know of an adjudicator who will be in Ireland this Thursday,’ Achar finally spoke. ‘A friend of ours who works in Cork tells us he knows of a record attempt where a judge will be present.’

‘Achar, we talked about this,’ Jedrek interrupted. ‘We cannot accost a judge for another attempt. It does not work that way.’

‘And I say we at least
try
, Jedrek.’

They stared at one another.

‘We will discuss this later,’ Jedrek said firmly, then turned his attention back to Kitty. ‘So. Will you write our story, Miss Logan?’

Kitty looked at Tom the photographer. He popped a cherry bakewell into his mouth and examined what else he could eat on the table. She wasn’t even sure if he’d listened to any of that.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Kitty said. ‘You are both unemployed airplane engineers who lost your jobs and as a result of being unable to find work you are attempting a world record at being the fastest two men in a one-hundred-metre pedalo dash?’ She looked from one to the other.

‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Jedrek said sombrely.

Kitty started laughing.

‘I knew she would not take us seriously.’ Achar stood up, angrily.

‘No! Wait! I’m sorry for laughing. You misunderstood. I’m laughing because I’m happy, excited,
relieved
,’ she grinned. ‘Of course I would love to write your story.’

‘You would?’ Achar asked, surprised.

‘And I think you should attempt your record bid this week, in Cork.’

‘I told you.’ Achar looked at Jedrek. Jedrek didn’t look convinced. ‘What is wrong, Jedrek? This is exactly what you were hoping for.’

He narrowed his eyes at Kitty. ‘Miss Logan says she did not receive our press release and that she was here for other matters. Before I agree to her writing our story, I would like to know what exactly brings her here.’

Jedrek watched the journalist from his seat in the pedalo. She was one of only two reporters who had bothered to show up despite their sending a press release to almost every publication, news and radio board in Ireland. She was standing on the edge of Malahide Estuary surrounded by swans, which were begging her for bread. She was wafting them away and continuing to speak into her phone.

‘What do you think?’ Achar asked, watching his friend. ‘She seems to be interested in us.’

‘Yes,’ Jedrek replied, distracted. She was currently arguing with somebody on the phone – her editor it sounded like – and this was not a good sign to Jedrek, though he didn’t want to worry his friend Achar. She was insisting she would tell her editor something on Friday and not a minute before. Jedrek liked that she was fighting for them – it was about time things moved in his and Achar’s favour – but this lady wasn’t just fighting for them, that much was obvious.

Achar looked at Jedrek with concern. ‘She wants us to break the record by the end of this week. Are we ready to do this in three days?’

‘Achar, we are more than ready. How long have we been training for this, my friend?’

‘Nine months.’

‘And how many days a week have we put into this?’

‘Five days.’

‘Exactly. Did we let the wind or rain, the ice or hail set us off course since we began our training?’

‘No, Jedrek.’

‘Even illnesses. I recall you and I both with flu and coughs and near fever out here in the boat. We have dedicated every free moment we have to this training. Our families, our friends, the boys in the pub and club, the sailing club, they are all supporting us. We are ready for this, Achar.’

‘Yes, Jedrek.’ Achar seemed to raise a few feet in the air as his back straightened and he pulled his shoulders back.

Achar was easily boosted in this way and Jedrek was good at motivational speeches. He had exercised this skill in the long cold winter when they had questioned their motivations and when the pedalo they had trained in had been destroyed by a mob of teenagers. It had been Jedrek who made sure they raised the funding to fix it and continue on. It had set them back three weeks but they had done it.

Jedrek knew that, to many, their goal was laughable, ludicrous even, but there was more to it than there seemed on the surface. Jedrek hadn’t worked properly for three years. A qualified engineer, he had made a good honest living for his wife and three children. He had loved his job, valued the friendships there and felt comfortable in his role as provider for the family. It was what he felt he was supposed to do, but not only that, it was what he was good at. When that duty was taken away from him, he lost his spirit, lost a sense of who he was. He felt useless to his family, a disappointment, as week after week he failed to get another job. He could forget searching in his field of qualifications, for there was nothing, but that had taken him a while to realise. He had fallen into a depression; he recognised that now, though at the time any mention of it from anyone had sent him into a rage. He had been extremely difficult to live with, moody, irritable, always looking for a fight, always feeling everyone and the world was against him, sensitive to every comment and problem in the world. But he was searching all that time for his role, any authoritative role at all he could find in the family.

An acquaintance in their local had innocently suggested, with-out malice, that he go back home if there was nothing here for him. But what that man didn’t understand was that this
was
Jedrek’s home. He had lived in Ireland for fourteen years, his three children had been born in Ireland, held Irish passports and even had Irish accents. They were in education, had friends, their entire lives were in Dublin. To go back to Poland would not be returning home for any of them any more. Much of his family were dispersed across the world: his brother in Paris, his sister in New York. His parents had passed away so there was no focal point for them in Poland any longer, just his and Alenka’s memories, which they tried so desperately to share and recreate with the children on annual summer holidays back to Poland. But their eldest, at thirteen, was now tired of the forced pilgrimage to a place that held no memories, no connection and no excitement for him. Of course they had been unable to afford the flights home for the past three years and so family holidays and Jedrek’s quest for connection with his roots were lost.

Their first Christmas without work he took a job stocking shelves in a supermarket at night. He had been ashamed, had told no one, but had felt a slight relief when he found himself working beside a reputable architect who similarly had swallowed his pride and saw the act of providing food for the family as the main goal as opposed to the job itself. This brought a little light to Jedrek’s situation, but having to watch his wife go to work in another home in an affluent area, to clean and do other people’s laundry had filled him with a guilt so deep, their own marriage had suffered. His wife was ever-patient, though they had their bad days. It seemed when one was up, the other was down, a seesaw marriage, which survived only if at least one person’s feet were dangling in the air.

Since that job in the supermarket Jedrek had found jobs here and there – driving a van, furniture removal – but nothing solid, nothing that allowed him to use his skills and knowledge, or to breathe a single sigh of relief that his family was safe. But nine months ago, something had changed inside him. Nine months ago, when he met up with his friend Achar at Erin’s Isle Football Club, his spark, which had so obviously gone out, was ignited again.

Achar had been a colleague of his in SR Technics and when they met again the friendship between their two families brought happiness and joy back to their homes. Their children were similar ages and enjoyed playing together, their wives got along and it made days out more pleasurable, plus Jedrek had the added support and conversation of a man who was going through exactly the same thing as Jedrek. He’d been unable to talk about it before but here was someone who understood.