The Liberation of Brigid Dunne

by Patricia Scanlan

  “Right! That’s a plan. I’ll go and pack.” Marie-Claire finished her slice of bread and carried her dishes to the dishwasher.

  “Mam won’t be too impressed that you’re leaving already. And I was looking forward to spending the day with you.” Keelin followed her daughter to the sink with the rest of the plates and mugs.

  “I know, Maman, but you’ll be down tomorrow and we can spend time together then.” Marie-Claire hugged her mother when she straightened up from loading the dishwasher.

  “Brigid will be over the moon—”

  “Why will Brigid be over the moon?” Imelda came into the kitchen, at the tail end of Keelin’s comment, and hefted her shopping bag onto the table before divesting herself of her hat, coat, and gloves.

  “I’m going to go down to the Four Winds to help Una out. She’s a bit fraught, to say the least,” Marie-Claire said lightly, waiting for Imelda to erupt.

  “For goodness’ sake! You’ve only been here a night. Am I not going to get any time to spend with my granddaughter?” she exclaimed crossly, on cue, hanging her clothes up in the small closet off the kitchen.

  There was a time you didn’t want to know your granddaughter, Keelin thought sourly.

  “Ah, Gran, don’t be like that.” Marie-Claire put her arm around her grandmother’s shoulders when she came back into the kitchen. “Una’s not as young as she used to be and it’s a big undertaking, organizing a surprise party like that. Now come on, don’t be cross. We’re going to have a lovely family gathering with lots of fun and frolics—what could be better than that?” she cajoled, giving Imelda a squeeze before running upstairs.

  It had started to rain lightly, a fine mist that swept in from the coast, as she threw her case into the boot of her hired car and blew a kiss at her parents and grandmother, who stood at the door to wave her off. Marie-Claire exhaled, driving through Ardcloch. She was glad to be on her own. Glad not to have to keep up a façade of cheeriness when all she wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and cry her eyes out. The long drive to the Four Winds was just what she needed.

  She’d hardly left the main street when her phone rang on Bluetooth. “Hi, Ella,” she said with pretend cheeriness. “How are things?”

  “I was ringing to ask you the same.” Her friend laughed. “Were they thrilled to see you?”

  “Ah, they were, it was a huge surprise to them, and it was great to see them and be with them.”

  “And how’s your little heart doing?” Ella asked kindly.

  “Little heart’s a bit battered,” Marie-Claire admitted, exceedingly glad that she didn’t have to put on an act for her best friend. “Actually, I was doing OK until I remembered that this morning, if I was in Canada, I’d be heading off to New York to hold the interviews. But I’ll get over it,” she said, swerving to avoid a large pothole.

  “Ah, it’s feckin hard, though. One minute you’re tootling along without a bother and then, whack! You don’t know what’s hit you. Anyhoo, remember I was telling you that Granddad Reilly, Mum’s dad, stipulated in his will that he wanted Nana to go on a cruise with her friend after the house was sold and she’d settled in her apartment in Clontarf?”

  “Yeah, I thought it was a lovely thing for him to do. I wish someone would leave me the money to go on a cruise,” Marie-Claire said humorously.

  “Well, she’s going in five weeks’ time—for three and a half months, if you don’t mind. Up to Alaska, then down the west coast of America, around the Caribbean Islands, across to the Azores, Portugal, Spain, France, and Italy, and then back to Southampton.”

  “Wowza, I love it! Good woman, Nana Reilly,” Marie-Claire approved.

  “The thing is, the apartment will be empty, and I was telling her you were home and you’d have to give your tenant lots of notice if you planned on staying, and she said why don’t you stay in hers, and she’ll put you on the car insurance, too. It’s only a little Fiesta, but it would do for getting around until you figure out what you’re going to do. Whaddya think?” Ella couldn’t hide her delight. “Please say yes. Please stay in Dublin, I’ve missed you so much,” she added imploringly.

  Marie-Claire was stunned. “Jeepers, Ella, this is very unexpected,” she said hesitantly. “You can tell her if I’m staying I’ll be paying rent. I’ll get a job somewhere,” Marie-Claire said firmly. “Even if it’s only giving French grinds to students.”

  “She’ll say no!”

  “Well then, I won’t stay,” Marie-Claire retorted.

  “You can sort it out between you.” Ella laughed. “I’d better go; I’m back in the office and I have thousands of emails. Ring me after the party and let me know how it goes and what your plans are.”

  * * *

  The sun was shining by the time she drove through the open wrought-iron gates that led to the rambling whitewashed Victorian two-storey house that sat sturdily atop a cliff. The sight lifted Marie-Claire’s heart.

  She drove around the side of the house, got out of the car, and walked into the back hall that led into the kitchen. The aroma of baking wafted around her, and her stomach grumbled at the smell. Marie-Claire inhaled the familiar scents of polish, and roses, that she associated with this house that had always been her refuge. She could hear murmured conversations and laughter and recognized Una’s and Mère’s voices.

  She opened the kitchen door and stood taking in the scene. The two women—her great-aunt in her black habit, Una in her floral apron, sitting together at the table, sipping tea out of china cups.

  It was Brigid who saw her first. Her jaw dropped. Her face took on an expression of pure happiness. “Marie-Claire!” she exclaimed joyfully, standing with the alacrity of a woman half her age. Arms outstretched, she crossed the tiled floor as Una clapped her hands and cried in delight:

  “I declare to God, would you look who’s here?”

  “Dear, dear beloved girl,” Brigid murmured, wrapping her arms around her great-niece, her cheek soft and unlined against Marie-Claire’s. “What blessing is this the Lord has sent us?”

  They held each other tightly, and in the tender embrace of her great-aunt, in the place of her greatest solace, Marie-Claire knew that she was finally home.

  * * *

  Imelda sat in the armchair in her hotel bedroom and studied her surroundings. A Boutique Hotel was the way it was advertised. Boutique, indeed! she thought waspishly. A jumped-up B&B, more like it. Her bed was facing in the opposite direction to how she slept at home. She hoped it wouldn’t affect her sleep. The room, though small, appeared clean, and it did have tea-making facilities like a real hotel, Imelda conceded. The warm, buttery cream colour on the walls and soft yellow lamplight gave it a tranquil air. She was tired after the early start and journey to Butlersbridge. Keelin had advised her to take a nap. Everyone from Ardcloch was meeting up in the bar for a drink, later, before getting the hired minibus to take them to the Four Winds.

  She had to admit, Keelin had done a good job planning the surprise bit of the party. All the guests were booked in. They wouldn’t have to worry about walking in bad weather, or looking for parking. People would be able to have a drink. Every aspect covered. Would any of them bother to go to such trouble for her? Imelda wondered.

  She doubted it. She knew she was an irritation to her children. Keelin had been her father’s favourite, Imelda had always known that; truth be told, her daughter struggled not only to love her but also to like her. She sighed deeply. Keelin had no idea of how things really were. None of the family knew any of it. Just as they knew nothing about Brigid, whom they all adored.

  No, there’d be no surprise party for Imelda, when… if she ever got to eighty. But if they knew the truth they’d feel sorry for her, Imelda thought forlornly as she got up to make herself a cup of tea. This party would have to be endured. She’d told Keelin she wouldn’t be making a speech; their brother could do that.

  Imelda eased her feet out of her suede court shoes and wriggled her toes. She was wearing a two-piece outfit, an i
ndigo blue velvet dress and black sequined jacket she’d bought in Brown Thomas after Keelin had told her of the plans for a surprise party. Imelda was no Mary Hick. She’d hold her own anywhere, she thought proudly, hanging the ensemble in the wardrobe while she waited for the kettle to boil.

  Not that anyone would be taking much notice of her. Tonight it would be all about her saintly sister—who really was no saint at all, if they only knew it.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Party

  Brigid had had a most restful nap, sitting in the rocking chair in her bedroom, listening to the wind-tossed sea swirling and crashing against the rocks and shore. It had been twilight when she fell asleep after her tea and scone; now it was pitch-black outside, apart from the smattering of twinkling lights in Butlersbridge, across the fields, and the homes dotted along the headland speckling the darkness with pinpricks of light.

  The sound of voices, and cases being trundled along the landing, had woken her. Brigid felt a fizz of excitement. She was looking forward to catching up with her fellow nuns, some of whom she hadn’t seen in ages. She went to the door and poked her head out, to see Sister Marie-Hélène following Sister Veronique to the rooms at the end of the corridor.

  “Marie-Hélène! Veronique!” she called, smiling broadly when they turned. They dropped their cases and hurried to her.

  “RM, how are you?” Marie-Hélène encircled her in an embrace. From beneath her veil, bright green eyes full of love and mischief twinkled back at Brigid.

  “You look amazing. You never age, RM.” Veronique, who was on the portly side and nearer Brigid’s age than Marie-Hélène’s, puffed a little as she waited to hug her friend and colleague.

  “What are you doing, wearing the veil? I thought you’d given it up.” Brigid eyed the younger nun, who wore a black skirt, white blouse, and soft woollen short pink cardigan.

  “I wore it to honour you. It’s your party. You’ve never given it up, nor has Veronique, and—” Marie-Hélène stopped. “I can take it off if you like,” she teased, whipping the veil off her head to show her highlighted blond tresses.

  “You changed your colour,” Brigid noted. “Très chic.” The last time she’d seen Marie-Hélène she’d been sporting auburn locks.

  “Blondes have more fun,” laughed her incorrigible colleague. “Actually, I’m going to stop colouring it soon. I’m going grey. I might as well embrace it gracefully!”

  “That will be the day you embrace anything gracefully,” Brigid said fondly. “Who else is here? Let me freshen up and go down and greet them.”

  “Freshen up by all means, RM, dear, but under no circumstances are you to go downstairs if you don’t want Una to have a coronary,” Veronique said firmly, kissing Brigid. “She’s scurrying around making sure everything’s perfect. She wants for you to make a grand entrance.”

  “Good Lord, she’s taking it all so seriously. She shouldn’t be putting herself to such trouble,” Brigid tutted.

  “She’s in her element. She loves it! Bossing everyone around, baking her fabulous goodies, making a fuss of us, like she’s always done. Don’t be worrying; there isn’t a bother on her,” Marie-Hélène soothed, her Kerry twang as pronounced as ever. She had taken the name Marie-Hélène, after one of the Order’s founding nuns, because she thought it sounded more exotic than the more mundane Benedict they’d first suggested. It suited her greatly, Brigid thought, amused.

  “Ah, Una’s the best,” Brigid said fondly. “I remember the day she started here as a young maid and she tipped a pitcher of buttermilk over Mother Patrick—”

  “If she survived that, she’ll survive your party. We’d better get ready. We’ve to be in the big parlour at six sharp. We’ll see you down there,” Veronique interrupted briskly. If Brigid started going back to the early days they’d be there all evening. She loved to reminisce.

  At that moment, Marie-Claire appeared on the return. “I came to see if you were awake, Mère,” she said, from the top step.

  “I am, dear. I’m just going to freshen up and change my habit,” Brigid assured her. Now that it was actually happening, Brigid was looking forward to her little party, although, at the back of her mind, the realisation that it was a swan song of sorts was unsettling. She was yesterday’s woman now. A new order had taken over, Brigid thought, smiling at her little pun. Having Marie-Claire here was the icing on the cake for her. Tonight would be a night of reminiscing, of happy memories, of love and sisterly affection. A fitting end to her career.

  * * *

  The Four Winds was a beacon of light at the edge of the cliff. Lamplight shone through every window. The Christmas tree lights sparkled in the bay windowpanes of the big parlour. Una’s husband had strung fairy lights along the shrubbery that lined the drive. It looked like fairyland, Keelin thought, as memories came hurtling back with a fierce intensity that was almost painful, when she saw the old house lit up in all its glory.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous!” exclaimed Rita Sheedy in the seat behind Imelda’s on the minibus. “The nuns must have plenty of money to be able to afford a place like this.”

  “Indeed!” sniffed Imelda, glancing out the window as the bus rattled along the drive. “Wouldn’t we all love a holiday home like it?”

  “It was left to the Order, decades ago, by a wealthy landowner, who was very grateful for the nuns’ care of his wife. She had cancer. Their good deeds prompted his,” Keelin explained when the driver headed for the kitchen entrance, as per Una’s instructions. The housekeeper didn’t want Brigid seeing the guests arriving and entering through the front door, to spoil the surprise. The kitchen was at the side of the house, out of sight of Mère’s bedroom window.

  “They could have sold it and given the proceeds to charity. Or they could house homeless people in it,” Imelda retorted, unimpressed with talk of good deeds.

  “Even nuns need a holiday,” Keelin said mildly, determined not to get into an argument with her mother, as the bus drew to a halt.

  Imelda’s lips tightened. “ ‘Nuns need a holiday’ indeed, and half the world starving and the Church owning assets worth billions. But then you can’t criticize the nuns to Keelin. She always takes their side.”

  Imelda could see that her dart had stung. She hauled herself out of the seat, listening to the excited chatter around her. Felicity, her daughter-in-law, was chatting on her mobile to Cormac, who had stayed at home to run the supermarket and mind the children, telling him they’d arrived at the party. Her brother John with his big booming voice, slagging Willie Sheedy about the fancy waistcoat that Rita had made him wear to the “Nun’s Party.”

  “ ’Twas more than my life was worth not to,” Willie said good-humouredly. “And I see you’re wearing a new pair of swanky braces yourself.”

  “They’ll see me to the grave,” John joked, and the two couples laughed at their good-natured banter.

  Imelda had no one to banter with. She was a widowed outsider without the bulwark of a spouse in social situations. A sharp arrow of self-pity pierced her heart. Why couldn’t she be like all the others, looking forward to a night of fun and laughter? It was because of the secrets that she carried. And the sadness. It was hard keeping it all inside, especially when Keelin lauded Larry and his many great attributes. Imelda had attributes of her own that none of her family would ever give her credit for because they knew nothing of her stoicism and loyalty towards her deceased husband, despite the grief he had caused her.

  Why was the past coming back to haunt her so much these days? Hadn’t she dealt with her demons? She’d got on with life, as she always did, but at moments like these—especially at moments like these—memories would surface and tsunamis of resentment would sweep over her and bring out the worst in her. She would make a real effort tonight. She might even enjoy herself. Now wouldn’t that be something, Imelda thought in a rare moment of amusement, stepping off the bus to follow the Sheedys inside.

  Una was standing at the back door, resplendent in tailored black t
rousers and a scarlet silk boat-neck top.

  “Well, don’t you look posh, Una,” Imelda declared when the housekeeper greeted her.

  “And pretty glam you’re looking, too, Imelda.” Una laughed. “I love the outfit. That blue is a lovely colour on you.”

  “I got it in Brown Thomas.” Imelda was immensely pleased with the compliment. She didn’t let on that she’d got her dress in a sale, for half price. “And I’m a great fan of the Radley handbags, so I treated myself to one.” She held out her clutch for inspection.

  “How pretty,” Una said, but her attention was elsewhere, having spotted Keelin behind Imelda’s daughter-in-law, Felicity. “Go on into the big parlour, Imelda,” she said, ushering her in, leaving Imelda feeling she’d been dealt with and was now not even on Una’s radar. She followed her neighbours into the large, high-ceilinged room, filling up with nuns and other guests.

  At one end an enormous table, decorated with sprigs of red-berried holly and trails of ivy, awaited the feast from the kitchen. Beside it, a smaller table held shiny glassware, plates, and cutlery wrapped in linen napkins. Of course the nuns wouldn’t use paper serviettes like the rest of them, Imelda thought, admiring the bushy, perfectly proportioned, decorated nobilis fir that dominated the bay window. The scent of fresh pine was lovely and she inhaled it appreciatively. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and the buzz of convivial conversation from guests seated on the old-fashioned chintz sofas, or standing in little knots chatting together, made Imelda feel unaccountably sad.

  Oh, why did I come? she thought wretchedly. She’d known all along that she’d hate it. This place brought back unhappy memories of the rows she’d had with Keelin, Brigid, and Larry.

  “It’s Imelda, isn’t it? You’re Brigid’s sister. I’m Marie-Hélène. I remember you coming to visit once, before Keelin moved to Dublin.” A bright-eyed, effervescent nun with a vaguely familiar face came and stood beside her.