“Oh, no.” Keelin couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Will we get there today at all?”
“Ye may. If the wind dies down. We can have four seasons in one day here on Mull. Dinna give up hope,” the landlady replied with a laugh, being well used to the vagaries of island weather.
“Well, that puts a damper on things. Excuse the pun,” Brigid sighed, unable to contain her disappointment.
Imelda lifted her head from the menu and laughed. “Daddy used to say that, didn’t he? Or he’d say, ‘Well, what do you want me to do about it? Burst into tears and wear a black tie?’ ”
“Yeah, that always made me laugh.” Brigid smiled at the memory of her father’s teasing. “There’s not much point in us driving around in that weather. What will we do?” She looked at her companions.
“Och, we won’t throw ye out—relax, read, play cards, hopefully by lunchtime the ferry will be sailing again,” the landlady said reassuringly.
“I’ll have the fry with a hard egg,” Imelda got down to the business of eating. They could work out a plan after breakfast.
“The scrambled eggs and salmon for me,” Keelin said.
“Me too.” Marie-Claire handed back the menu.
Imelda looked enquiringly at Brigid.
“A slice of bacon and a sausage, and some toast, please,” Brigid said. Imelda was right. She was retired, she might as well enjoy it, and besides, she hadn’t gone the whole hog and had the large fry—she was doing well with the puns today, she thought ruefully.
“I’ve googled the distance to Dervaig where the stained-glass window of the pregnant Magdalene and Jesus is. It’s fifty-eight miles, so if we went there this morning and came back again that’s a round trip of over a hundred miles. And, if the ferry is sailing, and we get to Iona, then we’d have to drive back another fifty miles to Tobermory, where we’re booked in for tonight. We’d be doubling back on ourselves and spending more time in the car than seeing what we came to see.” Marie-Claire lifted her head up from her iPhone, where she’d been checking out their options.
“Stay calm.” Keelin lifted the big teapot and began pouring the tea. “I have every faith in Mary Magdalene. She will get us to where we are meant to be today. How hard do we want to do this seems to be the way she’s taking us. We have to surrender to the pilgrimage and whatever perceived blockages and trials beset us.”
“That’s all very well,” replied her mother, who—at times like this, when the brakes were put on something she wanted to do, found Keelin’s mumbo jumbo, as she sometimes privately termed it, hard to take—“but we only have a day here. And we fly home the day after tomorrow.”
“I feel that we have to do nothing,” Keelin reiterated. “So let’s have our breakfast and enjoy it and see where the day takes us. It must be the sea air, but I’m hungry again.” She grinned, putting down the teapot and slathering a slice of crusty homemade bread with butter.
“Were you ever any other way? You were a gannet when you were a child,” Imelda said with surprising fondness.
“And, tragically, I’ve taken after her,” Marie-Claire joked, tucking into orange juice and a dish of muesli and yogurt before her scrambled eggs and salmon came.
* * *
“Oh for goodness’ sake!” Imelda exclaimed irately, throwing her cards on the table when Brigid knocked, for the third time in as many games, to announce she’d won the round.
“I can’t help it if I’m good,” Brigid said smugly. She was enjoying herself immensely. Imagine playing cards in the middle of a morning with no convent bells ringing to call her to prayers, or whatever duties she’d to turn her attention to. It was almost decadent.
“Ah, you were always the same, winning at everything,” Imelda said grumpily. She was not a good loser.
“It’s only a game. Mère is having a run of luck; calm down, Mam,” Keelin said, gathering the cards together to shuffle them.
“Oh, typical of you—take her side as always,” Imelda snapped.
“Mother, that’s not fair. Don’t start,” Keelin retorted.
“I’ll start whatever I want, miss,” Imelda shot back, irritated at being told off. “You take her side, same as Mother and Daddy always did, and let me tell you, it hurts sometimes.”
“Imelda, you’re exaggerating,” Brigid said crossly. “Mother and Daddy didn’t treat me any different than you. That’s being childish.”
“Are you serious?” Imelda scoffed. “Everybody treated you differently. You were Granny’s little pet, always going over to her and sucking up to her to get money for sweets—”
“I liked going over to Granny’s to listen to her stories,” Brigid said hotly.
“Ah yeah,” jeered Imelda. “Tell that to the marines.”
“Our granny had a very interesting life, if you’d bothered to spend time with her and listen to her talk about the times she grew up in, Imelda. But no! Not you! You were too busy going around feeling sorry for yourself to take notice of anyone else,” Brigid retorted.
“You’re right, I did feel sorry for myself, because I had to do everything while you swanned over to Granny’s, to hear all about her”—she paused and glared at her sister— “ ‘interesting life.’ ”
“Excuse me,” Brigid interrupted. “I did housework in Granny’s. I cleaned and polished, and helped her make her bed, and churn butter, and bake bread and scones. Otherwise, Mother would have had to do it. So stop your nonsense.”
“Ah, really, let’s not row. We were doing so well. We’re meant to be getting over the last one, and enjoying a mini-break,” Keelin said wearily.
“Oh, am I not entitled to say anything—”
“Stop it, Mam. You’re always the same. Every time I come home I get the ‘poor me’ litany.”
“Is that so? Well, you did nothing to make my life easier, Keelin. Just remember that,” Imelda shot back.
“And you’ll never let me forget it, will you? Until the day I die, you’ll hold it against me that I got pregnant, left the convent, and married Armand.”
“You should never have joined it in the first place. That was all because of her. She took you from me.”
“You made that accusation at my party, Imelda, the night you made a holy show of yourself, and I didn’t challenge you as vigorously as I should have. Because I wanted to. Unlike you, I wouldn’t embarrass either you or my guests. But I will rebut it now. I did no such thing,” Brigid said furiously, wrath staining her cheeks red.
“Yes you did, Brigid! You took her to become a nun, and then, when she had Marie-Claire, you inveigled your way into her affections and made her prefer you to me. You took my own granddaughter from me. She always wanted to stay down there with you instead of in Glencarraig with me,” Imelda shouted.
“That was your own fault, Mother.” Keelin stood up in fury. “You wouldn’t let me come home when I was pregnant and when she was a baby. You were too ashamed of me. Where else was I to go? The Order more or less disowned me. They would have put me in a home and taken my baby from me for adoption—that was their plan. Mère fought for me to stay in the Four Winds. She took me in and saw me through my pregnancy, and then she made sure my baby was looked after. Don’t you dare berate her for that or tell lies of omission. I won’t stand for it.”
“Maman, Granny, Mère, please! Stop fighting,” Marie-Claire begged.
“But you have abandoned me for her.” Imelda turned on her. “You do your duty visit and then you go and spend all your time at the Four Winds. You don’t bring me shopping for clothes, do you?” she snapped waspishly.
“Listen to yourself, Granny. Did you ever think that it’s your own behaviour that drives people away from you? You can’t see anything beyond your jealousy. Maman—”
“Maman and Mère,” Imelda mimicked. “You’re Irish, for God’s sake, not French. And you’re all such saints, aren’t ye? And I’m the black sheep. The sinner. Not for me the ‘Calling.’ I’m the poor old servant like Martha in the Bible, doing all the
work while Mary swanned around with her jar of expensive oil, taking the easy way out. Some of us have to do the dirty work. Why I came on this daft journey with all of you, knowing you dislike me so much, I’ll never know.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she stood to leave, mortified that they would see her crying.
“I had no ‘Calling,’ as you put it, Imelda,” Brigid said quietly. “You were right about that from the beginning. I went into the convent to atone for my sins—especially the sin against chastity—and not because I was called by God. I went in to get to Africa. To escape Ardcloch. It was the greatest mistake of my life.”
Silence fell like the unexpected snowflakes that drifted down from the leaden skies outside.
Keelin stood up and put her arms around her mother. “Sit down, Mam. This is all happening for a reason. Now I know why we weren’t meant to go to Iona this morning. All this had to finally be cleared between us, before we can carry on.”
“I’m sure Mary Magdalene won’t want me in Iona after what I just said about her,” Imelda muttered shakily, but she didn’t resist her daughter’s embrace, feeling the need for comfort.
“Why don’t I make us a pot of tea and I’ll get the chocolate Goldgrain I have stashed in my bag.” Marie-Claire jumped up and put on the kettle that the landlady had left filled for them, before going across the hall to her ground-floor bedroom.
“Can you talk to us about why you entered, Mère?” Keelin reached out and touched her aunt’s shoulder.
“I’d like to.” Brigid nodded. “I’d like Imelda to know why I’ve lived a lie all these years.”
“It’s all right, Brigid; you don’t have to if you don’t want to. And I’m sorry for the things I’ve said,” Imelda said gruffly.
“I’m sorry, too, Imelda, and I have to thank you.…”
“For what?” Her sister sniffed and wiped her eyes.
“Because you’ve made me face up to and acknowledge the fact that entering was the wrong thing to do—and that’s not easy to deal with sixty-four years or so later.”
The kettle whistled and Keelin busied herself making the tea. This day was not turning out the way she’d imagined, but at last the boil of bitter resentments was being lanced. No wonder they had not been allowed to visit Iona. Keelin knew without a doubt that setting foot on the island would be the most healing thing to ever happen to their family. After all these years, it seemed the peace of Mary Magdalene’s dove was coming upon them. Imelda had been the catalyst. She’d played her part in all their healing.
Marie-Claire came back and shucked the chocolate biscuits onto a plate while her mother poured the tea. She kissed her grandmother and great-aunt. “We’re family, that’s all that matters, and we’re together.”
Brigid took a sip of her tea and tried to stop her hands from trembling.
“Have a biscuit,” Imelda offered, handing her the plate. “You had half a fry for breakfast, you might as well go mad and have a chocolate goody while you’re at it—break all the rules.” She gave her sister a tremulous smile.
“Ah sure, maybe I will for the day that’s in it.” Brigid smiled back and in that moment felt a peace unlike any other settle around her. Whatever their differences, she and Imelda would go back to Ireland with a strengthened bond. Her sister, in a strange way, had freed her from the ties of the sixty-four years of religious life. That was a gift that could not be ignored.
“You know, Imelda, I envied you so much,” Brigid confessed, wiping a crumb from her lips.
“Me! You envied me?” Imelda squawked in astonishment.
“You had everything I ever wanted. A husband. Children. A home of your own. For years all I had was a lonely cell and a bed with a hard mattress and a burden of guilt that I wasn’t a real nun like I should have been, that I was in the convent under false pretences—”
“Because you had sex with Johnny Larkin—” Imelda interrupted.
“Yes… although, in my own defence, I did tell him no. Nowadays they would say consent wasn’t given. Perhaps I didn’t fight hard enough. I did try and push him away, but he was very strong, and then it was all very rushed. Over almost before I knew it. So the loss of my virginity was not the way I expected it would be. Not like the movies, for sure,” she said wryly. “I know it’s all very different for you, Marie-Claire. You young women embrace your sexuality. There’s no shame involved like there was when we were young.”
“Thankfully no, I was lucky never to feel shame about having sex, and my first time was enjoyable because I was with a boy who was gentle and anxious for it to be good for me, and I wasn’t afraid of getting pregnant because my parents were sensible and gave me a good sex education.” She flashed a grateful smile at Keelin. “I could talk to them about anything. But, having said that, for me the best sex was when I felt loved.”
“Was?” Imelda noticed the use of the past tense and pounced. “What about that fella you’re going with? I thought that was going places.”
“So did I,” Marie-Claire said lightly. “But it’s over. I didn’t say anything to you because of what was going on.”
“And did you end it or did he end it?” Imelda probed.
“I did. I… er… I discovered he was cheating on me.” To Marie-Claire’s dismay a lump rose to her throat and tears blurred her eyes. Marc had sent her a text the previous night pleading with her to contact him. She’d texted back saying that she was mostly out of coverage in the wilds of Scotland and she’d phone him when she got home. She’d spent the night listening to her mother’s gentle breathing, in the other bed, while trying to suppress her sobs of grief and loneliness.
“Ah, the… the… bastard,” Imelda cursed, something she rarely did unless greatly provoked. “He’s not worthy of you, Marie-Claire. Don’t waste your tears on him, the sly weasel,” she counselled, standing up to go and put her arms around her granddaughter in an uncharacteristic display of grandmotherly solidarity—much to Keelin’s surprise. Imelda was not given to overly affectionate behaviour.
“Thanks, Granny, I… It was a shock; I thought we were going to make it as a couple. I saw me having a future with him, children… a home, working the business together.” Marie-Claire broke into fresh sobs and Imelda’s mouth tightened into a grim line and she wished she could have five minutes with the cheater who had made her grandchild weep such bitter tears.
“What’s for you won’t pass you by,” she murmured, stroking Marie-Claire’s thick auburn hair as Keelin handed her daughter a tissue.
“I’m sorry I was so unforgivably rude earlier, Granny. I shouldn’t have said those things,” Marie-Claire said, shamefaced, breaking away from her grandmother’s embrace to look up at her.
“Maybe I needed it said, child. I’ve become a bitter old woman and I was a bitter young woman, too, because I thought everyone else had a better life than me. And how wrong I was,” Imelda said sheepishly. “I wasted my life feeling sorry for myself. Don’t go down that path because of that Canadian fella. Don’t hold on to the bitterness, and end up like me, a foolish old woman with a lot of regrets.” Her two plump cheeks were pink with emotion. She’d never expressed herself like this before, and it was… what was that word Keelin often used about women… Empowering, yes, that was it; she felt empowered by speaking her heartfelt feelings in a very honest way. Not trying to make others feel bad, or not making herself out to be greater than anyone else. Just saying what felt real and true to her. What an emancipation! What a revelation this morning was proving to be. If only it had happened years ago, Imelda thought regretfully.
“Perhaps his cheating broke a bigger cross for you,” Brigid said reflectively, unaware that her sister was having a life-changing epiphany. “If it had happened when you were married and had children, and he cheated then, it would be much more difficult to deal with. Now you can make a complete break with no ties.” Brigid’s blue eyes, undimmed by the passing of the years, focused laser-like on her great-niece. And as always, Marie-Claire admired their beauty and especially th
e tiny flecks of gold in the irises that sometimes caught the sun’s light.
“I know you’re right, and I know, as Maman always says, ‘things happen for a reason,’ ” she sighed. “But it’s bloody hard starting over again in my thirties, I’m at a crossroads and I don’t know what road to take, and it all happened so unexpectedly, I’m still trying to adjust.” She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes, trying hard to compose herself. She was shocked at how upset she’d become. She’d thought she was over the worst of it.
“At least you’re young enough to have plenty of enjoyable sex—not like us ould wans,” Brigid teased, trying to ease Marie-Claire’s pain. The others laughed. “If Mother General could hear me! If my Sisters could hear me, they’d think I’ve lost my mind. Me, the one who was so starchy and prim and proper in the convent. Me, living a lie all my life and suppressing every emotion, every surge of longing that flooded my body. I was very happy in Africa. I should have left the convent and gone back there as a layperson,” Brigid sighed. “But I didn’t have the courage to stand on my own two feet. At least you’re living, Marie-Claire, even if right now your heart is in flitters—and I know the pain of that. But you’re not running away from life like I did,” she added forcefully.
Imelda looked at her sister quizzically. “I never thought of you like that. A young woman with needs and desires and emotions. Once you put the veil on I thought of you as… Don’t laugh.” She eyed her sister with a glint of affection. “I thought of you as holy.”
“Holy! Me? I was far from holy,” Brigid snorted, amused at the notion. “I battled myself night and day to conquer my real self. When I wasn’t envying you, that was.”
“I don’t know what you were envying me for. My life was a life of… of… disappointment,” Imelda confided ruefully. “My first time wasn’t great, either. I was petrified. I was afraid it would hurt, and it did. I didn’t know anything about foreplay and lubricants. I cared greatly for Larry. He was a good man, but I wasn’t in love with him—I’m sorry to say that to you, Keelin.” She turned to her daughter. “He was my opportunity to get away from home and working the farm and looking after Granny, seeing as you were gone, Brigid. I wanted a home of my own and that was the reason I married your father, Keelin. There was no great coup de foudre for me.”
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 33