“What sort of a turn, Betty?” Imelda felt suddenly shaky. Larry had been looking weary lately, a grey-hued pallor shading his face. She’d put it down to winter and driving backwards and forward to see Keelin and the baby.
“I think he’s having a heart attack. We’ve phoned for an ambulance—”
“I’m on my way.” Imelda slammed down the phone, turned off the hob where she’d been cooking bacon and cabbage, grabbed her coat and keys from the hallstand, and ran out the front door.
“Oh God, let Larry be all right,” she prayed fervently. “Don’t let anything happen to him. He’s a good man. I’ll be a better wife,” she promised in a lather of impatient anxiety when she got stuck behind an elderly lady who was tootling along at snail’s pace.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Get out of my way,” she groaned, sick with apprehension. Larry’s secretary was not one to panic easily.
Larry was sitting in his worn leather office chair, his face the colour of chalk, grimacing in pain. “What are you doing here, Imelda? It’s only indigestion.” He tried to smile at her when she knelt beside him and took his hand.
“You’re going on a diet, mister! No more biscuits and cakes,” she said in a calm voice that surprised her.
“Ah now, Imelda, no need for that.” He squeezed her hand and gasped when another spasm of pain hit.
“Don’t talk, Larry. Save your energy,” Imelda urged, frightened at his colour. His hand grew limp in hers and tentacles of terror squeezed her insides. In the distance she could hear the howling wail of a siren. Thank God: the ambulance.
“They’ll sort you in hospital soon, Larry. The ambulance is nearly here.”
“Imelda,” he murmured, his eyes dimming, “I’m so sorry about Fran. I should have told—”
“Shush, forget about that now,” she urged. “That’s all in the past.”
“Imelda,” he whispered, his voice low so that she had to lean in to hear him.
“I’m here, Larry,” she said tenderly. “You’ll be fine. The ambulance is here.” The blue flashing lights outside lit up the office in the gloom of the late afternoon.
“Imelda, promise me you’ll let Keelin come home?” His voice was firm but very weak, as though he was speaking from somewhere far away.
“I promise, Larry. I’ll invite her home for Christmas,” she assured him as the ambulancemen hurried into the office. “I’m so sorry I behaved so badly. I’ll make it up to her and you. I promise.”
“I know you will.” Even in his hour of affliction he was kind to her, she thought, riven with guilt. “We did good in spite of everything.”
“We did, Larry!”
Imelda felt tears prick her eyes in this most tender moment when it seemed as though time was standing still and everyone else in the room had faded away and there was only the two of them.
“Excuse me now, ma’am! We need to examine your husband.” The ambulanceman gently but firmly assisted her to her feet and edged her out of the way.
“Imelda!” Larry breathed.
“I’m here,” she gulped in terror, watching the light fade from his eyes as they become glassy and dim. Imelda didn’t need the sharp intake of breath from the ambulanceman at his side to know that her husband was dead.
“Larry!” she wailed. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go! Larry! Larry! Larry!”
* * *
“This is a surprise. We don’t usually get to see our favourite Mère mid-week!” Keelin exclaimed when Brigid walked through the door into the kitchen.
“Keelin, I… Sit down, dear. I have bad news for you,” Brigid said sombrely, and Keelin felt a jolt of apprehension.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s your dad, love. He had a heart attack in the shop, earlier. He didn’t make it to the hospital. Imelda rang me and asked me would I tell you. She didn’t want you hearing the news that he died on your own. She asked me to be here with you.”
“Daddy’s dead?” Keelin whispered. “ ‘Dead’! How can that be? He was with us a few days ago. He’s coming to visit us at Christmas. He can’t be dead.” This had to be a nightmare, she thought frantically, as her body started to shake with shock.
“I’m so sorry, Keelin.” Brigid put her arms around her.
“It’s my fault!” she cried. “He shouldn’t have been driving up and down in the one day, in bad weather. If he’d have stayed at home he wouldn’t have had a heart attack.”
“Shush, you and I both know that when it’s your time, a time agreed between you and your Creator, external circumstances make no difference. Don’t do that to yourself, Keelin. Larry would hate it.” Brigid held her tight.
“Oh my God. This is a punishment for what I’ve done!” Keelin wept, devastated.
“Don’t think like that, Keelin. God doesn’t punish. That’s attributing human thinking to a Creator who is all loving. You know that.” Brigid rocked her niece in her arms, heartbroken for her.
“I’m going to his funeral, Auntie Brigid. I don’t care what Mam thinks, or how mortified she is by my presence. I’m going and she can’t stop me,” Keelin said heatedly, cursing God for taking the parent she loved and who loved her, and leaving her with a mother she hated.
* * *
“Keelin, I beg you. Don’t make a scene with Imelda. Don’t fight with her and say things that can’t be unsaid. Your father would hate for that to happen. You know that,” Brigid said quietly, taking her niece’s hand. They were sitting in Brigid’s car outside the family home in Glencarraig, watching people entering the house to pay their respects.
“Perhaps it would be better to say that you’re staying at the convent house in Butlersbridge, and not mention anything about leaving, or having a baby. This isn’t the time for it,” Brigid advised, diplomatically but firmly. “Imelda has enough to be dealing with, without noisy ould wans poking their noses in your business.”
“OK,” Keelin agreed dully. She was sick to her stomach with nerves and shock. A row was the last thing she wanted.
“Come on then. Let’s go inside and pray for your dad,” Brigid said gently.
The front door was ajar when they reached it, and Brigid could see a throng of people in the kitchen, the low buzz of chat and the odd laugh reaching her ears. It seemed almost surreal. Wakes were such convivial occasions, she thought wildly, remembering the many she’d attended growing up.
“Keelin!” her brother’s cry of surprise caused her to start, and she saw him walk down the hall with his arms held out to her.
“Oh, Cormac,” she said brokenly when he hugged her. “Where is he? Where’s Daddy?”
“Come on, he’s in the front lounge—I’ll bring you in. Hello, Auntie Brigid.” He kissed his aunt, then led them into the front room.
The blinds were half-shut, and the room was dim in the winter gloom. Candles flickered at the top and bottom of the gleaming mahogany coffin. Two neighbours, sitting on the sofa quietly, murmured a rosary. Imelda sat, head bowed in misery, in the chair opposite the one her husband always sat in.
“Mam,” Keelin said hesitantly, edging farther into the room. She could see her father, dressed in his best suit, nestled in the white satin frill that lined his coffin, looking peaceful and serene, almost as though he were asleep. Rosary beads were entwined in his fingers.
“Keelin!” Imelda exclaimed, taken aback at the sight of her daughter and sister. She looked pale and very drawn, with big dark circles under her dull eyes. “I thought you wouldn’t be here until this afternoon.”
“I had to see Daddy,” Keelin said, starting to cry as she moved over to stand at the side of the coffin. “Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she wept. “I love you. I’m so, so sorry for dragging you all the way to Butlersbridge.” Keelin’s heart felt as though it were going to break into a thousand pieces, as grief, the like of which she’d never experienced, overwhelmed her. The physical pain of it shocked her, and she sobbed aloud in her anguish.
Imelda came and stood beside her, and Keelin heard
her mother begin to weep. In a gesture that was utterly instinctive, Keelin reached out and put her arm around her, while on the other side of Keelin, Brigid came and stood next to her, also slipping a comforting arm around her.
Joined together in sorrow, the three women wept over Larry’s remains, and the strife that had kept them apart for so long was temporarily forgotten.
PART THREE
Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family.
Anthony Brandt
Chapter Thirty-Three
Felicity, I’ve gone home. I had to get out of here. You can take a lift with Keelin, John, or the Sheedys.
Imelda
She folded the note and popped it into an envelope. She’d slip it under Felicity’s door when she was leaving. She made coffee, adding two sachets to the cup to sober her up, and drank it quickly.
Time was of the essence. She wanted to be gone before the minibus arrived with the others. Keelin would argue with her about driving after drinking, let alone making the two-hour journey in the dark on a wild night. And there’d be another row. Well, her daughter wasn’t “the boss of her,” to use a phrase she often heard her grandchildren use on each other. Still, it would be best to be gone, all the same.
Imelda glanced around the pretty lamp-lit room. She would have enjoyed staying the night and having a room service breakfast and watching TV in bed. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away irritably. She hadn’t time for tears. Was Brigid crying in her room in the Four Winds? she wondered guiltily. Were Keelin and Armand devastated because she’d revealed their secret to Marie-Claire? The memory of her stricken face caused a wave of guilt to wash over Imelda. She should not have done that, she admitted, ashamed.
“Don’t think about it all now. What’s done is done!” she muttered. She’d need all her wits about her to drive those windy roads in the dark, until she reached the motorway. Time enough to reflect on the events of this evening when she was safely home behind her own front door.
“Dear Lord,” Imelda prayed, five minutes later, swinging the car out of the small car park, “please get me home safe, without harming myself or others, and please don’t let me be stopped at a Garda checkpoint. Amen.” Torrential rain, so heavy the wipers could barely clear it away from the window, and gusting winds, blowing in from the sea, shook her hatchback, causing her to momentarily ponder the wisdom of her decision to leave Butlersbridge on such a stormy night, especially having partaken of two glasses of wine earlier.
It was too late now. She’d checked out, and she just wanted to go home to her own bed and try to forget all that had happened. Nor could she bear the thought of dealing with any of the family the following day. No, onwards she would go, Imelda decided, slowing down at a bend in the road, feeling the wheels almost aquaplane before she regained control. In the distance, to her left, she saw the lights of the upstairs bedrooms in the Four Winds. She would never set foot in that place again, she vowed, turning at the end of the village’s main street to begin her journey inland. As she drew farther from the coast, the hedgerows along the narrow, winding roads offered a little more shelter from the harsh night, although after a particularly violent gust she prayed, again, that there would be no fallen trees to cause her to crash.
The Flight into Egypt had nothing on this, Imelda thought ruefully, popping a mint in her mouth to help her concentrate. She could imagine what would be said about her when the family discovered that she was gone. Let them say what they liked, she thought defiantly, squinting against the full-beam headlights of an oncoming car. They hadn’t lived her life. She knew she should feel bad about the way she’d behaved, but right now she didn’t care. Imelda felt strangely liberated, as if letting out all the poison trapped inside her had freed her from a past that had imprisoned her for years.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you both lie to me?” Marie-Claire demanded bitterly of her parents. The three of them were alone in the small parlour; the nuns had all gone to their rooms, and the minibus driver was rounding up his charges to bring them back to Butlersbridge.
“I wanted to tell you. Your mother dissuaded me. She didn’t want you to know,” Armand said angrily. He was furious with Keelin and Imelda. And he was mortified. He should have listened to his gut all those years ago and insisted on nothing being hidden.
“Is that true, Maman?” Marie-Claire rounded on her mother.
“Yes,” Keelin said miserably. “But I wanted to protect you. I was worried you’d feel you were different to other children. Was that so awful—”
“You were ashamed, and I had to live with that shame,” Armand accused, his lean face tight with anger. “I wanted the truth to be told so that we could begin our lives with a clean slate. No more secrets, no more lies. But you wouldn’t listen to me. And this is the result. I hope you’re satisfied, Keelin, and I promise you one thing: I will not set foot in la maison… de… de cette femme horrible! Jamais. I’ve spoken to your mother for the last time. I will never darken her door again.” Armand was so upset he strode out of the room, banging the door behind him.
Keelin burst into tears. She and Armand rarely quarrelled, and he’d never shown such naked anger towards her. Who would ever have thought their past would come back to haunt them like this? And in such a horrible, public manner.
She’d hidden the truth of Armand’s past very well, and hidden it from herself, too, over the years. Her husband had never wanted to deny his past, once they left their religious orders. Denial would cast a shadow on their marriage, he’d argued, set it apart from others. He’d always felt it was their daughter’s right to know their history, but nevertheless he’d gone along with it when Keelin had asked him not to tell people that he was an ex-priest. All Marie-Claire knew was that her mother had entered a convent, then left before taking her final vows—which was not a lie. She thought it was only then that her parents had met and fallen in love—which wasn’t quite a lie, surely, more a sin of omission. Keelin wanted Marie-Claire to grow up carrying no religious baggage of guilt or shame. Back then, Ireland had still been very much under the dictatorial rule of Rome and the bishops, forcing Keelin to hide her pregnancy in the Four Winds while she waited to give birth.
“You could have told me when I was older, Maman! I wasn’t brought up to adhere to the rules of Catholicism. You never wanted that for me. So why would I consider it to be a big deal that my dad was once a Catholic priest? I would have considered it a badge of honour that he left the Church. He’s right. You’re still ashamed of your past and his. How can you run courses on healing, and clearing the past, when you can’t even heal your own? You need to do some work on yourself, Maman,” Marie-Claire fumed.
“That’s typical of you. You always take up for your father,” Keelin snapped, stung by her daughter’s accusations.
“Do you know who you sound like now?” Marie-Claire demanded. “You sound just like Granny,” she retorted, walking out of the room in disgust.
Keelin watched her go and wanted to go after her and slap her. How dare she accuse her of being like Imelda! Sick to her stomach with anger and shock, Keelin slumped into a chair. What a night this had turned out to be. And now the whole family was in upheaval. All their secrets had been laid bare for the world to see. There was no hiding place for any of them anymore. She couldn’t wait to get back to the shelter of Canigou and her lovely home. She might never visit this benighted country again—and that would cause her no regret, she thought bitterly.
And then she remembered what Marie-Claire had said about owning her past and healing it, and Keelin’s heart sank. That was far easier said than done. Her daughter was right, much as she hated to admit it. It was utterly hypocritical of her to be giving courses about healing the past when she was unwilling to face her own.
“Physician, heal thyself,” Keelin muttered irritably, knowing that until she dealt with her issues with her mother, there would be no peace for her.
*
* *
“Don’t look back,” Maura had said. But what was left to look forward to? Brigid lay rigid under the duvet, her fingers curled into tight fists, her nails biting into her palms, inflicting pain she wanted. Deserved. She would have to prostrate herself before the altar of God and beg His humble pardon. Her past had come back to haunt her, when she least expected it, Brigid acknowledged dolefully. She’d lost everything! Her good name. Her dignity. And her authority, which she’d always rather enjoyed. There would be talk. In the convents. In the Mother House. Here, in the Four Winds, her haven, her little bit of heaven on earth.
Brigid had seen the shocked expressions on her fellow Sisters’ faces when Imelda had revealed the secret that Brigid had buried so deep. Something she thought, as the years passed by, would never come to light. She’d seen pity, too, and not only from her congregation. Maura pitied her. Una pitied her. They all pitied her. Tears slid down Brigid’s cheeks. All of those women who had always looked up to her—she was their “Superior” and, if she was truly honest, she’d sometimes felt superior—had witnessed her downfall.
Her heart contracted as a thousand blades of mortification stabbed mercilessly, unrelentingly, as she lay in her bed, in her room under the eaves, and listened to the roar of the sea crashing against the shore and the rain hammering against the window.
“Pride comes before a fall,” her grandmother had often said. Even the Proverbs counselled: “Pride goes before destruction, And a haughty spirit before stumbling.”
Well, her haughty spirit had taken a fine stumble tonight. One she might never recover from. Heartsore, Brigid sat up against her pillows, the small red lamp under the picture of the Sacred Heart illuminating the darkness.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 21