Authors: Maeve Binchy
And it all became a pleasant and entirely unreal routine.
Even the cats got used to the film people being here and came out of hiding to take part once they realised that there was no threat to their existence and that these people left every evening having tidied up the house to a much better degree than they had found it in.
And then it was over, from our point of view anyway, and I sort of missed the huge vans drawing up outside the door, disgorging crates of equipment, and cheerful young people fitting things together and making cameras and lighting out of them as if they were children with building bricks. We used to look around our room that used to have 12 people in it, each one at some task, and now there was only us finishing breakfast, and the cats looking faintly bored that no cabaret was being put on for them today.
And then there came the whole dread feeling of self-doubt. Why had I brought this on us? We were fine as we were. What if people who had been interviewed were on the cutting-room floor? How could I ever meet their eye again? Nothing is any help. One man who tried to calm me down said that nobody will watch it anyway, because they’ll all be asleep or drunk at that time on Christmas Day. Somehow that was not as reassuring as he had intended it to be.
Another friend said that it would be undemanding and that was the key word I must remember. Once people had got through a family meal and had all eaten far too much to digest, then something totally bland and undemanding was what they were looking for. And somehow that didn’t entirely cheer me up either.
So what
did
I want? I suppose I wanted to acknowledge how lucky I had been in my life and that I had been dealt a great hand of cards. I didn’t want it to sound smug or self-satisfied. That’s not the way it feels inside, and I hope it doesn’t come over like that. I suppose I wanted to thank my family and friends and all the great people I’ve met along the way – tell them how much I love them.
I didn’t say it like that when I was faced with the lights and the cameras. But that’s what I meant.
W
ell, everyone mellows a bit in 40 years. The edges blur. You see more innocence and hope and harmless lunacy than arrogance and triumphalism. It was a day when two people got married and two billion other people watched them. It was a day when millions dressed up, got over-excited and partied to celebrate young love.
And it wasn’t all in England. A man from Eircom who came to sort out the broken-down broadband said that every house he had visited was glued to a television. It was on in the bank and the customers dawdled so that they could see more.
The streets and shops in Dalkey were emptier than on any other Friday. There were many households where ladies gathered, each wearing a hat and carrying a bottle. And why not? It was not a question of wanting to be English, nothing to do with losing our identity, changing our allegiance. It was all about watching a big, glittery show. A well-choreographed parade. With fine horses and gold carriages and flags and marching bands. If that’s how you look at it then it’s a morning well spent.
The best bit is that we know the cast. The Duke of Edinburgh, who always looks irritated and as if he’s on the verge of imploding, looked just the same. But he is going to be 90 next birthday. He has a silly sort of sword, which would be handy to lean on, but he never uses it even though it’s hanging from his waist. He walks upright on his own. Queen Elizabeth is 85 and well able to climb into a glass coach and leap out of it without assistance. These are sturdy people; Ruritania doesn’t seem to have affected their stamina.
It was so different watching a royal wedding from my own home. For years, I have been going to Westminster Abbey or St Paul’s Cathedral and climbing almighty scaffolding to get to a seat on the top of a specially constructed press section. I was at Prince William’s parents’ wedding and his aunt Anne’s and his uncle Andrew’s. Not a good fairy at the feast, I fear I brought them no luck. All three marriages ended in divorce.
In a way I wish I had been in London. I miss the magic of the English losing all their reserve, their fear of having a conversation with you in case you might go home with them. Street parties are so much the opposite of the British way of life, which is based on people keeping themselves to themselves. And yet when they did sit down they loved the chance to get to know their neighbours. I remember with great affection those parties at trestle tables with beer and cider and something roasted on a spit.
But hey, what do I know really? Everything’s changed since I started being a royal wedding watcher in 1973. For William and Kate’s wedding the guests arrived in buses as if they were going to a football match. Years back it was a long line of Bentleys. There was constant reference to the fact that the couple had lived together already for some years. At the time of Diana’s wedding her uncle had to tell the world that she was a virgin. At those long-ago marriages Elton John and his partner David would not have been ushered politely into the Abbey. Nor would there have been a rake of red hats – one token Catholic would have covered it.
Of course it’s not perfect. Hereditary power is never a good thing. But it’s a lot better in a few decades than it used to be. Yes, they still made her change her name to Catherine. They didn’t invite poor Fergie, who would have loved a day out. They left Tony Blair off the list. Tony who saved their bacon when Diana died.
But in the end, the bride was beautiful, the groom was handsome, the little pages and flower girls were adorable. It all went like clockwork. The somewhat tarnished image of royalty was forgotten for a day anyway.
Woody Allen always has a useful phrase. And when asked in a movie whether he was mellow, he replied, ‘I’m so mellow I’m almost rotten.’
I know what he means. It’s not a bad place to be.
T
he great thing about getting older is that you become more mellow. Things aren’t as black and white and you become much more tolerant. You can see the good in things much more easily, rather than getting enraged as you used to do when you were young.
I am much more understanding of people than I used to be when I was young – people were either villainous or wonderful. They were painted in very bright colours. The bad side of it, and there is a corollary to everything, is that when we get older, we fuss more. I used to despise people who fussed.
If I was going on a holiday, I’d just fling a few things into a suitcase and race out to the airport and not talk about it. Nowadays, if I’m going anywhere, the smallest journey, it has to be planned like the Normandy landing.
The relaxing bit is that you don’t get as het up and annoyed and take offence as much as you used to.
Another good thing is that you value your friends more as you get older: you’re not in any kind of competitive relationship with them any more, wishing to succeed or show off, or impress others.
You value people just for themselves. Unfortunately, as you get older, your friends die. It’s that cliché of being afraid to look at the Christmas card list each year because of the people that have gone from it – that is a very sad and depressing thing.
I’m almost afraid to look at photos of my wedding now because so many people have died who were at it. You can’t believe they are not all there in some part of the forest, still enjoying themselves.
I have more time certainly … and I’m more interested in everything. I’m interested in what other people are interested in, much more. However, you don’t have enough energy to do things. It would be lovely to have the energy to do all the things I’m interested in now.
I think it’s a balance: nobody has everything at the same time. When you are young, you have time and energy but you don’t have any money.
When you get a job, you have energy and money but you don’t have time.
And when you are older, you have time and you have money but you don’t have enough energy. Nobody has all three together.
I think, as you get older, you do fewer unexpected things. You wouldn’t head off somewhere not knowing how you were going to come back again. It’s like going out to the middle of a frozen lake: you’re always plotting your journey home before you set out somewhere.
I’ve found growing older most extraordinary. I thought inside you’d change and you’d start thinking like an old person, but I don’t think inside I’ve changed at all. I’ve just become slightly more tolerant of everybody, which has to be good.
The best is Brenda Fricker’s remark that when people of her age meet now they have something called ‘the organ recital’ where they go through all the organs that are not working. I think that’s so funny.
So health is a nuisance and I was talking to a friend of mine and she said, ‘Do you remember when we used to have conversations that didn’t begin “When I was at the doctor …?”’
What did we do with our time when we weren’t at the doctor? It does take up a disproportionate amount of your time, just the business of maintenance and keeping yourself together.
There are lots of things I wish I had done more of – studied harder, read more and been nicer and all those things – but I don’t have any regrets about any roads I didn’t take. Everything went well and I think that’s been a help because I can look back, and I do get great pleasure out of looking back.
I get just as much of a laugh out of thinking of funny things from the old days as if they were last week.
I’ve been very lucky and I have a happy old age with good family and friends still around.
What struck me when I began trawling through the archives was the fact that Maeve arrived at
The Irish Times
in 1964 with a fully evolved writing voice. Whether writing about royalty or reporting from a warzone, her incomparable style was there from the beginning – intelligent, incisive, warm, conversational and witty. She was a one-off in the newspaper world which made selecting the pieces for
Maeve's Times
a real joy.
I was given invaluable help on this project by Maeve’s great friend and colleague Mary Maher, who acted as Editorial Consultant. I’m also grateful for the help of Maeve’s agent and friend Christine Green and Maeve’s husband Gordon Snell. Thanks to all of you.
At
The Irish Times
, thanks to deputy editor Denis Staunton who gave me this lovely job and to Irene Stevenson, librarian and Maeve fan, who was a constant support. Thanks for putting up with my endless requests, Irene.
The unflappable Ciara Considine at Hachette Books Ireland pulled it all together beautifully – thanks a million, Ciara. Love and gratitude are also due to my mother Ann Ingle, she knows why.
Finally, thanks to my journalistic hero Maeve Binchy for five decades of stunning service to
The Irish Times
. What a woman.
Róisín Ingle,
The Irish Times
Maeve Binchy was born in County Dublin and educated at the Holy Child convent in Killiney and at University College, Dublin. After a spell as a teacher she joined the
Irish Times
. Her first novel,
Light a Penny Candle
, was published in 1982 and she went on to write over twenty books, all of them bestsellers. Several have been adapted for cinema and television, most notably
Circle of Friends
and
Tara Road
. Maeve Binchy received a Lifetime Achievement Award at the British Book Awards in 1999 and the Irish PEN/A.T. Cross Award in 2007. In 2010 she was presented with the Bob Hughes Lifetime Achievement Award at the Bord Gáis Irish Book Awards by the President of Ireland. Maeve also won the Popular Fiction Prize at the 2012 Bord Gáis Irish Book Awards for her last novel,
A Week in Winter
. She was married to the writer and broadcaster Gordon Snell for 35 years, and died in 2012. To find out more, visit her website
www.maevebinchy.com
FICTION
Light a Penny Candle
Echoes
The Lilac Bus
Firefly Summer
Silver Wedding
Circle of Friends