Postcards to America (3 page)

The grilling continued.

‘What’s your opinion on euthanasia?’

‘Should animals be kept in zoos?’

‘Are Shakespeare’s plays relevant in today’s world?’

Patrick now definitely felt uncomfortable. A trickle of perspiration dribbled down onto his nose and then to his lips. The three inquisitors were slipping out of focus.

Damn this, he thought, loosening his tie, even thought his action probably ruined his chances of getting this job.

Three pens scribbled in unison and then three stern faces looked at Patrick.

Patrick knew his chances were gone and truthfully, he did not give a damn. He stood up, made for the door then turned back to face the trio.

‘F**K the pox of a job,’ he said, ‘the wages is crap, the conditions are crap and you are crap. All the job entails is knocking at doors, selling insurance, and not managing the Central Bank.’

Patrick turned and opened the door to exit. As he did he turned and said, ‘Sleep around. A bigger population means more insurance sales.’

More weeks passed. Patrick’s situation showed no signs of improving. Independence seemed further away than ever. Old school friends with jobs and money stopped ringing him up. Then Patrick Snr., who avoided broaching the subject of a career with him since he left university, introduced the subject over dinner.

‘Any luck on the jobs front?’ he asked during dessert.

‘A few prospects are in the offing.’

‘Do I know any of the companies?’

‘They’re only small companies,’ Patrick lied.

‘Let me help you, Patrick.’ Concern showed on his father’s face. I can place you in the party machine. You can learn the business of politics and take over my seat when I retire.

‘I’m not going into politics now or in the future.’ Patrick meant what he said. Most days a new political scandal broke in the media and he and his generation were totally pissed off by the antics of their supposed betters.

‘OK! Then let me see what I can do outside the political field and in a few years perhaps you will change your mind.’

For the sake of his mother, Patrick Jnr. accepted the proposal.

Two weeks passed and then Patrick received a telephone call asking him to report to the Department of Agriculture for an interview. Patrick ran the razor twice around his face and donned his best old suit for the occasion. The interviewers skipped most of guidelines laid down for the appointment of civil service staff. Two days later Patrick received notification in the post of his appointment as a middle ranking civil servant.

That day lay six months in the past and he hated every minute spent in this square box leased by the department. Patrick occupied one of five identical offices on the fifth floor of the monstrosity that would not be out of place in Eastern Europe. All of the other occupants on Patrick’s floor were graduates of agricultural colleges and were promoted through the system. They resented Patrick’s entry point and snubbed him when they could. After the first couple of tries to integrate, Patrick ate his meals alone.

Initially Patrick went through the motions of working. All issues concerning farming fell under the remittance of the department and the learning curve proved particularly steep. From grants to sanctions, the powers of his office were considerable, and needed care in their execution. Early on, Patrick noticed that documents delivered to his in tray were not addressed to him personally but to the department as a whole. Also, when he or his colleagues reached a decision on any particular request or sanction they verified the document with an individual number and not a signature. He also discovered that his colleagues left their doors unlocked during their extended lunch breaks. Who would burgle their offices here on the fifth floor? No valuables were kept in the offices and did not a security guard check entrants to the building in the foyer on the ground floor.

After these discoveries, an idea began to gather shape and take form. An idea that could spell trouble for him in the future On the other hand, trouble in one shape or other seemed to have dogged him all his life without his conscious involvement. Or did it? Deep down in his subconscious was he drawing trouble on himself as a means of standing out from the crowd: a way of being noticed?

Whatever the reason, he decided to act and he did hate farming.

Next day he removed several documents from his in tray and replaced them with blank A4 pages, making sure the blank pages were at the bottom. Satisfied that his tray appeared full and making sure that his colleagues were at lunch he slipped into their offices and distributed several documents to be sanctioned into each of their trays.

Gradually he increased the number of documents he distributed until his workday consisted of coming in and going home.

‘The workload is getting heavier,’ one of Patrick’s colleagues innocently remarked one day as they passed in the corridor.

‘I’m barely able to manage,’ Patrick replied, hurrying by.

All the offices on the fifth floor possessed computers to enable officers to access the huge database said to contain the particulars of every farm in the country. Besides the database officers communicated via email with other departments and referred to the hundreds of rules and regulations of the department. They were not the pages Patrick scanned. Patrick now spent all his time on his computer browsing the Internet.

The scene showed a swimming pool set in the Hollywood hills. A group of would be starlets frolicked in various stages of nudity and splashed water to the accompaniment of forced screams and giggles.

‘That’s very nice, Patrick. That’s very nice indeed.’

Patrick, startled, swivelled round in his chair.

A woman about thirty, slim, with dyed blonde hair tied back, over a fresh face without make up, stood there. She grabbed the top of her sweeping brush in both hands. A smile creased her face.

Patrick reached forward and switched off the monitor while checking his watch.

‘You’re early?’ he asked the blonde woman.

She looked at her watch.

‘Oh! It stopped!’ she said.

The cleaning staff usually arrived a few moments after the civil servants finished for the day. Patrick’s office usually did not need cleaning because he did no work.

‘I won’t tell,’ the blonde-haired woman said, nodding at the blank monitor.

Patrick shrugged his shoulders.

‘Switch it back on,’ the dyed blonde-haired woman suggested, giving a giggle.

Patrick complied.

Jean, her name as Patrick later discovered, looked at the pool side frolics for ten minutes, clearly aroused.

‘Perhaps you can help me,’ Jean asked.

‘How?’

‘I have a brother in Canada. Could you an email to him for me?’

Patrick considered Jean’s request. He recognised the petty blackmail in her request.

‘Tell me what you want to say.’

So, a relationship developed between him and Jean. He would send the odd email to her brother and surf a few naughty sites for her and she in return would supply him with an amazing amount of details about his fellow workers including higher civil servants on the eighth floor.

As Jean replied when he quizzed her as to her sources, ‘You would be surprised at the amount of information in their waste bins or left lying on their desks.’

An additional source of intelligence for Patrick came in the shape of Jean’s sister who worked in the canteen and who overheard snippets of gossip and passed them to Jean for onward transmission to Patrick. Patrick now knew more than most about what went on in the department without moving outside his office.

So time passed and despite the millions of pages available to surf on the Internet, time seemed to drag. Bored, he looked at his in tray. The top document contained a plea from a farmer to allow him to expand his herd. Patrick swivelled in his chair, an idea beginning to form in his brain. Among his thoughts, he sensed the potential for trouble. Ignoring the warning bells, Patrick began searching the database for a name.

Having located a name, Patrick completed the document. He waited for the lunch break before slipping into the adjoining office. He searched for the stamp needed to authenticate the document just composed. No stamp lay on the desk. Opening the first drawer Patrick spotted the stamp and applied it to the document. He placed the document in the middle of the out tray and closed the door behind him

*

On the slopes of Knocknomore, John Slattery filled the bowl of his pipe and looked out the dirty window at his ten acres of barren land. Outside the window, thistles grew in profusion and fields worn by erosion showed large boulders. John threw another lump of peat on the fire and lighting his pipe with the side of a food carton, watched the smoke curl towards the brown ceiling. On the bare table stood the remains of a fried breakfast being contested over by a swarm of flies. John, now sixty, never married; a fact he regretted. This stone cottage on the side of a mountain could be very lonely when winter closed in and isolated the land. Now John subsisted on a meagre amount of “Farmer’s dole”. Years ago he kept two cows plus chickens. He also grew a small amount of crops, which he sold in the local market to supplement his income. Now john spent long days smoking his pipe and drinking an occasional stout in the local pub five miles distant.

John was surprised therefore when he spotted the green coloured Post Office van climbing the slope towards his dwelling. Today happened to be Tuesday and the postman usually came on Friday with his weekly cheque.

John abused his creaking bones and went outside.

‘A government letter for you.’ The postman handed John a letter through the open window of his van. The state insignia on the envelope could clearly be seen.

John took the letter and looked at it as if he could read. In fact he could neither read nor write.

‘Must be off,’ the postman called as he reversed the van and accelerated away leaving rubber on the stones.

Must be important, John thought, pocketing the letter. Wheeling an ancient bicycle from a ramshackle shed, John set off down to Fr. Noel Curtin P.P.’s house five miles below. His bones creaked in unison with the rusty bike chain as he navigated the potted track.

Finally John reached the P.P.’s house and the cleric ushered him in.

‘Sit down here,’ Fr. Noel directed, pulling up a chair in the kitchen. The Parish Priest read all John’s mail for him and penned the odd letter when requested. John handed the letter to Fr. Noel who turned the letter over and noticed the state stamp on the envelope.

Fr. Noel slit the envelope open with a kitchen knife, slowly read the letter and then looked at John.

Unable to contain his excitement any further, John exclaimed, ‘What did it say! What did it say?’

‘It says,’ said Fr. Noel incredulously, ‘that you can expand your herd by fifty cows.’

‘Yippee! Yippee!’ John yelled and jumped up from the chair in excitement. His aches and pains were forgotten. I can expand my herd by up to fifty cows.’

Fr. Noel Curtin looked at John with a quizzical look on his face.

‘What herd John?’

Then the truth dawned on John. He stopped in mid movement. He possessed no money, no herd to expand and arid land.

A look of bewilderment crossed over John’s face and Fr. Curtin’s blank countenance offered no help

*

A week later John returned with a second letter. This time he refused the offer of a seat and remained standing. Fr. Curtin noticed that the envelope bore the same stamp as the first letter.

‘Come on! Come on!’ John urged impatiently.

Fr. Curtin slit the envelope open and slowly read the contents.

‘Well?’

Fr. Curtin spoke softly as he replied; ‘they say that because you were so slow in expanding your herd that they are now withdrawing their permission.’

John’s face turned a bright beetroot colour.

He jumped forward and snatched the letter from the priest’s hand. Throwing the letter on the ground he stamped on in and then ground the remains with a heel.

‘It’s all your F***ING fault, Father. Last week I could have had a herd of fifty cows and this week I have nothing.’

John departed, leaving a stuttering priest behind.

*

Patrick lifted the can of lager to his lips, took a mouthful and then smothered the smell with a mint. Placing the can in the bottom drawer of his desk he leant back in his chair and considered further options. Sending the two letters added a buzz to his days because the consequences of his actions were unknown. Did he want to continue down this path? Keep your hands clean, part of his brain advised. Boring, boring, boring, screamed another part.

Patrick decided not to be bored.

*

The Maloney and Carr families farmed adjacent holdings in the mid-west of the country. Both families could trace back their roots at this location for generations. They were the best of friends and helped with each other’s livestock when a family needed holidays. The two farms were of similar size. There existed a friendly rivalry between Peter Maloney and Tom Carr the two breadwinners as to who could make the most money from their holdings. Each claimed to be superior to the other in their application of modern farming methods.

Letters arrived at both farms on the same morning. Peter read the letter and his heart dropped. His application to build a silo turned down and this after a wait of two years. What to do now?

Across the fields, Tom Carr whooped with delight. His letter gave him permission to build a silo. He only submitted his application six months ago.

Later that day Peter met Tom.

‘They turned down my application to build a silo,’ announced Peter loudly over the noise of the tractor.

Tom’s face displayed genuine sympathy. ‘Mine came through.’

‘After only six months?’

‘Only six months.’

Peter felt deep resentment. This news would leak out and he would be the laughing stock of the parish. Tom Carr bore responsibility for his situation. Why didn’t Carr wait until his application came through before submitting his own request for a silo? He would not let Carr get the better of him. He would make him pay for this humiliation.