Keelin made a face, not enamoured with the idea. “It sounds good, in theory,” she sighed. “But I don’t think she’ll come. And even if she agreed, she’d probably ruin the trip with her shenanigans.”
“But on the other hand, having had all this time to think about her bad behaviour, she might welcome the chance to heal the rift with us,” Brigid pointed out calmly.
“You’re far more forgiving than I am.” Keelin made a face. “And more honest. But you’re right, Mère: it’s time I practised what I preach. Do you think she’ll come, though?” she asked doubtfully.
“Oh, she will. Don’t you worry. You leave that to me, Keelin. Imelda will come with us. You wait and see,” Brigid said with a gleam of anticipation in her eyes at the challenge ahead.
Chapter Forty-Four
It was a bitterly cold day. There’d been snow the previous week. Marie-Claire felt glum and unsettled. According to Lizzie, Marc and Amelia were still seeing each other, and Amelia had been promoted to assistant office manager and was, in her breathless, sycophantic way, passive-aggressively throwing her weight around. Marc was totally involved in setting up the New York office and Amelia often accompanied him on trips. It didn’t seem to Marie-Claire that he was missing her as much as he proclaimed in their infrequent online interactions, when she played the part of carefree girl about town. Why should she care anyway? She wouldn’t go back to him for all the tea in China. But it was all his friggin’ fault that she was unsettled, unsure of her future, and working at a different career to pay the bills.
Oh for God’s sake, will you get over yourself and cop on, she thought irritably, photocopying a travel itinerary.
The job she’d taken as a tour rep in a company that specialized in organizing guided tours for French tourists was interesting enough, and the salary was good, but her manager, Chloe, a snooty blonde from Foxrock who sported a Trump-like coiffure, whiter than white veneers, and red shellac nails that could be seen from space, was hard going. “Networking and contacts are what it’s all about,” she was fond of saying whenever she tottered into the office in her vertiginous Louboutins, a little the worse for wear after too many flutes of champagne over lunch.
“Quite the pantomime,” Ines drawled. “The r rolling goes into overdrive when she’s pissed.”
Marie-Claire laughed. Ines was on a year’s exchange from the French head office, and was not greatly impressed by her manager’s manigances, as she so derisively termed Chloe’s carry on.
Ines wasn’t overly friendly. She had the Parisienne’s hauteur, and her narcissistic navel-gazing was wearing. “I’m so fat!” she’d wail, studying her thin frame critically in the bevelled mirror in the foyer. “I am mired in depression because of this fatness.” All because she might have indulged in a Malteser.
“I’ve never known anyone quite so fascinated by herself as Ines. Her life is a permanent existential crisis,” Marie-Claire moaned to Ella one Saturday afternoon, about six weeks into the job, having had enough of Ines’s traumas to last a lifetime. “And what with Chloe thinking she’s some sort of high-powered executive à la Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, it’s no wonder I end up doing most of the work. I can’t stay there, Ella,” Marie-Claire declared.
She and Ella were marching in a Pro-Choice demonstration in Dublin, ahead of the upcoming referendum to repeal an amendment to the constitution, which currently forced women to travel abroad for abortion—sometimes with tragic consequences.
“Let me have a look and see what’s on the books,” Ella soothed, attributing her friend’s moroseness to her lack of satisfaction at work.
“I dunno. Maybe I should go back to Canada,” Marie-Claire mused as the good-humoured marchers around them chanted slogans.
“You haven’t really given it a chance,” Ella responded, tucking her arm in Marie-Claire’s.
“It’s weird, Ella. It’s hard to settle back. Everything and everyone’s changed. They’ve all moved on with their lives. I feel a bit of an outsider, to be honest.”
“It’s going to take a bit of time, ducky. We’re not fresh out of college and rarin’ to go anymore. Most of us are tied down by kids and mortgages.”
“I know. It’s all about the kids now, and maybe that’s why I’m feeling like an outsider. Maybe I feel left behind.”
“Did you feel like this in Canada?”
“Nope. I felt totally in control, vibrant, anticipatory. The complete opposite to what I feel here.”
“And if you go back to Canada, do you think you’ll feel like that again, without Marc in your life?” Ella asked delicately.
“I don’t know. I would hope so. I didn’t hand all my power over to him!” Marie-Claire retorted indignantly.
“Good. I never thought you did. That’s not you.”
“I’m still gutted, though.”
“Why wouldn’t you be? It’s still early days. Breakups are like bereavements; it takes time to get over them. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Come on. Cheer up. Take your selfie to post on your ‘I’m not missing you, dickhead’ Facebook page.” Ella grinned.
“Ha ha!” Marie-Claire retorted. “When you say it like that, you make me feel like a silly teenager.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’d do the same if I was in your shoes.”
“No you wouldn’t. You’d have kicked him in the goolies and given him a bloody nose to boot.” Marie-Claire gave her friend a hug. Ella was a far more forceful character than she was and met things head-on.
“No, actually. I think your strategy of not letting him know why you left him is absolutely brilliant. So come on, take a photo of the two of us with big happy grins on our faces.”
“I’m hopeless at selfies; I never do the right angle. I end up with a plethora of chins or a nose like Pinocchio’s.” Nevertheless, Marie-Claire positioned her mobile phone to snap the pair of them.
“Look, the march is nearly over. We don’t need to listen to the speeches; we know why we’re protesting. I was one of those women who had to travel for a termination.”
“I know, Ella. That was so hard for you and Shay.” Marie-Claire squeezed her friend’s hand, remembering the horrendous trauma her friend and her husband had gone through when they were told Ella was carrying a baby with a fatal foetal abnormality.
“This brings it all back.” Ella had tears in her eyes. “And it’s why it’s so important for me to be here to help protect other women from going through what thousands like me went through. And of course, poor Savita Halappanavar. She died because of the Eighth Amendment. We must never forget her.”
“Savita won’t be forgotten, Ella, ever. She’s part of the reason we’re here,” Marie-Claire said solemnly, and they walked along in silence thinking about the young Indian woman who had died of a septic miscarriage because she was refused an emergency termination, even though her pregnancy loss was inevitable and pending.
“So you don’t want to stay for the speeches.” Marie-Claire cocked an eye at her friend when clusters of chanting marchers began to fill up the square.
“I do not.” Ella grimaced. “To be honest, there’s a couple of limelight hoggers and bandwagon jumpers here that are doing my head in with their patronizing shite,” she said crossly, catching sight of two of the more prominent social influencers hugging dramatically for the TV cameras. “Let’s hit McGrattans for a bit of grub and a bottle of red. My treat.”
“Limelight hoggers, bandwagon jumpers! God, you’re cranky.” Marie-Claire laughed.
“I am cranky, aren’t I?” Ella grinned, leading her friend through the throngs.
“OK, so tell me: Why are you cranky?” Marie-Claire asked Ella half an hour later as they tucked into the finger-food platter for two, the heat and conviviality of the bar a welcome respite from the bitter cold outside.
“Teenagers!” her friend said succinctly, devouring a portion of black pudding and apple wrapped in bacon. “They had a big row with Da yesterday. A mega one, actually, about the refere
ndum.”
“What on earth made you get into a discussion with your da about that? You know his views. You know how hidebound he is where the Church is concerned. He’s livid that you’d vote Yes, to repeal, presumably?” Marie-Claire had never liked Ella’s domineering father.
“You know I wouldn’t deliberately get into an argument with him about anything like that,” Ella groaned. “Jada was saying how she hoped we picked a villa with a swimming pool in France for our summer hols. Julie said she preferred Italy. They’re gas, aren’t they? It’s far from the villas with swimming pools where you and I were reared. Dad asked when we were going and I said late June, and Jada—wouldn’t you know it would be her—piped up and said we’d better wait until after the referendum.
“ ‘You won’t be able to vote, if they hold one,’ Da told her, and she eye-rolled him! Imagine you or I doing that to him when we were her age. And then she said, ‘I know that, Granddad, but Mum and Dad will be entitled to vote, and we’ll need every Yes vote we can get!’ ‘We’ll!’ Even though I was mad with her for mentioning it, I loved her sense of ownership of the issue,” Ella said proudly.
“Ooohhhh! I’d say that went down well!” Marie-Claire exclaimed.
“He nearly had a heart attack. ‘I sincerely hope your parents won’t be voting to kill babies,’ he said. ‘I didn’t raise your mother to be a murderer!’ ”
“Oh God! How horrible. Was there uproar?”
“That doesn’t even begin to describe it. Jada leapt to her feet and shrieked at him, ‘Don’t you dare say things like that about Mum! She’ll be voting to give women choice so no woman has to travel to another country for something that might save her life if she’s in difficulties, because our own country won’t look after her, or me and Julie, if anything happens to us. How would you feel if I was raped! Would you want me to keep the baby?’
“ ‘Yes, I most certainly would,’ he roared back at her. ‘We’d all look after you. And don’t you be so cheeky to me, madam!’ ”
“Wow! I wouldn’t be that brave, arguing with your da. Well done, Jada!” Marie-Claire approved, highly impressed at her godchild’s nerve.
“I know. In fairness, I was very proud of them, but I didn’t want them involved in a shouting match with their grandfather, not with poor Mum in tears over it all, so I said, ‘Enough! This subject is not to be discussed here again. Let’s go.’ ”
“Probably the wisest course of action.” Marie-Claire nodded.
“ ‘And don’t come back here if you’re voting Yes,’ he shouted as we were leaving. ‘A fine way to be rearing your children to ignore the teaching of the Catholic Church!’ So then I lost it and said, ‘Yes, the Church that allowed priests to rape children and get away with it, and moved the paedophile priests from parish to parish. The Church that silenced those victims of abuse and tried to buy them off. The Church that sent young women to Magdalene laundries and tore their children out of their arms to sell them off, and kept those women as slaves. The Church that lies through its teeth and calls it ‘mental reservation.’ The Church that excommunicated a nine-year-old child who was raped—and her mother who took her for a termination because she would have died otherwise—but did not excommunicate the rapist! Is that the Church you’re talking about, Dad?’ And when I’d finished shouting at him, we left. I’m telling you, Marie-Claire, the patriarchy is still alive and well in Ireland,” Ella raged.
“How are the girls?” Marie-Claire asked sympathetically.
“Ah, they were shocked and upset initially, but now they’re being self-righteous with all the superiority of youth.” Ella chuckled. “I had to point out that everyone was entitled to vote as they saw fit and No voters had their point of view and it was important to respect their democratic right to exercise their vote, even if it was a No and harmful to the lives of women. I explained to them that centuries of the Church’s teachings had cowed whole generations into not opposing them, regardless of how much they might want to, and I said there were some people who felt their No vote was morally right and that was their decision. Just as our decision to vote Yes was ours.”
“Fair dues to you. I suppose balance is everything, but I might not have been so gracious.”
“I know; it’s called motherhood,” Ella said wryly. “But today I needed a break from them, march or no march.”
* * *
“Whaaaatt?” Marie-Claire wasn’t sure if she’d heard her great-aunt correctly. “You want to go on a pilgrimage to Iona with Maman and bring Granny? Controversial!” She grinned.
“I do,” Brigid replied calmly, settling herself into the front of Marie-Claire’s borrowed car. They were in a car park in Dublin Airport. Marie-Claire had come to collect her from her flight, and in the morning they would be heading west to the Four Winds for the weekend.
“Well, good luck with that, Mère. When I texted her after I came back from France in January, telling her I’d like to come and visit, to talk about what had happened, she told me not to bother. She’s done with all of us, according to herself.” Marie-Claire grimaced, reversing out of the parking space.
“That is why I propose that you and I show up on her doorstep, any day that suits you. Perhaps over the Easter holidays, if you’re willing—and free, of course?” Brigid proposed.
“And if she closes the door in our face?” Marie-Claire glanced across at her aunt, who looked twenty years younger than when she’d last seen her. Brigid was tanned and healthy from her mountain walks, her bright periwinkle-blue eyes shining clear.
“So be it! She won’t be able to say that we didn’t try to mend fences. I’m hoping, though, that her wrath will have abated.”
“And what about ours?” Marie-Claire asked drily.
“As that inspiring woman, Michelle Obama, memorably said, ‘When they go low, we go high!’ ” Brigid shrugged. “I won’t have my latter years spoiled because Imelda has issues with me. I’ll give her an opportunity to discuss them. That’s all I can do.”
“And Maman is happy to make this trip to Iona with Granny?” Marie-Claire queried. Privately she thought it would be another disaster.
“Yes, we spoke about it before I left. She’s very troubled by it all. She wants to have some sort of closure on all their issues. Perhaps my party was a catalyst for the air to be cleared. If it was, well, so be it.”
“You’re so forgiving, Mère. I certainly wouldn’t be asking her to go on holidays,” Marie-Claire said firmly.
“One thing’s for sure: if Imelda comes with us, it won’t be boring.” Brigid chuckled.
“And I suppose you’ll also be going on the Magdalene Trail to Iona?” Marie-Claire asked as they scorched down the M1 towards the Port Tunnel.
“We are. Isn’t it mind-blowing to even consider that Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married, after all we’ve been taught? I would have been kicked out of the Order for apostasy if I’d ventured such an opinion. Yet now, it’s openly talked of in France, especially in the Languedoc. I’ve read so many of your mother’s enormous stack of books, Marie-Claire. It was fascinating, discussing such concepts with your parents. Wait until I put it to Maura—she’ll think I’ve gone doolally.” Brigid laughed mischievously.
“And do you think it’s true?” Marie-Claire swung left at Whitehall Church onto Collins Avenue.
“It’s a possibility, certainly. I think. And some of the books I’ve read propose that Jesus—who had mastered matter during initiations as an Essene, in the Mystery Schools—may not have died at the crucifixion. Honestly, Marie-Claire, there’s so much to learn and read about. I wish I’d known these things. How different my path might have been.”
“What do they say? ‘When the pupil is ready, the teacher will come.’ I’m sure it’s all happening the way it’s meant to.” Marie-Claire smiled at her great-aunt. “And right now, my path is leading me to this.” She indicated right and parked in front of a pretty bistro called 53 Avenue. “I booked us a table. The food is fab. I hope you’re hung
ry.”
“I’m hungry all right,” Brigid agreed. “That rubbish they serve on planes these days is woeful. I didn’t eat anything.”
“We’ll feast in here, so,” Marie-Claire said cheerfully. “Their seafood risotto is out of this world, and their chicken wings… yum, yum.”
“I’ll be putting on weight! I’m eating like a horse since I retired,” Brigid confessed. “My discipline is going to pot.”
“You’ve had enough discipline for this lifetime,” Marie-Claire told Brigid as they made their way into the restaurant. As Marie-Claire had agreed to drive her great-aunt to Glencarraig tomorrow, they were both going to need sustenance. What happened when they got there was in the laps of the gods.
Chapter Forty-Five
Imelda wheeled her grocery trolley along the frozen-food aisle and threw a packet of Aunt Bessie’s roast parsnips on top of the packets of Jus-Rol puff pastry, to which she was particularly partial. Noticing Carmel Hennessy up ahead of her, she hastily rearranged the shopping so that the pastry was well covered. She wouldn’t give Carmel the satisfaction of knowing that she no longer made her own puff pastry. Shortcrust yes, but the palaver of rolling the butter in, folding the pastry, adding more butter, and doing more rolling was so time-consuming that the ready-made was a godsend.
Carmel was, as usual, looking like she’d just stepped out of Vogue. Dyed jet-black hair coiffed and sprayed to within an inch of its life (Carmel always did her weekly shopping after getting her hair done), red tailored trousers with a crease so sharp it would cut butter, and a very smart paisley-print devoré-velvet jacket that looked as though it had cost a fortune.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 27