Carmel was a great woman for the designer gear, and the body maintenance. It was rumoured that she’d had a facelift. She certainly had a very surprised look about her. Her skin was stretched taut and shiny across her cheekbones and the McDonald’s arches of her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. “Definitely done” was the word in the book club.
She wasn’t the only one to have had “work” done, Imelda thought smugly, squaring her shoulders and holding in her tummy. She was wearing her Karen Millen black belted trench coat, bought in the Brown Thomas sale last January, and a pair of smart L.K. Bennett ankle boots, bought during the same spending spree. After the party episode, as Imelda privately called it, she’d felt the need to spoil herself.
She’d been reading an article about cosmetic surgery and enhancement in a magazine at the hairdresser’s and had been most impressed by some before-and-after photos of an older lady who’d had fillers and Botox. Shrouded in a black gown, with her damp hair stuck to her head while she waited for her cut and blow-dry, Imelda had stared at her image reflected in the square, unforgiving mirror and wondered who was that pinched, lined, vexed woman. She looked far older than Brigid, she’d thought crossly.
As soon as she got home, she’d gone on her computer and spent hours on the Internet to find someone who she felt would be suitable for her particular needs. Imelda was wary of cosmetic clinics and their boasts. Even the young one who’d washed her hair earlier in the salon had had her lips done; they looked like they were ready to explode. Her eyebrows were like two black caterpillars on her forehead. No, best to steer well clear of the money-grabbers and go to a “proper” doctor, Imelda decided, making an appointment with a consultant.
She’d told Cormac and Felicity she was treating herself to an overnight stay in Dublin because she wanted to shop in Arnotts’s basement to replenish her bedding and kitchenware. They didn’t pay any heed to it, because Imelda had always gone to Dublin for the sales and stayed overnight.
She’d driven to Dublin very early, shopped in Arnotts’s basement, and then driven to the Blackrock Clinic for an appointment with a “proper” cosmetic surgeon. He had been so kind and encouraging during her initial appointment that when she lay on the couch to have her treatments Imelda felt exhilarated.
The needles had been very painful, but she didn’t care. This was something she was doing for herself and worth every penny for the comfort it gave her after that upsetting family gathering.
She’d booked into the Royal Marine Hotel, down the coast road in Dún Laoghaire, treated herself to a room service dinner, unwilling to show her bruised face in the dining room, and rested against the pillows in the large, luxurious bed, plotting how she would lavish more money on herself. A new car was next on the agenda. An automatic at that. Larry would want her to make her life easier, and feck the lot of them, that was exactly what she was going to do. There were no pockets in a shroud, and now that the rest of them were out of her will, she might as well spend, spend, spend.
It had taken a couple of weeks for the discreet Botox and fillers to settle, but Imelda was delighted with the results. Everyone was telling her how well she looked. If only they knew, she laughed to herself. They wouldn’t believe what she’d done. Felicity and Cormac kept looking at her, wondering.… Well, let them wonder, Imelda thought defiantly.
She opened the side pocket in her Desigual Madeira bag, slid out a small bronzer compact, and opened the mirror to have a quick look. Not “done” but very subtly “refreshed,” she thought, admiring the new plumpness of her cheeks and lip area, where the dermal fillers had taken years off her appearance. The Botox around her crow’s feet and frown lines had hurt, but it was all worth it, Imelda thought proudly, snapping the compact shut.
Never had a moment of madness worked out so well.
“Good morning, Carmel,” she said perkily, coming abreast of the other woman.
“Morning, Imelda. Isn’t it a lovely day after the terrible weather we’ve had?”
“It certainly is,” Imelda agreed. “I needed to stock up again.”
“But sure, wouldn’t Cormac do your shopping for you and have it delivered?” Carmel remarked.
“Indeed he would. He’s always telling me he’ll get the van to drop by with anything I need, and it was handy to have that facility in the bad weather. But I like to do my own shopping—after all, it was my shop once,” Imelda said, reminding Carmel that she too was a woman of substance.
“Well, Cormac’s made a great job of it. Who would ever have thought we’d have such a fine supermarket in Glencarraig? It’s as good as any you’d find in the city.”
“Indeed it is. Cheerio, Carmel, I must get on. I want to make a start on The Immortalists today, to have it read by Tuesday.”
“A strange book. A Greek tragedy and all that, but superbly written nevertheless,” Carmel observed knowledgeably, and Imelda thought irritably that she shouldn’t have let on she was behind in her book club read.
“See you on Tuesday,” she said, waving at Mags Reid, who was coming down the aisle in the opposite direction. “Mags, I heard Dickey Casey is laid up with cellulitis and won’t make bridge tomorrow night. So you could partner Susie Murphy Hemsworth, seeing as you don’t have a partner, either, for this Sunday?” she said to the other woman.
“That would be great, Imelda. Glad I bumped into you. Poor Dickey. He’s having a hard time of it.”
“Indeed he is, the craythur. I’ll see you on Sunday so.” Imelda carried on to the next aisle, very pleased with her Saturday morning.
“Morning, Imelda.” Sergeant Kenny saluted her when she passed him with her trolley. He was carrying a basket with cartons from the deli counter and a tub of ice cream and a rhubarb crumble.
“Morning,” she returned coolly. She didn’t like Sergeant Kenny. He was a nosy ould yoke who thought he was a cut above everyone and loved the deference shown to him. He was in her bridge club and was always pontificating about something or other. He’d won the last two games they’d played against each other.
“Doing your shopping?” The sergeant cast an eye over the contents of her trolley.
Imelda bristled. “Well, you wouldn’t need to have gone to Trinity to get the answer to that,” she said tartly. “And you’d want to cut out that ice cream and crumble stuff or your uniform won’t fit you and the taxpayers will have to pay for another one.”
“You’re quare cranky, Imelda.” He scowled at her. “I was only trying to be polite.”
“Hmmm,” she sniffed. “I’ll see you at bridge.” That gave him his answer, she thought smugly, rounding the corner to the next aisle. She would treat herself to a cup of coffee and a cream cake in the café adjoining the supermarket, she decided, looking forward to her treat.
The new café that Cormac had added on was doing a roaring trade. She was lucky to get a seat. It was astonishing that having breakfast out had become such a thing, she thought, watching a couple at the table next to her tucking into an enormous fry.
She was proud of her son, immensely proud, though she couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt when she remembered how much he had wanted to study architecture until she’d browbeaten and emotionally blackmailed him to take on the family business. Peter had gone out to Australia when he’d left school, determined to make a life for himself abroad. He had no interest, either, in taking over the supermarket.
She’d done to Cormac what had been done to her, Imelda realised with a shock. How come she’d never thought of it like that before? He had been the one left to shoulder the family burden. Keelin, like Brigid, Sean, and Peter, had taken off, getting as far away as they possibly could to escape the binding ties of home.
Had she ever thanked her son properly for the sacrifice he’d made? Not really, she thought ruefully, biting into her cream cake. She’d never actually put into words that she was grateful and proud. Her thanks would be the leaving of the business to him and the index-linked stash in her savings account at the bank.
She heard a woma
n laugh. A hearty, smile-inducing laugh, behind her, and it reminded her of someone. But who? Her brow went to furrow but could not because of the Botox. Marie-Claire, that was who it sounded like. She had a great sense of humour. Imelda smiled, before remembering that she wasn’t speaking to Marie-Claire.
When Marie-Claire had texted her saying she wanted to come and discuss the family row, Imelda had been in the height of her annoyance with them all, and had fired off a cold, unforgiving text. She’d heard nothing since. Felicity had mentioned last week that Brigid was still in France. She could stay there, for all Imelda cared. Her mouth drew down into a thin line. What was she doing, thinking of them and ruining her enjoyable morning? She would buy a box of cream cakes at the bakery and drop them in to Felicity and tell her to keep the éclair for Cormac because they were his favourites, and then she would run the mower over her lawn, a chore she quite enjoyed. Afterwards, she would settle down to read her book for the afternoon and put her feet up. Pleased with her plan for the day ahead, Imelda finished her cappuccino, retouched her lipstick, and made her way out to the bakery. She was glad she’d packed her shopping into the boot of the car earlier. Nothing worse than lugging shopping bags around. There was a queue, of course. The bakery was always busy. She stood behind an elegant grey-haired lady, admiring the cut of her hair. Stylish and modern. Should she stop colouring her own hair and finally go grey? Imelda wondered idly.
“The loos were packed,” she heard a voice say as a young woman stepped in front of her. Imelda’s heart almost jumped out of her chest. “Marie-Claire!” she exclaimed involuntarily.
Both women turned in her direction.
“Granny!”
“Imelda!”
Imelda stared at the grey-haired woman in shock. “Brigid! Where’s your veil? Your habit?” she said idiotically.
“I don’t wear it anymore. Hello, Imelda, how are you?” her older sister said calmly.
“What are you doing here?” Imelda snapped, flustered.
“We had our breakfast in the café after the drive from Dublin, and then we decided to buy some cakes to bring to you, hoping that you wouldn’t close the door in our faces,” Brigid said matter-of-factly.
“Oh!” Imelda was gobsmacked. “I wouldn’t close the door in your face,” she muttered, unable to meet her sister’s steady gaze.
“We weren’t sure what sort of a reception we’d get, seeing as you didn’t want to meet me when I texted you and asked if I could visit,” Marie-Claire said quietly.
“Oh! Yes. Well, I was very upset then,” Imelda said defensively. “Did Cormac and Felicity know you were coming?” She eyed her granddaughter suspiciously, anxious to get off the subject and pleased that she’d made sure they knew that she was as wounded by them as much as they had been offended by her.
“Nope! It was all very spur of the moment!” Marie-Claire shrugged.
There was a strained silence as two pairs of eyes studied her expectantly. Imelda was in a complete tizzy. She hated being caught on the hop.
“Can I help you?” a young white-coated assistant asked Brigid.
“So, will I buy a few cakes for us, Imelda?” Brigid cocked her head quizzically, her blue-eyed gaze never wavering from Imelda’s.
“Oh, go on then. A cherry-and-walnut slice for me,” Imelda said grudgingly. She would have preferred to make her peace with the family at a time and place of her choosing—she’d imagined many deathbed scenarios—but she couldn’t deny the way her heart had lifted when she’d seen Marie-Claire. And Brigid, who by rights should have been very snooty, after having her party ruined, was showing admirable forbearance. Maybe it was time to let bygones be bygones, Imelda acknowledged in the welcome solitude of her car, as she drove towards home, followed by her relatives.
She felt butterflies flutter around her innards and her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Would Brigid go for the jugular and attack her for her behaviour on the night of the party? She’d every right to; Imelda had gone way too far, especially announcing to all and sundry, including Brigid’s Mother General, that she’d seen her sister having sex with Johnny Larkin.
It was time to face the music. She would just have to sit there and zip it and take what was coming to her. If the Botox had permitted her to frown, she would have.
* * *
“That was a stroke of luck, wasn’t it?” Marie-Claire followed Imelda’s silver Volvo out of the car park.
“It certainly was,” Brigid agreed. “It couldn’t have worked out better. We weren’t left standing on the doorstep with the door closed in our faces. Or left standing because she wasn’t in. The Lord works in mysterious ways.” She smiled.
“She looks great, in spite of everything. So fresh and rested. The quarrel certainly hasn’t taken it out of her, the way it’s taken it out of Maman,” Marie-Claire observed crossly, indicating left, to follow her grandmother off the main street.
“Imelda doesn’t have the responsibility for the shop anymore. That must be a great weight off her shoulders. She’s got a good life now, I suppose, after all the running around she’d had to do, and she deserves to take it easy, in fairness,” Brigid pointed out.
“I love the coat and the bag. Granny always looks smart. She never buys this side of the Shannon, she told me once. She doesn’t want to be seen in anything anyone else would have. She always goes to Dublin for her clothes.”
“She’s always gone to Dublin to buy her clothes. Larry was very generous in that regard, and of course Imelda is an almighty snob and excels in one-upmanship,” Brigid said ruefully. “I’m thinking now—and excuse me for changing the subject, dear—but perhaps we’d best not get into the whole ‘you said,’ ‘she said,’ ‘I said’ carry-on. Yes, eventually we’ll have to address the things she threw at us at the party, but I think initially we should take a restrained approach. Have our tea with her and ask her will she come to Scotland with us. It would be good to talk things over in a neutral setting. You know what Imelda’s like: if she gets defensive she’ll get offensive and there could be another row; then we’ll be out the door before we know it.”
“Right. Good thinking. You’re very wise, Mère, and she doesn’t deserve the leeway you’re giving her.” Marie-Claire swung into the drive behind Imelda.
“Trust me, running a convent with women in various stages of hormonal disarray was great training in how to manage disagreements, large and small.” Brigid laughed.
“Well, I think you’re awesome. You’re the one she should be apologising to instead of letting us think she’s doing us a great favour by seeing us,” Marie-Claire said indignantly.
“It’s all a front. Remember, there was a lot of hurt and resentment behind that explosion of anger. Imelda had a point about being left to look after the farm and our parents, as well as looking after her mother-in-law and her own family. I can see that, looking back at it now, from her point of view. So let’s play it softly-softly. What do you say?” Brigid studied her great-niece quizzically.
“I say I’m in awe of you. Come on, Saint Brigid. I’ll follow your lead,” Marie-Claire said fondly, switching off the ignition, glad she hadn’t come to see her grandmother on her own in January. She would have ended up making matters worse.
“Go into the sitting room and I’ll make the tea,” Imelda instructed when they followed her into the house.
“The cakes, Imelda.” Brigid handed her the square white box.
“Thanks.” Her sister managed a small smile.
“I’ll make the tea if you like, Granny,” Marie-Claire offered, as she always would when she was staying with her.
“No, I’ll do it myself. Go in and sit down.” Imelda gestured into the sun-drenched front room, before marching down to the kitchen.
“We’re being treated like guests.” Marie-Claire made a face, sinking into the plump-cushioned burgundy sofa.
“We’re in; that’s all that matters.” Brigid took off her coat and scarf and sat in one of the armchairs. “This isn’t wher
e she sits, is it?” she asked.
“No, she sits in the one by the fire.”
“Grand.”
“It’s a bit like going to confession or something, isn’t it?” Marie-Claire whispered.
“What will our penance be, I wonder?” Brigid chuckled and Marie-Claire giggled.
“I feel like a naughty child; it’s weird.”
“She has to keep control. That’s how she can save face,” Brigid observed sagely. “I had to do it myself many times when I was a young Reverend Mother in charge of older nuns.”
“Not easy, I suppose.”
“What’s not easy?” Imelda appeared at the door, carrying a tea tray. Marie-Claire jumped up to take it from her.
“Being a young Reverend Mother in charge of older nuns,” Brigid said mildly.
“Oh! Well, that was no bother to you, I’m sure. You’re bossy enough.” Imelda handed her a mug of tea.
“Hmmm, when faced with rudeness and bad manners you needed to be bossy sometimes,” Brigid reciprocated tartly.
A frigid silence descended on the trio.
Realising that she’d overstepped the mark, Imelda sought a safe topic. “Er… I believe you were in France for a while.”
“I was.”
“And how did that go?” Imelda handed her sister a plate with a selection of pastries.
“It was absolutely wonderful.” Brigid took a custard slice. “I’d only had a very brief stay at Keelin and Armand’s, years ago. It was so delightful to get to know the people in the village, and take walks on Canigou,” she enthused.
“I like walking Canigou, too,” Imelda admitted, relaxing a little.
“Perhaps we might walk it together someday?” Brigid seized her opening.
“Er… well… ah… I don’t think I’m flavour of the month with my daughter and her husband right now.” Imelda was stunned at her sister’s invitation. Was Brigid in her right mind?
“Well, that’s one of the reasons we came to see you, Imelda. Keelin, Marie-Claire, and I are going to Scotland for a long weekend, Thursday to Sunday, and we wondered would you like to come with us so we could spend time together and heal old wounds,” Brigid asked.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 28