She had Sunday lunch with her son and daughter-in-law on the first Sunday of every month and would always text Cormac if she was dropping in for an unplanned visit. Instead of hastening to assure her that she didn’t need to go to the trouble of texting, the first time she’d done so, he’d told her it was a great way of seeing what suited everyone. “Setting boundaries” was the term now used, seemingly. Imelda had read it in a magazine article at the hairdresser’s and it had stuck in her head.
They might not be so smart about their boundaries if she told then she was leaving all her money to charity—particularly those charities who cared for elderly people living alone—Imelda had sniffed, spending a thoroughly enjoyable half hour under the hairdryer, imagining the reaction when her will was read out to the family.
The whole lot of them were now giving her the cold shoulder, Imelda thought bitterly, wondering could she send a text to them all to say: FYI—she liked that very much, sharp and businesslike—I willbe updating my will next week and as previously, the updated document will be with Fitzpatrick’s Solicitors, in the event of anything untoward happening to me.
That might give them all a hop and let them see she wasn’t to be trifled with. Larry had left her very comfortable. They’d all be getting a fine lump sum when she was gone, if she didn’t change her will.
Even next door’s kitty had abandoned her, it seemed. Sooty was another one who suited himself, Imelda thought crossly, divesting herself of her coat and hat and filling the kettle. He could feck off if he came to the door later, looking for food.
She leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, imagining the look on her children’s faces if she sent the text. They’d probably call her childish, Imelda acknowledged, sighing so deeply her breath fluttered the petals of her indoor cyclamen. Or, worse, that other term she’d read in an agony aunt’s letter recently… What was it again? She racked her brains, annoyed that she couldn’t think of it immediately. She hated not being as sharp as she once was. “Passive-aggressive,” that was it, she thought triumphantly. They’d say she was being passive-aggressive, which apparently was much worse than coming right out and saying things straight, which was her preferred method of dealing with something.
Keelin and her lot and Brigid were probably all down in the Four Winds, giving out about her right now. Or perhaps Brigid was sulking in her room while Keelin, Armand, and Marie-Claire were holed up in the hotel, bad-mouthing Imelda over their cappuccinos or lattes or whatever fancy nonsense they called coffee these days. Well, bad scran to them, let them say and do what they liked. They could all go to hell in a handcart for all she was concerned.
Sundays were the days she missed Larry most, she thought sadly, admiring the daphne in all its pink-and-white glory, a winter jewel amongst the bare-branched trees and shrubs. Her husband would close the shop after the congregation from the ten-thirty Mass had bought their papers and ice cream and cream, the biggest sellers on Sunday mornings. He would come home, change out of his three-piece suit, and join her in the kitchen to prepare the Sunday lunch.
He would peel the potatoes and chop the vegetables while she made an apple tart or crumble, the smell of the roasting joint pervading the kitchen. He’d tell her who’d been into the shop and if there was any news doing the rounds and, once she started making the gravy, he would drive off to collect their parents to bring them back for their much-looked-forward-to home-cooked meal.
After tea and a finger of homemade ginger cake had been served, later in the afternoon, Larry would drive their parents home, with a foil-wrapped dinner each for the next day. Keelin and the boys would have done the washing-up and gone to meet friends, and Imelda would lie on the sofa, exhausted, and take a rare nap.
In wintertime, Larry would build up the fire and they would sit together companionably and read the papers and watch TV, or in spring, summer, and autumn they’d take a drive to the coast and walk along the beach, enjoying the fresh, salty air.
Larry was the only one who had accepted her the way she was, even with her sharp tongue and sense of injustice. He’d been a very understanding husband, but then, by the same token, she’d been very tolerant of him when she’d had to be. And that hadn’t been easy. After all the emotional upheaval brought on by his relationship with Fran Cassidy, there had been mostly affectionate companionship in the latter years of their marriage, until Keelin got pregnant, that she greatly missed.
Feeling in need of comfort, Imelda went into the small pantry off the kitchen and cut herself a thick slice of tea brack and slathered it with butter. Not great for her cholesterol, but she didn’t care anymore. If she died this minute, no one would give a damn, she thought bitterly, adding milk to her tea.
No one would weep for her like they’d wept for Larry. Such a strange disease, haemochromatosis, and so common to Ireland. He had succumbed to it when all it needed was for him to be monitored regularly by their GP. But no one knew that back then. At least nowadays there was a Haemochromatosis Society with up-to-date information.
She hadn’t known until she read it in the autopsy results that Larry had suffered from the illness. She’d blamed his heart attack on the stress of all that had gone on with their daughter. How bitterly they had fought over Keelin. But Imelda had argued back with every weapon in her armoury and, looking back on it now, she could see that his creeping illness had weakened him so much, he hadn’t been able to rally sufficiently, especially when she’d shot her parting arrow of bitterness, about Fran, that he had no answer for.
Even now, remembering the cruelty of her words brought tears of shame and regret to Imelda’s eyes and she sat at her kitchen table, weeping.
* * *
“Leave her up there to stew for a while, Felicity. She’s a bitter old pill and what she did to Brigid and Keelin at that party was unforgivable. If I’d have been there, I’d have lambasted her,” Cormac growled, draining the steaming mushy peas.
“Well then, I’m glad you weren’t.” Felicity cut thick, succulent slices of beef from the roast and set them on a plate for her mother-in-law. “There’s enough bad feeling in the family without you getting involved.”
“She’s too smart with her sharp tongue.” Cormac snaffled a crispy bit off the top of the beef and got his knuckles rapped with the carving fork. “She’s mean-spirited and always has been. She didn’t tell Keelin for months after Dad died that he had haemochromatosis and that was what weakened his heart. She let Keelin believe his heart attack was all her fault, and I won’t ever forgive her for that.”
“I know,” Felicity sighed, spooning creamy mash onto Imelda’s plate. “But that was all water under the bridge and they’d made up, years ago. Why could she not have kept her mouth shut at the party? She’s her own worst enemy.”
“And you’re too good to her, and too soft.” Her husband put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and gave her a hug.
“Ah, she didn’t have it easy in those years after your da died, and before it. It was no joke looking after her parents and his, and then running the shop when Larry passed.”
“I took that over,” Cormac said indignantly. “Despite the fact that I wanted to study architecture.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. You’d probably have met some posh totty in uni and married her and been miserable. And here you are, with a thriving business and me for a wife. How lucky are you?” she teased, flicking him with the tea towel, and he laughed, picking up the colander of mushy peas to pour them into a dish.
After they’d eaten the lunch and the dishwasher had been loaded, Felicity placed the cling film–wrapped plate of dinner into a shopping bag and added a dessert dish full of trifle.
She was dreading the visit to her mother-in-law’s. She didn’t like being involved in family rows. She was half-sorry now that she’d offered to collect Keelin and Armand’s luggage.
Imelda would be shocked to know that they weren’t intending coming back to Glencarraig. It was a real slap in the face,
even if a deserved one, and Felicity would much prefer not to have to break that news to her. Now she was stuck in the middle of them all when it was really nothing to do with her. One way or another she was in a no-win situation, Felicity thought gloomily, reversing out of the drive to make the short trip down the road to Imelda’s house. She should have kept her mouth shut and let them sort it themselves, but she’d felt so sorry for her sister- and brother-in-law the night of the party.
“Were you too lazy to walk?” her mother-in-law asked smartly when Felicity knocked on the back door and let herself in.
“No, Mrs. O’Brien, I wasn’t. I’ll tell you why I drove in a minute,” Felicity said calmly, placing the shopping bag on the table. “I’ve brought you a dinner and some trifle for dessert. Would you like to have it now? I’ll heat it up in the microwave if you want.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Imelda’s eyes brightened. Felicity was a great cook and she always enjoyed the meals her daughter-in-law served. “I wasn’t expecting that. I’ll have it now, then. I’m a bit peckish. I wasn’t in the humour for cooking a full dinner. Eh… were you talking to anyone…?” she enquired delicately while Felicity put the plate in the microwave.
“Not a sinner,” Felicity said lightly. “Cormac and myself had a lazy morning.”
“I went past the house and saw the cars there as I was going to Mass,” Imelda remarked, fetching cutlery from the dresser to set her place at the table. The aroma emanating from the microwave was mouthwatering and she suddenly realised that she was famished.
“A glass of milk?” Felicity enquired.
“Huh, the way I feel I’d be as well turning to the vino. I’ve upset everyone, I suppose,” Imelda came straight out with it.
“Sit down there and enjoy your dinner.” Felicity ignored the comment, placing the steaming plate in front of her mother-in-law.
“I’ll never eat all that,” Imelda declared, dipping a spoon into a small dish of horseradish sauce and spreading it over the roast beef.
“Eat as much as you can,” Felicity said. Imelda always said the same thing every time a meal was put in front of her, before clearing her plate. “Will I light the fire for you while you’re eating?” she asked, anxious to get the visit over with as soon as possible.
“That would be lovely. I’ll sit looking at the Christmas tree. It’s nearly the sixth. Time to take it down. The season flew in,” Imelda observed, filling her fork with mushy peas and creamy potatoes.
Felicity set the fire and put a match to it, and placed Imelda’s Sunday paper on the small side table beside her chair. Her mother-in-law was tucking into the trifle when she went back into the kitchen ten minutes later.
“That was delicious,” Imelda declared. “I didn’t realise how hungry I was.” She indicated the empty plate. “You can put that in the dishwasher.”
“Will I make you a cup of tea to bring into the lounge?” Felicity was used to her mother-in-law’s imperious ways and she did as she was bid.
“Yes, that would be grand,” Imelda nodded, scraping the trifle dish.
“Em… Mrs. O’Brien, I’m going to collect Keelin and Armand’s luggage. They’re not coming back to this neck of the woods before they fly home to France,” Felicity said in as matter-of-fact a tone as she could muster. “I’ll meet them with it along the motorway one of these days.”
Imelda’s jaw dropped. She blanched, reddened, and swallowed, reminding Felicity of a guppy she’d seen on one of David Attenborough’s documentaries.
“You better go up and get it so,” she said tightly, her eyes glittering, when she’d recovered some composure. “I’ll make the tea myself while you’re doing it.”
Felicity avoided catching Imelda’s eye. Her mother-in-law was clearly mortified and stunned; she didn’t want to add to her discomfiture.
There wasn’t much to pack away and Felicity lugged the large case downstairs and hefted it into the car boot before returning to say goodbye. Imelda was ensconced in her armchair, back straight, head high. “Thank you for my dinner, Felicity. It was tasty as always. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She nodded dismissively.
“Can I get anything else for you?” Even though she could have strangled her, Felicity’s heart went out to the elderly woman.
“Not a thing, thank you. If you could close the gate, I’d be obliged.”
“I will indeed. Ring me if you need anything,” Felicity assured her, hurrying to get into her car and make her escape.
* * *
Imelda’s heart felt as though a thousand thistles had stung it. Keelin and Armand weren’t coming back to spend the last week of their holiday with her. All that lovely stuffing and gravy she’d made, now languishing in her freezer, would do her until Easter, she thought distractedly. When Felicity had told her they weren’t coming back to Glencarraig, it had taken all Imelda’s self-control not to burst into tears and make a show of herself.
This time there would be no forgiveness. And she only had herself to blame. She’d given in to herself and let her tongue, and bitterness, run amok.
With the fire crackling merrily and the lights of the Christmas tree illuminating the gloom of the evening, Imelda sat alone in her armchair, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Chapter Forty-Two
Brigid pulled her woollen hat down over her ears. In the past she’d relied on her veil to keep her head snug in wild and windy weather; without it, she felt strangely different. As if the “wholeness” of her was now emerging. She recalled someone describing a workaholic as a flower with only one petal unfurled. In a way, she too had only unfurled one petal on her beautiful flower. Now, with her symbolic discarding of the veil, and her forthcoming trip to France, other petals were opening out as a whole new life beckoned.
She sat on the small wooden bench on top of the bank overlooking the ocean, one of her favourite places in the world. White clouds scudded across the sky and far on the horizon a dark grey line hinted at the rain to come as a weather front made its inexorable progress towards the coast. Much as she’d love to take a walk along the strand, it was time to say goodbye, for a while, to her beloved Four Winds, standing robust and resolute atop the cliff, no matter what the weather. “Slán agus beannacht,” she said in her native language. “Until I see you again, God willing.”
* * *
“I’ll miss you. It’s been great having you all to stay, even if the party didn’t quite go to plan,” Una remarked as she and Keelin finished changing the last bed and were folding sheets to add to the pile on the landing.
“I didn’t think Armand and I would be staying as long as we did,” Keelin said ruefully. “Thanks for taking us in when we had to leave the hotel.”
“Not a bother.” Una straightened the duvet on the single bed, now ready for whatever nun might arrive for a few days’ respite in the holiday home.
“The Four Winds has always been a haven for me. I love it and you dearly.”
“And everyone here loves you, Keelin,” her old friend assured her. “Any word from Imelda?”
“No!” said Keelin grimly, walking out to the landing to gather the dirty linen to bring to the small laundry room downstairs. “Felicity has been popping in and out. She says she’s subdued.”
“A rare description of Imelda,” Una observed, following her down the stairs with her arms full.
“Yeah, well, apparently she’s not subdued enough to apologise. I swear to God, Una, this time I’m not giving in. She can get lost. She’s got away with offensive behaviour before, but this was beyond the beyond.”
“So you won’t be taking a detour to Glencarraig?”
“Absolutely not! My mother needs to learn that there are consequences when she behaves the way she does. And I’m not enabling her bad behaviour anymore. I’m fed up with her treating me like shite.” Keelin glowered, shoving sheets into the washing machine and adding a washing tablet.
“It will all settle down eventually,” Una soothed, pouring in the conditioner and s
witching on the machine.
“You know something, Una, right now I don’t care whether it does or not. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but I don’t like my mother—and I never have.”
“Ah, don’t say that, Keelin,” Una murmured in dismay.
“It’s true,” Keelin said miserably. “But you know, that’s OK. To paraphrase Florence-Scovel Shinn: ‘No man is my friend. No man is my enemy. Every man is my teacher.’ So I suppose we’re teaching each other lessons of some sort or another.”
* * *
“So what’s going on with you and your chap? Something’s up, isn’t it?” Brigid cast a knowing look at Marie-Claire. She was sitting propped against the pillows of her hotel bed, in the room that they were sharing, watching Marie-Claire cleanse, tone, and moisturize.
Marie-Claire met her great-aunt’s keen gaze in the mirror opposite the bed, where she was seated surrounded by beauty products.
“Why do you think that?” Marie-Claire paused her cleansing ritual, wondering why she was surprised at the question. Mère knew her so well, and it was almost impossible to pull the wool over her eyes.
“Your eyes are sad. Your joie de vivre is gone. You’re making a big effort to appear normal—and doing a good job, if I may say so—but you haven’t spoken about him like you always do. And the length of your stay is surprisingly long, and you’ve not mentioned the trip to New York that you’d been telling me about,” Brigid said, looking out at her over the top of her glasses.
Marie-Claire turned to face her great-aunt. “You always were good at sussing me out. Hercule Poirot would be proud of you, Mère.” She managed a smile.
“What happened, alannah?” Brigid’s tone was full of love and sympathy.
The old, familiar Irish endearment caught Marie-Claire off guard and tears brimmed in her eyes.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 25