YET ANOTHER unexpurgated extract from my Ballina diaries of the Sixties.

FEBRUARY, 1969

Monday

Struggled back to work in the library this morning, destroyed after a weekend in Galway with Jimmy and Seanin. Thank God I am on filing duties and can stay seated.

My work rate is snail like but fortunately Miss Cartwright does not seem to notice, being in a strange dazed state. A rumour has begun to circulate through Ballina about her own activities at the weekend. No doubt I will hear more later.

In Galway I learned that Seanin is not exactly staying true to Maureen. He still sends her the promised weekly letter but I discovered he has a stack of them written in advance by a pal of his for a consideration paid in Guinness, and posts one every Friday. (They are full of banalities and vague declarations of affection).

He stood me three pints to conceal this from Maureen, and to conceal Maureen's existence from Grainne, a first year Arts student to whom he introduced me in the Skef. She is quite pretty in a Mayo kind of way.

Study appears to play little part in S's complicated student life, or indeed in Jimmy's. Their dank, womb like double bedsitter in a cave on the Father Griffin Road has so little literature in it one would think the inhabitants were allergic. "Sure all the books are in the library", Jimmy told me, as if I were a complete imbecile.

Tuesday

The whole town is buzzing with rather unpleasant gossip about Miss Cartwright. Apparently she accidentally dropped into the Moy Hotel on Saturday night when the Glaswegian rugby seniors were sitting down to dinner with the Ballina opposition whom they had defeated heavily, and being the only woman there (to her acute embarrassment, I can well imagine), she was the source of much interest.

It hardly needs to be said that drink was flowing, but to make a long story short it seems she disappeared into the night with the captain, an enormous rustic at least 15 years her junior. Nobody saw either of them for two days and the word is that the fellow has not turned up for training since.

The more lascivious gossipmongers, of whom this town is not short, are talking about Miss Cartwright entertaining the entire Glaswegians team.

I have a strange feeling, and realise it is sympathy for her.

Wednesday

I overheard mother this evening talking about "that strap" and then realised she was referring to poor Miss Cartwright. My father to his credit made no response He had a sort of faraway look about him as mother recounted the gossip, even more embellished by now. Father was a promising club rugby player until the knee cartilage went.

Thursday

God help us all the annual Agricultural Show, which does not take place until August, is already being advertised around town as if it were the Mardi Gras or the Rio Carnival. Unsophisticated people often have their own charm, certainly in this town, but not when they behave as if their down home show were a rival to the attractions of Las Vegas.

This year's guest of honour is a "famous" showband singer. In other words he has performed at least once in the Marine Ballroom, the Travellers Friend or Pontoon.

Friday

Harriet arrived in the library this morning and met Miss Cartwright for the first time. Straight out, Harriet, with a big wide grin, said: "I hear you're fond of the oval ball." In my mortification on my poor dumbstruck employer's behalf I completely mis filed the next 30 books and now have no idea where to find them.

Saturday

I am emerging from Curry's with the Sunday joint when I bump into Father T, our parish priest, always the last person I want to meet. He is extremely small and thin, yet has a way of blocking one's path like a prize wrestler. His way of checking his parishioners' spiritual health is similar - he wades right in. "No confession for six months" he says belligerently to me. "You must have the purest soul in Ireland."

Fortunately I suddenly see a certain young lady coming out of Clarke's with her mongrel Zero and take the chance to excuse myself. "Next only to Maureen's" I say sweetly to Father T and take her arm as she passes, to Maureen's complete astonishment. It is a long time since I have been pleased to see her.

Monday

Mrs Maloney, perhaps our eldest regular in the library, and certainly our most irritating, comes up to complain loudly about finding Ways with Dogs filed in the cookery section. I am too concerned about Miss Cartwright's state of mind to make an adequate reply.