“There’s the Devil’s Chord, the seven semitones the Church banned from being played, that I was telling you about. Remember the frequencies, hidden in plain sight.” Keelin pointed to a set of decorated cubes in the magnificent arched ceiling. They all gazed upwards and Marie-Claire felt a jolt. This is why I’m here! she thought in amazement, remembering the message on her Magdalene card.
“You could spend a lifetime here, and never get to the bottom of it. There’s so much to discover. Let’s join the group over there and hear what the guide has to say,” Keelin suggested, delighted that the others were becoming as keen to explore the mysteries of the magnificent medieval church that she loved.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“I’ll drive to Fionnphort, seeing as you drove all the way from Edinburgh,” Keelin offered, as Marie-Claire stood yawning on the deck of the ferry that was to take them across to Craignure on Mull.
“I don’t mind driving; it’s a terrific car to drive. So comfortable.”
“It’s extremely comfortable to sit in as a passenger,” Imelda interjected, leaning on the rail, enjoying the sound of the ship’s horn wailing above her head as the ropes were cast off and the ferry began to glide across the molten waters of the Sound of Kerrera. The breeze had dropped and the sea was flat calm, much to her great relief. “The next time I’m changing my car, I might go for the Peugeot,” she added. “Could I have a little spin in her, somewhere quiet, to see what she drives like? I’ve never driven an automatic,” she asked Marie-Claire.
“Of course you can—and you too, Mère, if you like. It’s so easy once you get used to it,” Marie-Claire said agreeably.
“Thank you, dear. I might do that.” Brigid smiled, gazing at the panorama before her. The throb of the ship’s engines reminded her of the many times she’d travelled on boats upriver in Senegal, en route to outlying villages to minister to children. It seemed a lifetime ago. A dream almost, she thought sadly, remembering how young and vigorous she’d been then, and happy to be with her beloved African children, giving them the love she’d never been able to give her own, lost baby. Don’t think about it. She buried the memories with difficulty, and said, “Isn’t that’s a stunning sunset?”, admiring the streamers of red, gold, and pink that tinted the western horizon. The faint lights in the houses on Mull began to get brighter as dusk deepened and the mountains darkened, etched against the twilight sky.
“Absolutely beautiful!” agreed Marie-Claire, snapping away on her iPad and turning the camera towards her companions to take their photo.
* * *
“It’s a long time since we shared a room,” Imelda remarked, studying their surroundings with pursed lips. The landlady of the B&B they were staying in had shown them to the spacious bedroom with en suite, which would be theirs for the night. There was a single and double bed and Imelda didn’t fancy sleeping in the narrow confines of the smaller bed. She was exhausted after the early start and all the travelling. And she was hungry.
“Indeed it has, Imelda. A long time, too, since I shared a dormitory with my fellow Sisters. I suppose we’re lucky we’re not sharing a bed like we did in the old days.” Brigid took off her coat and scarf and hung them neatly in the wardrobe.
“You’re skinnier than I am; will the single bed do you?” Imelda ventured.
“I’d sleep on a rock, I’m so tired,” Brigid said tartly, annoyed at her sister’s selfishness. Typical Imelda. Always thinking of herself first. Little fat selfish lump, she thought viciously. Their short entente cordiale was wearing thin. It had begun to erode when Imelda had taken the front seat of the car for the long trip from Craignure to Fionnphort with a pointed “My turn to sit in the front, but I won’t hog the front seat for the entire trip.” It was directed at her, and Brigid had felt a blaze of indignation, and had had to bite her tongue to smother the retort that came instantly to her lips: You wouldn’t have been on this trip if it weren’t for me, you crabby old biddy.
One would surely think that after her dreadful behaviour at the party Imelda would be bending over backwards to make amends. But no. Me, me, me to the fore as usual. The way she is carrying on, you’d think Imelda was the one hard done by.
“It was considerate and thoughtful of the girls to put us first, and give us the bigger room. They’re most unselfish,” Brigid remarked.
“I should hope so; they were always traits I encouraged in my daughter and granddaughter when they were growing up,” Imelda declared, taking ownership of the locker beside the double bed, placing her clock, tablet container, and book beside the lamp.
Pity you didn’t practise them yourself, Brigid thought crossly, as she unpacked her nightgown and slippers. It would have been an unaccustomed luxury to spread herself out in the comfort of a double bed. Her beds in the convent and the Four Winds were single divans. Sleeping in the double bed in the hotel the previous night had been a real treat.
She felt grumpy and resentful, the high of Rosslyn wearing off at the prospect of spending a night in such close proximity with her sister. It had been Imelda’s choice to share a room on the trip to Mull. She should have drawn her boundary and said she wanted a room of her own. It was her own fault, Brigid acknowledged, and that made her even more vexed. She glanced out the window, trying to ignore her irritation. A scatter of twinkling house and streetlights dotted the darkness outside, and the hint of dim shadow in the distance, where Iona lay, made Brigid wish for morning’s reveal as she drew the curtains on the window that was at the front of the house, while Imelda did the same to the window facing the ferry jetty.
Keelin’s knock on the door brought Brigid back to earth.
“Are you ready for dinner?” her niece called.
Brigid, being nearest the door, opened it to allow Keelin to enter.
“Just unpacking, dear.” She smiled at her beloved niece and her heart lifted. How Imelda and Keelin could be mother and daughter was a mystery to her. They were chalk and cheese. Keelin had inherited her father’s gentle traits, for sure.
“Oh my goodness, the aromas that are floating up the stairs are to die for. I’m ravenous,” Keelin groaned. “Isn’t it a stroke of luck that our host is a real chef?”
“I’m famished myself,” Imelda declared, running a hairbrush through her hair and touching up her lipstick.
How Imelda could be famished was a mystery to Brigid. Her sister had scoffed her way through sweets and chocolate bars for the entire car and ferry journey.
Are you hungry, Mère?” Keelin smiled at her.
“I’ll certainly enjoy my dinner, Keelin; I haven’t eaten since lunch, apart from the Danish on the ferry.” She refrained from saying, unlike some people. “Eating between meals is not our way in the convent, so I’m used to it.”
Imelda’s flaring nostrils let her know that her barb had hit home and that gave her a good dollop of satisfaction before guilt got the better of her, and Brigid mentally chastised herself for her childish, unchristian mean-spiritedness.
She and Imelda had been united in their interest and curiosity about Rosslyn, and that had made the experience all the better. She should try to rise above her lower self and see the good in her sibling. That was part of the journey of life: seeing the good rather than the bad, Brigid reminded herself, switching off the bedroom light and following her family down to the large conservatory where dinner was about to be served.
* * *
“Well, we survived our first day.” Keelin grinned, clinking her glass of gin with Marie-Claire’s.
They were sitting on the sides of their beds, in their pyjamas, having a private drinks party with the Hendrick’s Marie-Claire had bought for that very purpose in the Duty-Free.
“They were grand during the flight and when we got to Rosslyn, but I sensed an edge sliding in soon as we got off the ferry. And over dinner there was a lot of shade in some of the tit-for-tat comments.” Marie-Claire took a slug of her gin.
“I know. One was as bad as the other. Brigid’s restraint didn’
t last very long. She’s giving as good as she gets. This is the first time they’ve been in such close quarters since they were teens. And a lot of water has flowed under that bridge.”
“I still think we were right to invite Granny. I think it was meant to be.” Marie-Claire yawned widely. The sea air was so rich and pure, she knew she’d sleep like a log.
“Me too. It’ll be a rocky road, but healing will come on this journey.” Keelin tried to stay positive. Privately she was wishing she’d come on her own; this was a journey she’d wanted to undertake for such a long time. Her mother was being her usual spiky self, and Brigid’s responses were a master class in passive-aggressive behaviour, unlike her earlier restrained impassiveness. Clearly, being in close confines with her sibling was peeling off the façade of polite non-engagement.
That was what this trip was all about, though, she conceded. Stripping away the layers and getting to the kernel of disaffection and resentment between them. Identical too to what was going on with herself and Imelda. The day of reckoning had come and issues had to be faced, no matter what the outcome. Family dynamics weren’t easy at the best of times.
“It’s too late to turn back now, Marie-Claire; we’re stuck on an island, at the mercy of the weather. Do you hear the wind getting up? And heavy rain is forecast, unfortunately. God works in strange ways, for sure. It will all be OK, though; I truly feel it.” She spoke with more confidence than she felt.
Marie-Claire laughed. “Maman, all I can say is, as I’ve said before, thank God for gin… and your optimism. Sláinte,” she added, raising her glass.
“To family,” Keelin responded comically, and they laughed heartily.
* * *
“Oh excuse me,” Imelda burped. She put her hand to her mouth as another unladylike belch threatened. She was sitting against the pillows in her double bed, a few rollers tucked under her hairnet, ready to settle down for the night. Brigid was reading her missal in the adjacent single bed.
“Indigestion?” She arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Well, you did eat rather a lot at dinner. At our age, second helpings aren’t good for us.”
Imelda’s mouth tightened into a thin line and her eyes narrowed to slits of annoyance. “I’m not used to eating late at night, and neither am I used to people watching and commenting on what I eat. The height of bad manners, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I was merely making an observation, Imelda. I was a nurse once. I have medical experience, and I know that overfilling the stomach late at night causes flatulence and discomfort. I’m merely thinking of your comfort, dear. Sleep well,” Brigid returned sweetly.
“You don’t have to worry about my comfort, dear. And I sleep very well, thank you. There’s no pillow so soft as a clear conscience, as the old saying goes. Good night,” Imelda retorted bitchily, switching off her light.
Cow, thought Brigid, in a most un-nun-like manner. What a spiteful response. A real dig at her. She racked her brains for a pithy comeback: “I rather like what James has to say in the Bible: ‘God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ ”
She heard her sister’s sharp intake of breath and smiled. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, madam, she thought, snapping off her light, hoping against hope that she would fall asleep quickly and wondering had she lost her senses entirely to take this journey with her extremely annoying and acerbic sibling.
Chapter Fifty
The sound of a shower running woke Imelda and she lay in her warm bed, wondering where she was. This wasn’t her bed, or her room. She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes from sleep. A faint ray of light splashed through a chink in the curtains on the window opposite her bed, and she remembered she was sharing a room with Brigid and they were on the Isle of Mull, in Scotland.
Thanks to the half sleeping tablet she’d taken, she’d conked out. Had her sister fared as well? she wondered. There was nothing worse than lying in the dark listening to someone else snoring and being unable to sleep.
Brigid’s bed was already neatly made and her case packed for their departure. She’d obviously taken care to be very quiet, because Imelda had not stirred from her sleep. Brigid had become extremely disciplined and immaculately tidy, Imelda acknowledged, remembering how untidy she’d been when they shared a room at home. And she had made an effort not to wake her. She would try hard to be nice today, Imelda decided. She’d been a bit spiteful in her comments last night.
Out of the blue, Imelda remembered what the message on her Magdalene card had been and her jaw dropped. Was it really a message from beyond the veil or just some random choice of card that she’d selected? It certainly was most pertinent to her behaviour towards her sister, she thought uncomfortably.
“No! It’s all nonsense,” she muttered, shaking her head. But was it? Keelin had such faith in these things, and when Imelda had been in Rosslyn Chapel she had to admit she’d felt different. From the moment she’d walked in through the big church doors she’d felt a… a… great welcome, and a sense of tranquillity. A feeling that someone had said, Well done. You’re here. Was it her imagination, or was there more to it all? Was Mary Magdalene guiding this trip, as Keelin so firmly believed?
Imelda threw back the duvet and went across to the window, pulling open the curtains to reveal a rain-spattered window and a gloomy vista ahead. The roiling sea was as grey as the sky. In the distance she could see a shadowed Iona melting into the gloom. She could hardly make out the small village shrouded in mist behind the ferry port across the water, where lights had glimmered so brightly the previous night. She hoped she wouldn’t feel sick on the journey across. She’d done well on the ferry from Oban the previous evening, but the sea had only rippled gently across the Sound of Kerrera, on the short trip from the mainland to Craignure.
Imelda turned her back on the dismal view and went and rooted in her case for a clean pair of knickers and vest. Keelin had advised her to pack layers of clothes to wear on their jaunt to the windswept isle.
“Good morning, Imelda.” Brigid emerged from the bathroom, already dressed, with her winceyette nightdress folded over her arm. She was wearing a pair of black tailored woollen trousers, a mauve roll-neck jumper, and a pair of sturdy brogues. Imelda couldn’t hide her shock. She’d never seen her sibling wearing trousers.
Brigid noted her surprise. “Keelin said I should wear trousers. I do feel rather strange wearing them,” she explained, a tad defensively.
“It’s so unusual to see you out of your habit.” Imelda stood with her own clothes over her arm, studying her. “It takes a bit of getting used to.”
“You can say that again,” Brigid said drily, packing her nightdress neatly in her case. “It’s taken a while for me to get used to. My head is fierce cold without the veil sometimes, and… well… it’s strange seeing my… er… figure. The habit hides a lot.”
“You have a neat figure,” Imelda conceded, and, noting the seeming thaw in relations, added magnanimously, “I could do with less second helpings, I suppose.” She made a face and patted her portly tummy.
“I’m a skinnymalinks and always was,” Brigid said ruefully, noting her sharp, angular hips in the mirror. “I have Mother’s genes and you have Daddy’s.”
“You could be right,” Imelda agreed. “Was the water hot?”
“It was grand. I opened the window in there to let out the steam; you might want to close it. There’s a howling gale blowing. You hear it at the back of the house, not this side. We’ll be bouncing around on the ferry.”
“Hmm, it’s a pretty miserable day out there, unfortunately. What a shame. It was so nice and summery yesterday. You can hardly see Iona.” Imelda pointed to the view from her window.
Brigid walked over, glanced out, and sighed. “ ‘Blessed are those whose strength is in you; who have set their hearts on a pilgrimage.’ I can’t remember who said that. We can’t let the rain stop our trip, now that we’re here. We’d better eat a good breakfast to keep our strength up.”
&nb
sp; Imelda tittered. “That’s my kind of talk. I hope they offer us a fry.”
“We only have a fry every second Sunday. It will be brown bread and marmalade as usual, for me,” Brigid said briskly.
“Ah for goodness’ sake, you’re retired now, Brigid. You’re on holidays. Have a fry if you want it. You deserve it!” Imelda exclaimed, thinking how awful it was that the meals one ate were dictated in the convent. She would never have lasted in a nunnery. She’d never be able to hold her tongue if she was getting chastised, and she loved her grub too much. She had a fry at least once a week and a bacon butty for lunch whenever she felt like it.
“I bet all those overweight cardinals in Rome tuck into fine food and drink. Mrs. Reilly in the Post Office told me, back in the eighties, that her sister’s young lad was doing electrical work in the Bishop’s Palace in Dublin, and he said the black sacks were filled with empty wine bottles—unbelievable! And they made that laddo a cardinal, despite him paying off abusers and hiding the fact. It’s all ‘do as I say and not as I do’ with them ould yokes! You eat your fry and enjoy it!” Imelda decreed imperiously, disappearing into the bathroom.
Her sister seemed in good spirits, so Brigid would start afresh this morning, repent her unkind thoughts of the previous evening, and perhaps the trip to Iona—albeit a wet one, judging by the rain-drenched vista outside—would be as happy and exciting as the visit to Rosslyn had been.
* * *
“Och, ye’ll nay be travellin’ to Iona this morning. The ferry’s been cancelled,” their convivial landlady announced matter-of-factly, handing menus to the four women as they sat at the dining table in the bright, airy conservatory, listening to the rain hammering on the glass roof. They were the only guests and had the big oval table to themselves.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 32