“Eeewww, we’re eating, Gran!” Marie-Claire reproved.
“Ah, get over it, as the young lot say. You’ve seen plenty of those in your time, I’d imagine.” Imelda gave her the eye.
“Well, I’ll never forget the first time I saw the male appendage—because I never saw Johnny Larkin’s, it all happened so quick.” Brigid put her fork down and her eyes creased in amusement at the memory. “Needless to say, I was curious, but apprehensive at the same time. We really were so innocent in those days, weren’t we, Imelda?”
“We were. There was many a virgin on her wedding night got a lot more than she bargained for, I can tell you.” She chuckled. “Come on then, let’s hear about your first ‘vision.’ ”
“I was so disappointed when I saw that little soft wobbly thing that I’d tried to imagine for so long when I used to dream about being rescued from danger by William Holden—he was a famous film star, dear,” she said in an aside to Marie-Claire. “So anyway, I’m looking at this most disappointing sight and I had my tutor, Sister Ignatius, standing beside me with a silver spoon in her hand. ‘If it rises up, slap it down, Sister Dunne. Slaaap it down,’ she ordered. The poor patient didn’t know where to look and neither did I. I was mortified.”
The others exploded with laughter, guffaws echoing across the garden.
“Oh God, Mère, that’s hilarious,” gasped Keelin, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. “I’m going to bring a spoon to bed when I get home, and when Armand gets frisky I’ll give him a tap with it, just for the laugh.”
“Oh, Maman! Could you imagine his face?” Marie-Claire hooted, almost choking.
Imelda was chuckling heartily, unable to believe how much fun she was having. She’d told Felicity she was going on a “girls’ weekend.” Had she ever envisaged sitting in the Four Winds, laughing with her sister, daughter, and grandchild? There was a time, in the not too distant past, when she would never have believed such a thing could happen. She was as happy as she’d ever been in her entire life.
Now, as she placed her cup in the dishwasher the following morning, Imelda relished how much a part of their little group she’d become. And most important today, she was here to support Brigid, who had suggested that, as a protest against the Church’s handling of widespread abuse, instead of joining those watching the Pope celebrate Mass in Phoenix Park, they would travel to the town of Tuam, where the bodies of almost eight hundred children were buried in a mass grave. All of them had agreed to the suggestion instantly when Brigid had broached it.
“Not only were those poor little children and their vulnerable, unfortunate mothers betrayed; the Catholic Church and their corrupt hierarchy has betrayed every good nun and priest who has ever lived and worked for God. I abhor the Church I gave my life to,” she’d raged one day to Keelin, provoked by news coverage of the Pope’s impending visit.
“Don’t think of it like that, Mère. Think instead of all the lives that have been touched with such goodness, integrity, and pure intention by you and your fellow nuns and priests. You have all done so much to raise the vibration of the world. The darkness has to have a spotlight shone on it to be healed. That’s why all these atrocities are coming to light now, all over the world,” Keelin counselled.
“I suppose you’re right, dear.” Brigid found some small comfort in her niece’s words. Keelin had a way of looking at things that would never have occurred to her. “But it’s terrible to think such a thing happened in Ireland and nothing was done about it. That far from stopping it, the Church enabled those responsible to continue.”
The more she thought about it, the more determined she was to make a mini-pilgrimage to Tuam.
* * *
They left the Four Winds half an hour later and took the N68 to link up with the motorway to Tuam. It was warm but cloudy, and the fields on either side of the road were scorched brown. Dry as a bone for the want of rain, after forty days of drought.
They were lost in their own thoughts when Marie-Claire slid a CD into the player. “Listen to this. I was at a gig this fabulous singer/songwriter was playing at a while back and I’ve absolutely fallen in love with her. What a voice. What a talent. What a committed activist,” she enthused. “Midwives for Choice, Repeal the Eighth, she’s always quietly working in the background, seeking no fame or glory. But wait until you hear her voice and listen to the song she wrote for the Magdalene women. It blew me away. Her name is Ciara Sidine. It’s called ‘Finest Flower.’ ”
She turned the CD on and a voice, pure and resonant with depth and emotion, floated from the speakers:
There’s a valley of stone
Deep down in my soul
A restless place where stories roam
Nights when I lie awake
In a traceless haze
Of steam and smoke
There’s a sisterhood of fallen dreams
Landed in a godless place
And oh though I lost you there a long time ago
Oh, my joy to care in a barren zone
Not for one minute of an hour
My finest flower
Did I ever let you go
Mary said she’d get free
Though she made good her plan
Did she know she’d be running still
When out into the night she ran?
For Jenny Dwyer
The same night came
By a fever taken so they told us
They who took her name
And oh though she lost you there a long time ago
To live and die unmarked, unknown
Not for one minute of an hour
My finest flower
Did she ever let you go
Me, I guess that I was blessed
For I knew love
Could know no shame
When I held you to my breast
And called your name
Till the day I found
An empty space
The day I never let you go
Oh the weight of the love you have
But cannot hold
Cos I lost you there a long time ago
My joy to care in a valley of stone
Not for one minute of an hour
My finest flower
Did I ever let you go
My heart my joy my very own
Not for one minute of an hour
My finest flower
No I never let you go
The last poignant notes faded away. Brigid sat stock-still in the back seat beside Imelda, tears pouring down her face. “That could have been written about me, if I’d had my baby,” she wept. “But even though I lost her, those words— ‘Not for one minute of an hour / My finest flower / Did I ever let you go’—that’s my life every day. I think of my child and know that she is always with me. Always,” Brigid sobbed. Broken.
“I’m so sorry, Mère; perhaps I shouldn’t have played it!” Marie-Claire exclaimed, upset to see her beloved Brigid in tears, and nearly in tears herself.
“No, no! It’s a sacred song. A very empowering song to all of us who’ve lost a child, no matter how the loss occurred,” Brigid assured her, trying to compose herself. “I know now why I was so driven to come to Tuam. I needed to release this grief that I’ve carried most of my life.”
“Are you sure you’re up to standing with the families, when we get there?” Keelin asked gently. “We can just light a candle ourselves and leave, if you prefer?”
“I’ll stand with the families, in solidarity,” Brigid said resolutely. “And my tears will mingle with theirs.”
“We’ll be with you, Brigid. This is one ordeal you won’t have to endure on your own,” Imelda said firmly, taking her sister’s hand in hers, in the gentlest of clasps.
* * *
Leaden clouds threatening rain overhung the crowds of people gathering for their silent vigil at the town hall in Tuam, as Brigid and her stalwart companions took their place in line, waiting to begin their walk. The vigil was organized by a
Manchester woman whose sister had vanished from a mother-and-baby home, and the crowd resonated with sombre sorrow when the many hundreds of people began their walk at the same time as the Pope was celebrating his Mass in Dublin.
There were no accusatory speeches, no songs of protest, just a dignified recitation of each precious child’s name and age that seemed to go on for an eternity, there were so many of them. Hundreds of candles, lit in their memory, illuminated the grey, grim afternoon. At the site of the former Bon Secours home, a special sculpture in the shape of a baptismal font, made by a Flemish woman, was placed under the glowering skies.
Brigid’s lips trembled and she broke down in tears again. The sight of all the small teddy bears and toys posted along the route had seared her heart and she’d struggled not to cry. But now, in this desolate place, her tears overflowed and she wept along with many others.
Marie-Claire moved to comfort her, but Keelin held her back when she saw Imelda wrap her arms around Brigid and draw her sister into a close embrace. Brigid rested her head on Imelda’s shoulder and released her years of pent-up grief and loss.
“Healing,” Keelin whispered to her daughter. “Difficult as it is, the healing that will come for the both of them, and for me too, today, cannot be described, chérie.”
* * *
Much later that night, the four of them sat watching the Nine O’Clock News, with segments about the Papal Mass. The concert at the Garden of Remembrance was covered, and then their own silent vigil in Tuam.
“There we are.” Imelda pointed excitedly to the lower left of the screen, where the camera panned along the lines of men, women, and children who had come to pay respect and honour to the mothers and their babies who had suffered such appalling neglect and abuse at the hands of those to whose care they had been entrusted.
“I’m glad I stood with them. I’m glad I made my protest,” Brigid said tiredly.
“I’m glad I was there with you,” Imelda said purposefully.
“Me too,” “And me,” echoed Keelin and Marie-Claire.
“And do you know something?” Brigid said slowly. “I understand now why I got the Little Children Magdalene card. It’s about never forgetting them and always holding them in our hearts, including the unborn ones lost to miscarriage and abortion. Today’s silent vigil and that beautiful song we listened to affirmed that for me, more than anything else could have. This was a very powerful and a very liberating day for me.”
“For all of us, Mère. It was such a comfort to be here with you, and share the experience.” Marie-Claire smiled at her.
“That will give them something to think about in Rome,” Imelda declared with satisfaction, listening to the discussion on the news about the low turnout for the Papal Mass, in comparison to the previous Papal visit. “Sure you’d get more at the Galway Races than were in the park today.”
“And a wishy-washy apology had to be dragged out of them, and that is so much to their shame. Their day is over,” Keelin remarked with disgust.
“And not before time,” Imelda said tartly. “They have a lot to answer for.”
* * *
“So let’s try to plan a Magdalene Trail week in Girona and Rennes-le-Château, and see if we can manage to climb to the summit of Canigou, too, sometime around mid-October, then?” Brigid suggested, looking at them expectantly.
They were sitting outside in the morning sun, enjoying the lullaby of the sea and having a last cup of tea together before Marie-Claire, Keelin, and Imelda began their trip back to Dublin via Glencarraig.
“I can go anytime,” Imelda chirruped.
“I’ll make sure not to have any retreats planned for whatever week you come. Let me know as soon as you can.” Keelin clapped her hands in delight.
“I’ll check out the work diary and see what’s scheduled and clear my decks—that would be an in-joke at work.” Marie-Claire grinned.
“Something wonderful to look forward to.” Brigid smiled broadly, the grief that had been etched upon her face softening at this unexpected treat in store. It had been Imelda’s idea.
“I’m going to read as many of those books of yours as I can, Keelin, to see if I can make some sort of sense of the stuff you talk about,” Imelda assured her daughter.
“You know something, Mam, if a thing resonates with you, go with it; that’s all you have to do,” Keelin said easily.
“And I’d just like to say, I very much appreciate all your understanding and forgiveness. I’ll try not to be as cranky as I used to be, but if the odd sharp word or two comes out, you know I don’t mean it. I doubt I’ll be able to change my ways overnight,” Imelda said awkwardly.
“We’ll all try and practise tolerance, Imelda. We’re all on this path together,” Brigid said reassuringly. “But neither of us will be canonized yet,” she added good-humouredly, and Imelda laughed.
“I suppose we’d better hit the road,” Marie-Claire said reluctantly, standing up to shake away the crumbs of Una’s light-as-a-feather sponge cake.
“I wish you could all stay longer,” Brigid said regretfully.
“We’ll be in touch with Skype,” Marie-Claire assured her.
“And you’re coming to me in September for a few days, Brigid,” Imelda reminded her.
“I am. And I’m looking forward to it,” Brigid assured her.
“So am I, believe it or not. Now did you ever think you’d hear me say that?” Imelda joked with a mischievous glint in her eye.
They laughed, and followed Marie-Claire to the car, which was already packed up and ready to go.
“Happy days are coming!” Brigid hugged Marie-Claire and the others, and stood waving at them as they drove slowly along the narrow drive to get onto the coast road.
“I’m looking forward to the week in October. That will be great fun,” Marie-Claire said, glancing into her rearview mirror for one last look at Brigid, who was waving vigorously after them, against the background of their beloved Four Winds.
“I am, too. Immensely. And thank you for offering to put us all up, Keelin,” Imelda declared, turning to her daughter in the back seat.
“It will be my pleasure—and I mean that,” Keelin said, smiling at her mother.
Imelda turned back to face the road ahead. She was loved. There was no mistake about it. After all these years, she knew without doubt that she was very much loved. It made her giddy with happiness. I must change my will back, she thought suddenly. She would ring Fitzpatrick’s Solicitors first thing in the morning to make an appointment.
They turned a bend in the road and the coastline rose up to greet them. The sea was a palette of blues and greens, tipped by white. On the horizon, the most splendid rainbow that Imelda had ever seen. A gift from Larry, she thought, feeling his presence very near. “Look, Keelin. Look what your dad has sent us—like on Iona. I feel him so near these days!” she exclaimed.
“I know, Mam; would you believe I was thinking the same myself?” Keelin leaned over between the seats and held out her hand. Imelda took it, squeezed tightly, and all the years of turmoil and strife between them slipped quietly away. Brigid, in the shelter of the Four Winds, caught one last glimpse of them as they crested the hill, and blew them all a kiss before they disappeared from view.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, my first acknowledgement is to my Spiritual Team led by Jesus, Mary, Saint Joseph, the Divine Feminine Energy of Mary Magdalene, Saints Michael and Anthony (the stalwarts), and all my Angels, Saints, and Guides. My books would never be written without your Divine Inspiration.
To my sister, Mary, who is always there to share the highs and lows and keep me going. Thanks for all the fun times, too.
To all my family. And a special thanks to nieces Rachel and Maria, who uncomplainingly carried bags, helped me dress, cut my food, did my make-up, and did all manner of chores, when I crocked my shoulder, and to Fiona for all the lifts and kindness.
Two very special women helped me greatly in my research about the lif
e of a nun on the Missions. Dear Sister Una Lennox and Carmel Bracken, RSM, you gave so much and touched so many lives in the tremendous work you did, and do. Thank you for setting me on the right path with my own nuns, Brigid and Keelin. We are in your debt. I wish I could have included everything you told me. Perhaps in another book. Thanks, Mairead Conlon and Aidan Storey, for the introductions.
To my dear manuscript readers and precious friends Caitriona, Yvonne, Pam, Mary Helen and Mama Helen Hensley, Aidan, and Breda, who encouraged me so much with their laughter, tears, comments, and gentle pointing out of my errors. (Rachel found a three-year-old nun whilst doing my chronological order!) I am blessed to have such loyal and loving friends.
And thanks to Aidan and Murtagh for my “writer’s retreat” on the Curragh.
To Helen McKean, my amazing Publicity Manager and dear friend. I could not do this without you.
To Geraldine and Antoinette, and Marian Lawlor, dear friends.
To Ray and Dee O’Callaghan, who have given me my haven in Wicklow, where so much of my work is done in such a wonderful setting. Thank you both so much.
To Michelle Connor, AIB Finglas, who keeps me on track and remembers things I forget! You’re the best!
To Sarah Lutyens and all my wonderful team at Lutyens & Rubinstein. Thanks, my dears, for all the hard work you do on my behalf and for your continued support and friendship.
A huge thanks to Jo Dickinson, my editor for the past six years. It was a joy to work with you, especially on this book. I’ll miss you enormously. Your new authors are very lucky. And to Alice Rodgers, Anne O’Brien, Sally Partington, and all in the editorial department, a very grateful acknowledgment for your expertise in bringing the manuscript to completion. To SJ, Rich, and all my Schusters in the various departments, a massive “Thank you.”
To my team at Atria Books, and to my editors, Haley Weaver and Loan Le, thank you. And to all my US Schusters for your enthusiasm and continued support.
To my Schusters in Australia, India, and South Africa, a big thanks for the great work you do on my behalf.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 38