The Copper Beech

  Praise for Maeve Binchy

  ‘Binchy’s novels are never less than entertaining. They are, without exception, repositories of common sense and good humour … chronicled with tenderness and wit’

  Sunday Times

  ‘Proves how wise and funny Maeve Binchy is – and how adept at keeping a reader bolt upright till five in the morning’

  Irish Times

  ‘Compulsive reading … Ms Binchy has the true storyteller’s knack’

  Observer

  ‘High drama, betrayal and tragedy … it left me feeling stunned’

  Daily Express

  ‘Thank heavens – a thoroughly enjoyable and readable book’

  The Times

  ‘An adept storyteller with a sharp eye for social nuances and a pleasing affection for her characters’

  Sunday Times

  ‘Maeve Binchy has a gimlet eye for the seething cauldron of emotions which lies beneath the surface of everyday life’

  Irish Independent

  ‘Warm witty and with a deep understanding of what makes us tick it’s little wonder that Maeve Binchy’s bewitching stories have become world-beaters’

  OK! Magazine

  BY MAEVE BINCHY

  Fiction

  Light a Penny Candle

  Echoes

  The Lilac Bus

  Firefly Summer

  Silver Wedding

  Circle of Friends

  The Copper Beech - Paperback - eBook

  The Glass Lake - Paperback - eBook

  Evening Class - Paperback - eBook

  Tara Road - Paperback - eBook

  Scarlet Feather - Paperback - eBook

  Quentins - Paperback - eBook

  Nights of Rain and Stars - Paperback - eBook

  Whitethorn Woods - Paperback - eBook

  Heart and Soul - Paperback - eBook

  Minding Frankie - Paperback - eBook

  Non-fiction

  Aches & Pains - Paperback - eBook

  The Maeve Binchy Writers’ Club - Paperback - eBook

  Short Stories

  Victoria Line, Central Line

  Dublin 4

  This Year It will Be Different - Paperback - eBook

  The Return Journey - Paperback - eBook

  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 in various girls’ schools, she joined the Irish Times. 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 bestsellers. Several have been adapted for cinema and television, most notably Circle of Friends and Tara Road. Maeve Binchy was awarded the Lifetime Achievement award at the British Book Awards in 1999 and the Irish PEN/A. T. Cross award in 2007. In 2010 she was also presented with a Lifetime Achievement award by the Romantic Novelists’ Association. She is married to the writer and broadcaster Gordon Snell. Visit her website at www.maevebinchy.com.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title

  Dedication

  Praise for Maeve Binchy

  About the Author

  By Maeve Binchy

  Shancarrig School

  Maddy

  Maura

  Eddie

  Dr Jims

  Nora Kelly

  Nessa

  Richard

  LEO

  A Stone House and a Big Tree

  Copyright

  For Gordon, who has made my life so good and happy,

  with all my gratitude and love.

  SHANCARRIG SCHOOL

  Father Gunn knew that their housekeeper Mrs Kennedy could have done it all much better than he would do it. Mrs Kennedy would have done everything better in fact, heard Confessions, forgiven sins, sung the Tantum Ergo at Benediction, buried the dead. Mrs Kennedy would have looked the part too, tall and angular like the Bishop, not round and small like Father Gunn. Mrs Kennedy’s eyes were soulful and looked as if they understood the sadness of the world.

  Most of the time he was very happy in Shancarrig, a peaceful place in the midlands. Most people only knew it because of the huge rock that stood high on a hill over Barna Woods. There had once been great speculation about this rock. Had it been part of something greater? Was it of great geological interest? But experts had come and decided while there may well have been a house built around it once all traces must have been washed away with the rains and storms of centuries. It had never been mentioned in any history book. All that was there was one great rock. And since Carrig was the Irish word for rock that was how the place was named – Shancarrig, the Old Rock.

  Life was good at the Church of the Holy Redeemer in Shancarrig. The parish priest, Monsignor O’Toole, was a courteous, frail man who let the curate run things his own way. Father Gunn wished that more could be done for the people of the parish so that they didn’t have to stand at the railway station waving goodbye to sons and daughters emigrating to England and America. He wished that there were fewer damp cottages where tuberculosis could flourish, filling the graveyard with people too young to die. He wished that tired women did not have to bear so many children, children for whom there was often scant living. But he knew that all the young men who had been in the seminary with him were in similar parishes wishing the same thing. He didn’t think he was a man who could change the world. For one thing he didn’t look like a man who could change the world. Father Gunn’s eyes were like two currants in a bun.

  There had been a Mr Kennedy long ago, long before Father Gunn’s time, but he had died of pneumonia. Every year he was prayed for at mass on the anniversary of his death, and every year Mrs Kennedy’s sad face achieved what seemed to be an impossible feat, which was a still more sorrowful appearance. But even though it was nowhere near her late husband’s anniversary now she was pretty gloomy, and it was all to do with Shancarrig school.

  Mrs Kennedy would have thought since it was a question of a visit from the Bishop that she, as the priests’ housekeeper, should have been in charge of everything. She didn’t want to impose, she said many a time, but really had Father Gunn got it quite clear? Was it really expected that those teachers, those lay teachers above at the schoolhouse and the children that were taught in it, were really in charge of the ceremony?

  ‘They’re not used to bishops,’ said Mrs Kennedy, implying that she had her breakfast, dinner and tea with the higher orders.

  But Father Gunn had been adamant. The occasion was the dedication of the school, a bishop’s blessing, a ceremony to add to the legion of ceremonies for Holy Year, but it was to involve the children, the teachers. It wasn’t something run by the presbytery.

  ‘But Monsignor O’Toole is the manager,’ Mrs Kennedy protested. The elderly frail parish priest played little part in the events of the parish, it was all done by his bustling energetic curate, Father Gunn.

  In many ways, of course, it would have been much easier to let Mrs Kennedy take charge, to have allowed her to get her machine into motion and organise the tired sponge cases, the heavy pastries, the big pots of tea that characterised so many church functions. But Father Gunn had stood firm. This event was for the school and the school would run it.

  Thinking of Mrs Kennedy standing there hatted and gloved and sorrowfully disapproving, he asked God to let the thing be done right, to inspire young Jim and Nora Kelly, the teachers, to set it up properly. And to keep that mob of young savages that they taught in some kind of control.

  After all, God had an interest in the whole thing too, and making the Holy Year meaningful in the parish was important. God must want it to be a success, not just to impress the Bishop but so that the children would remember their school and all the values the
y learned there. He was very fond of the school, the little stone building under the huge copper beech. He loved going up there on visits and watching the little heads bent over their copy books.

  ‘Procrastination is the thief of time’ they copied diligently.

  ‘What does that mean, do you think?’ he had asked once.

  ‘We don’t know what it means, Father. We only have to copy it out,’ explained one of the children helpfully.

  They weren’t too bad really, the children of Shancarrig – he heard their Confessions regularly. The most terrible sin, and the one for which he had to remember to apportion a heavy penance, was scutting on the back of a lorry. As far as Father Gunn could work out this was holding on to the back of a moving vehicle and being borne along without the driver’s knowledge. It not unnaturally drew huge rage and disapproval from parents and passers-by, so he had to reflect the evilness of it by a decade of the Rosary, which was almost unheard of in the canon of children’s penances. But scutting apart they were good children, weren’t they? They’d do the school and Shancarrig credit when the Bishop came, wouldn’t they?

  The children talked of little else all term. The teachers told them over and over what an honour it was. The Bishop didn’t normally go to small schools like this. They would have the chance to see him on their own ground, unlike so many children in the country who had never seen him until they were confirmed in the big town.

  They had spent days cleaning the place up. The windows had been painted, and the door. The bicycle shed had been tidied so that you wouldn’t recognise it. The classrooms had been polished till they gleamed. Perhaps His Grace would tour the school. It wasn’t certain, but every eventuality had to be allowed for.

  Long trestle tables would be arranged under the copper beech tree which dominated the school yard. Clean white sheets would cover them and Mrs Barton, the local dressmaker, had embroidered some lovely edging so that they wouldn’t look like sheets. There would be jars of flowers, bunches of lilac and the wonderful purple orchids that grow wild in Barna Woods in the month of June.

  A special table with Holy Water and a really good white cloth would be there so that His Grace could take the silver spoon and sprinkle the Water, dedicating the school again to God. The children would sing ‘Faith of Our Fathers’, and because it was near to the Feast of Corpus Christi they would also sing ‘Sweet Sacrament Divine’. They rehearsed it every single day, they were word perfect now.

  Whether or not the children were going to be allowed to partake of the feast itself was a somewhat grey area. Some of the braver ones had inquired but the answers were always unsatisfactory.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Mrs Kelly had said.

  ‘Don’t always think of your bellies,’ Mr Kelly had said.

  It didn’t look terribly hopeful.

  Even though it was all going to take place at the school they knew that it wasn’t really centred around the children. It was for the parish.

  There would be something, of course, they knew that. But only when the grown-ups were properly served. There might be just plain bits of bread and butter with a little scraping of sandwich paste on them, or the duller biscuits when all the iced and chocolate-sided ones had gone.

  The feast was going to be a communal effort from Shancarrig and so they each knew some aspect of it. There was hardly a household that wouldn’t be contributing.

  ‘There are going to be bowls of jelly and cream with strawberries on top,’ Nessa Ryan was able to tell.

  ‘That’s for grown-ups!’ Eddie Barton felt this was unfair.

  ‘Well, my mother is making the jellies and giving the cream. Mrs Kelly said it would be whipped in the school and the decorations put on at the last moment in case they ran.’

  ‘And chocolate cake. Two whole ones,’ Leo Murphy said.

  It seemed very unfair that this should all be for the Bishop and priests and great crowds of multifarious adults in front of whom they had all been instructed, or ordered, to behave well.

  Sergeant Keane would be there, they had been told, as if he was about to take them all personally to the gaol in the big town if there was a word astray.

  ‘They’ll have to give some to us,’ Maura Brennan said. ‘It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.’

  Father Gunn heard her say this and marvelled at the innocence of children. For a child like young Maura, daughter of Paudie who drank every penny that came his way, to believe still in fairness was touching.

  ‘There’ll be bound to be something left over for you and your friends, Maura,’ he said to her, hoping to spread comfort, but Maura’s face reddened. It was bad to be overheard by the priest wanting food on a holy occasion. She hung back and let her hair fall over her face.

  But Father Gunn had other worries.

  The Bishop was a thin silent man. He didn’t walk to places but was more inclined to glide. Under his long soutane or his regal-style vestments he might well have had wheels rather than feet. He had already said he would like to process rather than drive from the railway station to the school. Very nice if you were a gliding person and it was a cool day. Not so good however if it was a hot day, and the Bishop would notice the unattractive features of Shancarrig.

  Like Johnny Finn’s pub where Johnny had said that out of deference to the occasion he would close his doors but he was not going to dislodge the sitters.

  ‘They’ll sing. They’ll be disrespectful,’ Father Gunn had pleaded.

  ‘Think what they’d be like if they were out on the streets, Father.’ The publican had been firm.

  So much was spoken about the day and so much was made of the numbers that would attend that the children grew increasingly nervous.

  ‘There’s no proof at all that we’ll get any jelly and cream,’ Niall Hayes said.

  ‘I heard no talk of special bowls or plates or forks.’

  ‘And if they let people like Nellie Dunne loose they’ll eat all before them.’ Nessa Ryan bit her lip with anxiety.

  ‘We’ll help ourselves,’ said Foxy Dunne.

  They looked at him round-eyed. Everything would be counted, they’d be murdered, he must be mad.

  ‘I’ll sort it out on the day,’ he said.

  Father Gunn was not sleeping well for the days preceding the ceremony. It was a great kindness that he hadn’t heard Foxy’s plans.

  Mrs Kennedy said that she would have some basic emergency supplies ready in the kitchen of the presbytery, just in case. Just in case. She said it several times.

  Father Gunn would not give her the satisfaction of asking just in case what. He knew only too well. She meant in case his foolish confidence in allowing lay people up at a small schoolhouse to run a huge public religious ceremony was misplaced. She shook her head and dressed in black from head to foot, in honour of the occasion.

  There had been three days of volunteer work trying to beautify the station. No money had been allotted by CIE, the railways company, for repainting. The stationmaster, Jack Kerr, had been most unwilling to allow a party of amateur painters loose on it. His instructions did not include playing fast and loose with company property, painting it all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘We’ll paint it grey,’ Father Gunn had begged.

  But no. Jack Kerr wouldn’t hear of it, and he was greatly insulted at the weeding and slashing down of dandelions that took place.

  ‘The Bishop likes flowers,’ Father Gunn said sadly.

  ‘Let him bring his own bunch of them to wear with his frock then,’ said Mattie the postman, the one man in Shancarrig foolhardy enough to say publicly that he did not believe in God and wouldn’t therefore be hypocritical enough to attend mass, or the sacraments.

  ‘Mattie, this is not the time to get me into a theological discussion,’ implored Father Gunn.

  ‘We’ll have it whenever you’re feeling yourself again, Father.’ Mattie was unfailingly courteous and rather too patronising for Father Gunn’s liking.

  But he had a good heart. He transported clumps
of flowers from Barna Woods and planted them in the station beds. ‘Tell Jack they grew when the earth was disturbed,’ he advised. He had correctly judged the stationmaster to be unsound about nature and uninterested in gardening.

  ‘I think the place is perfectly all right,’ Jack Kerr was heard to grumble as they all stood waiting for the Bishop’s train. He looked around his transformed railway station and saw nothing different.

  The Bishop emerged from the train gracefully. He was shaped like an S hook, Father Gunn thought sadly. He was graceful, straightening or bending as he talked to each person. He was extraordinarily gracious, he didn’t fuss or fumble, he remembered everyone’s name, unlike Father Gunn who had immediately forgotten the names of the two self-important clerics who accompanied the Bishop.

  *

  Some of the younger children, dressed in the little white surplices of altar boys, stood ready to lead the procession up the town.

  The sun shone mercilessly. Father Gunn had prayed unsuccessfully for one of the wet summer days they had been having recently. Even that would be better than this oppressive heat.

  The Bishop seemed interested in everything he saw. They left the station and walked the narrow road to what might be called the centre of town had Shancarrig been a larger place. They paused at the Church of the Holy Redeemer for His Grace to say a silent prayer at the foot of the altar. Then they walked past the bus stop, the little line of shops, Ryan’s Commercial Hotel and The Terrace where the doctor, the solicitor and other people of importance lived.

  The Bishop seemed to nod approvingly when places looked well, and to frown slightly as he passed the poorer cottages. But perhaps that was all in Father Gunn’s mind. Maybe His Grace was unaware of his surroundings and was merely saying his prayers. As they walked along Father Gunn was only too conscious of the smell from the River Grane, low and muddy. As they crossed the bridge he saw out of the corner of his eye a few faces at the window of Johnny Finn Noted for Best Drinks. He prayed they wouldn’t find it necessary to open the window.