Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick (4 page)

He was hovering around reception when the director drove up in his new black Mercedes: provided free with the compliments of the people of Europe—not that they knew anything about it. This was the director’s pride and joy; after years driving a tiny Fiat, he had finally made it. Not quite, he still needed a driver!

Alighting, he strode briskly into reception—carrying a leather briefcase—followed at a distance by his deputy. Lurglurg managed an ingratiating smile while Brother Sean tried to look busy behind the desk.

The Director presented his card; it was in three languages. This was too much for Lurglurg who stared at it without success.

‘Welcome to Turla,’ he paused, ‘how should I address you?’

‘Director Bur O’Crat or Sir, if you wish.’ He responded briskly.

‘Yes, Sir, we have everything ready for you, Sir.’ That was a relief.

‘Have one of your staff bring in my bags.’

‘Yes Sir, certainly Sir.’

Lurglurg nodded to Brother Sean who moved quickly to obey. The deputy director stood well back, apparently forgotten by her master.

The Director opened his briefcase and took out some sheets of paper which he handed to Lurglurg.

‘Those are my seven day menus; see that they are strictly complied with and all meals served promptly at the times indicated. Use only organic meat and vegetables, Cypress potatoes, Columbian or Turkish coffee only, French quality wines as specified, Remy Martin, vintage Port and Havana Cigars. Bed linen and towels in my suite are to be changed daily; my laundry returned within twenty four hours; my car waxed and polished every day.’

‘Yes Sir.’ Lurglurg responded, hoping he would remember all this. Brother Sean stood close by holding Sir’s bags.

The Director extracted another sheet of paper from his briefcase.

‘Send your account monthly to this address in Brussels.’

‘Certainly Sir, by all means Sir. Brother Sean will show you to your suite. I’m sure you’ll be pleased, it overlooks the lake.’

It suddenly occurred to him. ‘Will your wife be joining you, Sir?’

‘No.’

He followed Brother Sean.

Lurglurg turned to the deputy director who presented her card. He stared at it briefly; took a deep breath.

‘Welcome to Turla, Miss Assho … ‘

‘Call me Madame,’ she snapped.

‘Welcome to Turla Lodge Hotel Madame. Brother Eoin will be here in a minute. He will show you to your room.’

‘I have to carry my own bags?’

‘No, no, Brother Eoin will take care of everything. Have you a list of your special requirements?’

‘No, I’m only entitled to the normal fare provided by the hotel.’

This was too much for Lurglurg: wasn’t the USE an equal opportunities employer—whatever that meant? He put on his best smile—no easy matter for him.

‘We will look after you very well, Madame.’

*

T
he Director inspected his suite; decided it was just about adequate, and dismissed Brother Sean. Then, he unpacked his bags, sorted out his clothes and put everything in its correct place. Opening the doors to the balcony, he looked out across the lake and brown bogs of Connemara stretching away to the distant twelve Bens mountain range. To him, this was a barren, wild and desolate countryside, but it would have to do for the present; he had hoped to get one of the French districts—France was a country he much admired. The people here were ignorant, uncouth, uneducated and lacking in the social graces he so valued; he would soon sort them out.

Born in Vienna to a rising French diplomat and his homely German secretary, Everard Bur O’Crat was brought up, in a number of European capitals, in the heady atmosphere of exclusive—mind numbing—embassy life. He didn’t see it that way: the diplomats were the backbone of government and society; they kept their political masters—part timers, they called them—on the path to rectitude and good government. Due decorum was essential at all times; those who failed to make the grade were eased out of the picture.

His father, Louis Bur O’Crat, was a tall handsome man who ended his career as ambassador to the court of St James in London. Thin and weakly as a child, Everard felt his father was disappointed in him: his mother doted on him. An only child, he was marked out for a diplomatic career. Speaking five languages fluently, he studied History and Statistics at Oxford before going on to master Politics and computer science at Berkeley.

His first appointment was as third secretary to the French ambassador in Rome: a very agreeable position except in promotion prospects. His brown nosed colleagues who spent most of their time partying, posing and bed hopping—with little to recommend them in terms of qualifications—quickly left him behind. Eventually, he was transferred to Ankara as second secretary.

There he met and fell in love with Leila Zaratov, a pretty little Turkish secretary who had only recently joined the service. That was all right, but when it became known they planned to wed, he was summoned to appear before the first Secretary.

Was he mad? Rising diplomats don’t marry secretaries. He protested. His mother was his father’s secretary. Yes, he was told, she was also the daughter of an ambassador. If he decided to change his mind now, this indiscretion would not appear on his file. He did, and was transferred to the Madrid embassy the following day. He resolved to be more discriminating for the future. In the meantime, he restricted himself to short term relationships.

He was a senior administrator back in Paris when the long drawn out conflict over the CAP was finally settled: by a compromise. A clever pilot scheme would be implemented in ten selected areas of Europe: when successful it would be applied throughout the entire USE and replace the CAP, the most contentious and wasteful element of the USE budget. It would also greatly increase the powers of local USE directors; as usual, the demon was in the small print. Agreeing to accept the Connemara area, Everard was well aware that success here would led to a senior executive position in the USE Head Quarters.

Before he departed for Hi-Brazil he was interviewed by the new Commissioner, his Excellency Moxy O’Shea, who handed him his official brief. Moxy was confident that this solid little man could be relied on to carry out his instructions.

He smiled graciously at his subordinate.

‘Everard,’ he knew the personal touch would be much appreciated. ‘I know you will act in accordance with your official brief. Let me know if you need any assistance.’ He paused. ‘There are a number of matters I would like you to attend to; unofficially of course. You won’t find them in your brief.’

‘Certainly, Excellency, whatever you say, Excellency.’

Perhaps, ’twas fortunate His Excellency was sitting down!

*

I
n the morning, the Director drove his gleaming car into Conna and parked it outside the agency—on double yellow lines. Ned, he of Ned’s line fame, was the traffic attendant, not because of his efficiency—no one else would take the job—approached him as he alighted.

‘I’m sorry, sir. You can’t park there.’

The director turned on him. ‘I can park wherever I like.’

Ned took out his little used parking book. ‘Then I’ll have to ticket your car, sir.’

He proceeded to write, no easy task for him at this hour of the morning. Tearing out the page he put it under the windscreen wiper. The Director was fuming. He whipped the ticket off the windscreen, tore in little pieces and scattered them on the ground.

This didn’t please Ned. He produced another book.

‘I’ll have to issue you a ticket for littering, sir.’

The director lost it. ‘Are you not aware you bureaucratic factotum that I have diplomatic immunity; I can do as I wish; I am the law here now.’

Turning on his heel he strode into the office.

A bemused Ned made his way to the local barracks where Sergeant Muldoon was studying the racing page.

‘Serge,’ he asked, ‘what’s diplomatic immunity?’

The Serge put down the paper. ‘I don’t know; what race is he running in?’

Ned described in detail his encounter with the Director. The bemused Sergeant sat back stroking his chin.

‘No, no, we don’t have things like that in Connemara. Put a ticket on that car every time he parks illegally.’

Ned departed cheerfully. The Sergeant made a mental note; must ask Ulick what this diplomatic nonsense is all about.

*

W
hen Battler Barry entered the new agency office, he was handed a number by an attractive young lady wearing an official blue grey uniform.

She smiled sweetly.

‘Take a seat sir; you will be called in turn.’

Battler, an old friend of Paulo’s, had served on the liners with him in days of old. Built like a tank, a native of Cong, he was the champion boxer in the merchant navy until he returned home to settle down on a small holding near Conna. With him he brought his wife, Margo, who was as much to be feared as he was.

Half an hour later Battler was shown into the Director’s palatial office. Bur O’Crat sat behind a big mahogany desk on a raised executive, swivel chair, with a computer and some files before him. Battler took a seat on the low chair provided and looked up at the new master.

‘Name?’ the Director demanded.

‘Battler Barry, sir.’

‘Address?’

‘Lake Road, Conna, sir.’

The Director entered the details on his computer, took a form off the desk and handed it to him. Not once did he look directly at his client.

‘You are in our system. Complete this form in triplicate and bring it back to me.’

Battler wasn’t having this.

‘I came here sir, to collect my new 500 euro dole, not to spend the whole bloody day filling forms.’

‘We don’t pay dole: it’s stipend.’ he responded coldly.

‘I don’t care what you call it. What’s all this nonsense about filling forms?’

‘Regulations,’ he responded crisply. ‘If you want your stipend, you fill in the form in triplicate and present it to me.’

Battler could feel his blood rising. He took the form, left without another word and walked across the street to Paulo’s. The pub was half full of farmers with bewildered expressions.

‘Give me a pint, Paulo.’ He held up the offending document. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?’

Paulo pulled the pint. ‘I’ve had a look at it; he wants to know what you had for breakfast.’

Battler stared at the form again. ‘I wouldn’t know how to answer these questions. Listen to this rubbish.’

“What is the acreage of your farm? What’s the value of your property including and excluding the land? How many cows, pigs and sheep have you? Milk production per day, per week with a separate amount for milk sent to dairy? Your annual receipts from dairy for the past two years? How many hens and chickens? Number of eggs laid during the past month?”

‘For fuck sake how would I know? What am I going to do, Paulo?’

‘I think you should see Ulick,’ he looked at his watch, ‘He should be in by now.’

Battler finished his drink and strode manfully across the road to Ulick’s office. Dazed looking farmers continued to pour out of the agency.

Ulick, having passed on most of his post to Maura Ryan, was sitting in his office reading the Conna News. Stretched contentedly at his feet, Setanta, waited patiently for his master.

Ulick took the form and examined it carefully.

‘So, you don’t get your dole until you complete this?’

‘That’s it; the bloody bastard has us by the balls.’

‘Very well, we’ll complete the form giving as little information as possible.’

They worked at it for twenty minutes before Ulick was satisfied. His secretary made copies and handed them to Battler.

He returned to the agency where he had no difficulty getting to see the Director. Sitting down, he put the application form on the desk, in triplicate. The Director took it without looking up; examined it carefully and input some information in his computer. Then, he extracted a voucher for 500 euro from the drawer in his desk and handed it to Battler with another form.

‘Take the voucher to your bank; complete this form in triplicate and present yourself here at ten thirty this day week.’

Dismissed, Battler returned to Ulick’s office and handed him the form. He scanned it carefully.

‘I don’t believe this. You have to set out exactly how you spend your dole and specify any changes in the data presented today.’

‘What am I going to do, Ulick?’

‘Leave the form here. I’ll talk to Frankie. Come in on Tuesday and we’ll concoct something.’

‘What about those other poor hoors over in Paulo’s; most of them will be pissed out of their skulls by now?’

‘Tell them to come over and see Maura; we’ll help them complete those damned forms.’

‘You can’t do this free of charge.’

‘We’re not going to charge for this kind of rubbish; most of them are our clients anyway.’

*

L
ater, Ulick walked down the street with Setanta cantering along beside him. It was a nice sunny day; they would have a short walk in the woods before lunch. Suddenly, there was an unmerciful scream behind him.

‘STOP, STOP, at ONCE, I SAY.’

He stopped in his tracks, and turned to be confronted by a very angry Madame Assnholfden.

She screamed at him.

‘It is forbidden to have such an animal on the public street without a halter on it.’

Ulick, aware a large number of people had stopped to watch this confrontation, replied calmly.

‘What do you plan to do about it? He’s walked down this street every day for the past five years.’

Her face grew redder. She screamed at him. ‘That is contrary to Directive 113704. I will take it into custody and you will be summoned for contravention of said Directive.’

Ulick stood back while she approached Setanta and put her arms around his neck to lead him away. Setanta didn’t like this; he reared up on his hind legs lifting the chunky lady off the ground. Unable to hold on, she slipped off his back and ended up on her ample arse in the middle of the road. A great cheer greeted this sight; getting up quickly, she rearranged her clothes.

Setanta stood there looking at her with an expression that said: I do not like thee.