And then, bit by bit, I met everyone else, the cameramen and the sound recordists, all of them cheerful, charming and hugely apologetic about the amount of gear they had to bring into the house. We were apologising equally for the smallness of the house, as we would reverse into the bathroom, climb over what seemed like gigantic metal trunks, and negotiate floors covered with thick cables.
The lights were so bright you could see everybody’s nose hair and any other imperfection in the skin; but there was Make-Up to deal with that. There were never fewer than 12 people around, each one knowing exactly their role. Archives would be taking out my papers, borrowed on a daily basis from UCD library, and getting out old scrapbooks that I had totally forgotten. Continuity was making sure I was wearing the same dress to continue a conversation as I had been wearing to begin it the day before – people with clipboards who knew far more about me than I knew about myself. When I would say vaguely that something happened back in the 1960s or 1970s, they would actually know the date.
A gloom-ridden acquaintance told me I would be demented from making them all tea. I want to put on record that no cup of tea was ever brewed in this house for the crew.
Magically, trays of sandwiches or little cakes appeared from Dalkey’s cafés and food shops; cartons of good coffee were always available.
If they had been doing a documentary with a more able-bodied person there could have been great shots of me striding along the beach at White Rock or climbing Killiney Hill. I could have been down at Dalkey Island, talking to the porpoises and the seals.
But this wasn’t on.
I find moving about very hard these days, so it all had to be done at home. I caught sight of myself on a monitor one day and almost forgot to talk, because I was in a kind of torpor, wondering why I hadn’t gone on that diet I thought I was going to try, a diet that apparently puts hollows in your cheeks and makes your neck long and thin. I had even cut it out of a newspaper and filed it away carefully in a yellow file called ‘Action This Day’ last August and forgotten about it totally.
But otherwise I just talked and talked until I felt there wasn’t one more word to say.
Any question I was asked I answered at immense length. I exhausted myself and them.
They reassured me and said that once the editor had got at it these monologues would look much more acceptable.
I dearly hope this is so.
Then I would hear tales of the days they interviewed other people: family, friends and colleagues. It wasn’t that I was worried would these people tell any Awful Secrets, because, honestly, there aren’t any Awful Secrets, but I hated them having to say nice things on order.
I wasn’t allowed anywhere near all this filming, quite rightly, and I even had to leave the house when Gordon, my husband, was being interviewed, because they didn’t want me staring at him beadily, willing him to say how wonderful I was and am.
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.
Will and Kate Show Is Testament to Abiding Allure of the Royals
30 April 2011
Well, 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. Heredit
ary 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.
POSTSCRIPT
‘I Don’t Have Any Regrets About Any Roads I Didn’t Take …’
In conversation with Joanne Hunt, 3 July 2012
The 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.
Maeve’s Career Timeline
Joined The Irish Times in 1968
My First Book [Irish Times compilation] (1970)
Met Gordon Snell in 1972
Married in 1977
Jacob’s Award for Deeply Regretted By [play for RTÉ] (1978)
Short stories: Central Line (1978), Victoria Line (1980)
Light a Penny Candle (1982)
Dublin 4 (1982)
The Lilac Bus (1984)
Echoes (1985)
Firefly Summer (1987)
Echoes TV series (1988)
Silver Wedding (1988)
Circle of Friends (1990)
The Lilac Bus TV film (1990)
The Copper Beech (1992)
The Glass Lake (1994)
This Year It Will Be Different (1995)
Circle of Friends film (1995)
Evening Class (1996)
Tara Road (1998)
Oprah Winfrey Show (1999)
British Book Awards Lifetime Achievement Award (1999)
Scarlet Feather (2000)
Quentins (2002)
Nights of Rain and Stars (2004)
Tara Road film (2005)
Whitethorn Woods (2006)
How About You film (2007)
Irish PEN Award (2007)
Heart and Soul (2008)
Lifetime Achievement at the Bord Gáis Irish Book Awards, presented by President Mary McAleese (2010)
Minding Frankie (2010)
A Week in Winter (2012)
Editor’s Acknowledgments
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
About the Author
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 201
2 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
Also By Maeve Binchy
FICTION
Light a Penny Candle
Echoes
The Lilac Bus
Firefly Summer
Silver Wedding
Circle of Friends
The Copper Beech
The Glass Lake
Evening Class
Tara Road
Scarlet Feather
Quentins
Nights of Rain and Stars
Whitethorn Woods
Heart and Soul
Minding Frankie
A Week in Winter
NON FICTION
Aches & Pains
The Maeve Binchy Writers’ Club
SHORT STORIES
Victoria Line, Central Line
Dublin 4
This Year It Will Be Different
The Return Journey
QUICK READS
Star Sullivan
Full House
Copyright
An Orion Books ebook
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Orion Books
an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd
This ebook first published in 2013 by Orion Books
Copyright © Gordon Snell 2013
The moral right of Maeve Binchy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Maeve's Times Page 35