Silver Wedding
Authors: Maeve Binchy
Contents
About the Book
Desmond and Deirdre Doyle will have been married for twenty-five years in October. It falls to the Doyles’ eldest daughter, Anna, to decide how best to celebrate her parents’ Silver Wedding. No use asking her sister Helen, living in her London convent, or her brother Brendan, who has chosen another form of exile on a bleak farm in the West of Ireland.
But it is unthinkable not to have a party, even though for the Doyles, family occasions are more difficult than for most. For each of them is keeping up a front, nursing a secret wound, or smarting over a hidden betrayal. And as the day draws nearer, so the tension mounts, until finally the guests gather at the party itself…
About the Author
Maeve Binchy was born in Dublin, and went to school at the Holy Child Convent in Killiney. She took a history degree at UCD and taught in various girls’ schools, writing travel articles in the long summer holidays. In 1969 she joined the
Irish Times
and for many years she was based in London writing humorous columns from all over the world. She is the author of five collections of short stories as well as twelve novels including
Circle of Friends, The Copper Beech, Tara Road, Evening Class
and
The Glass Lake
. Maeve Binchy died in July 2012 and is survived by her husband, the writer Gordon Snell.
Also by Maeve Binchy
Fiction
Light a Penny Candle
Echoes
Victoria Line, Central Line
Dublin 4
The Lilac Bus
Firefly Summer
Circle of Friends
The Copper Beech
The Glass Lake
Evening Class
Tara Road
Scarlet Feather
Quentins
Nights of Rain and Stars
Non-fiction
Aches & Pains
For Gordon Snell my dear love and my best friend
1
ANNA
ANNA KNEW THAT
he was doing his best to be interested. She could read his face so well. This was the same look she saw on his face when older actors would come up and join them in the club and tell old tales about people long gone. Joe tried to be interested then too, it was a welcoming, courteous, earnest look. Hoping that it passed as genuine interest, hoping that the conversation wouldn’t last too long.
‘I’m sorry, I’m going on a bit,’ she apologized. She pulled a funny face at him as she sat at the other end of the bed dressed only in one of his shirts, the Sunday papers and a breakfast tray between them.
Joe smiled back, a real smile this time.
‘No, it’s nice that you’re so het up about it, it’s good to care about families.’
He meant it, she knew, in his heart he thought it was a Good Thing to care about families, like rescuing kittens from trees and beautiful sunsets and big collie dogs. In principle Joe was in favour of
caring
about families. But he didn’t care at all about his own. He wouldn’t have known how many years his parents were married. He probably didn’t know how long he had been married himself. Something like a silver anniversary would not trouble Joe Ashe.
Anna looked at him with the familiar feeling of tenderness and fear. Tender and protective – he looked so lovely lying there against the big pillows, his fair hair falling over his face, his thin brown shoulders so relaxed and easy. Fearful in case she would lose him, in case he would move on gently, effortlessly, out of her life, as he had moved into it.
Joe Ashe never fought with people, he told Anna with his big boyish smile, life was much too short for fights. And it was true.
When he was passed over for a part, when he got a bad review, there was the shrug – Well, so it could have been different but let’s not make a production out of it.
Like his marriage to Janet – It was over, so why go on pretending? He just packed a small bag and left.
Anna feared that one day in this very room he would pack a small bag and leave again. She would rail and plead as Janet had done and it would be no use. Janet had even come around and offered Anna money to go away. She wept about how happy she had been with Joe. She showed pictures of the two small sons. It would all be fine again if only Anna would go away.
‘But he didn’t leave you to come to me, he had been in a flat by himself for a year before he even met me,’ Anna had explained.
‘Yes, and all that time I thought he would come back.’
Anna hated to remember Janet’s tear-stained face, and how she had made tea for her, and hated even more to think that her own face would be stained with tears like this one day, and as unexpectedly as it had all happened to Janet. She gave a little shiver as she looked at the handsome easy boy in her bed. Because even if he was twenty-eight years of age he was still a boy. A gentle cruel boy.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
She didn’t tell him. She never told him how much she thought about him and dreaded the day he would leave.
‘I was thinking it’s about time they did another film version of
Romeo and Juliet
, you’re so handsome it would be unfair on the world not to get a chance to look at you,’ she said laughingly.
He reached out and put the breakfast tray on the floor. The Sunday papers slid after it.
‘Come here to me,’ said Joe. ‘My mind was running on the same lines entirely, entirely at all, at all as you Irish say.’
‘What a superb imitation,’ Anna said drily, but snuggling up to him all the same. ‘It’s no wonder that you’re the best actor in the whole wide world and
renowned
all over the globe for your great command of accents.’
She lay in his arms and didn’t tell him about how worried she was about this silver wedding. She had seen from his face that she had already been going on about it far too long.
In a million years Joe would not understand what it meant in their family. Mother’s and Father’s twenty-fifth anniversary. They celebrated everything in the Doyle household. There were albums of memories, boxes chronicling past celebrations. On the wall of the sitting room at home there was a gallery of Major Celebrations. The wedding day itself, the three Christenings. There was Grannie O’Hagan’s sixtieth birthday, there was Grandpa Doyle’s visit to London with all of them standing beside a sentry outside Buckingham Palace, a solemn young sentry in a busby who seemed to realize the importance of Grandpa Doyle’s visit.
There were the three First Communions, and the three Confirmations; there was a small sporting section, Brendan’s school team the year he had been on the Seniors. There was an even smaller academic section, one graduation portrait of Anna herself, very studied and posed, holding her certificate as if it were a ton weight.
Mother and Father always joked about the wall and said it was the most valuable collection in the world. What did they want with Old Masters and
famous
paintings, hadn’t they got something much more valuable, a living wall telling the world what their life was all about?
Anna had winced whenever they said that to people who came in. She winced now lying in Joe’s arms.
‘Are you shuddering at me or is that passion?’ he asked.
‘Unbridled passion,’ she said, wondering was it normal to lie beside the most attractive man in London and think not of him but of the sitting room wall back in the family home.
The family home would have to be decorated for the silver wedding. There would be a lot of cardboard bells and silver ribbon. There would be flowers sprayed with a silver paint. They would have a tape of the ‘Anniversary Waltz’ on the player. There would be window sills full of cards, there might indeed be so many that it would call for an arrangement of streamers with the cards attached as they had for Christmas. The cake would have traditional decorations, the invitations would have silver edges. Inviting people to what? That was what was buzzing around Anna’s head. As a family this was something they should organize for their parents. Anna and her sister Helen and her brother Brendan.
But it really meant Anna.
She would have to do it all.
Anna turned towards Joe and kissed him. She
would
not think about the anniversary any more now. She would think about it tomorrow when she was being paid to stand in a bookshop.
She wouldn’t think of it at this moment when there were far better things to think about.
‘That’s more like it, I thought you’d gone to sleep on me,’ Joe Ashe said, and held her very close to him.
Anna Doyle worked in Books for People, a small bookshop much patronized by authors and publishers and all kinds of media. They never tired of saying that this was a bookshop with character, not like the big chains which were utterly without soul. Secretly Anna did not altogether agree.
Too many times during her working day she had to refuse people who came in with perfectly normal requests for the latest bestseller, for a train timetable, for a book on freezer cookery. Always she had to direct them to a different shop. Anna felt that a bookshop worthy of the name should in fact stock such things instead of relying for its custom on a heavy psychology section, a detailed travel list, and poetry, sociology and contemporary satire.
It wasn’t as if they were even proper specialists. She had intended to leave a year ago, but that was just when she met Joe. And when Joe had come to stay it happened to coincide with Joe not having any work.
Joe did a little here and there, and he was never broke. There was always enough to buy Anna a
lovely
Indian scarf, or a beautiful paper flower or find the most glorious wild mushrooms in a Soho delicatessen.
There was never any money for paying the rent or for the television, or the phone or the electricity. It would have been foolish of Anna to have left a steady job without having a better one lined up for herself. She stayed in Books for People, even though she hated the name, believing that most of the buyers of books
were
people anyway. The others who worked there were all perfectly pleasant, she never saw any of them outside work but there were occasional book signings, poetry evenings and even a cheese and wine evening in aid of a small nearby theatre. That was when she had met Joe Ashe.
Anna was at work early on Monday morning. If she wanted time to think or to write letters then to be in before the others was the only hope. There were only four of them who worked there: they each had a key. She switched off the burglar alarm, picked up the carton of milk, and the mail from the mat. It was all circulars and handbills. The postman had not arrived yet. As Anna put on the electric kettle to make coffee, she caught sight of herself in the small mirror that was stuck to the wall. Her eyes looked large and anxious, she thought. Anna stroked her face thoughtfully. She looked pale and there were definitely shadows under the big brown eyes. Her hair was tied up with a bright pink ribbon matching
exactly
her pink tee-shirt. She must put on a little make-up, she thought, or she would frighten the others.
She wished she had gone ahead and got her hair cut that time. It had been so strange, she had made an appointment in a posh place where some of the Royal Family went to have their hair done. One of the girls who worked there as a stylist came in to the bookshop and they had got talking. The girl said she would give Anna a discount. But the night she met Joe at the benefit evening for the theatre he had told her that her thick dark hair was beautiful the way it was.
He had asked her, as he so often did still, ‘What are you thinking?’ And in those very early times she told him the truth. That she was thinking about having her hair cut the following day.
‘Don’t even consider it,’ Joe had said, and then suggested that they go to have a Greek meal and discuss this thing properly.
