The Liberation of Brigid Dunne

by Patricia Scanlan

  To take her mind off the antipathy triggered by her son-in-law’s arrival, she busied herself making tea and cutting thick fingers of Christmas cake. Her cake had turned out particularly well this year, no sunken fruit or burned sultanas at the edges. She could serve it up to the Frenchman with pride.

  “The house is lovely, Mam. The holly and ivy are so decorative along the mantelpiece with the fairy lights woven through,” Keelin lauded her mother’s festive touches.

  “I saw it done in a magazine when I was at the hairdresser’s and there’s plenty of holly out in the garden, so I cut a basketful and chopped the ivy off the wall. Even though I say so myself, I made a good fist of it,” Imelda declared.

  “You certainly did, Mrs. O’Brien, and your cake is delicious, if I may say so,” Armand added his praise to the conversation.

  “Thank you,” Imelda said graciously, but didn’t offer him another slice.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mam?” Keelin asked, picking the crumbs of almond icing off the plate. Imelda noted what she was doing. “I kept some almond icing aside for you—I know you have a weakness for it.” She smiled at her daughter.

  “Ah, thank you, Mam!” Keelin leaned over and gave her a hug, and Imelda’s cheeks went rosy pink with pleasure.

  “Go on with you,” she said, but she was content with her daughter’s response. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged or kissed. It was a good feeling. “Why don’t the two of you go and unpack. I’ll put a match to the fire in the front room. Even though the central heating’s on, a fire is always that bit more festive at this time of the year,” she suggested briskly. “We’ll have a roast beef dinner today. I’ll cook us a turkey dinner for New Year.”

  “Do not go to trouble, Mam; we’ll cook,” Keelin said immediately.

  “Indeed you won’t. It’s no trouble. It will be nice to cook for someone other than myself. Off with you now to unpack,” Imelda ordered. She wasn’t having that fella poking around her kitchen. Besides, she liked cooking for people. It wasn’t the same cooking for herself now that Larry was gone. One thing about her husband, he’d always appreciated her cooking. A flicker of sadness crossed her face at the thought.

  “OK,” Keelin said. “If you don’t mind, as soon as we’ve unpacked we might go and visit Dad’s grave. I bought a lovely Christmas wreath in Dublin for him.”

  “Right so.” Imelda stood up from the table. “You go to the grave before it gets dark and then come back and sit in front of the fire and relax after your journey. I’ll start dinner preparations now.”

  “Let me put these dishes in the dishwasher.” Armand began to clear the table, and she was about to stop him but decided against it. Keelin was looking so sad at the prospect of visiting Larry’s grave. There was no point in adding to her distress by being unnecessarily rude to Armand. If he didn’t fill the dishwasher to her satisfaction, she would do it herself when they were gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Marie-Claire

  When the plane had banked to make its final descent into Dublin, shortly before six-thirty a.m., and she saw the glittering lights of the city beneath her, tears brimmed in Marie-Claire’s eyes. She had to struggle to compose herself before leaving the cocoon that had sheltered her from facing the world.

  Marc had called constantly, as well as trying to Messenger her, before she left, but she’d ignored his calls and texted: Am up to my eyes in packing, sweetie, I’ll get in touch from Ireland.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her crying. That would ruin her plans for keeping him in the dark about her reasons for leaving.

  Marie-Claire squared her shoulders and walked out onto the jet way, feeling she was in some sort of a dream.

  It was the first time she’d ever returned home with no one to greet her, and she felt a dart of loneliness when the opaque green doors parted and she walked out onto the Arrivals concourse. It was still pitch-black outside. She was glad she’d be getting into bed in the dark.

  “Marie-Claire, Marie-Claire!” She heard her name being called and turned her head in the direction of the shout to find Ella waving frantically, heading in her direction. Her heart lifted. Loneliness fled. Ella, her best friend. Always in her life, steadfast and dependable as only best friends are.

  “What are you doing here?” Marie-Claire held out her one free arm and was enveloped in a hug that made everything bearable.

  “Did you think I’d let you come home at this hour of the morning after what you’ve been through and not be here to meet you?” Ella demanded, stepping back to look at her. “Well, you might be going through a trauma, MC, but you look a-maz-ing!” She grinned. “Love that cape. And your hair is so elegant, swept up. How come mine always looks like a bird’s nest after I fly? And even when I don’t fly.” Ella laughed, sweeping her fingers through her unruly chestnut curls.

  “I can’t believe you’re here!” Marie-Claire exclaimed. She and Ella had met on their secondary school basketball court. Ella, a sixth year and captain of the school team, had been impressed with Marie-Claire’s bank shots and blocking actions. Despite the five-year age gap, a friendship was born that had continued when they had both ended up sharing a flat in Dublin, where they had forged careers for themselves, Marie-Claire in sound production, Ella in the employment sector, where she’d eventually set up her own employment agency. As close as sisters, they shared each other’s joys and sorrows. There was no one else in the world Marie-Claire would have wanted to find waiting for her on her arrival back to Ireland.

  “You know you can come home with me, but to be honest, I think you’d be far better off going to the hotel you booked,” Ella said as she took control of the trolley heading towards the exit. “The girls held a sleepover last night and you wouldn’t get a wink of sleep with them prancing around. I’m tempted to book in myself.” She grimaced.

  “Ella, I’ll take the courtesy bus, honestly. Don’t go out of your way driving me there,” Marie-Claire protested.

  “Are ya mad! I’m going to have a very peaceful breakfast and a natter with you, before you get into bed. Then I’m going into town to the sales. By myself! Oh, bliss.” She grinned. “I love my girls, but they do my head in. Our life was so uncomplicated when we were their ages. I swear to God, those Kardashians and social media have ruined a generation.”

  “Is it that bad here, too?” Marie-Claire followed her friend to the car park.

  “You bet it is. I’ll tell you about it another day. For now, it’s all about you. Update me on everything!” Ella demanded. Marie-Claire had told her friend all the gory details, starting with overhearing Amelia’s furtive phone call and the evening with Marc, in several Skype sessions over the past few days.

  “Well done, missus!” Ella had exclaimed approvingly when Marie-Claire outlined her strategy. “Let him die wondering, the little shit.”

  “Yep, that’s the only thing that’s positive about it for me: I’m in control and I dumped him and he’ll never know why. He hates it. And I’ll get over him. I’m not going to be defined by my relationship with him. I’m going to stop thinking of myself as a failure. It’s time to move on.” But even as she said the words, they sounded hollow. Despite her best intentions, her heart ached as they walked out into the crisp cold air of Dublin, and the salty easterly breeze whispered across Marie-Claire’s face and she caught the familiar scent of home.

  Chapter Ten

  “Mon Dieu! What are you doing here?” Keelin’s shout of joy was music to Marie-Claire’s ears when she was hugged by her astonished mother in Imelda’s front porch.

  “Was that a good surprise?” Marie-Claire grinned, hugging back tightly, swallowing down the lump that rose to her throat at the sight of her much-loved mother.

  “What’s going on out here? Marie-Claire! What are you doing home? I thought you were working and couldn’t come.” Imelda, hearing the commotion, bustled into the hall, her face lighting up at the sight of her granddaughter walking thr
ough the front door.

  “That was a fib,” Marie-Claire lied, planting a kiss on her grandmother’s soft cheek.

  “Come in; have a cup of tea. Did you drive straight from the airport?” Imelda ushered them into the kitchen.

  “No, I flew in yesterday and Ella collected me.” She omitted saying that she’d stayed the night in a hotel. “It was great to catch up, and I did a bit of business in Dublin with the letting agency and the house and all that stuff, and here I am. Where’s Papa?” She followed her grandmother into the kitchen and sat down at the round oak table, glad to be at her journey’s end.

  “He’s gone over to Ardcloch to do a bit of work on the graves. We got new stones for them,” Keelin said lightly. “He’ll get such a surprise to see you.”

  “I’ll make up the bed in Keelin’s old room; you can sleep there.” Imelda filled the kettle and took some mugs down from the press.

  “I’ll do the bed, Gran,” Marie-Claire offered. “I don’t want you going to any trouble.”

  “I’ll do the bed.” Keelin put milk and sugar on the table while her mother cut dainty fingers of Christmas cake to go with the tea.

  “It’s no trouble; I’m delighted to have you here, dear.” Imelda patted her arm.

  “Thanks, Gran. Are you looking forward to the party? I can’t wait to see Mère’s face when I surprise her. Tell me all the plans for it.”

  Imelda’s lips tightened. “Party! Party! Party! You’d think no one else had ever retired or got to eighty. Such a fuss!” she grumbled, spooning tea leaves into the pot. She didn’t care for teabags and made tea the old-fashioned way.

  Marie-Claire flashed a glance at her mother, who threw her eyes up to heaven. “Ah sure, we’ll have a big party for you, Gran, when you’re eighty,” she said, deciding to ignore her grandmother’s petulance.

  “I don’t want any of that nonsense; ’tis far from surprise parties I was reared,” Imelda sniffed.

  “So Mère thinks it’s a little party for the nuns and she doesn’t know the family is coming, is that it?” Marie-Claire turned to Keelin.

  “Exactly! We’ve all booked into Kirwin’s Hotel—”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “The four of us, now that you’re home. Plus your uncle John and auntie Phil, Lucy and Laura—”

  “Terrific!” exclaimed Marie-Claire, looking forward to seeing her cousins.

  “And the Sheedys. Brigid is very fond of them. A few people from Butlersbridge, of course, and the Mother General—”

  “She’s coming? All the way from Paris?” Imelda interjected sharply.

  “Yes, and two other Sisters. They’re only staying the night. Armand is collecting them from the station.” Keelin eyed her mother warily.

  “For goodness’ sake! Isn’t it great for them all the same that they can spend a fortune on flights for a jaunt to Ireland? No doubt that money comes out of the charity boxes that people put their hard-earned money into,” Imelda griped.

  “Mam, stop that,” Keelin said sharply. “Brigid is highly thought of by her congregation. She’s given a lifetime’s service to her Order. She deserves a bit of recognition for it.”

  “If we all got the recognition we deserved we’d be doing well,” Keelin’s mother retorted as the sound of the doorbell chimes sent her hurrying out into the hall.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Marie-Claire,” Keelin whispered. “She’s doing my head in. Brigid’s party is going between her and her sleep, she’s so annoyed about it. I swear to God, if it passes off without a hitch or a row it will be a miracle.”

  “Ah, it’s not that bad, surely,” Marie-Claire soothed, biting into the rich cake and taking a mouthful of “proper” tea. Her heart sank at her mother’s uncharacteristically stern words. She’d come home to Ireland looking for solace and landed in the middle of a family drama.

  Imelda marched into the kitchen and plonked a beautifully arranged basket of flowers on the table. “The O’Neills want me to give this to Brigid. Who do they think I am… Interflora?” she snapped, glowering at the thoughtful gift. “I got her fifty euros’ worth of savings certificates and she can like them or lump them. I’m going to make up the bed.” She stomped out of the kitchen.

  Marie-Claire giggled. “ ‘Interflora’! She’s a hoot when she’s mad,” she whispered. “Why is she so annoyed at Mère?”

  “I have no idea, Marie-Claire. They’ve never got on, but it’s more Mam’s fault than Brigid’s. I don’t even think Brigid knows why. She doesn’t want to come to the party. I told her to stay at home and she said she wouldn’t have people talking about her. There’s no winning with her. Uncle John opened his big mouth and told her he has a great surprise for Brigid, so Mam’s curiosity is getting the better of her. That’s another reason she’s going. But if she upsets Brigid on her special day I won’t hold back. I’m fed up of this carry-on, and Mam’s walking on very thin ice with me.” Keelin sat poker straight, rigid with disapproval.

  Marie-Claire refrained from comment. She’d heard the wheels of a car on the drive and shot out of her seat and put a finger to her lips and hid behind the kitchen door. Keelin grinned, hearing Armand call her name.

  “Am I blocking someone in the drive? Has Imelda got a visitor?” he asked, walking into the kitchen and bending down to kiss his wife’s cheek.

  “She has, but I don’t think she’ll be going anywhere for a while, so you’re fine,” Keelin said noncommittally. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I would. I’ll stick the kettle on,” Armand said.

  “Let me do it, Papa,” Marie-Claire offered, laughing.

  Her father stopped and turned, doing a double take. “Marie-Claire!”

  “Oh, Papa, it’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed, launching herself at him, and he laughed with joy and hugged the daylights out of her, and for a while her sadness disappeared and she gave herself over to the immense pleasure of being with her parents.

  Chapter Eleven

  Una Farrelly was at her wits’ end. She was doing her best to keep Reverend Mother Brigid’s surprise party under wraps, but the RM kept poking her nose into things that were really none of her business, commenting on the amount of bacon and eggs in the fridge and the “mountain” of sponge for the trifle she was going to make later. “You’re not going to be feeding the multitudes, Una. It’s only a few Sisters from the convents and two from the Mother House,” Brigid remarked mildly, heading upstairs.

  As soon as Brigid had left her in peace, Una picked up her mobile phone and dialled Keelin’s number. She wanted to alert her to how difficult it was to keep on top of everything, with Brigid in situ. Keelin was like a sister to her, and Una felt the need for a bit of reassurance now that the pressure was on.

  She heard her friend’s cheery voice in her ear. “Hi, Una, how are things? Can’t wait to see you.”

  “Keelin, I can’t wait to see you, too,” she replied, keeping an eagle eye on Brigid, now out in the garden. “I’m ringing to let you know that it’s not easy trying to keep everything under wraps down here. Brigid’s under my feet all day, wondering why I have so much food in the fridge. Thank God she doesn’t know what’s over at Maura’s. I’m trying to keep her occupied, but I don’t know how I’m going to set up the party and buffet without her copping on that it’s going to be bigger than a little get-together with the Sisters.”

  “Oh dear. We didn’t think of that when we were planning it. Look, do your best. Get one of the nuns to take her out for a couple of hours. Or try telling her the parlour’s out of bounds.”

  “Ha! She might not take too many orders from me. I’m only the housekeeper,” joked Una.

  “They’re all afraid of you, Una. Look, don’t worry about it. It will still be a surprise when we all arrive and that’s the main thing.”

  “OK!” Una sighed. “I’ll see you when I see you. How’s Imelda behaving?” Una was privy to Keelin’s difficulties with her mother.

  “She’s herself,” Keeli
n said caustically. “Spoiling for a row.”

  “Oh, lordy!”

  “Guess who’s coming, too?”

  “Who?”

  “Marie-Claire.”

  “What! I thought she was tied up with work. Brigid will be thrilled; all the Sisters will be. Oh what a treat.” Una couldn’t hide her delight.

  “I thought that might cheer you up. It’s going to be a great party.”

  “If I don’t have a heart attack first. I’ll see you all tomorrow, pet.”

  * * *

  “What’s up?” Marie-Claire asked when Keelin put the phone down. They were sitting at the table in Imelda’s kitchen, Imelda was out getting groceries, and the Durand family were enjoying their time alone.

  “Una was saying she’s finding it hard to keep everything secret because Brigid’s under her feet all the time and she’s afraid she’ll realise the party is more than a little celebration with the nuns. She’s trying to think of a way to keep her occupied, away from the house, for a few hours so they can decorate the parlour and set up the buffet. Easier said than done.”

  “I could go down and distract her,” Marie-Claire suggested, longing to get to her favourite place on earth.

  “And how would you explain your presence? She’d know something was going on if you arrived unexpectedly,” Armand pointed out. “Hercule Poirot had nothing on the Reverend Mother, as we well know,” he added wittily, and his wife laughed.

  “Mère doesn’t know anything about all of us coming to the party. I could always say that I took holidays owed to me. I’ll tell her I flew in to Shannon.”

  “You mean you’re going to tell big whopping lies?” her father teased.

  “Huge ones!” His daughter grinned.

  “That’s a good idea,” Keelin approved.