“Keelin wants me to go?” Imelda could hardly believe her ears.
“Granny, Maman is very unhappy about being estranged from you, and she’s very hurt by what you said about Papa—as am I, by the way. But she feels we all have to make an effort to resolve our issues so we can put the past behind us and move on,” Marie-Claire said bluntly, feeling that her grandmother was getting a very soft ride from Brigid. “If she’s prepared to do it so should you.”
“And why Scotland?” Imelda ignored her granddaughter’s last comment.
“We’re going on the trail of Mary Magdalene. A pilgrimage, if you like,” Brigid interjected swiftly, seeing Marie-Claire’s truculent expression. “We’re going to visit Rosslyn Chapel outside Edinburgh, take the ferry from Oban to Mull, stay at a B and B in Fionnphort, and take a ferry to Iona and spend a day there. I’ve read some fascinating books about it. We’re also planning to visit a little church that has a famous stained-glass window of a pregnant Magdalene and Jesus.”
“You believe this—and you a nun?” Imelda was incredulous.
“Let me tell you, Imelda, my eyes have been opened, and there are many things that have been kept from us. I’ll send you a couple of books to read before we leave so you can see for yourself.” Brigid couldn’t hide her enthusiasm for their forthcoming trip.
“I must say it all sounds very interesting.” Imelda wondered was she in a dream. This day was turning into a very surreal experience.
“So are you coming?” Brigid demanded.
“When do I have to let you know?” she asked warily. Brigid was like a different woman, she thought. Not wearing the habit and veil made her look years younger, and her clothes and hair were most stylish, in a restrained sort of way.
“Sooner rather than later, Granny,” Marie-Claire said firmly. “We’ll get cheaper fares if we book soon, and we want to make sure we can get accommodation.”
“It’s all a bit sudden, and unexpected,” she said, rattled.
“How about you have a think about it, Imelda? Marie-Claire and I will head down to the Four Winds, and I’ll ring you early next week,” Brigid suggested.
“You’re getting very adventurous in your old age,” Imelda sniffed.
“Carpe diem, Imelda, carpe diem. Being eighty concentrates the mind wonderfully, and I intend to seize the day for as long as I can. I’d advise you to do the same,” Brigid said crisply, standing up. “Thanks very much for the tea. I’m glad to see you looking so well,” she added with a smile. “Come along, dear,” she said to Marie-Claire. “Miss Daisy needs to be driven.”
“Do you not drive anymore?” Imelda asked, dismayed.
“Oh, indeed I do, but it’s a luxury being driven and I love spending time with this one,” she said affectionately, smiling over at Marie-Claire.
“I know you do. I do, too,” Imelda surprised herself by saying. “If you’d like to stay for dinner, you’re welcome to.”
“Thank you, Granny, but we won’t put you to the trouble, and Una’s expecting us anyway, so she’ll have a meal prepared.” Marie-Claire looked at her grandmother, noting the brief expression of disappointment that crossed her face. Her heart softened and impulsively she stood up, put her arms around her, and hugged her.
“Thanks for the tea. I hope you’ll come with us to Scotland. I’ll ring you next week.”
Imelda stayed in her granddaughter’s embrace. She’d missed the hugs so much.
“We’ll see,” she murmured. “I’m glad you called and I’m sorry I was curt with you when you texted me. And I’m sorry about what I said about your father, and for… er… well, bringing up his past.”
“I won’t deny it was a shock, and we were all hurt by your behaviour, Granny. Come to Scotland with us and let’s put the past behind us there.” Marie-Claire couldn’t hold on to the grudge. It wasn’t her way.
Imelda followed them to the hall, and impulsively reached out and took Brigid’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze before letting go. “Safe journey,” she said awkwardly.
“Thank you, Imelda,” her sister responded. “I’ll be in touch.”
She watched the car disappear from view, emotions churning inside her. “Let’s put the past behind us,” Marie-Claire had urged. But it was Keelin she really needed to hear these words from.
If only it was that easy, Imelda thought sadly as the tears that she’d struggled to contain when she watched them drive away flooded her eyes and slid down her cheeks.
She felt a movement against her ankle and looked down to see the cat rubbing his furry black head against her.
“Come in and I’ll feed you, mister,” she gulped, wiping her eyes, grateful for the little cat’s affection. “I wish you could talk, Sooty, I wish you could tell me what to do,” she said, pouring his kitty treats into his bowl. “Because right this minute I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels with the surprise of it all. If Keelin knew what I’ve lived with all these years, she might not be so bitter towards me. But do I tell her, little kitty cat? Do I tell her?”
Chapter Forty-Six
“I can drive, if you’d like,” Brigid offered. She was sitting in Imelda’s kitchen, drinking tea and eating a delicious slice of homemade apple tart. She’d driven up from Limerick to meet with her sister before they drove to Dublin.
“Not at all; you had the drive from Limerick. Sure, it’s a doddle driving to Dublin now, once you get on the motorway,” Imelda said briskly, wiping pastry crumbs off the kitchen counter. “And besides, I know exactly where the hotel is and how to get there.”
“Do you go up much?” Brigid asked, wondering how she would cope with being Imelda’s passenger. Brigid liked driving and liked being in control. Just like Imelda did, she realised with a start. In some ways they were quite similar.
“I do. I think it’s important not to let your world shrink. Some women down here say they wouldn’t drive on the M-Fifty for love nor money, but for goodness’ sake if you can drive into Galway in the rush hour you can manage a five-lane highway in America, let alone the M-Fifty,” Imelda scoffed at the notion. “Living on my own after Larry died taught me to be very independent.”
“I can see how it would and I admire that about you, Imelda,” Brigid remarked before taking a sip of tea.
“Really?” Her sister looked momentarily astonished at the notion that Brigid would admire anything about her.
“Oh yes indeed. You’re very get-up-and-go. I’ve allowed myself to become quite institutionalized in the last decade or so. I scurry back to the safety of the convent, or the Four Winds. I haven’t had to look after myself, as in cooking, shopping for food, and the like, for a long time. I don’t know if I would have the nerve to live on my own now,” Brigid admitted. “I like having company and not being on my own at night.”
“I’ve no choice.” Imelda shrugged. “And it’s not as great as you might think. It’s lonely rattling around a house on your own. And it’s hard feeling I’m beholden to Cormac and Felicity, although I don’t think they look at it like that. But when the weather was so bad I was depending on them to shop, and clear the drive when I got snowed in. You on the other hand have company, conversation, and people to mind you. You wouldn’t, I’d imagine, feel like you’re a nuisance.”
“No. In fairness to the Order, they have always looked after their elderly nuns very well. I’m sorry you’re lonely, Imelda.”
“Ah, I get on with it. I’m in the ICA and the book club and I play bridge. It’s only when the door closes behind me at night that I feel it. Drink up now and we’ll make a move. There’s no point in paying for a hotel room in Dublin if we don’t make the most of it. If we leave now, we’ll beat the rush hour. We can have a late lunch at the hotel. We could have a rest before Marie-Claire collects us for dinner, after picking up Keelin at the airport.” Imelda topped up both their cups and emptied and rinsed the teapot and put it away.
“We should bring a pack of cards with us,” Brigid suggested. “The four of us could play T
wenty-Five or Sevens. Remember when we lived at home the mighty games of cards that used to go on?”
“I more remember the mighty rows that used to go on—Daddy was a divil for cheating,” Imelda retorted, and the two of them laughed, united by the memory of a happier time in their lives.
Please let there be no rows. Please let this be a time of healing, Brigid prayed silently as Imelda washed their cups and she dried them. So far the hour she’d spent with her sister had been unexpectedly pleasant, but there were five more days to get through, and with Imelda, anything was possible.
* * *
The trip up to the capital had sped by, Imelda reflected, taking the Ballymun exit of the M50. She indicated to get into her lane to turn left at Northwood. Now that they were getting close to the hotel she was beginning to feel nervous. In a couple of hours she would be face-to-face with her daughter. She knew it was an encounter that neither of them was looking forward to.
They hadn’t spoken yet. Imelda had sent a text saying that she was looking forward to the trip to Scotland, and rather pointedly, she supposed, adding that it was nice to be included.
Keelin had responded with an equally insipid text saying that she was looking forward to it also and that she was glad Marie-Claire could join them, and that three generations of the family would be on Iona to give honour to Mary Magdalene.
Nothing about the row at Brigid’s party. And not a word about Armand. She would have to apologise, Imelda supposed, but the old indignation began to rise and she felt herself becoming grumpy.
Stop it! she silently rebuked herself. She’d given herself a talking-to that morning before Brigid arrived, telling herself to be on her best behaviour and not to make snippy remarks. It actually hadn’t been as hard as she’d anticipated. Brigid had been most affable and interested in all that was going on around her as they zipped along to Dublin.
“That’s a very nice building, very modern,” Brigid observed, noticing a curved glass structure to the left of them.
“That’s the Santry Sports Surgery Clinic. That’s where I had my hip done, under Denis Collins. He does complicated ones,” Imelda informed her. “And if you ever have trouble with your shoulder, go to Hannan Mullett. He’s an expert. The best in the country,” she added knowledgeably. “I get cortisone injections from him for the pain. I hurt my shoulder after hauling Larry’s mother into a sitting position in the bed, back when I was minding her.”
“Oh dear,” murmured Brigid. “Lifting people is difficult. When I was doing my nursing training all those years ago, I knew dozens of nurses and nuns with crocked backs and shoulders from lifting. Lifting children was so much easier.”
“Do you know, I almost forgot you did nursing,” Imelda remarked, driving into the car park of their hotel.
“It was the thing I was happiest at. A time when I felt my life and work was worthwhile. And I loved minding the children,” Brigid confided.
“Of course your work was worthwhile. Why would you think otherwise?” Imelda was surprised at Brigid’s comment.
“Ah, I suppose when you hear all the terrible things done in the name of the Church, like the revelations about the Tuam babies’ mass grave… It’s very upsetting. And then there’s the stuff that’s come to light about cases of sexual abuse by the clergy—enabled by the Pope, cardinals, and bishops. I can’t help thinking to myself: this was the organization I worked my whole life for, and encouraged countless African parents and children to follow.” Brigid gave another sigh that came from the depths of her.
“That Tuam’s a terrible scandal all right. Those poor children.” Imelda saw the glimmer of tears in her sister’s eyes and felt an uncharacteristic and surprising pang of sympathy for Brigid. “We hear all about the bad ones, the cruel nuns in the Magdalene laundries and the orphanages; we don’t hear about the good ones like you and all the other nursing and teaching nuns, and Missionaries who gave up their lives in the service of others,” Imelda said supportively.
“That’s very true. Good deeds don’t make the headlines. We did our caring in different ways, you and I. But we made a difference to people’s lives. We brought ease to hardship, Imelda. You didn’t have it easy.”
The olive branch was held out, and Brigid waited for the usual rant to follow. But Imelda looked into the distance and said slowly, “I didn’t. I certainly didn’t. But I suppose in our own way we did bring ease. I never thought of it like that. I was full of resentment at the time, to tell you the truth.”
“That’s understandable,” Brigid conceded.
“I’ve a full bladder, too.” Imelda grinned. “And it’s feeling a mite resentful—I’d better get in and pee.” She wriggled in her seat.
“Old age is a terrible thing. The leaky bladder is the worst.” Brigid grimaced. Now that Imelda had mentioned it, she could do with going to the loo herself. “This looks very nice, Imelda. I feel guilty spending money on a fancy hotel room.” Brigid gazed out at the hotel entrance where well-turned-out people entered and exited, some pulling cases, others looking very businesslike in smart suits.
“Don’t be ridiculous; you deserve it—besides, it’s not that fancy.”
“I’m not used to staying in hotels and taking holidays abroad,” Brigid pointed out, unclipping her seat belt.
“Get used to it,” Imelda retorted. “There’s no pockets in a shroud. And don’t you dare leave any of that money John gave you to the Church.”
Brigid laughed. “OK. And just so you know, the Church has got all it’s getting from me.”
Imelda smiled, in good form again, and exceedingly pleased that Brigid had admitted that she’d had a hard time looking after their parents. At last! Even if it was years late in coming. How she wished the others had been around to hear it, so they too could acknowledge her great sacrifice. The urge to wee overtook Imelda’s desire to bask in her self-righteous gratification.
“Come on,” she urged. “Let’s check in and give comfort and ease to our ancient bladders.”
* * *
“I think that’s it.” Keelin fastened the straps at the top of her case and zipped it closed.
“Have you got your tickets, passport, glasses, and sterling?” Armand asked, hauling it off their bed.
“I do.” Keelin glanced into her handbag to check her travel wallet was safely packed, even though she’d only put it into her bag twenty minutes previously. Armand always double- and treble-checked everything when they were travelling.
“Now, have a fantastic time. Let the past go—”
“I’ll do my best, Armand,” Keelin said hotly, “but you know what Mam’s like!”
“I do,” her husband said, enfolding her in a hug. “But remember, she’s old—”
“Yeah, old and mean-spirited.” Keelin snuggled in against him.
“If you were holding a session and someone spoke about difficulties with a parent, one of the first things you’d say is, ‘What are they teaching you?’ So, what’s your mother teaching you?”
“Ha ha! Hoisted by my own petard… again! She’s holding up a mirror and showing me that I’m a mean-spirited, unforgiving woman.” Keelin grimaced.
“Try and be gentle with each other, chérie. The middle way is the best.”
“Yes, Armand,” Keelin said affectionately, drawing his head down to hers to kiss him long and tenderly. “I’ll miss you!”
“We’ll FaceTime. I’ll be looking forward to hearing about your travels. Take plenty of photos. This is going to be such a special trip, Keelin, in every way.” Armand gave her one last hug before they went downstairs to lock up and leave for the airport.
Later that afternoon, as the plane soared into the cotton wool clouds, Keelin wished she could sit back and enjoy the flight. If it had only been Marie-Claire, Brigid, and herself going to Scotland, she’d have been bursting with anticipation. But her mother, long a thorn in her side, had the ability to turn the whole jaunt into a fiasco.
Stop giving it negative energy! she told herself
fiercely. This was such a test for her. Every spiritual belief she espoused was now knocking at her door. Forgiveness. Releasing anger and resentment and letting go so she could finally put the past behind her and move on. And, she hoped, heal her relationship with her mother. Was it too big an ask? Could she and Imelda ever get on?
Help me, Dad. Help us both, Keelin prayed as the plane levelled out, heading over the Bay of Biscay.
* * *
“Oh, not now.” Marie-Claire heard her phone ringing from the depths of her overflowing tote bag as she rampaged around her bedroom, looking for her house keys. She’d put them down somewhere when she’d got in from work, and couldn’t find them.
She scrabbled to the bottom of the bag, wondering if it was Keelin ringing to say her flight had been delayed, although when she’d last checked flight radar it was scheduled to leave France on time.
Frankie Walsh’s name flashed on the screen and she wondered why her old college mate was ringing her. She’d kept meaning to meet up with him and Dee, his wife, but between moving back into her house and being extra busy at work, she hadn’t got around to it.
“Frankie, how’s it going? Look, can I ring you back? I’ve to go to the airport to collect Maman and I can’t find my bloody house keys. I’ll call you from the car,” she said hastily.
“No bother. Stay calm and say a prayer to Saint Anthony.” Frankie laughed and hung up.
“O Saint Anthony, please help me to find my house keys,” she entreated Ireland’s favourite saint.
The doorbell rang and she groaned in exasperation, running downstairs to answer it. “Howya! It’s your local friendly policeman just saying the front door isn’t the safest place to leave your keys.” A tall, well-built man in jeans and a maroon jersey stood on the doorstep, dangling her keys. She recognized him as the next-door neighbour on her left-hand side.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 29