The Liberation of Brigid Dunne

by Patricia Scanlan

  She thought she’d reached calm seas in her vocation, until tonight. Was this her punishment for becoming a nun under false pretences, and staying a nun by burying truths, or lack of truths, about her faith that she did not wish to acknowledge? she wondered miserably, staring at the shadowy lamp-lit image of her Saviour.

  She reached across and took the brandy goblet in her hand, raised it to the mournful visage of Jesus, and took a drink of the amber liquid. Tonight was one of the worst nights of her life; she might as well keep sinking until she hit rock bottom.

  She choked and spluttered as the alcohol hit the back of her throat, her cheeks flushing with heat. Why did people like the stuff? she wondered. It didn’t taste nice. It made her insides feel warm, though, took the chill off them, she realised as the liquor coursed through her.

  She tried to banish the memory of Imelda’s bitter and twisted face, full of spite and anger, spewing her appalling tirade of vile rancour. Tonight her sister had burned every last one of the women in her family, right down to Marie-Claire. How could Imelda do that to her own child and grandchild? The knowledge that her sister carried such levels of animosity and resentment towards the family shook Brigid.

  That Imelda had carried a torch for Johnny Larkin had come as news to her. But then, Imelda had always kept things to herself, in a sly, sullen way, even as a little girl. She wouldn’t share her toys, or books, and was mean-spirited and spiteful when Brigid was brought to the fore, on her birthday, or Holy Communion, or Confirmation days.

  She was so jealous, always! Had she never once looked back and seen what a shallow, sleazy ladies’ man Larkin was? Pawing every girl in the parish. Feeling nothing for any of them. And then marrying a girl purely to get his greedy paws on her father’s land. Did Imelda not realise that he had used both of them? What a waste to have held on to that childish hurt. And it seemed Imelda’s obsession had blinded her to the gifts she had been given: a good husband, children, grandchildren, a home of her own.… How could Imelda possibly have remained so envious when she’d such graces in her life? All the things Brigid would have loved to have.

  Brigid had never begrudged her sister the life she’d had. But she’d never understood why Imelda wasn’t happier and more content with her lot.

  A ripple of guilt spread through her. She’d never understood because she’d dismissed too easily Imelda’s moans about being abandoned to slavery—as she termed it—looking after their parents. The accusation that their father had given Brigid a good dowry to the detriment of Imelda’s chances of bettering herself stung! And it stung because it was true, Brigid admitted guiltily.

  Only one of them had been given the chance to escape the life of drudgery on the farm—and she had not only seized that chance; she’d taken it under false pretences. She’d had no vocation when she entered the convent, and Imelda knew it, just as she’d known all along that Brigid’s only thought was to get away from Ardcloch and her broken dreams. And Imelda was right; she’d been thoroughly selfish, uncaring, and insensitive, giving no thought to the dreams her sister had harboured but would never realise. Brigid felt shame at the realisation of how high and mighty she had been. For years she’d had a wonderful life, driving around the African bush in her jeep, feeling mighty important, telling herself what a difference she was making to the lives of mothers and babies. She’d never spared a thought for the life of unrelenting hard work Imelda had endured, rearing her own babies and looking after her parents and mother-in-law.

  Everything Imelda had accused her of earlier was true, Brigid thought, looking at the metaphorical mirror that had been held up to her by her sister. It was time for her to face her own past and be honest with herself. “To thine own self be true,” she murmured sadly.

  She took another mouthful of brandy, draining the glass. Maura had been generous in her pouring, Brigid recognized, replacing the empty goblet on the bedside locker and easing herself back onto her pillows. Unaccustomed to drinking alcohol, she was feeling a tad woozy. Her eyelids began to droop. She felt disconnected, as if she were floating off somewhere. Not an unpleasant feeling, to be sure. She was warm now, the earlier chilliness of delayed shock having thawed under the effects of the brandy.

  A thought struck her. This was not the worst night of her life, despite the humiliation inflicted on her by Imelda. The worst night of her life had been on that lonely hillside on Christmas Eve, when her precious baby had flowed out of her and her heart had broken into a million pieces for all that she’d lost.

  Imelda might have thought she’d revealed the most shocking details of Brigid’s shameful past, and perhaps she had, but Brigid still had one precious secret: her pregnancy. Her brief, never-to-be-forgotten experience of motherhood, when she’d cherished the knowledge that her child was growing in her womb. That would always be hers and hers alone.

  It was rare that she permitted herself to even think about it. The memory of her pregnancy was her most precious jewel, locked away until the occasion it was needed. Tonight was such an occasion. Tonight she would allow herself to remember that fleeting primal joy, once the immense shock of realising she was pregnant had waned, that had infused every cell and atom of her being, before worry and apprehension had quenched it.

  Brigid’s eyes closed and her thoughts drifted back to all those years before when she’d loved, and thought she’d been loved in return, and her body and spirit had felt vibrant and alive in a way it had never been before or since.

  * * *

  “Maura brought Brigid up a glass of brandy, Keelin. If I were you, I’d leave her alone until the morning,” Una murmured, putting her arm around her friend’s shoulder. They were sitting in the kitchen, having a cup of tea, the detritus of the party all around them. The guests who were staying in the hotel had departed, and the nuns had all gone to their rooms, distressed and dismayed at what had unfolded. The minibus driver had told Keelin and Armand that he’d come back for them after dropping the others off.

  Armand was in the big parlour, removing all the party accoutrements and stacking dirty plates and glasses. Marie-Claire was helping Maura divide leftover bourguignon and chicken tagine into containers.

  “She won’t drink that brandy,” Keelin sighed. “I could do with one myself.”

  “Me too!” Una grimaced. “She will drink it; Maura insisted and she didn’t argue. What in the name of God possessed Imelda? I mean, it was one thing to have a go at Brigid about what she sees as the unfairness of her entering the convent and leaving her to take care of the parents. But the other stuff! Lord above, there was no need for that—and in front of Mother General, too.” She shook her head, still in shock at the viciousness of Imelda’s attack.

  “Marie-Claire and Armand are so angry with me now. Armand blames me because I made him keep it secret. Well, the secret’s well and truly out now. Rita Sheedy won’t be able to keep it to herself—it will be all over Ardcloch and Glencarraig in no time. I’ll never be able to go back there. Not that I’d want to.” Keelin’s hand shook, raising her cup to her mouth. “There’ll be no going back from this. She’s caused a rift that will never be healed.”

  “Time heals. This too will pass,” Una counselled sagely, patting her friend’s shoulder.

  Keelin shook her head. “Imagine hating your mother,” she said sombrely. “Because tonight I certainly hate mine! If I ever see her again it will be too soon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Keelin lay beside her husband, listening to his steady breathing, wondering how he could sleep after the harsh words he’d spoken to her after the disastrous party. It wasn’t his family that had been torn apart. Armand wouldn’t have to live with the consequences like she would. Marie-Claire would take his side, and blame her for not allowing him to reveal his past. And now he could wash his hands of Imelda, and forget about her, Keelin thought resentfully, lying wide awake in the darkness, waiting for a text from her brother to say that her mother was home safe.

  Felicity had knocked on her door earl
ier and shown her Imelda’s note. “The bloody old cow,” Keelin had cursed. “If I could get my hands on her, I’d murder her, driving home on those country roads on a night like this, and after drinking as well. How feckin irresponsible is that! None of us can go after her because we’ve all had a drink.”

  “Your mother is nothing if not determined. She’ll be fine,” Felicity tried to pacify her.

  “I don’t know how you put up with her,” Keelin said through gritted teeth. “She’s impossible.”

  “I asked Cormac to text me when he sees a light on in her bedroom—he’ll be able to see it from our bedroom—and I’ll text you. I did try to ring her, but she has her phone turned off,” Keelin’s sister-in-law said.

  “Thanks, Felicity. At least you won’t have to put up with her, driving back to Glencarraig.” Keelin managed a weak smile.

  “Go to bed, Keelin. Things won’t seem as bad in the morning,” Felicity urged. She was used to her mother-in-law’s behaviour, and had decided in the early days of her marriage that she was not going to let it impinge on her life, knowing that if she did, her marriage to Cormac wouldn’t last. She was an easygoing woman, the antithesis of her mother-in-law, and she suspected that was one of the reasons Imelda’s elder son had fallen in love with her.

  “You’re a great sister-in-law,” Keelin said gratefully, hugging the other woman.

  “And you’re not too bad yourself.” Felicity laughed, returning the hug.

  How did Felicity cope with living in such close proximity to Imelda? Keelin wondered, turning onto her front and burying her face under her pillow. Keelin only saw her three or four times a year and that was more than enough for her.

  More than three decades had passed, yet her mother still hadn’t forgiven her for getting pregnant and having a baby out of wedlock, or for marrying a former priest even though he was the father of her child. The fact that they’d opted for a civil wedding, in France, rather than a Catholic wedding hadn’t gone down well with Imelda, either; she’d professed “grave doubts” that they were properly married at all.

  Keelin rubbed her wedding band with her thumb. Marrying Armand had been the second happiest day of her life. Giving birth to Marie-Claire had been the happiest. Whatever she did or said, her mother would never take those joys away from her.

  The ping of a text brought Keelin out of her reverie, and she picked up the phone, blinking in the dark when the screen illuminated and she saw it was from Cormac to say he had seen the light come on in Imelda’s bedroom.

  Keelin keyed in her thanks and turned off the phone. So Imelda was home safe after driving through that awful weather; that at least was a relief, she thought wearily as the wind howled in off the sea and the rain battered the bedroom window.

  Beside her, Armand slept on, breathing deeply, rhythmically. She wished she could sleep with such serenity. But after the events of this evening she wondered would she ever be serene again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Marie-Claire studied the post she’d typed in on her Facebook page:

  A lovely reunion with the Sisters and family and friends in the Four Winds, at the surprise party to celebrate my great-aunt’s eightieth birthday and retirement. When all is said and done, family is more important than anything.

  Was the family bit over the top, especially when it was “family” that had wrought havoc at the party? Should she post at all? It wasn’t really appropriate because the party had ended in disaster, but who, apart from those present, would know it?

  She’d taken photos in the early stages of the party, when everyone was happy and having fun. She’d a few lovely selfies of herself and her mother, and a great one with Marie-Hélène laughing uproariously as they clinked glasses of prosecco.

  All taken before the party had turned to disaster and she discovered her parents had lied to her for her whole life. Didn’t they trust her? Marie-Claire felt her understanding of her parents shifting, like puzzle pieces she suddenly realised didn’t fit together as she’d thought. Was she posting to avoid thinking about what really happened?

  This is all so shallow and immature, Marie-Claire upbraided herself. What age am I? Thirteen? Posting photos on social media to pretend to an ex-boyfriend that she was having fun in her life and getting on fine without him. How truly pathetic was that?

  The real truth, Marie-Claire admitted to herself, was that she wanted to post about the party because today was the day she was supposed to be in New York, with Marc, holding talks to expand his company. She wanted her ex to see that she was enjoying life without him, although in reality quite the opposite was true.

  She was about to delete it all when a small green light caught her eye and she saw, with a jolt, that Marc was also online. Her finger hovered over “Post.” She erased the last line about family—that was going too far after tonight’s shenanigans—and sent the post winging its way into the ether, watching as the photos began to upload on her Facebook and Insta pages.

  Marie-Claire studied them critically. She looked bright-eyed and happy, she thought with satisfaction, and pretty glam, too. She’d wound her hair up, little tendrils escaping to frame her face, which had got thinner because she’d lost a couple of pounds having been too busy to eat while she was making preparations to leave Canada, and then with all the travelling she’d done since.

  The image on her iPad changed to an image of Marc and a little tinkling ringtone made her swallow and sit up straight. Accept or reject the FaceTime call? The choice was hers.

  She saw her own image reflected in a small square at the top of the screen. She looked fine, Marie-Claire assured herself. Taking a deep breath, she accepted the call and felt a deep pang of heartache when Marc’s handsome face settled into view. “Hi,” she said lightly, admiring the studied nonchalance of her tone.

  “Chérie, I saw you online and I so longed to speak to you,” Marc said huskily. Hearing his voice almost undid her.

  “How are you?” she asked, determined that she would not show by one flicker of her face the turmoil she was feeling. But a piece of her longed to be in his arms, in his big bed, his body warm and firm against hers.

  “I’m missing you, that’s how I am. I’m in New York and you should be with me. Please get on a flight and come back to me,” he urged. “Look, it’s snowing.” He panned around to show her the view of Central Park. “We could be having such fun—please come back to me, Marie-Claire,” he entreated again.

  How tempted she was to fly back to him and leave the family drama behind her. She longed to feel her lover’s mouth on hers, and pretend that nothing had happened to ruin their relationship.

  But it had happened, she reminded herself, and she suddenly wanted to ask him if he had taken Amelia to Niagara Falls, and hear him stammer and stutter. But then he’d know the reason why she’d left him, and she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction… ever!

  “Oh, Marc, it would be nice to have dinner with you in New York,” she said lightly, “but it won’t be in the near future, I’m afraid. I’m making plans! I’m moving into a lovely seafront apartment in Clontarf next month and I’ve some job opportunities coming up,” she fibbed. “And it really is lovely to be at home with friends and family. I’m having such a good time.” The lies flowed from her lips, one after another.

  “But what about us, Marie-Claire? We were a great item. Why did you suddenly decide to leave? I don’t understand. I wanted to take it to the next level. I felt you did, too,” he asked, still utterly bewildered by what he saw as her thoroughly unreasonable behaviour.

  “Look, sweetie, I need this time to reassess, and take a step back, precisely because you want us to go to the next level. Have patience with me,” she heard herself say. “It’s never too late to change plans. Who knows, in six months’ time, I could be missing you so much I’ll be on that plane so quick you won’t have time to think,” she said earnestly.

  “Do you miss me?” he asked.

  “Desperately,” she sighed, and leaned in to
the iPad and kissed his image.

  “Aw, Marie-Claire, I miss you like hell. I miss talking to you and sharing all our work stuff. I want to tell you about New York; it’s going to be a real—”

  “I’m dying to hear all about it, Marc,” she interrupted, “but, sweetie, it’s the early hours of the morning here and I simply have to go to bed. I can’t keep my eyes open. I’ll catch you again soon. Night, darling.” She blew him a kiss and ended the call.

  “You bitch,” she muttered, leaning back against the chair. The plan to keep him dangling had formed, right there and then. She could play as dirty as he could, with his little two-faced sweet-as-syrup floozy, Amelia.

  Thank God she hadn’t weakened. She wouldn’t get in the habit of FaceTiming him too often, Marie-Claire decided, wishing that she were above playing mind games. Not mature, not adult, but satisfying nevertheless, she admitted gloomily, noticing that Lizzie had now come online. Can I FaceTime you? she messaged.

  She’d barely sent off the message before her iPad vibrated again and Lizzie’s face appeared onscreen. Marie-Claire pressed “Accept” eagerly.

  “Hiya,” she said warmly. “It’s great to see you; I’ve loads to tell you!”

  “Hi, MC, shoot.” Lizzie grinned. “How did the party go?”

  Marie-Claire shook her head. “Don’t ask,” she sighed. “It was an absolute disaster!”

  “Oh no!” her friend exclaimed, taking a swig of coffee. She was lounging on her sofa, and Marie-Claire wished she were there with her so they could have a drink and a girly natter and that life could be the way it had been, before her discovery of Marc’s betrayal. “What happened?”

  Marie-Claire gave Lizzie the gist of it, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb any of the guests on her landing.

  “OMG! Is she for real?” Lizzie exclaimed when she got to the part where Imelda made the revelation about Brigid. “That was downright nasty.”