“Are you telling me what to do, Mère Brigid?” Perpetua couldn’t believe her ears.
“If you will let me continue, I will propose a solution,” Brigid heard herself say, equally coldly. Fortunately, her Superior couldn’t see the pen trembling in her hand. “I propose that Soeur Michael stay here in Limerick with me for the duration of her pregnancy and then we will see what is to become of her and the child. It is a solution I believe Our Lord and His Holy Mother would bless. We are, after all, an Order that gives succour,” Brigid added slyly.
“I couldn’t sanction that! She would be a bad example to the novices and postulants. Under no circumstances will I agree,” Perpetua rallied.
As though a voice whispered to her, Brigid heard the Four Winds.
“Very well, then. She can stay in the Four Winds, away from the postulants and novices.” Brigid strove to keep the desperation out of her voice.
There was a long silence on the phone. “I’m very concerned that this would set a precedent. All those young nuns with their feminist views. Vatican Two was a catastrophe.”
“Times are changing and we must change with them,” Brigid said calmly.
“I wonder, did I make a mistake in promoting you?” Perpetua said snippily.
“I’m trying to find a Christ-like, merciful solution, Mother General. I feel at fault in a way. It was because of me that my niece entered the convent.”
“Very well, but under no circumstances is she ever to set foot in your convent in Limerick.”
“Thank you, Mother General; I will make sure she doesn’t. Bonne journée.” Brigid hung up immediately in case Perpetua changed her mind. She was taut with tension. She rested her head in her hands, taking deep, calming breaths before redialling the number. The nun on the switchboard in Paris must be wondering what on earth was going on, she thought as she asked to speak to Keelin.
“Hello, dear. It’s sorted. You’re going to live in the Four Winds until you have your baby, and for as long as you need afterwards. I’ll check your arrival time with the airport tomorrow and I’ll collect you,” Brigid said crisply. “Don’t be worrying about anything else. Just get yourself home.”
“Oh, Auntie Brigid, I’m so grateful. I can never thank you enough.” Keelin burst into tears of relief.
“Don’t get upset. All will be well,” Brigid said reassuringly. “Now try to stay out of Perpetua’s way, and if she says anything to you be as humble as you can. She can be mercurial.”
“Yes, Mère. I’m very sorry I’ve brought shame on you,” Keelin answered shakily.
“You haven’t brought shame on me.” Brigid’s heart ached for her niece. If only she knew, she thought in despair, wondering what Keelin would think if she knew Brigid’s truth, and that she was living the greatest lie of all pretending to be pure and undefiled. “It could happen to any of us. Come home, dear, and we will get through it together. Stop crying now; it’s not good for the baby,” her aunt instructed. “Go and rest and I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Mère,” Keelin gulped, hanging up the phone. The doors of the convent were firmly closed against her. Her mother had disowned her, but Brigid would stand beside her come what may, and knowing that gave Keelin the courage to face the future and whatever lay ahead.
Chapter Thirty
She didn’t know who she was angrier with, Imelda or the Mother General! Or that bloody priest. How could they all turn their backs on a young pregnant girl, in this day and age? It was the eighties, not the fifties; gone were the days when young girls who “got into trouble” were spirited away to a life of misery. Imelda was Keelin’s birth mother, and the Mother General her spiritual one, yet neither of them had shown one ounce of motherly compassion to her.
No one knew better than she did the utter trepidation and loneliness Keelin was feeling right now. How well Brigid remembered, even after all these years, the terror and dawning realisation that she was pregnant, when her period was a month late, and she was feeling sick when she woke up every morning, after her final encounter with Johnny Larkin. What would become of her? she’d thought in despair. She’d have to leave Ardcloch and take the boat to England, so as not to shame her family. Or else go to one of those grim places that girls whispered about when someone “got into trouble.” The Magdalene laundries, the “holy” workhouses, and the mother-and-baby homes struck fear in every young girl’s heart.
The parish priest of Ardcloch had taken Lorna Murphy to a Magdalene laundry in Limerick and she’d escaped after having her baby, and then drowned herself in the Shannon, because the nuns had taken the child from her and sold it to an American couple. Mrs. Murphy had let out a bloodcurdling scream that half the village had heard when the priest had come to tell them the news. “Murderer!” she shouted. The poor woman never got over her daughter’s suicide.
And Imelda knew this! Wasn’t she fearful for Keelin’s future? Her own daughter?
And what of Larry? Brigid would have expected more of him. Keelin was the apple of his eye. But then he was so henpecked he did everything he was told, Brigid mused, closing the door to her book-lined office in the convent in Limerick.
Brigid couldn’t help the pangs of guilt that assailed her. If she hadn’t written to Keelin about her life on the Missions, her niece might never have joined the Order. Imelda had been furious with her. But Imelda was always furious with someone, Brigid thought crossly, picking up the phone to ring the housekeeper in the Four Winds to tell her to prepare a room for Keelin, and to say she’d be staying a few days herself. The Four Winds was never too busy in December and January, so Brigid was quite sure there’d be beds for them.
It would be nice to spend a few days by the sea in that homely old house, she thought, flicking through the Rolodex on her desk to find the number. Keelin had said that she loved the priest who got her pregnant. But did he love her and would he stand by her? With all her heart she hoped so, but she had her doubts. Being a single mother in a judgemental society was a hard path to tread, as Keelin was already discovering, and there but for the grace of God was a path Brigid had once thought she would walk herself.
Thinking about the baby she’d lost all those years ago brought a lump to Brigid’s throat. Taking care of the babies in Senegal had helped heal the gaping wound that her miscarriage had caused. But here in the convent in Limerick there were no children, no babies, to hold and cuddle, and she missed that part of her life more than words could say. She was going to be a great-aunt in more ways than one, she reminded herself. Keelin’s baby couldn’t have come at a better time in Brigid’s life.
* * *
“But she’s our daughter, Imelda. Of course she can come home! I’m going to phone that convent right now and tell her so! How could you be so heartless?” Larry raged at his wife. She’d just told him that Keelin had phoned to say she was pregnant and was coming back to Ireland, but under no circumstances would she be taking her in.
“I told her it would all end in tears. I knew the life of a nun wouldn’t suit her. I said it and you all pooh-poohed me. But I was right, Larry. No one ever listens to me.” Imelda glowered at her husband. “Brigid got her into this; Brigid can take responsibility for her.”
“But she’s not Brigid’s daughter; she’s ours. And she’s having a baby. Our grandchild! For God’s sake, Imelda, have you no feelings?” Larry was aghast at his wife’s intransigence.
“Don’t you dare talk to me about feelings, Larry O’Brien, after what you put me through,” Imelda shouted. “Everyone will be talking about her. It’s bad enough leaving the convent, but coming home pregnant—the gossips will have a field day. She won’t be able to walk down the street without someone pointing a finger at her. Is that what you want for her? For me?”
“People are kind, Imelda; it will be a sensation for a few days and then they’ll forget about it,” Larry tried to appease his wife.
“Would you listen to yourself? ‘People are kind’!” she snorted. “You know as
well as I do, there’ll be people in this town that will be delighted to see us get our comeuppance. People who think we’ve got notions because we hauled ourselves up by our bootstraps to become the elite of the town.”
“The ‘elite’? What are you talking about, Imelda?”
“Yes, the elite. We’re up there with the priests, the doctor, the teachers, the creamery owner. You’re one of the biggest businessmen in Glencarraig. Sure, don’t I get it every day—‘You wouldn’t know what it’s like to have to do your own shopping and carry your own bags anymore.’ ” Imelda put on a sneery, singsong voice. “ ‘Sure, aren’t you loaded?’ ”
“Ah, you’ll always get people like that in any town.” He shrugged.
“Yes, you will. Begrudgery is part and parcel of who we are, and that’s why when shame befalls us, people enjoy it and rub our noses in it. I won’t have it, Larry. I’ve had enough to put up with over the years. Why is it I have to endure the consequences of other people’s bad behaviour and no one gives a shite about me? I’m sick of it, Larry. Sick! Sick! Sick of it! Do you hear me?” Her face was blotchy red, her eyes sparking with fury.
“The whole town can hear you, Imelda,” Larry snapped. “I’m going up to Dublin to collect Keelin from the airport tomorrow whether you like it or not.”
“Do what you like. Do what you bloody well like, Larry,” Imelda shouted as she left the room, slamming the door behind her.
“God Almighty,” muttered her husband, at his wits’ end. There were times when he longed to walk away from his life in Glencarraig and never look back. He and Imelda had come to an uneasy truce years ago, and in fairness to his wife, she’d put the children first. But whenever she found life difficult, she would fling the past in his face. It would never end, Larry thought wearily, thumbing through the address book on the hallstand to find Brigid’s number.
* * *
“I need to talk to you, Monsignor,” Armand said agitatedly.
“Is that so? ‘I need to talk’ nearly always indicates something serious is up. Pour us both a drop of the hard stuff, if that’s the case.” The Monsignor pulled himself up in his chair while Armand got two glasses and poured a measure of whiskey into each of them, a larger measure for the Monsignor than for himself.
“I’ve made a girl pregnant.”
“Ah, Armand! Did you not use a johnnie when you were dippin’ your wick? Have you young lads no sense?” The Monsignor shook his head in exasperation. “I hope she’s overage?” he added sharply.
“She is, and I did use a condom. The damn thing burst.” Armand sat down on the chair opposite his parish priest.
“Well, we have to get the girl properly looked after. That’s the important thing. We can put her living with a family away from here. We’ll pay them to take care—”
“It’s one of the nuns, Monsignor,” Armand explained wretchedly.
“Ah Chrisht above.” Monsignor Kelly’s Irish accent got more pronounced. “Do ye mean to tell me I’m going to have that she-devil Germaine breathing down me neck? Oh Almighty God, what did I do to deserve this torment?” the Monsignor groused. “Does she know yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Armand muttered. “Keelin, I mean Sister Michael, only told me on Christmas Eve and I never got a chance to speak to her because of going up-country.”
“Ah, the little Irish lass. God love her.” The Monsignor shook his head. “What were the pair of you thinking?”
“We love each other. We both want to leave Holy Orders. It’s not the life for us. I was troubled before I met her. She knew she wasn’t going to take her final vows; I suppose this will make up both of our minds for us.”
“I knew this life wasn’t for you,” the old priest said heavily. “You can’t cope with the injustice of it all. You younger ones want to change the Church and its injustices more than you want to spread the word of God. Have a bite to eat and go to bed; we’ll meander over to the convent together tomorrow and see how the land lies,” he said gruffly.
Armand felt a great worry slide from his shoulders, knowing that the kind old man did not judge him, or Keelin, and he would do his best for them. The greatest relief of all was knowing that the internal struggle about his vocation, or lack of it, was finally over.
* * *
Armand felt a new sense of purpose as he assisted the Monsignor in Mass the following morning. He tried to locate Keelin but couldn’t see her with her fellow Sisters. Reverend Mother Germaine was stern faced as always, but today she seemed particularly thin lipped. The niggle of anxiety increased to a full-scale blast and after Mass, disrobing in the small sacristy, Armand whispered to the Monsignor, “I didn’t see Keelin out there.”
“Stay calm, lad; they’ll be offering us tay and breakfast. Let’s see what the RM has to say. You say nothing. Maybe the girl is sick.”
“I suppose if I ask about her it might seem odd?”
“Whatever you do, don’t mention her name in front of that Germaine one. I’ll try and suss out what, if anything, is going on. Say nothing now!” the old priest warned.
* * *
Pascal, the houseboy, had barely finished clearing away the dishes when Reverend Mother Germaine swept into the small dining room.
“I trust your breakfast was satisfactory, Fathers,” she said in her cool, clipped tone.
“Very tasty, Reverend Mother,” Monsignor Kelly answered genially. “Are you and the Sisters enjoying the holidays?”
“We were, until I had to send one of our nuns back to France.” She gave Armand an unyielding stare. Dread swept through him, but he held her gaze.
“Oh dear,” interjected Monsignor Kelly swiftly. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Extremely serious!” The RM continued to stare at Armand. “She was guilty of dishonouring her God, her Sisters here, and her Order. What could be more serious than that?”
“I see,” the Monsignor said calmly, pouring himself another cup of tea. “Father Durand?” He raised an eyebrow and held up the elegant silver teapot.
“Thank you, I will.” Armand managed to keep the shake out of his voice, taking his cue from the Monsignor.
“And apart from that unfortunate event, we must remember that Jesus in his mercy and charity never condemns and always forgives,” Monsignor Kelly added pointedly, in the same matter-of-fact tone, topping up Armand’s tea. “Have the holidays been restful?”
“Quite,” snapped the Reverend Mother, who did not appreciate being chastised about her lack of mercy and charity in front of that young upstart of a priest, who she suspected knew more about Soeur Michael’s condition than he was letting on. Was he the father? They were always chatting and laughing together and singing with the folk group they had set up. Who else could it be? She’d racked her brains, even wondering if it were Ismael, who had a great teasing way with the younger nuns.
“I was gifted with half a dozen Nile perches up-country, if you would like some, Reverend Mother…?” Armand busied himself pouring milk into his tea.
“I’ll send the cook up to you; you can discuss it with him. I have to go and see what arrangements I can make to replace Soeur Michael. I now have a class with no teacher and you’ll need to find someone else to play the guitar for your folk group. She’s left them in the lurch, too,” Reverend Mother said frostily, glaring at Armand. He knew she was hoping for a reaction but resisted the urge to speak in Keelin’s defence.
“God will provide,” Monsignor Kelly said mildly. “Drink up, Father Durand; we have work to do ourselves.”
* * *
“Yes, a she-devil of the highest order, that Germaine,” Monsignor Kelly said irritably as he climbed into the jeep beside Armand. “She’s very old school. Sister Celsus, who plays the piano so beautifully, would be the ideal replacement for Germaine. She’s from the Ivory Coast; did you know that?”
“I did not,” Armand said miserably, gunning the engine and scorching down the drive to swing out onto the Boulevard Houphouët-Boigny.
&nb
sp; “Easy there, I’d like to get to Quartier de la Corniche alive!”
“Pardon,” Armand apologised glumly, slowing down.
“So my boy, your Irish lass has been sent back to France in disgrace. But at least she will be looked after. I want you to seriously think about whether you want to be laicized. It’s a big step to turn your back on Holy Orders, and I don’t want you to be regretting it in ten years’ time.” Monsignor Kelly fished a packet of mints out of his cassock pocket and offered his companion one.
“Merci, non. I won’t regret it. There’s no peace of mind for me as it is, and that was the case even before I met Keelin. It shouldn’t be such a struggle.” Armand overtook a ramshackle lorry, carrying a load of timber. “It’s time to go.”
The old priest sighed. “All right so. I’ll ring the bishop and tell him to start your laicization. Keep your powder dry, Armand. Germaine’s in the dark.” Monsignor Kelly advised sagely. “And let’s keep her that way. The less she knows, the better for all of us,” he added, with a wry smile.
“I won’t leave you in the lurch, Monsignor Kelly,” Armand promised. “As you say, Keelin will be looked after by her Order. I’ll contact her in Paris and tell her I’ll go to her as soon as I can be replaced.”
* * *
“Dad, oh, Daddy!” Keelin ran into her father’s outstretched arms. She’d been expecting to see her aunt standing at the Arrivals barrier, and her heart had lifted in joy when she saw her father, a broad smile on his face, holding out his arms to her. She rested her head against the tweed of his coat, and knew she was home, safe and sound.
“You’re home and that’s the main thing. I spoke to Brigid and we’ll work something out for you and your little baba, so don’t be worrying,” Larry said comfortingly, taking her trolley as they headed for the car park.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 19