Ten minutes later, Imelda stood at the back door, feeding the neighbours’ black cat, Sooty. It was bitterly cold, but there was a hint of warmth in the sun’s rays when she lifted her face to the sky. Sooty weaved around her ankles, head-butting her in gratitude before scoffing the dried food nuggets Imelda had poured in his dish, as if he were starving. The neighbours thought nothing of going off on holidays and leaving the young cat to fend for himself, Imelda observed crossly. They counted on someone taking pity on him and throwing him a bit of food.
“Taken us for granted, Sooty,” Imelda complained. “But sure, everyone takes me for granted,” she informed him, patting his furry head as he ate, ecstatically happy to be fed. “I’m in the doghouse now because I had a row with them all and told them in no uncertain terms what was what. But does anyone see my side of it? No!” Sooty glanced up at her companionably before resuming his eating.
She left the door ajar, in case he wanted to come in when he was finished feeding. Imelda liked it when Sooty came and sat beside her on the sofa. It was comforting to have another heartbeat in the house, someone to talk to, even if he couldn’t talk back. She filled the kettle and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.
With a frisson of apprehension, she flipped open her phone. Would there be accusatory texts berating her for her bad behaviour? She glanced at the notifications and saw nothing. Not one message. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or indignant. For all they knew she could be lying in a ditch in an overturned car, stone dead!
“They couldn’t care less about me, Sooty,” she grumbled to the cat, who was now sitting looking up at her.
And why should they? The thought came unbidden. What was it about her that wouldn’t let things go?
“Well, he was a priest, and he defiled my daughter and brought shame to her,” she muttered angrily, taking a sip of tea. Sooty rubbed his velvety nose against her leg.
When Keelin had phoned and told her she was pregnant, she’d been horrified. Nuns didn’t get pregnant. They took vows of chastity. She knew of a couple of young girls who’d got in the family way and taken the boat to England and had never been seen in Glencarraig again. How could her daughter even expect that she could come home under such circumstances and not have people talking about her? In those days, getting pregnant outside of marriage was a shameful thing. A stain on the family. So different from today, Imelda mused. Now they had the children and then got married!
She’d had enough on her plate, what with looking after her parents and Larry’s mother, and all while starting the menopause. “She’s not Brigid’s daughter; she’s ours,” Larry’s words came back to her. Keelin could do no wrong in her father’s eyes.
Last night when she’d seen Keelin and Brigid’s loving reunion, she’d been hit with the undeniable knowledge that when Keelin needed a mother most, Brigid had been more of a mother to her than Imelda had. She’d been torn apart with unexpected guilt at the knowledge.
And then when John had presented Brigid with the money—money that she’d not lifted a finger to earn—Imelda had been overcome by the unfairness of it. His final disparaging remarks had ignited the fire of her wrath and she’d said what she’d said. Now, Imelda thought ruefully, she was going to have to live with the consequences.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“I’m sorry, Armand, please don’t be mad at me. You were right. I should never have hidden the truth about your past from Marie-Claire. It was my issue, not yours, and I did you an injustice.” Keelin’s voice came down the line and Armand smiled at his wife’s earnest tone.
He was walking along the narrow road that led to the Four Winds and his brisk walk, the long way round from Butlersbridge, had cleared his head and dissipated his anger after last night’s row.
“I’m not mad, at you, Keelin. Perhaps I’m mad at myself for having agreed to hide my past in the first place. On some level, I think the reason I never brought it up again when Marie-Claire was old enough to understand was that I still hold some underlying shame.”
“Yeah. It brought up guilt in me, too. Maybe all this happened so we can finally put the past behind us. Or maybe it happened because my mother is an absolute briar!” she added sardonically.
Armand laughed. “I walked the long way round over to the Four Winds to see if Marie-Claire’s OK—”
“Oh! We’re here at the wooden steps!” Keelin exclaimed. “We walked back across the beach. Marie-Claire came to the hotel this morning. She’s not long gone up to put the kettle on. I wanted to give you a call to sort things out,” Keelin explained.
“Is she OK?”
“She’s fine. We had a bit of a standoff and then we got over it and started to laugh. You know her; she never holds a grudge,” Keelin said lightly.
“Good! I hate when we’re fighting. Look, I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes,” he said. “Put my name in the pot.”
* * *
Walking briskly to get to the Four Winds, Armand saw a sprightly figure marching along ahead of him. It must be one of the nuns. He’d been introduced to quite a few of Brigid’s Order the previous evening—thank God he didn’t have to remember all their names; a “Good morning, Sister,” would do, he told himself as he came abreast of the nun who was walking at a fast clip.
“Morning, Sister— Good heavens! Mère! It’s you!” he exclaimed.
Brigid stopped walking and gave him a self-deprecating smile. “It is me, Armand. The new me.” Her silvery-grey hair was styled in a soft feathery cut that emphasized her creamy skin and luminous blue eyes.
“You look beautiful and, if I may say, years younger.” Armand hugged the woman who had been one his greatest benefactresses.
“I like it,” Brigid declared stoutly. “Although my ears are cold—I should have brought a woolly hat. Are you all right, Armand? Are Keelin and Marie-Claire all right? Imelda certainly knows how to end a party in double-quick time.” She threw her eyes up to heaven.
“I know,” Armand sighed, falling into step beside her. “Keelin’s upset; we’re all very upset for you, too.”
“What a strange night it was. There must be a Divine purpose to it, though what it is I have no idea,” Brigid sighed.
“Perhaps it was so you could get a stylish hairdo,” Armand teased, opening the red swing gate for her.
“Well now, I never thought of that.” Brigid laughed, and they were still laughing when they walked into the kitchen.
“Mère! It’s gorgeous!” cried Keelin.
“Well, she did a great job on you!” Una added.
“Helen Mirren, eat your heart out!” Marie-Claire grinned.
“Helen Mirren—I’ll take that,” Brigid said, a tad abashed by their compliments. “I was just saying to Armand, it’s the new me.”
“Mère, Maman and I have come up with a brilliant idea: you must come to Les Quatre Vents with me when I fly over to join her and Papa for a holiday. You’re retired now. You can do as you please. What do you think?” Marie-Claire gazed at her expectantly.
Brigid looked at her great-niece, astonished. “Well, now!” she said slowly. “I am retired. I can do as I please. And now I’m a woman of independent means… when do we go?”
Laughter erupted around the table as the Angelus bell chimed noon, and Marie-Claire took her iPad out of her bag to book Brigid’s flight to France.
At last, thought Armand, delighted. Now he could finally show Keelin’s much-loved aunt how grateful they were to her for taking them all under her wing when they had needed it most.
Chapter Forty
Brigid sat staring at her reflection in the mirror, admiring her styled hair. She loved the way the silvery ash fringe feathered her forehead and swept sideways. It was very sophisticated indeed. Well, now I can add vanity to my ever-growing list of sins, she told herself. As for the new dress: that was indeed an occasion of sin, Brigid thought giddily. And she loved it!
When Armand had first suggested bringing her, Keelin, Marie-Claire, Marie-Hél�
�ne, Una, and Maura to dinner in the hotel, she’d demurred. She knew the gossip about the party was spreading like wildfire around the village. She’d got a few sideways glances and averted eyes when she’d walked into the hairdresser’s this morning, but Vera, the hairdresser, had handed her a book of hairstyles and she’d sat down to flick through them, fighting the urge to get up and run.
“That would be a nice one on you,” said the girl who came to bring her to the basin to wash her hair, pointing to a picture of the feather-cut style Brigid now sported.
When Vera had finished and she went to pay, Brigid’s spirits had been lifted when Peggy Flynn, the butcher’s wife, had complimented her: “Very nice, Reverend Mother,” she approved. “And enjoy your retirement.”
“Thank you, Peggy. I’ll do my best.” Brigid smiled at the other woman and left the hairdresser’s, glad that she’d not delayed in making her first foray into the village. The next time wouldn’t be so hard.
Going to the hotel for dinner, though, had been a step too far for her nerves, and when Armand issued the invitation she’d said no.
“Ah come on,” urged Marie-Hélène. “That hair needs celebrating!”
“It would do you good,” Una interjected. “What’s the point in moping around here?”
“Do you know what we could do?” Marie-Claire’s eyes lit up. “We could nip over to Kilrush now and get something nice for you to wear—”
“Yay… a girls’ jaunt! I’m in!” exclaimed Marie-Hélène.
“No, no, no!” protested Brigid, laughing.
“Mère, think of the fun we’d have,” Keelin urged, cheering up at the prospect. “It will only take half an hour or so to get there, an hour and a half to buy an outfit and have a cup of coffee, and we’ll be back here before dark. We can all have a rest and then an early dinner in the hotel. A little celebration of your new life, with us,” her niece wheedled.
“Oh, all right then!” Brigid succumbed. Imelda’s accusations had been as upsetting for her niece and great-niece as they had been for her. Perhaps the girls’ jaunt, as Marie-Hélène called it, was exactly what they all needed. The day was fine. The driving would be easy. What harm could it do?
A lot of harm to her purse, it turned out. Brigid smiled at the memory. It was the first spending spree she’d ever gone on in her life.
While Armand had gone fishing, the women had piled into Una’s station wagon, made a pit stop at the hotel for Keelin and Marie-Claire to change their shoes, then headed for the town of Kilrush, twenty-five kilometres away.
Brigid had felt a frisson of nervous excitement when she’d walked into the clothes shop. She wouldn’t buy anything too flashy. Plain cardigans, blouses, and skirts, like most of her fellow nuns wore.
Marie-Claire and Marie-Hélène had other ideas. She ended up with two pairs of beautifully cut trousers, a tailored ruby-red jacket, three tops, two skirts—not pleated, at Marie-Hélène’s insistence—and two jumpers. And then the dress she’d worn to dinner. She ran her fingers over the soft russet velvet jacquard material that flared out slightly from her narrow waist to drape in elegant folds to mid-calf. The small gold cross on its fine chain that her parents had given her when she took her final vows was the only jewellery she wore. Keelin had seen the dress and held it up against her.
“Mère, it’s beautiful. So simple, so elegant, so perfect. Try it on.”
When she’d looked at herself in the mirror, Brigid could not believe it. Who was this elegant, slender woman? A pang of regret for that woman who had been so firmly repressed—by her own choice, Brigid admitted—brought tears to her eyes, knowing that her life could have been so different. She swallowed hard. She’d made her choice, even if it might have been a mistake, and she’d to live with it. Strange, though, how she’d never seen “herself” when wearing the habit.
Vanity had been ground down to dust in the early years of her vocation. She only looked in a mirror to make sure her wimple was straight, and her only concession to her facial appearance was to rub in Nivea crème moisturizer in the morning and to make sure her eyebrows didn’t grow wild, or that the odd facial hair around her mouth and chin was plucked.
The woman who was looking back at her now in the full-length mirror was feminine, stylish, and unknown to her. How dainty and neat her wrists were, and how long her fingers. How gracefully her calves tapered into neatly turned ankles, and her petite bosom was still firm, the dress material outlining her womanly shape in a way her habit never had.
Life as a nun had taken so much from her. It had all been about the denial of self. Innate human inclinations, needs, and desires were suppressed, unless you were a rebel like Marie-Hélène. Brigid had always admired the younger nun’s courage in being herself. It was different now, of course. Convents had been transformed since her day, and individuality and self-expression were now encouraged.
Here she was, at eighty years of age, reclaiming her femininity. A moment of liberation. The liberation of Brigid Dunne, she acknowledged as she stood silently rediscovering herself for a few moments before she wiped away her tears, straightened her shoulders, and emerged to await the verdict of her “girls.”
Their gasps of admiration brought a faint pink blush to her cheeks. “Part of me wants to get straight back into my habit,” she confessed in embarrassment.
“No!” said Keelin firmly. “You will not hide yourself. Never again.”
“You shall go to the ball, Cinderella, and this is the dress you’ll wear. Buy it,” Marie-Hélène commanded.
“You can’t order your Reverend Mother around like that,” Brigid retorted.
“My retired RM.” The younger nun had winked, and Brigid and the others laughed.
They had laughed a lot at the candlelit dinner that evening, as if by unspoken, mutual consent the events of the previous evening had been put aside. Embracing a hedonistic lifestyle with gusto now that she was eighty, she’d allowed herself a small sherry beforehand. “It’s never too late to go to the dogs,” she joked to the others.
Brigid slipped out of the first beautiful dress she’d ever possessed and hung it neatly in the wardrobe. There were very few people she could be as relaxed with as she was with Keelin, Marie-Claire, Marie-Hélène, Una, and Maura, she reflected. Perhaps it was because they’d all stood shoulder to shoulder when the Order had sent her niece home in disgrace from Africa and Imelda had turned her back on her.
When Marie-Claire had been born and Brigid had held her for the first time, she’d wept, overcome with emotion at the memory of the child she’d once carried. A child who would have been Keelin’s first cousin. She would have been a bit older than her niece—if it were a girl, and somehow Brigid had always felt her lost child had been a girl.
Holding Keelin’s new baby, her tiny fists waving in the air, her beautiful big blue eyes drooping in sleep, Brigid had had the strangest feeling that God was giving her a baby to replace the void left by the loss of her own, all those years ago. How precious were those moments whenever she got to cuddle her great-niece, and, after a few months, when she was weaned, give her her bottle.
On Friday evenings Brigid would drive down to the Four Winds and stay the night, and she could not describe the joy and balm to her spirit when she would take the baby to her room and sit in her rocking chair and feed her and change her and sometimes bathe her, cooing lovingly to her, pretending that she was her own child. On Saturday night she would return to the convent, renewed by her joyful interaction with Keelin and Marie-Claire.
It had been a time of love and joy in the Four Winds, when Marie-Claire had been born. Una and Maura were young housemaids back then. Marie-Hélène, convalescing after a car accident, had been such a support to Keelin when she’d been most vulnerable. They had all rallied around mother and baby in the most loving and practical way and, in the process, had become a tight-knit little family.
Brigid had watched her fellow Sisters interact with the baby, some of them nervous at first, others hardly able to wait
their turn to “get a go of her,” and seen their maternal instincts, which had been dampened by the way of life imposed on them, awaken. Marie-Claire had truly seemed a gift from God.
“False humility is a sin, Soeur Brigid. We feel you’re the right person to do God’s work in Limerick. So be it! Now go and pray and give thanks for the new opportunities the good Lord has given you to do His work.” Brigid smiled, remembering the haughty tone of her spiritual director all those years ago. What would she say to her now, after Imelda’s revelations?
Something about humility, certainly. Last night had brought her as low as it was possible to be in her position as Reverend Mother. But it had also brought freedom. Her secret was out, no longer to be carried like a yoke on her shoulders. She was freer than she’d been the last sixty-four years. And that in itself was another gift from God. A gift she was going to enjoy every second of, Brigid resolved, switching out the light and climbing into bed and snuggling down under the duvet, drawing it up under her chin.
The red lamp under the picture of the Sacred Heart glowed comfortingly and Jesus’s kind smile seemed to assure her that all would be well.
Chapter Forty-One
For the umpteenth time, Imelda glanced at her mobile phone. She was a tad vexed, to say the least. Not one message from anyone to see if she was alive or dead.
She glanced at her phone again, wondering should she text Felicity to see if she was home. It wasn’t Imelda’s Sunday to have lunch with them; perhaps her daughter-in-law might think she was looking for an invite. No, better not to text.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 24