The Family Robinson

T H E  F A M I L Y  R O B I N S O N

Saturday/ April/ 1978

The family Robinson had been having a wonderful time on the beach near Kinsale. That is, it was probably near Kinsale. They did not live in Kinsale, which is why now you're probably asking yourself, why are they at some beach near a place they don't even live by? Well the answer's simple there, they were on holiday. A holiday in April? I know it sounds preposterous but it's true. The family Robinson were simply that kind of family. Let me elaborate on that. The family Robinson (as they like to be called as I am one of their many biographical correspondents) are one of those rich, snooty, upper-class sort who love nothing more than to inconvenience themselves by taking spontaneous getaways to obscure, lowbrow places. I have only been travelling with them this year but I heard from a source that last year they stayed two weeks over in some tribal village in South Africa. Extraordinary, isn't it? Unfortunately for me this year was a dull year of holiday suggestions until I jokingly blurted out Ireland in the middle of their bi-monthly holiday brainstorming session.

"Ireland?" said Mrs Sue Robinson the mother of the house, "Well I think that's just darling." she yelped.

"Hmmm...Splendid!" hooted Mr Ted Robinson, the wealthy old money grabber who owns shares in just about anything that can have shares made on it. All I really know is that some late part of his father's family helped build the railway system in Britain.

There was the odd mentioning of steel or corrugated wire over the telephone. Oil, was mentioned too at one stage, but only in relation to his car, I'd guess he probably has a whole lagoon of it somewhere in the middle-east, a little pool of it stored away in case things get tough.



There I have introduced the two parents of the family. Expectantly you're reading along this new paragraph that you think should be dedicated to the Robinson children. But no. They will be written about later. It just so happened that they were not there during the meeting and I feel it best to retell the story moment for moment instead of hoping to and fro between the holiday and what came before said holiday. That is how I work. Not simply an outsider looking in on one happy wealthy family, but an intrinsic filament coiled between the two cathodes that is; The Robinsons and their series of events. I am always present, but never quite there. I am the unmentioned who goes about mentioning the happenings of others all the while eyeing the margin between myself and my subjects so that we do not become too familiar, similar to the filament bulb, if we burn too brightly, we'll burn out. So, I tend to keep to myself. That's it.

Yes, Kinsale, the place where the Robinsons were heading that early spring break of April. As told, I don't know why I made the suggestion.

It just skimmed its way out of my lips onto the open atlas on the dining room table. Eyebrows rose simultaneously from the two Robinson parents. There and then they began one of their infrequent, couply telepathic conversations. A moment passed.

"Is it remote?" enquired Mr. Robinson.

I crossed my eyes for a moment, trying to remember exactly where you could find Kinsale. Jerkingly I fumbled through the atlas on the table until finding a map of Ireland. I scanned it briefly. I hoped that was luck enough that Kinsale did happen to be some off shore piece of rock near the cliffs of Skibbereen or somewhere.

My finger jolted.

"There!" I said. I was pointing down at tiny patch in the lower bowels of county Cork.

"It's coastal," spied Mrs. Robinson. She was wearing a low-cut cashmere dress at the time, to which to only coastal observation I made was to the shores of her breasts. They were sumptuous. "It must be a fishing village. Oh, how delicate." she smiled surely with thoughts flowing both in her head and mine of a darling Mrs. Robinson wearing a lilac, keyhole cut swimsuit, perched over her head a wide brimmed hat and donning underneath a pair of cat-eye sunglasses that gave her the shimmer of a movie star and the seasoned body of a beach babe.

Those were the thoughts we shared. I always thought at times, given my profession that me and Mrs. Robinson were cordially linked in mind as some kind of close friends, bordering the verge of intimacy but respectful of each others' space.

That last paragraph is unnecessary. I'd be pleased if you were to forget it. I couldn't erase it because the page on my typewriter already held so much information that I would hate to regurgitate it all up again with less enthusiasm than I already have.



The truth about Mrs. Robinson is that she is a mindful and respecting woman. Born in Winchester from a Countess and Baron she quickly became well accustomed to her situation in high society. Gathering from other sources of the family, her proper name has come under much debate. I have previously mentioned her as Sue, or Susan (mustn’t get too familiar). Others have her penned under Mary-Rose, Caroline, Joanna and Beth. Telling you personally, I don't think anyone else really knows Mrs. Robinson's name apart from her. That is, excluding her family under whom she follows by all those affectionate sobriquets such as darling, dear, mother and mummy. All else that I know is that when on holiday Mrs. Robinson chooses some form of ticklish, middle class address so as to keep herself in tune with the location she is heading. Speaking from other biographical correspondents of the Robinsons I know that last year she was Yvonne Robinson, delivering a kind of Mother Theresa vibe to the natives of that quaint clump of African huts. So this year she has taken Sue, or Susan for Kinsale; a modest, Catholic-reminiscent name that'd stir no hassle.

Speaking of the Mrs. Robinson's inexplicable need to be incognito abroad; all the sources I have spoken to about the details of the Robinsons can only recall being recruited during their summer getaways. Therefore fetching for the real name of Mrs. Robinson would have learning Sanskrit a better task.

Still something shakes me in the nature of the Robinson household. They only choose to be recorded while enjoying their low key, lavishly planned vacations. Isn't that odd? They only like to be written about on holiday. All their memoires would be a jumble of exotic beach snaps, scenic excursions, historic landmarks, curious cuisine and tanned cheeks. A vibrant mish-mash of locations reeled together by camera film leading only to a few volumes tapped out by some stranger employed to review the well-being of such an ostentatious family. Only on holiday though, the time at which regular families long to throw away the stress of their ordinary lives, long to rid themselves of...themselves...or that being...that part of themselves that drags them down with rigorous routine and working life. Instead they wish to soak up the sun, drink long island ice teas and relax their heaving thighs on brightly coloured towels spread out far across a golden beach partnered by a sea full of sparkling salt. Yes that is the dream.

Anyway I best be getting on properly putting my records together of the trip as it were. I shouldn't be prying into the ethics of the family Robinson, wait, prying, that is sort of what I'm there for. Well maybe not to pry, just to sit back and watch, scribble on my notepad and file it away for tapping later in my boxy hotel room, separate from the family.

In a swift course of action, the family trip to Kinsale for two weeks was pitched to the children of the family, Hannah, Charles and Thomasina Robinson.

Each aged 14, 11 and 6 months respectively. They were pleasant children, to say the least. Just as the apple never falls far from the tree, these three did not

fell that far away from Mrs. Robinson, she must have good breeding in her, sweet Mrs. Robinson.

Hannah, the eldest was an astute and studious girl. Sharp as a tack, like her tactile father, when proposed, with the atlas still open on the table she didn't hesitate to pinpoint her forthcoming destination. She wore her hair in long blonde waves swept over from her right to hang lusciously from her left shoulder, her fringe side parted with a pin on which there laid a handcrafted silver butterfly. It gave her wizened disposition a flare of elegance and youth. Similar to her mother in posture and articulation.

"It must be a fishing village," she remarked, "It's also near Clonakilty. Emma from my class said her father used to come from Clonakilty. She lives there every summer.

She says it's lovely all the time there."

"There are small islands off the coast." butted Charles. He took well off his father, not much a chip but a wholesome chunk off the old block. Impetuous, loud. He had that mischievous twinkle in his eye that most boys hold at that age. The age before early manhood where a boy still has the imagination to conjure wild adventures whether in the high mountains or on the high sea as was Charles’s train (or ship, maybe) of thought was heading. His grin widened. In that grin I could see him, standing bow legged at the farthest point of the hull with his fancy tailored Captain's hat and expertly crafted cutlass, pointing it out to seas unknown. Thoughts of nothing but plundering and treasure, even desert, islands where he could live out his own Robinson Crusoe adventures.

"True boy true!" exclaimed his father, patting him hard on the back as he did this, "Perhaps one day we'll get a cruise and see what's out there!" he blew.

Unaware, I rolled my eyes. As if you'd get a cruise out to the shoddy rocks off the coast of Kinsale.