My first
‘proper’ job was in 1976, working as a trainee manager in a posh English
department store – and it was a
proper job. Back then, jobs were for life and companies invested in their
employees through good education and training. Over the following two years I was
privileged to work in every department of the store, from the warehouse to the
accounts department and everywhere in-between, including a week in the lingerie
department – tough going for an impressionable young man! I learned much that
would serve me well in the future from the kind and gentle employees of that
wonderful family-run establishment. Of all the work-placements I experienced,
my favorite by far was the stationery department.
I’ll admit, I
found studying for the British Stationery Products Federation diploma course to
be rather less interesting than learning about bra sizes, but I was saved from
terminal boredom on the day I was moved to the pen repair counter. Back then
most people learned to write with something called a ‘fountain pen’ and
continued to use the same pen for many years – I still write with one today. A
good quality, wet ink, fountain pen manufactured by Parker, Sheaffer, or
Waterman, would have a gold nib, a tortoise shell case, and cost more than a
lowly trainee manager earned in a week. Once it is worn-in, a fountain pen
becomes unique, with the nib worn just-so, it perfectly matches only one person’s
handwriting, feeling as comfortable as an old pair of slippers. Such an
instrument cannot be replaced, but it can be repaired. Trained, qualified and equipped
with my magnifying glasses and special toolkit, I was a micro engineer! I stood
behind the glass counter and whiled away my days straightening bent nibs,
unblocking ink feeds, and replacing broken clips. This seemingly insignificant
service was of great benefit to our customers and their gratitude gave me a
real sense of purpose and achievement.
One of the first
pens I repaired belonged to a diminutive lady named Mrs. Storm. Standing just
over five-feet tall, with dark auburn hair, carrying a black handbag, and
wearing a beige tweed jacket and matching skirt worthy of a school
headmistress, she was perfectly disguised for her role as the shop floor
security guard. Every day she drifted through the store unseen by many, as
invisible as a ghost, while her eagle-sharp eyes searched for the opportunist
thief. At a time before CCTV, Mrs. Storm spent much of her time near to the pen
department. From here she had a good view of the counters that displayed many of
the stores high-value items that were small enough for a thief to slip into a
pocket or bag. To enhance her disguise, sometimes I would pretend to show her
pens, while we chatted about her family, her life as a police officer, or
sports, or nothing in particular. Even though we were quite friendly, and she
called me ‘Young Nick’, I always addressed her as Mrs. Storm. Her Christian name
had always been a closely guarded secret – until the day of the soccer match.
I’m not a
follower of football, so some of the details are rather vague, but I recall it
was a big match (perhaps a local derby), and we were all on high alert as
trouble and violence was anticipated. It started off to my right, with a scream
of shock and dismay, followed by the crash and tinkle of something being
knocked over. Then there were the sounds of fast running feet and the shouts of
indignation as shoppers were pushed aside. Just as I stepped out from behind
the counter to investigate, a very large youth with a ‘skinhead’ haircut came
running into view. He was wearing a red football shirt and a look of violent
desperation. His right hand was clutching a bundle of cash. Before I could
react to what was obviously a robbery in progress, a beige blur came out of
left field. It was Mrs. Storm. With astonishing alacrity, she dipped her right
shoulder and tackled the man as if she were an England international rugby
scrum half. The huge thief went down like a felled tree, scattering the stolen
cash across the floor. There was an audible “Ooof” as the air was expelled from
his lungs.
Despite the shock
of this unexpected tackle, the thief had the resilience that comes from youth and
the fear of impending arrest. Even with a middle-aged woman sitting jockey-like
on his back, the big lad quickly recovered and it was only when Mrs. Storm
turned her pleading eyes in my direction that my bewilderment dissipated and I
sprang to her aid. With the benefit of my additional weight and muscle, the
robber was quickly subdued, and once the handcuffs were clicked shut, he hung
his head and complied.
Afterwards, Mrs.
Storm came by my counter to thank me for my assistance.
“Think nothing
of it Mrs. Storm,” I said, waving my hand dismissively, “I’m happy to have helped.”
“Well, I’m very
grateful,” she replied, smiling. “In future, you may call me Ophelia.”
I nodded and
returned her smile, proud of the privilege she had just bestowed.
“Ophelia Storm,”
I whispered, “What a lovely name.”
***
Storm Ophelia
crossed the Atlantic ocean, picking up energy from the unseasonably warm waters
and spinning into a hurricane before it slammed into the south west coast of
Ireland on the 16th of October 2017.
With wind gusts of 191km/h and
waves over 17 meters high, it was the most powerful storm ever to hit mainland
Ireland. In its wake 295,000 homes were left without power, thousands of trees
were down – many blocking roads, and hundreds of buildings were damaged. That
only three lives were lost, is testament to how well the public obeyed the
advice to stay indoors until the storm had passed. We spent most of that day
looking out of the windows and hoping for the best. Our power went off just
after lunch, so there was little else we could do but light candles, hunker
down and wait.
My wife had longstanding
plans to visit England for a holiday, beginning on the 17th of October
(the day after Ophelia). Hoping for the best, Lesley packed her bags by
candlelight, then we set the alarm clock for 3:30 am and headed to bed. During
the night the wind had eased considerably and, as Ryanair was reporting ‘business
as usual’, we set off for Shannon airport at 4 am. Although there was much debris to avoid along
the way, and one diversion caused by a fallen tree, the thirty mile trip was
slow, but largely uneventful. Back at the house, with the power still off, I
stoked the fire and snoozed on the couch as I waited for the sun to rise.
The morning
seemed eerily calm, with only the distant buzzing of chainsaws to disturb the
silence. Soon the cattle began lowing – like a call to prayers – as the
scattered herds reassembled. It was a chilly morning, with a crystal clear blue
sky and not a breath of wind – a typical autumn day in the west of Ireland.
After feeding the chickens, I walked our four dogs around our land and checked
for damage.
We had lost a
few trees and our power was out for twenty-eight hours, but otherwise there was
no significant damage. Given the incredible power of the winds, I felt we were
extraordinarily lucky. By the time the ESB electricians and linesmen reached
our house, they looked haggard with exhaustion – but they were in good spirits,
laughing and joking as they worked.
There are many
tales of local heroism that I could relate, but one in particular really summed
up how our community can pull together at a time of need.
Bob is an
elderly American, living alone in a remote part of Ireland, just south of
Killaloe and close to Lough Derg. We’ve been friends for a couple of years. He
is a kind and intelligent man. We meet for lunch about once a month as well as conversing
by email. In his own words, this is his experience of storm Ophelia and the
kindness of strangers…
“We lost
electricity about noon. Around 4:00 pm the folks on our road got it back, but we
did not. I checked my breaker box and it was OK so I suspected the problem was somewhere
in the wire from the utility pole. I called the electric company to report a
problem and was told it could be up to five days to get it looked into.
“There are still
about 150,000 homes without electricity, but mine is not one of them. This
morning I went over to Bobby Reidy's Pub to use his free Wi-Fi to send you guys
a message. Bobby and his family were good friends of my wife before she passed.
His mom is a neighbor of ours. I told him I was still without electricity, he
said that he would call a friend who could
possibly help me out. I said thanks, but never expected anything to come of it.
“I was asleep in
the guest house (my bedroom being very cold without heating and electricity) when
my niece came over to tell me the power was back on. At 10:00 tonight a guy
pulled up to the cottage to repair the wire connection on our utility pole. I
had just dropped off to sleep after getting into bed at about 9:30. Now I am wide awake and will have trouble
getting back to sleep, I did not even get a chance to thank the guy. It was
Bobby's friend that fixed our electrics. He lives up the road past us a ways and
was on his way home, dog tired after a 12 hour day, yet he made time to help
someone he has never met. I’m still having a hard time believing it. I need to
find an appropriate way to thank them both. I think I will go over to Reidy's
tomorrow and thank Bobby and leave an envelope for the ‘friend’.
“The wind did no
other mischief here. ELECTRICITY IS GOOD.”
Best wishes
Bob
