“He seems nice enough. I see two young girls staying over part of every week. I think he’s probably sharing custody of his kids or something.” Marie-Claire pulled into her spot when the squad car moved off.
“Good to have a guard beside you. Excellent for security. I like the colour of your door,” Imelda approved.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Marie-Claire admired the lilac gloss paint that reminded her of window shutters in the Languedoc. They all trooped into the hall behind her, oohing and aahing at the light, airy pastel décor and the mouthwatering smells emanating from the kitchen.
* * *
“I am stuffed.” Imelda sat back an hour later, patting her tummy. “That was delicious.”
“Very tasty, dear. Thank you.” Brigid wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“Let me clear the table.” Keelin stood up.
“Stay where you are, Maman, I’ll fling these into the dishwasher and then I’ll serve up dessert. I got a strawberry roulade over in Thunders,” Marie-Claire instructed, delighted that her meal had gone so well.
“I know what I’ll do while we’re waiting,” Keelin said with a gleam in her eye. “I want to get something out of my case.” She came back in from the hall, holding a box in her hands. “My Mary Magdalene cards,” she explained. “Let’s all choose a card and see what message she gives us. They’re cards with guidance and words of wisdom on them, Mam. You always get the message you need. I use them in my work all the time,” Keelin explained to her mother. Marie-Claire and Brigid were familiar with them.
“Ohhh yes!” Marie-Claire exclaimed. Imelda looked dubious, and Brigid’s eyes lit up.
“This is what we’ll do.” Keelin shuffled the deck, “We’ll pick one each, and whatever the message is, we’ll keep it to ourselves. Then we can talk about it on our last night in Scotland, if we want to. Or if you want to keep it private, that’s OK, too, Mam.” She spread out the pack and held it out to her mother.
Imelda pursed her lips and eyed the cards warily. “I’m not sure about this woo-woo stuff,” she said.
“If you don’t want one, it’s OK.” Keelin shrugged.
“Oh, I’ll take one to please you.” She selected a card, looked at it, and her lips tightened. “Hmmm,” she muttered.
Brigid took one eagerly, read it, and her eyes widened. “Oh!” she exclaimed.
Keelin chose her card, and smiled at the message.
“My turn.” Marie-Claire laid the creamy roulade on the table and leaned over and plucked a card out of the deck.
“I wonder what this means,” she said, studying it.
“Here, you can have this back,” Imelda said, thrusting her card into the deck. “Messages indeed! They’re only cards.”
“No problem,” Keelin said coolly, agog to know what card her mother had selected that had prompted her testy response.
“I’ll keep mine, if you don’t mind,” Brigid said quietly.
“Me too.” Marie-Claire tucked hers into her handbag.
Imelda sat sour faced.
Later, after Marie-Claire had driven Brigid and Imelda back to their hotel, she and Keelin sat in Marie-Claire’s cosy lounge area, each sipping a G&T before going to bed.
“I’d love to know what message Granny got. She wasn’t impressed at all!” Marie-Claire threw a log on the wood burner and watched it blaze up in a shower of sparks.
“You can be assured it was exactly the message she was meant to get,” Keelin said ruefully. “And I think this trip will be make or break it for her and me. Finally, after all these years, there will be a resolution to our problems one way or another.”
“She’s lucky to be getting this chance, Maman. Not many would be as decent to her as you and Brigid are after her outrageous behaviour.” Marie-Claire raised her glass to her mother. “Thank God for alcohol! What will be will be. Let the high jinks begin!”
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Terminal Two, because it’s Aer Lingus,” Imelda announced knowledgeably, looking at her boarding pass as they drove along the M1 to Dublin Airport. She was keen to let her family know that she too was an international traveller.
“Allegedly.” Keelin threw her eyes up to heaven. “We check in at T Two, go through security, and then have to traipse over to T One, to get to our boarding gate, and then we have to get on a bus to go out to our plane,” she grumbled.
“Well, you know, when you go on a pilgrimage, in search of truth, obstacles can be put in the way. You have to prove you really want to seek and find,” Brigid joked.
“ ‘Pilgrimage’ is surely a bit overly dramatic. You go on a pilgrimage to Lourdes or the Holy Land. I never heard a trip to Scotland referred to as a ‘pilgrimage’!” Imelda scoffed.
Brigid’s lips thinned as the familiar irritation surged. She wondered yet again why she’d suggested inviting Imelda along. She was going to ruin their trip with her nitpicking and sniping.
“A sacred journey of devotion, no matter where in the world you go, is a pilgrimage,” she riposted tartly.
“Hmmm! If you say so. And we have to fly on one of those propeller yokes? Sure, we might as well have taken a boat. We’d be there quicker,” Imelda fired back.
“You knew that before you booked—you didn’t have to come,” Brigid reminded her.
“Stop it, Mam,” Keelin ordered crossly. “I am not travelling to Scotland, on a quest I’ve longed to go on for years, to have it ruined by petty bickering. Mère is right. This is a pilgrimage and we have to go with whatever is thrown at us and get on with it, propeller planes and all.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun,” her mother said sulkily.
“It will be, if you allow it to be. And remember, you didn’t have to come. No one twisted your arm.” Keelin couldn’t hide her exasperation with her mother.
The airport came into view, and Marie-Claire drove to the long-term car park. Ten minutes later they were sitting on the link bus waiting to drive to the terminal. “When we get airside and are having our coffee, we’ll do a kitty purse. We’ll divide the car parking between the four of us,” Keelin said when they disembarked at T2.
“Ah, no worries,” Marie-Claire said, lifting the cases onto the kerb. “Let me get a trolley. Four Go Wild in Scotland. Enid Blyton, eat your heart out,” she said cheerfully, trying to lift the tense atmosphere.
The others laughed at her banter and Keelin was grateful that her daughter was accompanying them. Marie-Claire had an exuberance and lightness of spirit that might get them through their first—and perhaps last—holiday together, without ending up constantly at each other’s throats. The energy changed from surly petulance to anticipation, and when Marie-Claire returned with a trolley they cheered and made their way to the bag drop before heading to Security.
Imelda tried not to feel flustered while divesting herself of her coat and scarf. The others were regular travellers. Keelin and Marie-Claire hopped on planes the way others hopped on buses, and she didn’t want to let on how very apprehensive she was about flying on a plane with propellers. She’d butterflies in her tummy and felt queasy with nerves.
Brigid swiftly and efficiently passed through the scan and was already putting her coat back on at the other end of the desk.
“Let me help you, Gran,” Marie-Claire offered, neatly arranging her belongings in the tray for her.
“You’re a kind girl,” Imelda said gratefully. She should stop fretting. She didn’t have to shoulder the burden of being in charge anymore. It was rather comforting to be minded, she acknowledged, walking through the metal detector. To her dismay she started to beep, and felt a tide of embarrassment flood her. Everybody in the airport was probably looking at her.
“Do you have any replacement hips or knees?” the security guard asked matter-of-factly.
“Oh… oh… yes… yes… I do. I got a hip replacement a year ago; it was a complicated one; I nearly—”
“That’s all right, madam; we’ll just get you patted down.” The security guard wasn
’t interested in hearing about her trials and tribulations with her hip, Imelda thought huffily, and gave him one of her “unimpressed” looks as a female security guard began to frisk her.
“Now hold on to this and lift your leg,” the young woman instructed, pointing to a step beside the conveyor belt.
“What am I? A gymnast?” Imelda demanded, glaring at the woman as she carried out the instructions.
Marie-Claire caught Keelin’s eye and was afraid she was going to burst out laughing. “Thank God we’re in this together,” Keelin whispered. “I do so want to enjoy this trip.”
“You will,” Marie-Claire assured her. “We’ll buy a bottle of Hendrick’s in the Duty-Free and drown our sorrows tonight.”
Keelin laughed. “You’re a divil, do you know that?”
“I do” said her daughter, smirking as she walked, beep-free, through the security arch to join her waiting fellow pilgrims.
* * *
“Oh, Marie-Claire, aren’t those bridges a wonderful sight?” Imelda was bubbling with excitement as the commuter plane made its descent over the Firth of Forth towards Edinburgh Airport. At her granddaughter’s suggestion—once Imelda had seen how smoothly the much-dreaded propeller plane flew and her fears had subsided—they had changed seats so that Imelda could see the stunning scenery as they flew east over Scotland. On the other side of the aisle, Brigid was equally absorbed in the views below them. Keelin and Marie-Claire smiled at each other like two co-conspirators.
Less than half an hour later, they were sitting in an extremely comfortable hired Peugeot SUV, cases stowed in the boot, and Marie-Claire was setting the route they were taking into the satnav. “Right, Rosslyn Chapel, here we come!” she exclaimed gaily, and a ripple of excitement spread through the car.
“I’ve longed to go to back to Rosslyn for so long!” Keelin exclaimed from the back seat, where she was sitting with her mother.
“But it’s not a Catholic church anymore, is it?” Imelda said doubtfully. To tell the truth, she was a little fearful of stepping into the strange church that Keelin and Marie-Claire spoke about so reverently. The stuff they believed in was difficult to credit—it was the one thing she and Brigid agreed upon—but a small part of her, the adventurous and to-hell-with-it part that she’d only lately discovered in herself, was eager for new adventures. Would she feel vortexes and ley lines and see beyond to another dimension, like she’d read about in one of Keelin’s books? Apparently, Rosslyn was no ordinary chapel.
“It’s not Catholic now, Mam. It originated as a Catholic church in the mid-fifteenth century, but after the Scottish Reformation, Roman Catholic worship was ended and the chapel was closed to the public until it was reopened as a Scottish Episcopal church. Anglicans,” she explained. “It remains privately owned still.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, if it started out Catholic, it still is,” Imelda declared.
“And what’s your esoteric view of it, Keelin?” Brigid, who had hopped into the front without being asked, turned back to look at her niece.
“Some things are only visible to those that have eyes to see. You know the way I work with the tuning forks with the Solfeggio Frequencies that I use in my healing sessions? Rosslyn Chapel is located on top of a vortex and a specific crossing of ley lines, which in my opinion makes it a gigantic frequency generator. I think this place was created to preserve an ancient library of information. When the Masons—as in the Freemasons, guardians of esoteric knowledge—found themselves called in to this magical location, they took advantage of the opportunity and created a virtual library, hidden in plain view. The Solfeggio Frequencies, the semitones, are embedded in the cube sequence on the ceiling—”
“They’re the frequencies Frankie and his business partner are working on in LA,” Marie-Claire interjected. “So we’re going to find out more about them in Rosslyn? Wooo-hooo!”
“Indeed we are,” Keelin said happily. “When Pope Gregory forbade the use of these healing frequencies, sometime between AD 590 and 604, it became known as the ‘Devil’s Chord.’ Because of the Pope’s ban, the knowledge went underground, and the Mystery Schools, or Schools of Initiation, kept the information flowing.”
“The Church keeping knowledge from us, yet again?” Brigid said crossly.
“Exactly.” Keelin nodded, as they emerged onto the motorway. “The translated meanings of the frequencies were found in the original Greek Apocrypha, which made up the earliest books in the Christian Bible, but they were left out of most subsequent translations following the First Council of Nicaea in 325 AD—”
“To think that a council of around three hundred men determined the nature of Christ. Man or deity? And they decided what was to go into the Bible. It’s simply outrageous!” Brigid exclaimed. “I believed all I was taught and wasted a lifetime obeying rules and regulations that were man-made, hiding the true nature of who we are. It grieves me. It was brainwashing, that’s what it was. Mark Twain was right: ‘The truth is not hard to kill, and a lie well told is immortal.’ ”
“Oh, that’s a good one, Mère,” Keelin approved. “I never heard that one before.”
“I’m very partial to Mark Twain. He was a wise man and he had a great sense of humour. According to him, ‘Cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education,’ ” Brigid quoted, laughing.
Even Imelda chuckled at that.
“Well, here you are, on a journey of discovery. It’s never too late, Mère.” Keelin laughed.
“I’m going in with an open mind, Keelin. I’m ready for revelations,” the elderly nun said briskly.
“So are those frequency things the same as those fork things you twang on me?” Imelda queried. She was somewhat aghast at her sister’s pronouncement. After all, Brigid had been a Reverend Mother for many years. It was shocking to hear her denounce the Church so vehemently.
“Yes, Mam, they’re my tuning forks. You always tell me you feel good after a session with me.” Keelin smiled at her mother’s description.
“Well, they do make me feel relaxed,” admitted Imelda.
“That’s the vibration. Everything has a vibration… you’ve heard of good and bad vibes. Remember Brian Wilson’s song?” She hummed the tune of “Good Vibrations.”
“It’s very strange to me that you were raised a Catholic, became a nun, and you ended up believing all this—” She nearly said gobbledygook but stopped herself in time. “This, er… weird stuff.” Imelda couldn’t get her head around all she’d heard.
“ ‘Ask and the door will be opened unto you. Seek and you shall find,’ ” Keelin deftly quoted the Bible at her mother. “I searched and I found different answers, precisely because I questioned and asked and I followed the leads I was given, just as you are now, even if you are a doubting Thomas,” Keelin teased, and they laughed, enjoying the unexpected camaraderie their trip was engendering.
“At Gowkley Moss Roundabout, take the first exit onto Penicuik Road/B Seven Oh Oh Three,” the calm, cultured voice from the satnav instructed.
“Isn’t technology incredible, all the same?” Brigid said in awe as Marie-Claire followed the instructions and turned right, before announcing triumphantly and with a sense of relief, “Here we are!”
They were glad to stretch and unwind and feel the gentle breeze drifting down from the Pentland Hills. The sun was warm on their faces as they walked towards the impressive glass and stone visitor centre, glimpsing the massive Gothic, honey-coloured stone pinnacles and flying buttresses of the ancient chapel through the leafy trees to their right.
“Isn’t that beautiful stonework?” Imelda admired the wall that enclosed the chapel and led towards the entrance.
“I’m so delighted to be back again!” Keelin exclaimed, her head swivelling from right to left, taking it all in. “Could we please go into the chapel first and then we can meander around the visitor centre and maybe have a cup of coffee and a sandwich afterwards?”
“It’s your trip; you’re in charge
, Maman,” Marie-Claire declared, following Keelin, who had entered the centre and turned right to make her way to the grounds of the sacred place she’d longed to return to for so long.
“Oh my!” Brigid stared at the imposing edifice in front of them. “It’s quite impressive, and most unusual. I love the colour of the stonework; it makes it warm, not like some of those big Gothic cathedrals that are cold and sterile.”
“I don’t much fancy the look of that fella. Is he the devil?” Imelda pointed dubiously to a massive grinning gargoyle. “And I don’t like them pair, either.…” She pointed to two smaller ones on either side of the big wooden door that led into the north entrance. “Are you sure this is a holy place, and not one of those places that have strange goings-on?”
“Gargoyles are very common in medieval buildings—they were sometimes used as a form of protection, frightening away evil spirits. Actually, they’re water spouts designed to let water flow away from buildings, a bit like gutters. And don’t forget this was once a consecrated Catholic church, although it’s now Anglican, so you’ll be quite safe, Mam,” Keelin explained patiently, reminding herself how new esoteric thinking was to her mother.
“Oh well, if you say so.” Imelda gave a wary side eye to the grotesque figure beside the door.
“Wow!” Marie-Claire enthused, walking into the chapel. “Where do you begin to start exploring?”
The sun’s rays slanted in through the magnificent stained-glass windows, throwing beams of light along the nave, where the visitors exclaimed at each new discovery.
“Look, Auntie Brigid, the Apprentice Pillar with the strands of DNA I was telling you about! You know the double helix? This was carved in the fifteenth century, and guess what? Dolly the cloned sheep was cloned at the Roslin Institute down the road. Now don’t tell me that’s a coincidence!” Keelin’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, enthralled.
“Good heavens, it’s amazing!” Brigid felt a strange sense of excitement stir in her.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 31