A well of hope in Rossmore inspires its characters, but not the reader

So, what makes a story a story? There’s a narrator and/or a main character, and some kind of conflict that results in a change in the main character, or more poignantly, the lack of any change at all. As outlines go, I think this one is pretty lenient. I’ll skip over the rising action-climax-falling action business. I want to be generous.

Maeve Binchy is very generous. I found that to be a strength while reading her collection of short stories, Whitethorn Woods. She loves her characters, which can be a beautiful thing—she loves them almost like children. She gives Rivka from ”Friendship” a deep, emotional connection with a woman from a different continent and faith. She gives Barbara in “Holiday Weekend” a sudden desire for spontaneity by having her give a garden party for a group of strangers.  She gives the young women protagonists of “The Singles Holiday” and “Tell Me Why” a clear shot at love and the slow, careful men of “The Sharpest Knife in the Drawer” and “Your Eleven O’Clock Lady” the chance to be vindicated.

It’s sweet. And when I first began to read Whitethorn, I was pleased with its sweetness. But once I realized that it only had the tartness of “The Plan” to counterbalance the overall sweet tone, I became bored. And then annoyed. Because although the sweetness dovetailed neatly with the main themes of faith and goodness and being open to change, I wasn’t enthralled. So it’s nice. So what?

A lot of these stories lack the kind of conflict that would make them stand out. By my reckoning, “Friendship” and “The Plan” are the two best of the bunch. Both illustrate two completely different dynamics between women, with the mother-daughter pairing of “The Plan” representing the most diabolical (and most gleefully fascinating) of Whitethorn’s fictional world. So many of the other stories have a sameness to them—similar stories of young love and wisdom earned through experience. Characters learn to be nicer because they appear to realize, sooner or later, that that’s the world they live in. The characters who fail to learn … well, who cares what happens to them?

This book is so nice that I feel horrible for criticizing it.

I kept waiting to connect emotionally with the over-arcing plot concerning the construction of a new highway cutting through a sacred place called St. Ann’s Well. But the stories kept cutting through it like indifferent bypasses of their own, interrupting any sense of flow or emotional weight. I didn’t like being asked to worry about Father Flynn's struggles with faith once every 90 pages; I didn’t like being jolted to London or New York or the several parts of Ireland where characters connect tangentially to the community of Rossmore, where St. Ann’s Well resides. There is almost no substance here. The reader sees the lessons coming before the characters do, so there are no surprises (again, the exception being "The Plan").

And some of these stories barely qualify as such; several of them read either like the first chapter of a novel, or a well-done character sketch. It is rare that the reader sees any character outside their own story. Characters are rewarded for their patience, their niceness, or even for just being sorry that they committed an un-nice act. Things fall nicely into place for the unambitious and naïve. Lucky breaks for all who deserve one! And isn’t that just so nice to hear?

But that’s the thing: Sometimes, it is nice to hear that. Binchy provides her readers with that particular comfort (rather blandly presented—there is nothing distinguishing Rossmore from any small town in America, and even if that was the point, it seems like a lazy afterthought). Do you want blue skies? You could do worse than Whitethorn. Its thorn has no sting.