Whitethorn Woods

by Maeve Binchy

  Anyway Mum has a new fellow. He’s awful, of course, trying to be nice to me and pretending to be interested in me when he isn’t a bit. His name is Kent, he’s not from Kent in England or anything. Kent is what he is called.

  George says that Kent has a very expensive car and so he must be loaded and that we should make as much money from him as possible while he lasts. He said I should say that I was saving for a new iPod, or a mobile phone, or computer updates. I should concentrate on something that sounded as if I would get myself out of his hair and Kent would be likely to hand over a tenner or whatever.

  I was nervous at first but it worked like a dream. I kept my part of the bargain: I stayed out of his way and was very polite to him when I was in his company. Mum asked me, did I like him and I opened my eyes very wide, which is a good thing to do if you’re telling something not exactly true, and I said I thought Kent was just fine and Mum said I was a good son, a very good son indeed, and her eyes got watery so I took myself off.

  George says that mothers go ahead and marry these kind of people anyway whether we like them or not, his mother certainly had. So George says, make life easy on yourself, say he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread and make sure that he keeps contributing to various projects. Wes said that he would just love his parents to split up and he’d have someone to get him an MP3 player.

  So anyway for this Bank Holiday we were going to work on Kent to take all three of us to a theme park. There were plenty of things for old folks to do there like sitting in restaurants and we could go on the rides. I had the spiel all ready to give him when suddenly he said to me in a very serious voice that he was going to take my mother away for a long weekend to a beautiful hotel by a huge whitethorn wood. I didn’t want to go to a beautiful hotel by a wood. Not one bit. But I reminded myself to be very polite. I could hear George’s voice as clearly as if he were standing beside me hissing warnings into my ear.

  ‘Won’t it be very expensive for you if we all come – Wes, George and me?’ I asked.

  A sort of shudder went over his face at the thought of taking us all to a beautiful hotel by a river and the Whitethorn Woods.

  ‘Well, no, Harry, this is it, I’m going to take your mother by herself; I want to ask her a question, you see.’

  I explained that she was in the kitchen and he could go out and ask her the question now, but no, it was a question that needed to be asked in the proper setting. I could see the theme park fading into the distance, theme parks weren’t a place you could ask a question, apparently.

  But I had invited Wes and George to stay. That had to be sorted. Was there any hope that they’d let us stay on our own? No, apparently that wasn’t on. We were to go to Dad.

  ‘But it’s not his weekend,’ I began.

  ‘It will be,’ Kent said.

  From the kitchen I could hear Mum screaming down the phone. ‘You were always selfish, Alan, that was never in dispute but unable to take your own son for a bonus weekend – most men would be delighted, but not you. It doesn’t matter where I am going or with whom. I am not married to you, Alan Black, something I thank the Living God for every day of my life. Marriage is something that leaves me very cold indeed. So listen well. Harry and his friends will be dropped at your house on Friday. It doesn’t matter about there being enough beds, they have sleeping bags, and they must have proper food, not takeaways, do you hear me …’

  Half the neighbourhood must have heard her.

  Kent was hovering nervously waiting for Mum to finish. He looked embarrassed. ‘It’s all right, Kent, they go on that way, it isn’t important,’ I explained.

  ‘I don’t like that – she says marriage leaves her cold. I don’t like it one bit,’ he said in a worried voice. I thought I understood about the holiday in the one-horse town called Rossmore.

  I thought about it for a bit. He was better than any of the others.

  ‘Oh, that’s just marriage to Dad, I’d say. I don’t think she’s against it in general.’ I nodded wisely as if I understood the problems of the world.

  ‘It’s just that Rossmore in this weather would be a perfect place – I don’t want to say anything inappropriate.’ He was biting his lip.

  ‘Rossmore? Is that the place they have the big row about a road going through some woods? The teacher at school made us have a debate about it: some of us were to be for the road, some against it …’ I was only saying this to distract him, but it seemed to please him.

  ‘Yes, there was a big documentary about it on television. Your mother said it was a romantic place and I was hoping …’

  ‘Okay, Kent, go on hoping, I’m sure it will all be fine,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Enjoy the hotel and the woods and the question and all that. Compared to us you’ll have a great time. I’ll have my dad grizzling and complaining from now until Tuesday,’ I said with a real hangdog expression.

  Kent gave me twenty Euro out of pure guilt to spend on anything I wanted.

  When we arrived at Dad’s house I thought Dad looked very grey and old and tired compared to Kent. Kent has a sort of permanent suntan and Dad looked as if someone had run over him with a garden roller. He cooked a chicken and we had frozen peas.

  ‘It says fresh frozen peas on the packet,’ he said defensively and we all said it was fine.

  There was an apple tart, which he said was home-made at the local bakery, and ice cream.

  Next day he agreed he would take us to the theme park.

  ‘Do you have any current squeeze that you could bring to entertain you, Mr Black?’ Wes asked politely.

  ‘Current what?’ Dad asked, mystified.

  ‘Squeeze. Female companion is what Wes meant,’ George explained.

  ‘No, no, indeed,’ my father said, embarrassed.

  ‘Never mind – you might find one there,’ Wes consoled him.

  We didn’t push Dad for as much money as we would have Kent but he was reasonably generous and of course I did have Kent’s unexpected money so we had a great day.

  Then on the Sunday it turned out that we had to go to lunch with someone from Dad’s office. I asked, did he have a big house, this man, and Dad said it was a woman. Wes and George exchanged knowing glances. But I knew they were barking up the wrong tree. Dad goes off to work and comes back and fusses, and fights with Mum on the phone. Dad doesn’t have lady friends. It must be business.

  We wondered, might we skip the lunch, but it seemed that we mightn’t. We asked, had this woman any children, would there be babes there, and Dad said he didn’t know who would be there but he gravely doubted that there would be babes. So we set out without much hope.

  Dad was bringing all the wine, boxes of it. They must be a fairly drinky crowd, we thought. It didn’t bode well when we got there and saw a terribly old woman called Dorothy sitting on a chair. She had a face like a handbag that kept snapping open and shut and she had other old people beside her all full of disapproval. Then there were two foreign people putting out dishes of olives and a man called Larry laying out chairs who kept saying, ‘Oh my God, Mr Black is here, he’ll see the chairs.’ I mean, why shouldn’t my father have seen the chairs like everyone else? Where was he going to sit? Really, it couldn’t have been a more crazy crowd.

  Dad was busy setting up a bar with Larry on a side-table while Larry kept saying, over and over, that it was a surprise to see Mr Black.

  ‘How are we going to be polite here all day?’ I asked George who was very wise about the ways things should be done.

  ‘We’d better find the hostess and start with her,’ George said.

  She was in the kitchen. Much younger than anyone else we’d seen but still old, if you know what I mean. She looked worried. Her name was Barbara.

  ‘We’d like to help,’ George said.

  ‘We’re not expensive,’ Wes added.

  ‘I thought you were guests,’ Barbara said, confused.

  ‘What my friends meant was that of course we are guests and delighted to be here but we wondered
, would you like any help with the waiting and serving, we’re quite experienced in fact.’ I saw George making awful faces at me but I didn’t understand: I thought he was urging me on. ‘We’ve done quite a few functions actually …’ I went on. And then I realised my father was in the room.

  ‘Illegally, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Informally, Mr Black,’ George corrected.

  ‘Not more than two Euro each then, and they have to work properly,’ Dad said. A rate of five was suggested by Barbara, who said we would have to work like slaves. Dad went out to pour wine for people and we got our instructions.

  We were to make a terrific fuss of that woman who sat upright in the chair. We were to tell her that this party was in her honour and to call her Aunt Dorothy.

  ‘But she’s not our aunt,’ George said logically.

  ‘I know, George, but it’s what’s called a courtesy title,’ Barbara said. Which explained nothing.

  ‘But she wouldn’t want Wes to call her aunt, would she?’ I wanted to get this clear, Wes was black.

  Barbara seemed not to have noticed this or to think it was irrelevant.

  ‘I don’t exactly look like her nephew,’ Wes said.

  ‘None of you are her nephews. I told you it was a courtesy title. Now are you going to argue everything down to the bone or are you going to help?’

  Aunt Dorothy said that we were extraordinarily nice, helpful boys and compared to the youth of today we were a delightful exception. Wes said that it was our privilege to be at this party and to get to know the guest of honour, and all Aunt Dorothy’s awful friends sort of twittered with envy and rage at this. Back in the kitchen I reported all this to Barbara and asked, was there anything else that needed sorting, and she wondered, could I try to tell Magda and Eleni that we were the paid help and they weren’t.

  ‘Why do they think they are doing it?’ I asked resentfully.

  ‘Because people are mad, Harry, most of them stark raving mad. You’ll realise that when you’re older.’

  ‘I realise it now,’ I said and she laughed with me like a friend.

  I went off to deal with these two mad women from Greece or wherever, and I sat them down and filled their glasses.

  ‘You no work today, we work,’ I said several times until I thought they understood.

  George found an atlas and asked them to show us where they lived in Cyprus and apparently nobody had ever asked them this before and they were delighted. It turned out that nobody was vegetarian and Barbara seemed upset by this because she assumed that half the guests would be but I said we should ladle a bit of both dishes on every plate and that would mean plenty for everyone and she was very pleased.

  ‘You’re a complete treasure,’ she said. ‘What happened that your mother couldn’t have you this weekend? I’m very glad about it by the way, but I just wondered.’

  ‘She’s gone to a place called Rossmore to be asked a question by Kent,’ I explained. ‘I don’t know what the question is but it has to be asked by a river and a wood, it seems.’

  She nodded as if she understood.

  ‘He might be asking her to marry him,’ she suggested. ‘That’s the kind of thing you might ask by a river.’

  ‘It did cross my mind that it might be that, but if that’s all it is, couldn’t he have asked her in the kitchen at home?’ I said. I was thinking that she was totally right – everyone was getting madder by the moment.

  ‘Harry, would you do one more thing for me, could you tell Larry that Mr Black, I mean your dad, wouldn’t recognise those chairs if they came up and bit him in the face – tell him to stop fussing.’

  ‘It’s hard to tell a grown-up to stop fussing,’ I said. ‘I’ve been trying to tell my dad to stop fussing for years and he won’t and he says that it’s impudence on my part even to say it.’

  ‘All right, you keep chopping parsley and sprinkle it over these plates and I’ll talk to Larry, while I’m getting them to sit down.’

  Wes and George came into the kitchen. ‘They’re all mad,’ Wes said.

  ‘They’re meant to be mad, she knows that, she talked about it. Stop eating that parsley,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe they’re from a home.’ George was thoughtful.

  ‘What are we all doing here, and your dad, then?’ Wes wanted to know.

  It was unanswerable.

  And the chicken pie was very good indeed, everyone praised it and said the sauce was delicious, and Barbara said that it was nothing really. I knew it was all cans of mushroom soup, a half-bottle of wine and frozen pastry because I had been helping her tie up the rubbish. But I said nothing. Dad ran round filling people’s glasses and suggesting that he and Larry take off their jackets if the ladies didn’t mind. Larry had stopped fussing and started fancying one of the Cypriot ladies. Aunt Dorothy had relaxed greatly and was telling everyone that there were no songs like the old songs. And when we were clearing the pudding plates away, George, who always says the right thing, said to Barbara that it was going very well and that she must be pleased with herself.

  He reported that she took him by the lapels and for an awful sickening moment he thought she was going to kiss him so he shouted at her that the flower beds were in a terrible state and for an extra few Euro we would weed them for her. And then she released him and the deal was done.

  Wes said that of course all these people must be from some kind of a home, Barbara included, and that my father was very decent to have spent the day looking after them. But I saw Dad sitting at the table in his short sleeves, singing ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen Go Out in the Midday Sun’, and somehow I didn’t think the whole thing was some massive work of charity.

  Then the mad women began Greek dancing and Aunt Dorothy started singing old songs with her friends joining in the chorus, and we were all digging the flower beds with trowels and hoes that Barbara found for us. It was all pretty terrible, to be honest.

  But we had eaten a good lunch and drunk all the dregs of people’s white wine before they went on to red wine, and we were making a decent income out of the whole day. Dad wasn’t fussing a bit and this woman, who apparently is called Bar, not Barbara, was very nice. She was drunk as all get out, of course, but very pleasant. Do you know, I saw her holding Dad’s hand as he began another song, ‘Bye Bye, Miss American Pie’, and everyone joined in the chorus.

  I said to Wes that Mum would never believe it.

  ‘She won’t be interested,’ Wes said. That was odd because she was always interested in what Dad, or ‘that bastard Alan’ as she called him, did or said.

  ‘Not now that she has had the question asked,’ George explained. And I felt terrific for some reason. It might have to do with all the ends of white wine we had drunk. Or how we had washed up very well and left the kitchen tidy and done the flower beds. But I think the others might have been right all along about Bar being Dad’s squeeze.

  And that would be absolutely fine with me.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Last Word

  Part 1 – Dr Dermot

  I know everyone in the place, that’s a fair enough thing to say. If they’re thirty-five or under, then I delivered them into the world, and if they’re any other age I listened to their chests and coughs and cured their measles and mumps, sewed up their torn ears, took glass out of their cut knees.

  Doon is only a small place, twenty miles from Rossmore, along a narrow, bumpy road, but we don’t need to go into the big town much. We have everything we want here, and it’s just a small quiet country place where I know the story of every man, woman and child.

  I’ve closed the eyes of their mothers and fathers and grandparents, I’ve told them good news and bad news, I’ve found the words that others don’t find. These people owe me, for God’s sake. That’s why I was so betrayed and let down over the way they all flocked to this new young doctor.

  Dr Jimmy White.

  A young whippersnapper who called me Dermot as soon as look at me. Everyone here calls me Dr Dermot but,
oh no, that’s not good enough for Dr Jimmy White. Oh, very eager and anxious to please he is, running here and there. Of course he does house calls any time of the day and the night, and of course he has a mobile phone so you can find him anywhere. And he’s thorough, sending people half-way across the country for scans, blood tests for everything, X-rays. These are simple people, they think that’s a kind of magic in itself.

  Even the hospital in Rossmore isn’t good enough for Dr Jimmy White. Oh, no, he sends them to specialists, to teaching hospitals in Dublin, no less. Rather than relying on years of experience, and someone who has known them inside and out for generations.

  Like myself.

  Not that I let them see I was upset or anything. No indeed. I always spoke well of Dr Jimmy White. Very bright young man, I said, plays it by the book and, indeed, consults his medical books, he won’t have to do that when he’s older and more experienced, but very thorough, of course, always checking things out when he’s not sure.

  People thought I liked and admired him while I managed to sow the seeds of doubt, like why he was checking books, getting second opinions, sending blood to be tested and people to have scans.

  There was an over-talkative American man called Chester Kovac – staying in the hotel, must have been made of money. His grandfather was called O’Neill, came from round here once, not that anyone remembers him or anything. Sure, the country’s coming down with O’Neills. I told him several times that the young doctor had to learn his trade somewhere, but in a way it was hard to see him make his mistakes on the people of this parish. Chester said, surely he had to be a qualified medical man and I said yes, but that there was qualified and there was experienced. Chester nodded a lot as if the idea had sunk in.

  Then he told me he was buying land in Doon and going to build. He wanted my advice about what kind of services this little town needed. What were we lacking, where were the gaps … He had a real over-concerned look on his face. It would sicken you. All that kind of sensitive stuff that has no place here. I pretended to be interested, you know, the way you have to in a small place like this. Some rambling on about social housing, affordable housing. You know the kind of thing they go on with, moaning over the past, saying that if his poor grandfather had only owned a house, then he wouldn’t have had to emigrate.