As a man of letters, dedicated to the life of the mind, I don’t know how I would manage without the help of my trusty groundskeeper, Freyne. Though getting on in years (78-ish – not sure if he has a birth cert) Freyne is an absolute treasure, and friends are often asking me if they could borrow him. “Not a chance,” I say. “Get your own Freyne!”
It’s not like days of yore when the relationship between upstairs and downstairs was a cold and distant one. We have a friendly and informal relationship, Freyne and I. I often take him refreshments when he is, for example, powerhosing my drive or insulating my shed and I am taking a break from writing deep thoughts in my study. And when I do so, we chat about the affairs of the day and I survey my estate (a terraced former council house in north Dublin).
Sometimes, in fact, my wife and I even dine with Freyne and Freyne’s wife, Mrs Freyne. In many ways, Freyne is just like one of the family, not least because, as my wife keeps reminding me, he is my father. (I prefer to think of him as “Freyne”, a salt-of-the-earth yeoman steward who has been with my family for many years.)
“Aren’t you going to help him?” she asks as we watch this septuagenarian hoist heavy equipment from the back of his car.
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“But I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to do that,” I say. “I have sensitive hands and a mind filled with poetry. No, best leave it to Freyne. He knows what he’s doing.”
Freyne also works on occasion for my sister and for my brother. (As I said, he’s just like one of the family.) He builds fences and paints walls for them. He will probably die on the roof of one of our houses in the middle of fixing some loose slates during a storm. But we’ve all made our peace with that. We’re pretty sure it’s how he’d want to go.
“Are you not embarrassed to have your aged father power-hosing your drive while you write a ‘funny’ TV column about Dermot Bannon?” says my wife, who comes from a more “suburban” family than mine and so doesn’t understand how things are done.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. As we’re speaking, a van pulls up across the road. The words “Seniors’ Home Maintenance” is written across the side. A man about my age gets out and starts power-hosing the yard of my neighbour, who is actually younger than Freyne. If you think about it, I suppose, Freyne is also running a version of Seniors’ Home Maintenance, in that he is a senior who maintains my home.
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If I was to write a letter of reference for Freyne it would read:
To whom it concerns,
Freyne has been a faithful and hardworking retainer for me for many years. He has many practical skills, though I can’t say I understand them all, as my mind is on issues of state.
He has never, to my knowledge, stolen anything, and I’ve been very watchful.
Also, he is my father.
Yours sincerely,
Patrick Freyne, Esq
Someday, probably when he is in his late 90s, Freyne will be unable to continue his labours on my estate. He will retire to a cottage in the country with Mrs Freyne, and we will no doubt never see him again. What will we do then?
We’ll probably hire a Boy from the Village (my nephew Eli) who will take up Freyne’s ancestral post. But it won’t be the same. The Boy from the Village (Eli) is a sullen and disrespectful child who does not look upon my literary endeavours with sufficient reverence and awe. He thinks I can do a lot of this practical stuff myself.
“You know you could do a lot of this stuff yourself,” says my wife, a writer of romance novels.
“I’ve too delicate a constitution,” I say, feeling one of my brain fevers coming on. “And the sunlight hurts my beautiful eyes.”
“He’s nearly 78 years old,” she says.
“I think he’s one of those superagers,” I say.
“You’d surely be capable of a bit of weeding and powerhosing,” she says.
“But he likes it!” I say, accurately.
I wave out the window at him. His hands are full so he can’t wave back. He’s carrying a heavy bin filled with weeds and moss and mud. I’d help him, but I’m in my 50s now and have a bit of a sore back.
“On the other hand,” she says. “He’s certainly contributed to making you this useless. You’re a textbook case of learned helplessness.”
I nod, sadly.
“And we do need the back garden tidied up,” she says.
“Excellent!” I say. “I’ll have a word with Freyne.”
