Maeve Binchy's Treasury

by Maeve Binchy

  I hope everything turned out well for the young woman who was so distressed.

  Yours faithfully,

  James Green

  Katy picked up the letter from the Hunts, she knew it would be warm and kind and she wanted to read it properly but it arrived second post on a Wednesday, the only free time that Colin could get these days.

  She had managed her own schedule around this quite easily. Katy worked in a solicitor’s office. There was a great deal of routine work to be done. She had managed to convince her boss that if she were to have Wednesday afternoons free she would be happy to work on Saturday mornings. They had agreed readily when no overtime pay seemed to be demanded, hence her Wednesday afternoons were her own.

  She tried to hide the letter but she wasn’t quick enough. Colin reached for it.

  ‘Hey, have you a lover in America?’ he asked playfully.

  ‘No, no, just friends.’

  ‘Why don’t you want me to see it then?’

  ‘We don’t live each other’s lives, Colin. There are lots of things I don’t ask you.’

  ‘Like what?’ He looked impossibly over-confident.

  ‘Like whether you still sleep with Monica or not,’ Katy said.

  There was a silence. He seemed to look at her with more respect.

  ‘I’ll never take you for granted,’ Colin promised her.

  ‘I hope not,’ Katy said, kissing him on the nose.

  ‘I heard from those nice Americans.’ James Green was pleased.

  ‘Tell me, what did they say?’ Paula was interested. She had changed a lot, James thought, much more outgoing these days. He showed her the letter, and she read it with interest.

  ‘Pity she’s gone back to the fellow.’

  ‘Well, she loved him you see, people like you and I don’t know about passion.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, James Green,’ Paula said in her clipped Scots accent.

  ‘Well, pardon me, I shouldn’t have spoken.’

  ‘Speak on your own behalf. I know what passion is, or I knew.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ James said simply.

  ‘No, not really. It ruined my life, but I’m putting it back together again.’

  James Green felt weak at the knees. They say you get used to everything when you work behind a bar but he thought this was one of the most unexpected things he had ever heard in his life.

  In 1986 Katy wrote to tell the Hunts that her father had been very ill and she had gone to spend her vacation with him. And she had been there when he died. She said it was so good that she had made her peace with him, never again would she cut herself off from family or friends. It wasn’t a real kind of love that made you do that, it was desperation. And Colin and she did have a real kind of love. Katy understood love better now, it could be compartmentalised: one part of Colin was for Monica, one part of him was for her. That was the way to look at it, and not to keep demanding more time, or attention like a child would do. They had never been happier.

  Katy wrote that she sounded so self-centred, and she knew nothing about the Hunts’s life . . . What did they do with their time, and were they coming back to Britain again?

  The Hunts wrote about how good it was that Katy was happy, how sad it was that her father had died, and James Cagney had died that year too, but how wonderful that there was to be another royal romance, Prince Andrew and Fergie. How marvellous. And they had no plans for further vacations at the moment. They said Katy should call in to see that nice barman at the airport who had enquired about her.

  James Green wrote and told the Hunts that he and Miriam had gone to South America for a reason which he might tell them next year. But at the moment it was enough to say that the Argentines were stark staring mad about football; you thought the British were bad, please have a look at the boys that follow Maradona.

  1987

  Dear Jean and Maurice,

  Wasn’t it sad that Danny Kaye and Fred Astaire died this year?

  What great entertainers they were. Colin and I are fine, just great these days. Most Wednesdays we meet, when he can make it. Monica got involved with someone, had an affair, I mean. The man was apparently a total loser, he disappeared of course, took no responsibility for anything, and now she’s pregnant.

  Colin says it’s not the child’s fault so he’s going to give the baby his name. Which is very good of him . . . but then I’d expect that of him.

  I went to see James Green, the barman; he is very nice, you were right. I expect he told you his wonderful news, he has pictures of it stuck all over the bar.

  Thank you for your continued interest.

  Love,

  Katy

  Dear Dr and Mrs Hunt,

  Here is a picture of our pride and joy, Marco. Isn’t he wonderful? That’s what Miriam and I were doing in Argentina, but we had to keep very quiet until it was all organised and legal. Well, as near to legal as makes no difference. He’s a wonderful child, and when we think what his life would have been like if we had left him where he was . . . we both shudder.

  We are saving very hard, we want to have a small place in the countryside where Marco can grow up with green fields and fresh air.

  We are all very happy.

  Wasn’t it wonderful that Mrs Thatcher got in for a third term? Miriam isn’t so happy about it and neither is Paula, who works with me, but women are inclined to be jealous of each other. Paula is only part-time now as she has a place at university.

  Yours ever,

  James Green

  In 1988, Katy wrote to say that Colin was worn out pacing the floor at night with a baby girl that was not his, and weren’t some men wonderful.

  James Green wrote to say he had a change of address. Miriam and Marco and he were moving to the West Country, a lovely place in Somerset, where his brother-in-law had helped them to get a start.

  In 1989, Katy wrote to say that she had very nearly fought with her mother and sister again because they said Colin’s wife, Monica, was pregnant once more, and once might have been this somebody unreliable whom she had turned to because of Katy, but twice could not be.

  James and Miriam sent another picture of Marco, this time playing outside their pub. They did Bed and Breakfast too, if ever the Hunts were coming this way again.

  In 1990, Katy wrote to say she was sure they must have been laughing at her all this time, they were adult people, mature and secure in their love, they must have realised that Colin had never loved her. Not one little bit. This time she was not suicidal, she was just waiting to stop needing him and aching, she was sure it wouldn’t be long now. She said that that nice man, James Green, owned a pub which had been written up in all the magazines, and that his assistant Paula, back in the airport pub days, had got a first class honours degree and was going on to do a Masters and a PhD.

  In 1991, Katy’s letter said that on the tenth anniversary of the day she had met Colin she stopped loving him. It was as simple as that, and as lengthy. Imagine a decade of her life, more than a third of the time she had lived, spent in a dream. It had ended very simply. She had said not to come and see her one Wednesday, and then the next. And the third time she said it, he said it was just as well because he had to look after the children while Monica when to a Women’s Group meeting.

  She felt old now, Katy wrote. Old and wise. Twenty-nine.

  She would regard Colin as if he had been some illness and now she was cured.

  James and Miriam sent some press clippings about the pub to show it was a really good place to stay if they wanted to visit, and they must, believe it or not, book in good time, they even had reservations six months in advance.

  In 1992, Katy wrote to say she had spent a wonderful weekend at James and Miriam’s pub and met a marvellous man.

  So, it’s all due to you dear, dear Jean and Maurice, she wrote. And when are you two going to come back this way? Otherwise I’m going to have to come and find you in America. Turn up at your door even.

  My dear Katy,
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  I’m so happy you have found happiness. So very, very happy. I have told you lies for many years for a reason that I will never fathom.

  That day when we met you in the airport was a big day in my life. An hour earlier Maurice had told me that he was going to leave me for another woman. A much younger woman, I need hardly say. He said that he was approaching fifty and he felt that he had never lived life properly. The affair had been going on for some years, I was the only person in our circle who didn’t know about it. I thought that I would die. I couldn’t even speak to him about it. He begged me to talk, to rail against him even, but I said no, I wanted to read my book. I didn’t see a word on the page, all the time I was thinking what do I do with the rest of my life . . . Then I saw you . . . with all the fire and the love and despair in your face. Perhaps this girl felt like that about Maurice. I certainly did not.

  It was helpful to us as well as to you to talk you out of doing anything foolish, we spoke on about our holiday and the theatres we had seen, it dulled the pain of the news I had heard in the last hour.

  And there was something in your face that gave me a resolve. I knew that not only could I live without him, but I should. I saw his hypocrisy, pretending to be the wise, all-knowing psychologist, asking you to get in touch, knowing that he would be long gone from that address by the time you wrote.

  I never saw Maurice after that day. I asked him to take his things away as soon as possible, and I remained in the house.

  The letters came from you and from James. I kept up the correspondence and the fiction.

  It has been deeply satisfying watching your lives go from strength to strength. Don’t stop the September letters, please Katy, and always remember I needed them as much as you ever did and I learned more from your face that day than you ever learned from mine. Yours was honest, mine was an act.

  And now that we know so much, maybe they could come more often than once a year.

  You might think of inviting your young man to come and see me and I will surely think of making a long-distance booking for James and Miriam’s splendid pub.

  Love and happiness,

  From your fond and accidental friend,

  Jean Hunt

  A Villa for Four

  MOLLY HAD BEEN SAVING UP FOR A COOKERY COURSE AS HER holiday. It was very expensive, but it was the last word, they said. You stayed in this inn in France and the Great Man taught you to make sauces all morning and pastries all afternoon. The secret of cooking was sauces and pastry, apparently. Any fool could just put things into ovens or under grills or, heaven forbid, into a frying pan.

  Molly worked in a big supermarket with a very lively crowd of girls. Every year four of these girls went on holidays together. They would rent a villa between them.

  On their coffee breaks they talked of little else when it came to the time of booking the holiday.

  Now a villa meant different things to different people, Sheila said, but wasn’t that all part of the adventure?

  In one part of Spain one year they had a terrific villa with white walls and purple flowers all over the place, but it was a mile and a half from the town and the action. In another part of Spain they had a great place but it was more a flat over a café, and was almost too near the action. And in the Canaries the villa was like part of a huge block of apartments, and in Italy the villa had been a huge house where they could have had a house party for twenty if they had only known.

  So this year they were booking again, their fifth holiday together, ‘And none of us has got a man out of it,’ Sheila said, rolling her eyes up to heaven.

  ‘We got plenty of men between us in our time, they just didn’t stay around,’ said Kitty.

  ‘Or we didn’t want them to,’ said Brigid.

  Mary said nothing. She had been very quiet recently.

  Molly noticed this, the others didn’t seem to, because they were too excited waving brochures and recalling tales of other people’s adventures in Greece. Greece had been chosen as the holiday destination this year. Further away than ever before. More exotic, more exciting maybe.

  Then Sheila started collecting the money. They all had to give thirty pounds each as a deposit before the New Year so that they could get their pick of the best places. Two mornings, Mary had forgotten to bring in her three ten-pound notes.

  ‘Listen, I have to book, Mary. I’ll put it in for you and you can give it to me at the end of the week,’ Sheila said and Mary burst into tears. She wasn’t going to go. She was going to get engaged to Frank and she had hardly dared tell them that she was going to break up the happy foursome.

  They forgave her, an engagement was good, they began to plan her shower and then her hens’ party. But of course it did mean they needed a fourth.

  ‘Are you sure about your holiday, Molly?’ they asked again.

  But Molly was very sure.

  She would love to learn how to make magic sauces and talk to people who were interested in doing the same. She would not like to lie on a beach covered in suntan oil and dance all night in a nightclub.

  Maybe they were pleased that Molly said no. She wasn’t as glamorous as the others, she didn’t wear such short skirts and as much make-up. Molly thought she probably looked a bit puddingly, a bit like one of those big desserts she just adored to make.

  And then it all happened at once; Molly got a letter saying that because enough people had not signed on for the cookery course, the Great Man was now cancelling it, money was refunded, apologies were offered, regrets were expressed.

  Molly was bitterly disappointed, and all around her she heard the woe as Sheila, Kitty and Brigid heard their own bad news from the travel agency. The holiday price was based on four people sharing. Without Mary it was going to cost them a small fortune.

  ‘I can’t give up my marriage and future to save you all a few quid,’ cried Mary.

  ‘If only there was someone who would come with us, someone we know,’ they said over and over, and Molly heard herself saying that if they had nobody else, her holiday had fallen through.

  They were wild with delight.

  The holiday was on again, Mary could marry Frank, the world had settled down.

  The villa in Greece was delightful, it was a little white house at the top of some wonderful steps which had flowerpots on them. It looked down over the harbour and out to sea. People said it was owned by a little old lady who went to live in a hut in the mountains for the summer. She was saving money so that her son could start a business.

  The girls loved it all. Soon it had the familiar look of all their holiday homes, draped in clothes and suntan creams and drying swimming costumes.

  They decided that Molly on holidays wasn’t as much fun as they had thought she would be.

  Not exactly prim and proper, but not topless either. Not temperance or pioneer pin, but certainly not too free and easy with the bottles of retsina. Not exactly prissy, but not as eager and delighted as she might have been to befriend all the handsome Greek men that were waiting in the village for their arrival.

  Sheila, Kitty and Brigid were set in their own rather liberal ways. They had quite expected that Molly was going to be the same.

  Now she was never disapproving, just said that she would prefer to go for walks or boat trips, and even excursions up into the mountains. Sometimes she would make them lunch on the terrace of the villa, beautiful salads, and fresh fish that she would buy at the harbour. She learned the few words of Greek needed for these transactions, and even the names of some of the local men.

  ‘Ti kanis, Molly,’ they might call.

  ‘Kala, poli Kala,’ Molly would cry back.

  ‘Orea,’ they would say.

  ‘That’s a real conversation you’re having,’ Sheila complained indignantly to Molly.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Molly laughed. ‘It’s only “Howarya, fine, great”, honestly that’s all it is.’

  It was more than the others knew, and they noticed she had learned to count and could ad
d up the bill and work out the service, and say please and thank you.

  Sheila said it would be great to do all that if you had the time but then who had the time if they had a busy social life?

  Molly always joined them for the earlier part of the evening. They went to one of many tavernas around the harbour. Sometimes the Greek men stood up, formed a circle, and did their traditional dances.

  But soon after this, Sheila, Kitty and Brigid would say it was time to go to the nightclub at the hotel.

  ‘Come on, Molly, time for real dancing,’ they’d say.

  Molly preferred to be where she was, watching, admiring and praising as the men did great swoops and leaps. And she drank little cups of sweet coffee.

  There was one restaurant that she particularly liked. It had no name over the door and it wasn’t very smart. It had no big lights like some of the newer places had, no flashing signs or expensive awnings. But it was very friendly, people seemed glad to see you. She didn’t feel plump and a little old fashioned in her cardigan in this cheerful little place.

  Fortunately, it was also very inexpensive so the others were happy to have supper there most evenings. Molly soon told them that she really preferred to sit on here than to go to the nightclub. She didn’t actually say that was really being abroad, while the nightclub could have been anywhere.

  They worked so hard—the family that ran the place. They never stopped running in and out of the tiny kitchen, they remembered what everyone ordered, they had smiles that seemed very genuine.

  There was an old woman, the Mama, her son, Georgi, and a beautiful girl, Maria. Probably Georgi’s wife—he smiled a lot at her. She didn’t wear a ring but perhaps it was different here.

  They seemed pleased that Molly stayed on. ‘It’s not dull for you here with just us people, no tourists?’ Maria asked her.

  ‘No, I came to Greece to meet Greek people,’ Molly said simply, and that pleased them all.