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Authors: Catherine Dunne
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meeting. And she’d just turn up. One day, she was hovering at the margins of our little group and the next, there she was, installed at the centre of
things. Although, to be fair, her presence among us was partly due to me, too.
Helly-Nora was three years older than the rest of us. At our age now, that kind of a gap means nothing. But back when we were eighteen, it was like an entire generation. When I met her first, I
thought she was mature and a bit more serious than we were, and I liked that. I thought of her as a welcome change from the noisy fun and silliness of number 12, Rathmines Road.
Helly and I – sorry, Nora and I – ended up in the same French conversation class during our first term. We were thrown together by both of us arriving late. I’d been standing
outside debating whether to go in at all. I was still nervous of the academics, and I felt a complete fool that I’d mixed up the venue. Nora was even more flustered than I was.
‘Is this Mademoiselle Ondart’s seminar?’ She looked hot and damp, her forehead was wrinkled and perspiration was gathering in little beads across her upper lip. I remember
noticing the faint shadow of a moustache and wondering why on earth she didn’t bleach it.
‘Yeah,’ I said, and stubbed out my cigarette. ‘But she’s already started and I don’t want to barge in. It’s kinda rude, isn’t it?’
Her anxiety moved up a step. I could see it in her face. ‘Oh, but we can’t not go in. Not when it’s a conversation class. Because afterwards there’s no way to
catch up on what we’ve missed.’
I hadn’t thought about that. Or if I had, I didn’t care. I was never the most conscientious of students. I made sure I did just enough to get by. I liked Spanish and French well
enough, but fashion was my passion back then. It still is. Not everything has changed. And music, of course. Those were the places where I really lived my life. The rest was just so much
window-dressing as far as I was concerned. I got a real buzz out of making my own clothes and I even used to cut my own patterns. I loved the whole ritual of the tailor’s chalk, the tissue
paper, the clackety-clack of the Singer sewing machine, and all the while there’d be music belting away in the background.
Tamla Motown, now that was my kind of stuff. Stevie Wonder, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, Otis Redding. Jimmy Ruffin crying over broken hearts, Diana Ross yearning after lost love, Marvin
Gaye and Tammi Terrell singing their hearts out about high mountains and low valleys and rivers that weren’t wide enough. About there being nothing like true love, baby – hours and
hours of doom and betrayal and misery. My brother Paul never stopped teasing me about my taste in music. But I’ve often asked myself, over the years, if something inside me knew. I
mean, if there was some instinct already there, at work, making sure that I was prepared for the life that ended up being mine. I like that kind of speculation, particularly at a time like this,
when it doesn’t matter any more.
My college years were not where I shone the brightest. I managed only a pass degree, and my parents were a bit sniffy about that, but it didn’t bother me. On the day I met Nora, I
couldn’t have cared less about Mademoiselle Ondart and her corner on disapproval. You know the type. Tiny and neat and full of Parisian superiorities. But it was obvious that Nora felt
differently. I would have been just as happy to go and have a fag and a coffee in the Buttery, but she was already walking towards the door of the seminar room. She was determined to have what she
felt she was entitled to.
‘Let’s go in together,’ she urged. ‘I’ll apologize for both of us. Okay?’
‘Okay’ Whatever. I followed her inside and we took the first available chairs. Unfortunately, they were the ones closest to Mademoiselle herself, so we had to walk the whole length
of the room under her irritated gaze. She was just
things. Although, to be fair, her presence among us was partly due to me, too.
Helly-Nora was three years older than the rest of us. At our age now, that kind of a gap means nothing. But back when we were eighteen, it was like an entire generation. When I met her first, I
thought she was mature and a bit more serious than we were, and I liked that. I thought of her as a welcome change from the noisy fun and silliness of number 12, Rathmines Road.
Helly and I – sorry, Nora and I – ended up in the same French conversation class during our first term. We were thrown together by both of us arriving late. I’d been standing
outside debating whether to go in at all. I was still nervous of the academics, and I felt a complete fool that I’d mixed up the venue. Nora was even more flustered than I was.
‘Is this Mademoiselle Ondart’s seminar?’ She looked hot and damp, her forehead was wrinkled and perspiration was gathering in little beads across her upper lip. I remember
noticing the faint shadow of a moustache and wondering why on earth she didn’t bleach it.
‘Yeah,’ I said, and stubbed out my cigarette. ‘But she’s already started and I don’t want to barge in. It’s kinda rude, isn’t it?’
Her anxiety moved up a step. I could see it in her face. ‘Oh, but we can’t not go in. Not when it’s a conversation class. Because afterwards there’s no way to
catch up on what we’ve missed.’
I hadn’t thought about that. Or if I had, I didn’t care. I was never the most conscientious of students. I made sure I did just enough to get by. I liked Spanish and French well
enough, but fashion was my passion back then. It still is. Not everything has changed. And music, of course. Those were the places where I really lived my life. The rest was just so much
window-dressing as far as I was concerned. I got a real buzz out of making my own clothes and I even used to cut my own patterns. I loved the whole ritual of the tailor’s chalk, the tissue
paper, the clackety-clack of the Singer sewing machine, and all the while there’d be music belting away in the background.
Tamla Motown, now that was my kind of stuff. Stevie Wonder, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, Otis Redding. Jimmy Ruffin crying over broken hearts, Diana Ross yearning after lost love, Marvin
Gaye and Tammi Terrell singing their hearts out about high mountains and low valleys and rivers that weren’t wide enough. About there being nothing like true love, baby – hours and
hours of doom and betrayal and misery. My brother Paul never stopped teasing me about my taste in music. But I’ve often asked myself, over the years, if something inside me knew. I
mean, if there was some instinct already there, at work, making sure that I was prepared for the life that ended up being mine. I like that kind of speculation, particularly at a time like this,
when it doesn’t matter any more.
My college years were not where I shone the brightest. I managed only a pass degree, and my parents were a bit sniffy about that, but it didn’t bother me. On the day I met Nora, I
couldn’t have cared less about Mademoiselle Ondart and her corner on disapproval. You know the type. Tiny and neat and full of Parisian superiorities. But it was obvious that Nora felt
differently. I would have been just as happy to go and have a fag and a coffee in the Buttery, but she was already walking towards the door of the seminar room. She was determined to have what she
felt she was entitled to.
‘Let’s go in together,’ she urged. ‘I’ll apologize for both of us. Okay?’
‘Okay’ Whatever. I followed her inside and we took the first available chairs. Unfortunately, they were the ones closest to Mademoiselle herself, so we had to walk the whole length
of the room under her irritated gaze. She was just
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