“Believe it or not, mine was Little Children,” Brigid said softly. “How appropriate for me that today I told you about my own child. And how lovely for me also that Mary Magdalene acknowledged my work with the African children I was so privileged to serve.” Brigid’s eyes glistened in the firelight.
“Ah, that’s lovely, Mère.” Marie-Claire felt a wave of love for her great-aunt.
“I suppose you want to know what mine was?” Imelda made a face.
“Only if you want to tell us, Mam. We don’t want to invade your privacy,” Keelin said firmly. The visit to Iona and Dervaig had gone so well, she didn’t want anything to spoil their evening.
“I might as well be honest; it was very blunt,” Imelda confessed. “I got a bit of a start, to tell you the truth.”
“Don’t tell us if you don’t want to, Imelda.” Brigid patted her sister on the arm.
“No. I’ll tell you. Today has been all about the truth,” Imelda said stoutly. “It said The Judgement, and what I took from it was not to be making judgements about others anymore, and hope that they wouldn’t make them about me.” She jiggled her Baileys over the ice cubes and took a sip. “I like the taste of this, though—judge that if you want,” she jested in a most uncharacteristic fashion, lightening the mood.
“That could apply to us all, dear,” Brigid said kindly. “All in all, a very successful trip so far. Here’s to new adventures together.” She raised her glass and they all did the same, clinking their glasses together.
Chapter Fifty-Three
“I’m definitely buying one,” Imelda declared, loving the camera screen on the dash as she reversed neatly into a parking bay. “I feel like the queen on her throne.”
“The Queen of Glencarraig,” said a grinning Marie-Claire, who had spent the past twenty minutes instructing her grandmother to keep her left foot on the floor and not to keep trying to change gear. In fairness, both her grandmother and great-aunt had mastered the rudiments very well and been equally impressed with the smooth drive of the car that had taken them over six hundred miles in the past three days. If she could ever afford it, she’d buy a Peugeot 3008 herself, she thought in amusement as the trio walked into the airy foyer of the Premier Inn in Dalkeith, where they were spending their last night in Scotland.
Keelin was in her room Skyping Armand, and the women had all decided to meet up for dinner at six-thirty, giving them time to freshen up and get sorted for the journey home.
Imelda eased her feet out of her shoes, glad to wriggle her toes. They’d walked a lot these past few days, much more than she was used to, and she was impressed at how sprightly Brigid was. She might walk to the shops in future, instead of driving, as she was wont to do, she decided, feeling her waistband tight around her waist. They had eaten very well on their trip. Some pounds would need to be shed.
Had she ever thought that she would be happy to go on holidays with her sister and daughter, and not feel like a misunderstood outsider, with the weight of the world on her shoulders? It was still hard to believe that she’d told her deepest secret to her family.
Keelin had been very upset about Larry, as Imelda knew she would be, and she’d endured a moment of guilt, wondering should she have kept her troubles to herself. But, by telling Keelin, she had cleared a blockage between her and her daughter, and she could only hope that Larry would be pleased for them.
Keelin had such immense knowledge. She’d been far too dismissive of it, Imelda thought guiltily, remembering the Judgement card. She would try to be more open to the woo-woo stuff in future, because it had turned out to be very thought-provoking indeed, Imelda conceded, enjoying the way the evening sun stippled the branches of the trees in light and shade.
Her thoughts turned to Brigid’s revelation that she’d got pregnant by Johnny Larkin. Imelda had been utterly dismayed, not because her sister had got pregnant, but because she’d not felt able to confide in Imelda. Now they knew everything about each other. It was true, blood was thicker than water, and she was glad of it.
* * *
Marie-Claire lay on her bed, studying a selfie she’d taken of the four of them as they sat on a stone wall at the edge of Loch Lomond, cups of tea in hands. Imelda was looking at Brigid, laughing at one of her witty asides; Keelin, hair swept up in a loose knot, sunglasses perched on top of her head, was looking effortlessly chic, the worry lines of the past month softened now that her estrangement with her mother was over.
Marie-Claire was joining in with the laughter, looking carefree as she gazed up into the camera lens, held up high to get them all in, her auburn hair tumbling around her shoulders, her green eyes squinting in the sun, surrounded by the three women she loved most in the world.
A happy photo. One to cherish, Marie-Claire thought with pleasure, logging out of her Facebook page. A thought struck her: she hadn’t given Marc a thought these last few days. There’d been no posting photos to impress him with her allegedly wonderful life. It was time she stopped acting like a teenager, she thought, with a dart of shame at her previous behaviour. A woman in her thirties uploading fake happy posts was so not cool. She’d never do that again.
“Maybe I’m finally over him. I was happy these past few days. Now there’s a welcome revelation, Mary Magdalene!” Marie-Claire murmured, picking up her phone to call Frankie to tell him that it was absolutely imperative that he get his skinny ass over to Rosslyn because she knew in her bones that his frequency work was going to be big! She wasn’t her mother’s daughter for nothing, Marie-Claire thought to herself as her friend and potential new boss answered the phone.
* * *
Keelin stood under the hot jets of the shower, visualizing a glorious white light washing all over her, cleansing every cell and atom of her body. What a day of reconciliation and liberation it had been, but a day of immense sadness, too, when she thought how difficult life had been for both her parents. Her poor dad must have been in turmoil for most of his life. How sad that he’d never known what it was to be his authentic self. And then the tragic end to his affair, learning that the man he truly loved had committed suicide, far away in another country.
Tears slid down her cheeks. How lucky was she that she’d taken her great leap of faith with love. If only Larry had been able to do the same. They had borne their burdens stoically, Larry and Imelda, and Keelin felt a deep sense of gratitude to her mother that she’d stayed with Larry and, in her own awkward way, supported him. It must have been so hard for her to set aside the physical side of their life. If a situation occurred where she could never make love to Armand again, she would be devastated. She wished Armand were right there in the shower with her, making love to her, at this moment.
Their reunion would be delightful. And all the more so because, thanks to the graces of her beloved Mary Magdalene, a healing that she never thought possible had been brought to their family.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she murmured, more at peace with herself than she’d been in a long, long time.
* * *
Brigid sat in the chair beside her bed, watching The Chase. She enjoyed the general knowledge programme. It was even more delightful being in a hotel room all by herself, surfing the TV channels, and looking forward to sleeping in her wide double bed.
She was tired, but pleasantly so. The trip to Scotland was almost at an end. They had packed so much into the three days. She’d bought a stack of books in Rosslyn and Iona and was looking forward immensely to reading them. The gift of retirement was a wonderful thing. She’d never dreamed she would have so much to do. She’d feared her days would drag interminably, but now, after all her years of service, she was finally honouring her own needs and wants and requirements, and not feeling one bit selfish about doing so. It was liberating also to be freed from the narrow confines and the tyranny of Church doctrine.
I’m so glad I too have lived long enough to find my own truth, Brigid thought gratefully, remembering the words of Sister Martha, who had been in the Suez Crisis
and lost her faith in the Church. Most of all, Brigid was relieved that she and Imelda had finally made peace with each other. How sad, after all the wasted years, to think they could have been friends if they had trusted and liked each other enough to confide in each other. There was still time left. They could be the friends in old age that they could not be in their youth, and enrich the years they had left. Imelda had mentioned that she would like to go to Lourdes. Perhaps they could take a trip together and then stay with Keelin for a few days. That would be lovely, Brigid thought. Her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep and dreamed she was on the summit of Canigou looking right across to the sparkling blue Mediterranean.
* * *
“Now I’m not getting into the habit—excuse the pun—of this drinking lark,” Brigid avowed, as Marie-Claire urged another glass of red wine upon her.
“Brigid, that was good… ‘habit’…,” giggled Imelda, who had made no protest to the offer of a top-up.
“It’s the last night of our mini hols; we deserve it,” Keelin assured them. “We’ll all be back to normal next week.” They were sitting in the comfortable dining room of the Premier Inn, having decided to stay put for dinner instead of going back into Edinburgh. The hum of convivial chat and laughter from the other diners added to their own.
“I see the Pope’s coming to visit Ireland,” Keelin remarked. “How well I remember John Paul the Second’s visit in ’79. I’ll never forget walking to Phoenix Park. Hundreds of thousands of people streaming in from everywhere on that gorgeous morning, and the wave of excitement that swept over us when the Aer Lingus jumbo he was on swooped low over the park. It was the last time the Church was in control and people behaved as good, obedient little Catholics should,” she added acerbically.
“It was a great day, all the same. And in Galway, when he said, ‘Young people of Ireland, I love you,’ I actually believed him. And he probably did mean it—but oh, he was such a disappointment in the end,” Brigid said sadly.
“He was,” agreed Imelda. “And he’s a saint now for his trouble. This new fella is dishing out sainthoods to beat the band.”
“Are you going to go and see him, when he comes, Mère?” Marie-Claire asked.
“No, dear. Are you?”
“I think that would be a no, too.” Her great-niece shook her head, smiling.
“Are you going, Mam?” Keelin looked across the table at her mother, who was larruping into the wine.
“As the Dubs say with such expressive vulgarity: I am, in me hoop. And all them bishops and cardinals, who turned their backs on my kind, gentle Larry, can put that in their gold pipes and smoke them.” Imelda tittered at the dumbfounded expression on their faces. The others fell about laughing and Imelda raised her glass, delighted with herself.
Chapter Fifty-Four
“Good morning, dear, I hope I didn’t wake you up,” Marie-Claire heard her grandmother say as she groggily held the phone to her ear.
“It’s time I was up, Granny. I was having a lie-in. It’s been a mad week.” Marie-Claire yawned and glanced at her alarm clock. It was only nine a.m. on a Saturday.
“I’ve been thinking,” her grandmother said, and Marie-Claire waited, intrigued to see what was coming next. Imelda sounded perky enough, so she didn’t think there could be anything wrong.
“And what were you thinking?” She hauled her pillows into a comfortable position and settled back against them.
“I know your strategy is never to tell that yoke in Canada why you dropped him, but if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s what they call passive-aggressive type of behaviour, and you’re better than that,” Imelda declared.
Marie-Claire’s jaw dropped.
“Oh!” she managed. She’d not been expecting this.
“In my opinion—and you may not agree with me—I think you should say it straight to his face,” Imelda carried on, oblivious to her granddaughter’s stupefaction. “End it properly. Or if you really love him, give him another chance and forgive him. An affair can be got over, if the bond is strong enough,” Imelda advised briskly.
“You think I’m being passive-aggressive?” Marie-Claire made a face, trying not to feel insulted.
“I do! And do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an expert at it. And look where it got me—nowhere. It’s wasted energy, as Keelin would say. And you’ll always have that bitterness in you. You don’t want that. That’s my advice to you now. Take it or leave it. Now, I have to go—Brigid and I are meeting up to go to a cousin’s funeral, in Ennis. I’ll talk to you again soon.”
“Oh, OK. Give my love to Auntie Brigid. And thanks for thinking of me, Granny,” Marie-Claire said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry when she hung up.
Passive-aggressive! That was telling her straight, she thought glumly. And the annoying thing was that Imelda was right. Even though Marie-Claire wasn’t in contact with Marc as much as she’d been, there was unfinished business between them. She’d had her revenge, and that was what her behaviour had been about: revenge. Not very adult of her, she admitted, though it had been satisfying for a while. Her grandmother was right. It was time to draw a line under her relationship with Marc. She needed to bring closure to that chapter in her life, one way or another. Make a decision on whether she was going to work with Frankie on a long-term basis, or cover Dee’s maternity leave. She also needed to make up her mind as to whether she was going to stay in Dublin or go back to Toronto. And if she was staying in Dublin, she needed to take her belongings out of storage and ship them home from Canada. It was time to stop acting like an ostrich.
Marie-Claire stretched over to her bedside locker, picked up her iPad, and googled flights. She was working her notice, much to Ines and Chloe’s dismay, and she was owed five days’ leave. She could use that time to take a trip to Canada. Perhaps when she got back to Toronto she might find that she wanted to stay there.
It was hard to believe so much had changed in her life in less than six months. And just when she’d felt she was beginning to settle back home in Ireland, Granny had put her spoke in and made her face up to the fact that decisions had to be made.
Marie-Claire tapped in a message to Lizzie on her phone:
I’m planning on coming to Toronto for a week. FaceTime me when you get up. MCx
Then she threw back the duvet and went into the shower, wishing Imelda had kept her thoughts and very blunt suggestions to herself.
* * *
“I’m so excited.” Lizzie beamed from her kitchen counter where she was drinking coffee and eating a bagel. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” Marie-Claire laughed. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“You’ll be staying here, of course,” her friend said.
“Where else would I be going?”
“I’d better stock up on the liquor then. Will you bring me some Taytos and some of that gorgeous Green Angel eye gel?”
“I will. And some handmade chocolates and O’Neills rashers.”
“Get on the next flight, girl.” Lizzie gave her the thumbs-up. “So, listen, are you going to see Marc while you’re here?”
“Yeah! I guess it’s time to put an end to the charade,” Marie-Claire sighed. “How is he?”
“He’s fine, spending a lot of time in New York. Things are taking off there.”
“Yep, he told me that the last time we spoke. How’s Amelia?”
“As breathy and wide-eyed as ever. She got hair extensions. She’s worse than freakin’ Rapunzel, twirling it around her fingers.”
“Bioch.” Marie-Claire laughed, entertained as always by her friend’s acerbic wit. They chatted for a while, until Lizzie had to head off to the gym. Then Marie-Claire dusted some light bronzing powder onto her face, adding a slick of lipstick and mascara before picking up the iPad to call Marc.
It rang for a while and she was on the verge of hanging up when he answered. He was wearing a towelling robe and his hair was w
et, and he looked tanned and fit and, she had to admit, as sexy as ever.
“Babes, how are you? This is a surprise,” he said delightedly.
“Hi, Marc,” she replied, keeping her tone light. “Listen, I’m booking a flight for a trip back to—”
“You’re coming back?” His face lit up. “When?”
“I’m not sure of the exact date. I want to see the prices. Next week sometime. Will you be around or will you be in New York?”
“Honey, I’ll be sure to be around if you’re coming to Toronto. Let me know and I’ll collect you from the airport,” he said eagerly.
“No, it’s fine; Lizzie can collect me,” she said firmly.
“Don’t be like that, Marie-Claire,” he protested.
“Look, let me book my flights, and I’ll let you know the details and we’ll arrange to meet up if you’re free. I need to talk to you, Marc.”
“And I need to talk to you! I can’t wait to see you again. It’s been lonely without you. I’ve so much to tell you about New York.”
“I’ll be looking forward to hearing it,” Marie-Claire assured him. “See you soon, Marc.”
She waved and hung up and felt a great emptiness. If she hadn’t overheard that phone call of Amelia’s, they would still be together and she’d have been happy. Imelda’s words came to mind. “An affair can be got over.”
Could she get over Marc’s fling with Amelia? Had she punished him enough? Had she punished herself enough, distancing herself from him? Could she take him back? Brigid had told her forgiveness would make a relationship stronger. Imelda was saying that an affair could be got over. Was the universe sending her a message? Did she actually believe in that stuff her mother was so caught up in?
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 36