Dublin 4
Authors: Maeve Binchy
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409049142
Published in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2005
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Maeve Binchy, 1982
Maeve Binchy has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1983 by Century
Arrow Books The Random House Group Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA
Random House Australia (Pty) Limited 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney New South Wales 2061, Australia
Random House New Zealand Limited 18 Poland Road, Glenfield Auckland 10, New Zealand
Random House (Pty) Limited Isle of Houghton, Corner of Boundary Road & Carse O’Gowrie Houghton 2198, South Africa
Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Papers used by Random House are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin
ISBN 9780099498582 (from Jan 2007)
ISBN 0 09 949858 8
Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire
For Gordon
with all my love
Maeve Binchy was born in County Dublin and was educated at the Holy Child Convent in Killiney and at University College Dublin. After a spell as a teacher in various girls’ schools, she joined the
Irish Times
, for which she wrote feature articles and columns. Her first novel,
Light a Penny Candle
, was published in 1982, and since then she has written more than a dozen novels and short-story collections, each one of them a bestseller. Several have been adapted for cinema and television, most notably
Circle of Friends
in 1995. She was awarded the Lifetime Achievement award at the British Book Awards in 1999. She is married to the writer and broadcaster Gordon Snell.
Visit her website at
www.maevebinchy.com
Praise for
Dublin 4
‘Maeve Binchy has a gimlet eye for the seething cauldron of emotions which lies beneath the surface of everyday life’
Irish Independent
‘An adept storyteller with a sharp eye for social nuances and a pleasing affection for her characters’
Sunday Times
Fiction
Light a Penny Candle
Echoes
Victoria Line, Central Line
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
Non-fiction
Aches & Pains
DINNER IN DONNYBROOK
She drew the dinner table six times and it always came out the same. If you put the host at one end and the hostess at the other it didn’t work out. She would sit with her back to the window and have a man on either side of her. Fine so far. Dermot would sit opposite her with a woman on either side of him. Fine again, but what about the two places in between? Whatever way you did it you would have to have man sitting beside man, and woman beside woman.
She shook her head, puzzled. It was like those problems they had always done at school; if you have three missionaries and three cannibals on an island and the boat can only hold two … Not that it mattered of course, and anybody who knew how much time she had spent working it out would say she should spend a week in St Patrick’s, but still it was very irritating. There must be a way.
‘There is,’ said her daughter Anna. She had telephoned Anna to talk about something else but
brought the conversation around to the perplexing dinner table. ‘At a party for eight, host and hostess can’t sit opposite each other. You sit opposite the most important lady … and put Dad on that lady’s left.’ Anna had gone on talking about other things, not realising that her mother was now drawing the dinner table again, with Dermot sitting facing the sideboard and the most important lady sitting at the other end of the table facing herself.
‘Are you all right, Mother?’ Anna asked. Anna used to call her ‘Mum’ but now she said ‘Mother’. She said it in a slightly jokey tone as if she had been saying Your Ladyship, it was as if the word Mother were equally unsuitable.
‘I’m fine, dear,’ said Carmel. It irritated her when people asked was she all right. She never asked anyone else were they all right, even when they sounded most odd or distrait. Everyone felt they could patronise her, and pat her on the head. Even her own daughter.
‘Oh good, you sounded a bit vague as if you’d gone off somewhere. Anyway, as I said, we’re off to the cottage at the weekend so you’ll have to tell me how the great entertaining went. I’m glad you and Dad are having people round. It’s good to see you stirring yourself to do something.’
Carmel wondered again why Dermot could still be ‘Dad’ and not ‘Father’, and why it was good to be stirring herself. Why should things be stirred?
Particularly, why should people be stirred? They should be left to simmer or cool down or even grow a crust on top of them if they wanted to. She said none of this to her eldest daughter.
‘Oh no dear, the dinner party isn’t this weekend. It’s in a month’s time … I was just thinking ahead.’
Anna burst out laughing. ‘Mother, you
are
full of surprises. A month ahead! Not even James would insist on that much planning. Anyway, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about it before then.’ She made it sound like basketwork in an occupational therapy ward. Carmel hid her annoyance and hoped they would have a nice weekend. The weather forecast was good, and especially in the south-west.
She thought that Anna and James were quite insane to drive two hundred and nine miles on a Friday afternoon and the same distance again on Sunday. She could see no point in having a house and garden out in Sandycove and never getting to spend a weekend there. The cottage in Kerry had been an albatross around their necks as far as Carmel could see. She never believed that they could enjoy the five hour drive. ‘Four hours thirty-five minutes, Grandmama, if you know the short cuts …’ James always made her feel even more foolish with his Grandmama; she felt like a grand duchess. But still Anna never complained, she spoke of it eagerly: ‘Oh Mother, it’s so great, we get there around nine-thirty and light a fire, take out the steaks, open the wine,
kiddies half asleep already, pop them into bed … it’s so free … the country … our own place … you can’t believe it.’
Anna had heard the weather forecast too. ‘Yes I am glad, because we’re having a huge lunch there on Sunday and it will be so much nicer if we can have them all out of doors.’
A huge lunch, down at that cottage, in the wilds of Kerry, miles from her kitchen, her deep freeze, her dishwasher. No wonder Anna must think her pathetic worrying about seating people at a dinner party a whole month away. But of course Anna didn’t have the same kind of worries. Anna would never let herself get into a situation where she would have those kind of worries.
Carmel drew the table plan again. She wrote in the names of the guests carefully. At one end of the table with her back to the window she wrote Carmel, and at the opposite end she wrote out Ruth O’Donnell, Most Important Lady. She filled in the other names and wrote things under them too. Dermot, Loving Husband. Sheila, Wise Friend. Ethel, Upper Class Friend. Martin, Kind Husband of Wise Friend. David, Pompous Husband of Upper Class Friend. And then on the right hand side of Ruth O’Donnell she wrote, slowly and carefully, Joe, Life-Saver. She sat and looked at the plan for a long time. It stopped being a drawing of a rectangle with little squares around it holding names and
descriptions. It became a table with glasses and flowers and good china and shining silver. She could almost smell the food and hear the conversation. She learned it off by heart, the order they sat in, just like she had learned the Great Lakes or the towns of Cavan when she was a child, by rote with her eyes tightly closed, relating not to things as they were but as they were written down.
Then she took all the bits of paper and put them into the firegrate. There were still a few old clinkers and some bits of red from last night’s fire, but she didn’t trust them to burn. She took out half a firelighter and set a match to it. And there in the room where she would give the party in a month’s time, she sat and watched the flames burn the lists and the table plans. They burned away until there were only powdery ashes left on top of yesterday’s clinkers.
* * *
‘I think Carmel Murray is losing her marbles,’ said Ethel at breakfast.
