‘Well, you know, people interpret these things in different ways.’
‘But words to someone else’s song – isn’t that a breach of copyright?’ Their horror was total.
Chicky shrugged.
‘It was clever, catchy. Everyone liked it.’
‘The original song may have been catchy and clever but they just wrote a parody of it and they got to go to Paris.’ The hurt and bitterness were written all over them.
Chicky looked from one to the other.
‘Well, you’re here now, so let’s hope you enjoy it,’ she said hopelessly.
They struggled to get back to their normal selves, but it was too huge an effort.
Chicky thought it wiser to leave them on their own. It was so obvious that for The Walls, this holiday was a very poor second best.
‘If it’s any consolation to you, everyone, all the judges, thought that even if the Flemmings got the first prize, your story was totally heart-warming. We were all envious of your relationship,’ she tried.
It was useless. Not only had they been disappointed but The Walls knew now that they had been cheated too. It would rankle for ever.
They made an effort to recover. A big effort, but it wasn’t easy. They tried to talk to their fellow guests and appear interested in what they had to say. They were an unlikely group: an earnest boy from Sweden, a librarian called Freda, an English couple who were both doctors, a disapproving woman with a pursed mouth called Nell, an American who had missed a plane and had come here on the spur of the moment and a pair of unlikely friends called Winnie and Lillian. What were they all doing here?
The food was excellent, served by Orla, the attractive niece of the proprietor. Really, there was nothing to object to. Nothing, that is, apart from the fact that the Flemmings, whoever they were, had stolen their holiday in Paris.
The Walls didn’t sleep well that night. They were wakeful at three in the morning and made tea in their room. They sat and listened to the wind and rain outside and the sound of the waves receding and crashing again on the shore. It sounded sad and plaintive, as if in sympathy with them.
Next morning, the other guests all seemed ready and enthusiastic about their planned trips. The Walls chose a direction at random and found themselves on a long, deserted beach.
It was bracing, certainly, and healthy. They would have to admit that. The scenery was spectacular.
But it wasn’t Paris.
They went to one of the pubs that Chicky had suggested and had a bowl of soup.
‘I don’t think I could take six more days of this.’ Ann Wall put down her spoon.
‘Mine’s fine,’ Charlie said.
‘I don’t mean the soup, I mean being here where we don’t want to be.’
‘I know, I feel that too, in a way,’ Charlie agreed.
‘And it’s not as if they won it fair and square. Even Chicky admits that.’ Ann Wall was very aggrieved.
‘Wouldn’t you love to know how they are getting on?’ Charlie said.
‘Yes. I’d both hate to know and love to know at the same time.’ They laughed companionably over it.
The woman behind the bar looked at them with approval.
‘Lord, it’s grand to see a couple getting on so well,’ she said. ‘I was only saying to Paddy last night that they just come in here, stare into their drinks and say nothing at all. Paddy hadn’t noticed. They probably have it all said, was what he thought.’
The Walls were pleased to be admired for having a good relationship twice in twenty-four hours. They had never before thought that it might be unusual. But then Chicky had said that the judges had been envious of them. Not envious enough, of course, to give them the main prize . . .
They said they were on a holiday from Dublin and staying at Stone House.
‘Didn’t Chicky do a great job on that place,’ the woman said. ‘She was a great example to people round here. When her poor husband, the Lord have mercy on him, was killed in that terrible road accident over there in New York, she just set her mind to coming back here and making a whole new life for herself, and bringing a bit of business to this place in the winter. We all wish her well.’
It was sad about Chicky’s husband, The Walls agreed, but in their hearts it didn’t make them feel any more settled in this remote part of Ireland when their dreams were elsewhere.
They didn’t mention that they had won the holiday in a competition until dinner on the fourth night. Everyone was more relaxed around the table in the evenings; by that time they realised that no one had been quite what they looked. The two women, Lillian and Winnie, weren’t old friends at all and they had almost drowned and were rescued; the doctors seemed more relaxed and Nicola chatted happily with the American who was revealed to be a film star; the Swedish boy had a passion for music and Freda the librarian seemed to be uncannily right in her pronouncements about people’s lives. Nell was still disapproving – at least that hadn’t changed. But they did feel like people who knew each other, rather than a group of accidentally gathered strangers.
They were all fascinated by the idea of winning competitions. They had thought that they were all fixed, or that so many people entered you just had no chance.
The Walls listed some of the items they had won and were gratified by the fascination that it seemed to hold for everyone.
‘Is there a knack to it?’ Orla wanted to know. She’d love to win a motorbike and travel around Europe, she explained.
The Walls were generous with their advice; it wasn’t so much a knack, more doggedness and keeping it simple.
They were all fired up and dying to enter a competition. If only they could find one. Chicky and Orla ran to collect some newspapers and magazines, and they raked them to find competitions.
There was one where you had to name an animal in the zoo. The Walls explained that it was in a section aimed at children, and so every school in the country would be sending in entries. The odds were too great against them. They spoke with the authority of poker players who could tell you the chances of filling a straight or a flush. The others looked on in awe.
Then in a local West of Ireland paper they found a competition, ‘Invent a Festival’.
The Walls read it out carefully. Contestants were asked to suggest a festival, something that would bring business in winter to a community in the West.
This might be the very thing. What kind of festival could they come up with for Stoneybridge?
The guests looked doubtful. They had been hoping for a slick slogan or a clever limerick. Suggesting a festival was too difficult.
The Walls weren’t sure. They said it had possibilities that they must explore. It had to be a winter thing so a beauty pageant made no sense – the poor girls would freeze to death. Galway had done the oyster festival, so they couldn’t do that. Other parts of the coast had taken over the surfing and kayaking industry.
Rock climbing was too specialist. There was traditional music, of course, but Stoneybridge wasn’t known as a centre for it like Doolin or Miltown Malbay in County Clare, and they didn’t have any legendary pipers or fiddlers in their past. There already was a walking festival, and Stoneybridge could boast no literary figures that might be used as a basis for a winter school.
There was no history of visual arts in the place. They could produce no Jack Yeats or Paul Henry as a focus.
‘What about a storytelling festival?’ was the suggestion of Henry and Nicola, the quiet English doctors. Everyone thought that was a good idea, but apparently there was a storytelling event in the next county which was well established.
Anders suggested a Teach Yourself Irish Music seminar but the others said the place was coming down with tourists being taught to play the tin whistle and the spoons, and the Irish drum called the bodhrán.
The American, who seemed to be called John or Corry alternately, said that he thought a Find Your Roots festival would do well. You could have genealogists on hand to help people trace their ancestors. The
general opinion was that the roots industry in Ireland was well covered already.
Winnie suggested a cookery festival, where local people could teach the visitors how to make the brown bread and potato farls, and particularly how to use the carrageen to make the delicious mousse they had eaten last night. But apparently there were too many cookery schools already, and it would be hard to compete.
They all agreed to sleep on the problem and to bring new ideas to the table the following night. It had been an entertaining evening and The Walls had enjoyed it in spite of themselves.
Once back in their bedroom, their thoughts went again to Paris. Tonight was when they should have been going to the Opéra. Their limousine would have been gliding through the lights of Paris; then they would have purred back to the Martinique where they would be welcomed by the staff, who would know them by this stage. The maître d’ would suggest a little drink in the piano bar before they went to bed. Instead, they were trying to explain the rules of competition-winning to a crowd of strangers who hadn’t the first idea where to start.
As always, just thinking about it made them discontented.
‘I bet they don’t even appreciate it,’ Charlie said.
‘They probably called off the opera house and went to a pub.’ Ann was full of scorn.
Then suddenly the thought came to her.
‘Let’s telephone them and ask them how they are getting on. At least we’ll know.’
‘We can’t ring them in Paris!’ Charlie was shocked.
‘Why not? Just a short call. We’ll say we called to wish them well.’
‘But how would we ever find them?’ Charlie was dumb-founded.
‘We know the name of the hotel; we know their name – what’s hard to find there?’ To Ann it was simple.
The Walls had already written all the details of the Paris holiday in their competition notebook, including the telephone number of the Hotel Martinique. Before he could think of another objection she had picked up her mobile phone, dialled the number and got through.
‘Monsieur et Madame Flemming d’Irlande, s’il vous plaît,’ she said in a clear, bell-like voice.
‘Who are you going to say we are?’ Charlie asked fearfully.
‘Let’s play it by ear.’ Ann was in control.
Charlie listened in anxiously as she was put through.
‘Oh, Mrs Flemming, just a call to ask how the holiday is going. Is it all to your satisfaction?’
‘Oh, well, yes . . . I mean, thank you indeed,’ the woman sounded hesitant.
‘And you are enjoying your week at the Martinique?’ Ann persisted.
‘Are you from the hotel?’ the woman asked nervously.
‘No, indeed, just a call from Ireland to hope there are no problems.’
‘Well, it’s rather awkward. It’s very hard to say this because it is a very expensive hotel. We know that, but it’s not quite what we had hoped.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that. In what way, exactly?’
‘Well . . . It isn’t a suite, for one thing. It’s a very small room near the lift, which is going up and down all night. And then we can’t eat in the dining room – the vouchers are only for what they call Le Snack Bar.’
‘Oh dear, that wasn’t in the terms of agreement,’ Ann said disapprovingly.
‘Yes, but you might as well be talking to a blank wall for all the response you get. They shrug and say these arrangements have nothing to do with them.’ Mrs Flemming was beginning to sound very aggrieved.
‘And the chauffeur?’
‘We’ve only seen him once. He is attached to the hotel, and apparently he’s needed by VIP customers all the time. He’s never free. They gave us vouchers for a bus tour to Versailles, which was exhausting, and there were miles of cobblestones to walk over. We didn’t go to Chartres at all.’
‘That’s not what was promised,’ Ann clucked with disapproval.
‘No indeed, and we hate complaining. I mean, it’s a very generous prize. It’s just . . . it’s just . . .’
‘The top restaurants? Have they turned out all right?’
‘Yes, up to a point, but you see it only covers the prix fixe, you know, the set menu, and it’s often things like tripe or rabbit that we don’t eat. They did say we could choose from the fine-dining menus, but when we got there we couldn’t.’
‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘Well, we didn’t know what to do, so that’s why it’s wonderful you called us. Are you from the magazine?’
‘Not directly, but sort of connected,’ Ann Wall said.
‘We don’t like to go whingeing and whining to them; it seems so ungrateful. It’s just so much less than we expected.’
‘I know, I know.’ Ann was genuinely sympathetic.
‘And individually the people in the hotel are very nice, really nice and pleasant, it’s just that in general they seem to think we won much more of a bargain-basement prize than the one that was advertised. What would you suggest we do?’
The Walls looked at each other blankly. What indeed?
‘Perhaps you could get in touch with the public relations firm that set it up,’ Ann said eventually.
‘Could you do that for us, do you think?’ Mrs Flemming was obviously a person who didn’t want to make waves.
‘It might be more effective coming from you, what with your being on the spot and everything . . .’ Ann was feverishly trying to pass the buck back to the Flemmings.
‘But you were kind enough to ring us to ask was everything all right. Who are you representing, exactly?’
‘Just a concerned member of the public.’ And Ann Wall hung up, trembling.
What were they going to do now?
First they allowed the glorious feeling to seep over them and through them. The dream holiday in Paris had turned out to be a nightmare. They were oh so well out of it. They were better by far in this mad place on the Atlantic, which they had thought was so disappointing at first.
Everything that had been promised was being delivered here. Perhaps they had won the first prize after all.
They decided that the following morning they would call the public relations firm and report that all was not as it should be at the Hotel Martinique.
For the first time they slept all through the night. There was no resentful waking at three a.m. to have tea and brood about the unfairness of life in general and competitions in particular.
The Walls took a packed lunch and walked along the cliffs and crags until they found an old ruined church, which Chicky said would be a lovely place to stop and have their picnic. It was sheltered from the gales and looked straight across to America.
They laughed happily as they unpacked their wonderful rich slices of chicken pie and opened their flasks of soup. Imagine – the Flemmings would be facing another lunch of tripe and rabbit in Paris.
Ann Wall had left a cryptic message with the PR agency, saying that for everyone’s sake they should check on the Flemmings in the Martinique or some very undesirable publicity might result. They felt like bold children who had been given time off at school. They would enjoy the rest of their stay.
That night, everyone at Chicky’s kitchen table was ready with their festival suggestions; they could barely wait for the meal to finish to come up with their pitch. Lillian, whose face had softened over the last couple of days, said that the essence of a festival nowadays seemed to be, if everyone would excuse the use of that horrible phrase, a ‘feel-good factor’. Sagely they all nodded and said that was exactly what was needed.
Chicky said that a sense of community was becoming more and more important in the world today. Young people fled small closed societies at first, as well they should, but later they wanted to be part of them again.
Orla wondered about organising a family reunion. They liked the notion but said it would be hard to quantify. Did it mean the gathering of a clan, or the bringing together of people who had been estranged? Lillian thought that
an Honorary Granny Festival might be good. Everyone wanted to be a grandmother, she said firmly. Winnie looked at her sharply. This had never been brought up before.
Henry and Nicola wondered if Health in the Community might be a good theme. People were very into diets and lifestyle and exercise these days. Stoneybridge could provide it all. And Anders said suddenly that you could have a festival to celebrate friendship. You know, old friends turning up together, maybe going on a trip there with an old pal, that kind of thing. They thought about it politely for a while. The more they thought about it, the better it sounded.
It didn’t exclude family, or anything. Your friend could be your sister or your aunt.
Most people must have felt from time to time that they would love to catch up with someone that they hadn’t seen as much as they would have liked.
Suppose there was a festival which offered a variety of entertainments, like the ideas everyone had suggested already but done in the name of friendship? They were teeming with ideas. There could indeed be cookery demos, keep-fit classes, walking tours, birdwatching trips, farmhouse teas, sing-songs, local drama, tap-dancing classes.
The Walls watched with mounting excitement as the table planned and took notes and assembled a programme. They had a winner on their hands.
They checked the newspaper again to see what prize was being offered.
It was a 1,250-euro shopping spree in a big Dublin store.
The Walls worked it out. They would share it equally between them, with extra for Anders as they had chosen his idea. Would that do?
Everyone was delighted.
What would they call themselves? The Stone House Syndicate? Yes, that seemed perfect. Orla would type it out and give everyone a copy. They would watch for the results, which would be published the week before Christmas.
When the festival was up and running, they would all come back and celebrate here again. And best of all, they still had the rest of the week in this lovely house with the waves crashing on the shore. A place that had not only lived up to its promise but had delivered even more.
It wasn’t exactly romance and stardust sprinkled all over them like magic, but it was something deeper, like a sense of importance and a great feeling of peace.