The Hole in the Wall

Adventures outside a bank in Derrybeg, Ireland

I’m on the northwest coast of the Emerald Isle, in the county of Donegal, which boasts the world’s worst extremes of wet, windy, cold, and remote. That’s why it is also known as “Ireland’s Alaska”.

To be more precise, I’m in the little village of Derrybeg — 3 shops, 3 pubs, and 3 banks.

I’m bone dry and thirsty. Hunger is gnawing at my belly. And to make matters worse, my wallet is empty. I don’t even have any change in my pockets. Am I worried? Never! It is precisely for situations like these that “The Hole in the Wall” was created.

“The Hole in the Wall” is the affectionate term I use for my bank’s ATM. The Irish call it “Drink-Link”. It provides me, the humble bank customer, with cash whenever I need it. All “The Hole in the Wall” wants in return is my little plastic card and my four-digit pin-code.

“Thank heavens for The Hole in the Wall,” I thought to myself as I arrived outside the bank in Derrybeg.

It was past 4 o’clock in the afternoon, so they were already closed for the day. But what did I care? I flipped my shiny plastic card out of my otherwise empty wallet. I silently and secretly repeated my pin-code two or three times to myself. This number was so deeply etched into my memory that I knew it better than my own middle name. But I still have the occasional nightmare where I dream I’ve forgotten it.

I slipped the card into the slot, quickly checking behind me to make sure no-one was watching over my shoulder to steal my secret pin. Yes, I’d heard about some of the things done by dishonest people at other “Holes in the Wall”.

But something felt wrong! There was no greedy little tug as the machine pulled the card out of my fingertips. There was no solid “thunk” as it was sucked into the dark, deep, and mysterious inner workings of the ATM. Nothing like that!

It just sort of flopped out of my hand, like secretly dropping a piece of litter on the street. And the sound — no “tock” or “fumpfh” or “kerchunk”, no subtle machine noises at all. There was a kind of a flitter or a flutter, like a dry leaf blowing along the ground. This was followed by a tiny, feeble “flot” as it came to rest on something substantial behind the ATM’s face. And that was it!

“No worries,” I thought to myself. “Irish ATMs just haven’t got the usual ‘look and feel’ engineered into them as the ATMs at home in Germany.” But I admit that I was slightly nervous as I waited for the screen to change and ask for my pin-code.

Nothing changed. Nothing! Bloody nothing! The machine was silent, and the screen just sat there. I looked at the screen again, a little more closely this time, and my slight touch of nervousness turned into instant, mindless panic!

The dreaded words “Out of Order” were flickering on the ATM screen. Out-of-Bloody-Order!

Like everyone else, I never bother to read the screen until it asks for my pin-code. Why bother? They just show me advertising for bloody home loans or rubbish like that. But not only was this Out-of-Order ATM not going to give me any money, but it had stolen my beautiful plastic card as well.

The full implications of those three little words “Out-of-Order” really began to sink in: No card, no cash, no credit, no food, no booze, no cigarettes! No fresh salmon with mushroom cream sauce. Not even a single pint of Guinness.

No money to place a bet on that sure thing. No money for ANYTHING. Out-of-Order!

And there was also that little matter of two full week’s stay in Ireland coming up. Out-of-Order! Out….of…..Order!

I tried to control my terror. Don’t panic! Get hold of yourself. Think!

I checked my watch; it was just after four o’clock in the afternoon. Next to me was the bank’s entrance, and I read the harsh, no-nonsense statement of the “Closed” sign. But inside, there was … a movement. Heads were bobbing around. Shadowy bodies were moving about behind the frosted glass walls. Closed, yes. But not yet empty. Hope returned. Maybe all was not lost. Out-of-Order may still be returned to Full-Working-Order.

First, I had to catch their attention. The wooden door banged and rattled on its hinges as I announced my presence to the shapes sneaking around inside the bank. And sure enough, a miracle happened, or, rather, appeared. A miracle in a brown skirt, brown jacket, and brown hair. Early twenties. Her name was engraved on a plastic button pinned just over her left breast (an E-cup, for those who must know everything). Rosalynn. That was her name, Rosalynn.

Following the Irish custom, I introduced myself by my first name. “I’m Harry.” Rosalynn smiled. It was one of those dangerous smiles — somewhat embarrassed, slightly apologetic, partially forced, maybe even a little desperate. As I said, it was a dangerous smile.

“Harry, you don’t need to say a thing. You are, exactly and by definition, the wrong man, at the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ve just started renovation works on the bank today at closing time. The ATM should have been turned off and locked away before you had a chance to use it. We saw you come up and insert your card. And we saw the card fall into the gap between the ATM and the wall inside the bank.”

“Well then, just get my card out of there, please!” I guess I said this a little brusquely, but it’s not every day you can find anyone who works in a bank who is willing to admit that THEY could have made ANY mistake.

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do,” she replied, and before I could say anything else, she vanished back inside the bank.

Outside, I could hear progress underway on the other side of the wall — on the inside. I could hear deep rumblings and bumblings, rustling noises and scrapes, and moans and groans, and, above all, lots of curses.

Loud, dirty, foul-mouthed curses. First in Gaelic, then in English, voiced in the whole range from soprano to tenor, sometimes even in harmony, but mostly discordant and always very, very loud. I counted four different voices. That meant eight hands were working on my problem. I felt better. Progress, all-be-it noisy progress, was definitely underway.

I rechecked my watch, 4.18. Just over 10 minutes since my dilemma had begun. Then the front door of the bank swung open again, and again — very female.

I noted the familiar brown skirt and equally familiar brown jacket — this time without a name button. Instead of brown hair, this time, it was fair. The expression? Serious. It was just like a mother about to scold her insolent child after catching him with his hands in the biscuit tin.

“I’m Nora from Counter 2.”

How this titbit of information was going to help me in the quest to get money, my own money I hasten to add, has baffled me to this day. I was about to retort: “Nora! From Counter 2! Thank God for that! You’ve saved my day!”
But I thought better of it and kept my mouth shut.

“We’re really trying hard to get your card, but it’s stuck. It’s in a sort of gap — you could call it a chasm — and we just can’t get it out. We’ve tried scissors, tweezers, a couple of different knives, and our fingers. But it just won’t come out, so please be patient.”

And then she too vanished back inside the bank. Superwoman Nora was as useful as a fish on a bicycle.

The noises coming from behind ATM continued. I tried to match the different sounds with various recovery methods, but I gave up. New waves of curses reached successively higher and more terrifying levels of depravity. They threatened to shake the venerable roots of the solid stone bank building.

4.29: A male-shaped lump came out of the bank building. “I’m Jack, I’m the manager here.” His brown suit was covered in grease and concrete dust, it was creased and crumpled in a very unfashionable way. The top button of his collar was undone. His colorful tie was twisted off to the side — as was the silver-blonde toupee perched precariously on his head above unmatching, dark-grey sideburns. Even though he was the boss, it seemed he didn’t object to being part of the hard-working, card recovery team. Nice to see a bank manager getting his hands dirty for a change, I thought.

I guess he could see his free-time at the end of a busy working day receding into an unknown future. He offered me a compromise: “Why don’t you pop back tomorrow, I’m sure we’ll have the problem fixed by then.”

Without a word, I fumbled out my empty wallet and gave it a shake, opening it wide to display its non-existent contents. Without another word, Jack the Manager retreated silently back into his castle. “Hunger … Thirst!” I called after him with outstretched arms as the door was closing.

4.43: Another new face coming out of the door. “You must be Harry. I’m John-Joe from down the road, and I’m off to get some more tools so we can get to your bloody card.” He spat into his hands, and for some unknown reason, I took this as a sign of hope. John-Joe jumped into a scarred and dented old Ford Fiesta and rattled off to somewhere “down the road”.

I love that phrase “down the road” — the way he said it makes it sound not too far away. But from my past experience, I know that this quaint, local expression could also mean a long drive of an hour or more. By the way, there is a difference between a city mile and a country mile as well. A city mile in distance is 1 mile or 1.6 kilometers. A country mile in distance could be anything from 3 miles to 8 miles!

My heart slumped as I saw my night of pleasures in Derrybeg slipping away again.

But luck was with me, this time “down the road” was somewhere nearby, and John-Joe was back in just 20 minutes. John-Joe had swapped his grotty Fiesta for a huge Transit van, This vehicle was now full of new tools, and Rosalynn, Nora, and Jack came out to help John-Joe drag these into the bank.

I watched with interest, ready to explain my chronic lower back problem, should I be called upon to assist.

Rosalynn, Nora, Jack, and John-Joe dragged various steel boxes of tools, a massive percussion drill, and a motorized lawnmower — the latter seemed somewhat inappropriate considering the problem at hand — into the bank building.

With total disregard for my own well-being, I did attempt to assist by offering to carry a can of mower fuel into the bank — only to be refused access at the very threshold of the holy temple of finance.

5.03: The level of noise coming from behind the ATM increased dramatically. I began to worry that the very stability of the solid stone building was in danger. It was being tested by the earthquake-like tremors coming from inside the bank. Passers-by must have thought I was the lookout for a large gang of bank robbers.

5.15: Jack the Manager popped out to see me again. His face had a bright, cheerful expression. He held up a plastic bag in front of my face.

My heart leaped, but .. no, it wasn’t my plastic card in the bag, but rather an “a la carte” refreshment. “There you go, Harry!” said Jack, and turned around and went back into the bank.

I opened the bag and checked the contents more carefully. Then I realized that my good tastes and gourmet credentials were about to be put to the challenge — it was a cheese and tomato sandwich. I should say it had been a cheese and tomato sandwich at some time in the past. Now, it was like something discovered under the back seat of a used car. Along with the sandwich came a can of Coke, about 5 degrees over room temperature.

“Thanks,” I called and mumbled something like, “It’s the thought that counts.”

Jack the Manager turned his eyes sympathetically sky-wards as he returned to his sanctum.

Once again, I was left outside and alone, poor in everything but hope and need. Meanwhile, the fresh evening darkness had mingled with the turf-smelling air of the Atlantic Ocean outside the closed doors of the bank. With their meal-break over, my friend and allies inside the bank returned to their chore, supporting each other with the power of common curse. Yes, everything was back to normal.

5.39: Suddenly, there was silence.

5.43: The front door of the bank opened. John-Joe, Rosalynn, and Nora came out and hurried away down the street without even a pitying glance in my direction. Leaving the scene of the crime, that’s what they were doing.

5.46: Inside, the lights were switched off, and Jack the Manager appeared, locking the door behind him. I could see the white flag of surrender in his eyes. He had given up. He looked at me, trying to hide his cowardice. “For the sake of Mary and Jesus, we can’t get to your bloody card. But I’ve arranged to get a specialist from Belfast first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll have a drive of over three hours just to get here. If he can’t get your card, we’ll arrange a special account for you, and you can get your cash from Germany via telegraph. Don’t worry, everything will be fixed tomorrow.”

Having said this, Jack the Manager turned into a circus contortionist and squeezed himself and his Guinness-belly into his undersized Opel Corsa, ready to make his escape. But I blocked his escape route, I was getting desperate.

“Hang on a tick, Jack. Your plans and ideas for tomorrow don’t solve my problems for today. I have a wife and three kids to feed at home, and they’re starving.” Yes, I lied. I told you I was getting desperate.

In a split-second, Jack had his wallet out. “What do you need to survive, Harry?”

“Well, I guess twenty Euros will do until tomorrow.”

Twenty Euros? Twenty Euros! Are you mad, Harry? You obviously have no idea of Irish prices. There you go — €50,” and he pulled out two twenties and one ten Euro note from his wallet and stuffed them into my hand.

Unconventional, unbureaucratic — but very Irish indeed. Isn’t there an Irish saying: a stranger is a friend you haven’t met before?

So, Jack the Manager went off to his home. And I went off, too, happy in the thought that I could now afford a warm, comfortable and tasty evening, a la carte in Derrybeg.

“Be back at noon tomorrow, our man from Belfast will certainly be finished by then,” Jack had called back to me. But I did my own calculations: three hours for the drive from Belfast to Derrybeg + working time + Irish time buffer. This added up to “afternoon”, not “noon”.

At about four the next day, just before closing, I marched into the bank. I noticed that my arrival coincided precisely with the departure of a car out the front of the bank. It had a Belfast number plate, and the bank’s logo painted on the side. Then I noticed the wide grin on Jack the Manager’s big, round face.

“Here we are then,” he said with relief, as he proudly presented me with my ATM card.

I looked at him and laughed, “Same procedure as yesterday?” as I inserted the card into the slot.

“PLEASE ENTER YOUR PIN,” the screen snapped back!

Success! And Of course, Jack got back his €50 emergency survival fund immediately. I’m shocked that you could think otherwise!