The Liberation of Brigid Dunne

by Patricia Scanlan

  “That was a long time ago,” Imelda remarked, glad of the opportunity to chat to someone.

  “It’s hard to believe so many years have passed and Marie-Claire has turned thirty. Doesn’t time fly? I was not long out of the novitiate, that summer she was born. In fact, I was there for her birth. I’d been in a car crash and was sent down here to recuperate after my surgery. RM was so good to me. So kind. I can’t believe she’s retiring—and eighty to boot,” Marie-Hélène said. “I can’t wait to see her face when she comes down and sees us all here.”

  “And when will that be?” Imelda asked, glad of the change of subject.

  “I’d say very shortly. There’s our Mother General, and two of our nuns from the Mother House in France coming in now. Excuse me, Imelda, I’d better go and say bonsoir.”

  Imelda watched the nun make her way through the room, casting a word here, a smile there, to the guests she knew. She remembered her now: young, vibrant, cuddling Marie-Claire and singing to her, charmed with the child in her arms. Imelda had felt at the time that Marie-Hélène would never stick religious orders, being too exuberant and full of life, and yet here she was, still a nun more than thirty years later, and as lively as ever. She must have had a true calling—unlike Brigid, in whose honour this party was being held, Imelda seethed, watching how all the nuns deferred to the Mother General as though she were the most important person in the room. The French nun carried herself with an air of great authority and hauteur. It was wasted on Imelda. She didn’t take to people who had high opinions of themselves. She could be as haughty as any French Mother General, let there be no doubt about that.

  A young waitress carrying a tray of glasses filled with red and white wine offered Imelda a drink. She took a glass of red. She might as well drown her sorrows and make the evening more bearable. She heard her brother’s chortling guffaw and turned to see him enveloping Una in a hug. Well may he laugh, she thought resentfully. He’d never understood how she could be so angry with Brigid and Sean for leaving Ardcloch in their youth.

  “Everyone has to tread their own path,” he’d pointed out once when she started on one of her rants.

  “Convenient for them. You and I were left to carry the can.”

  “Ah, be easy, woman, and stop giving out. Didn’t you do well out of it in the end?” was his tetchy response. She wondered what was the great present he’d bought for Brigid. That she was curious to know.

  “Everything OK, Mam?” Keelin arrived at her side.

  “I don’t like this place. I never did. I’ll be glad when this party is over, Keelin,” she said bluntly, taking a good slug of wine. Her daughter’s face darkened.

  “Keep your voice down, for goodness’ sake, Mam. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn’t have come,” she hissed.

  “And have everyone talking? I think not. They had enough to talk about years ago,” Imelda snapped, annoyed at her daughter’s rebuke.

  “Mam, stop it!” Keelin turned on her heel and walked away, furious.

  Imelda felt like going after her daughter and smacking her. Could no one on this earth understand her point of view?

  A ripple of excitement at the door made her turn her head in time to see her older sibling, an expression of eye-widening astonishment, followed by delight and happiness, chasing across her fine features. Brigid might be eighty, but she looked twenty years younger and her skin was soft and unlined beneath her veil.

  “I don’t believe it,” Brigid gasped. “How? When? Una!” She turned to the housekeeper, who was beaming from ear to ear. “You rogue!” Brigid declared before she was enveloped in a flurry of hugs as her sister nuns clustered around her.

  Like a flock of chattering crows, Imelda thought unkindly as jealousy once again swept through her.

  Brigid made her way into the room, guests hugging, kissing, and congratulating her. She caught sight of Imelda and her face lit up. “You came!” she exclaimed warmly, leaning forward to kiss her. “Imelda, I’m delighted.”

  “I’m your sister; why wouldn’t I? Sure, don’t we have to make a fuss of you?” Imelda pecked her on the cheek.

  “Honestly, Imelda, I hadn’t a clue. It’s such a surprise,” Brigid confessed, the sly sarcasm sailing over her head. “You look marvellous. That colour is lovely on you.”

  Imelda softened at her sister’s compliment. “And black suits you,” she reposted humorously, and they both laughed.

  “And the Sheedys came, and the Mother General, and oh Lord… it’s Keelin!” Brigid’s face was alight with joy as she held out her arms to her niece.

  “Mère, oh, Mère, it’s so good to see you. Happy, happy birthday.” Keelin put her arms around her beloved aunt and hugged her tightly. A pain, sharp as the thrust of a knife in her heart, stabbed Imelda, viewing the tableau of love and affection in front of her.

  If she lived to be a hundred, Keelin would never kiss and hug her with the love and warmth she had for Brigid. That look of joy would never cross her daughter’s face for her! Afraid that she might cry, Imelda finished her wine and made her way out of the crowded room to find the downstairs restroom. She needed to be alone for a few moments to compose herself.

  She heard Una announce that dinner was going to be served immediately so it wouldn’t be overcooked, and that everyone was to tuck in; speeches could be made later and presents given to the guest of honour. Una was such a little dictator, Imelda thought crossly, wondering would she be able to eat anything when the lump in her throat was so big. She locked the door of the small bathroom behind her and leaned against it. Seeing how truly loved Brigid was, and how contented and serene she seemed, only emphasized her own sense of failure and disappointment with life.

  Coming down here to the Four Winds had been a big mistake. It had stirred up memories and emotions she thought she’d buried deep. If only she had her car she could drive back to the hotel, her glass of wine notwithstanding. But she was trapped here until the party was over whether she liked it or not.

  Imelda took several deep breaths and retouched her lipstick before opening the door. “Howya, Imelda!” Maura, Una’s younger sister, hurried past with a tray of condiments. “Isn’t it a splendid party? It all worked out perfectly,” she remarked gaily over her shoulder.

  “Splendid,” Imelda echoed drily, promising herself one more glass of wine to get through the evening. She wasn’t a big drinker, but sometimes, she acknowledged, a woman needed help to endure an ordeal.

  * * *

  Brigid, seated in an armchair by the fire, listened to the laudatory words of her brother John and almost wept. She’d just finished Skyping with her brother Sean in Perth, and his words of congratulation had touched her deeply. She’d never felt so loved in her entire life, never felt so cherished. To have her life’s work affirmed so generously by everyone at the party was very touching. And, for the first time, she felt able to acknowledge that, yes, she had done good work during her time on the Missions and, she hoped, changed people’s lives for the better. She could look her God in the eye on Judgement Day and say she’d at least done that.

  “… and so my dear sister, Philly”—John smiled at his wife—“and I want to gift you this, with all our love.” He handed her a small green book, and she saw that it was a Post Office book, with her name on it. “We deliberately waited until you were retired, because we knew otherwise you would probably give it to the Order. It’s our wish”—he glanced at the Mother General—“that you use what’s in this account to travel, spend time with us in Ardcloch, or do with it whatsoever you wish. Don’t you agree, Mother General?” He turned to the nun who was standing beside him.

  “Mais oui! Of course,” she agreed. “Reverend Mother Brigid is now retired. The rules on personal wealth no longer apply.”

  “Excellent.” John laughed. “Because you’re not getting it.”

  “John,” murmured Brigid reprovingly, opening the book. Her jaw dropped when she saw the amount. Thirty thousand euros! “John, Philly, I can’t take thi
s—”

  “You can and you will,” he decreed. “Our parents left the farm to me because I was the eldest. Which I know was the tradition in those days, but which, as Imelda has pointed out on numerous occasions, is most unfair. Our Imelda always stands up for herself when she feels she is being hard done by,” he joked, winking at Brigid. “I felt you were hard done by. Imelda and Sean got their whack when I sold some of the land to a developer a while back, and this is your entitlement. Enjoy it. You more than deserve it. You gave up your life for others; now it’s our turn to give something back to you. And that’s the end of my speech,” he added, “because I hate making them.”

  Everyone laughed as he stepped back to allow the Mother General to take his place, and, because he had his back to her, he didn’t see the look of outrage on Imelda’s face.

  “I only served as any nun would serve God and her Order. I’m truly nothing special. It was an honour to work in Senegal. I can’t thank you enough for all your kindness to me; I don’t deserve it,” Brigid said, eyes bright and shining with tears.

  “You can say that again,” Imelda muttered from behind Keelin. She was incandescent and mortified at her brother’s throwaway jibe. Everyone turned to look at her, standing with a fierce glint in her eyes that boded ill to all who knew her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Em… I see my sister is agreeing with me,” Brigid said with wry humour. “Thank you, Imelda, for never letting me forget my place.”

  “If you really knew your place you wouldn’t be standing there, pontificating and pretending to be so humble!” Imelda’s eyes were black beads of anger.

  “Mam, stop it!” Keelin hissed. “Don’t ruin Aunt Brigid’s party.”

  “You needn’t talk, madam,” Imelda said sharply as an awkward silence descended on the guests. “You’re as bad as she is.”

  “Imelda, please. Control yourself,” Brigid said with years of authority in her tone.

  “You’re telling me to control myself? How dare you, Brigid Dunne. How very dare you!” Imelda marched up to her sister and turned to face the group. “Look at her—the Reverend Mother. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her holy mouth. Well, she’s not as holy and reverend as you all think she is. Sure you’re not, Brigid? And you never had a vocation!” She glowered at her sister. “Throwing yourself at Johnny Larkin. I saw the pair of you up against their barn. You weren’t thinking of the Virgin Mary then, were you, when you were hooring around with him and letting him go all the way with you? I saw you. And then you legged it from Ardcloch when this lot”—she waved in the direction of the Mother General—“gave you an escape route. I’m right, aren’t I?” she demanded.

  Brigid inhaled, shocked, blanching under her sister’s vicious onslaught. “Imelda!” she whispered as the stunned guests gasped, not knowing where to look.

  “Mother!” exclaimed Keelin, horrified. “That’s enough! Stop it right this minute. You should leave.” She went to take her mother’s arm, but Imelda shook it off. “You, miss! Don’t you tell me what to do. You disgraced the family, too, after she”—Imelda pointed a shaking finger at her sister—“persuaded you to enter the convent, against my wishes, and then you forgot your vows of chastity—”

  “Imelda!” Marie-Claire’s stomach lurched and her heart began to race as she saw her normally placid father’s eyes darken with fury.

  “What’s wrong with you, Priest?” Imelda sneered. “Did you know, Father Donnelly”—she turned to Butlersbridge’s parish priest—“that my son-in-law here was once one of your lot, until he got his hands on my daughter and made her pregnant—”

  “Granny!” Marie-Claire gasped, looking from Keelin to Armand in shock. Her dad had been a priest! Her parents had never told her that. “Is this true?” Marie-Claire asked her mother, her voice little more than a whisper. The look of dismay and shock on her parents’ faces was enough to confirm Imelda’s revelation.

  “Now, now, em… missus, eh… Imelda, have you been drinking? There’s no need for this,” Father Donnelly blustered, his florid face like a lumpy tomato atop his Roman collar.

  Keelin, weeping now, turned to her husband. “I’m so sorry, Armand, that she would treat you like this. Marie-Claire, forgive me.”

  “Imelda, that’s enough!” Brigid raised her voice.

  “Granny, you should be ashamed of yourself.” Marie-Claire couldn’t hide her disgust at her grandmother’s spite.

  “You’re one to talk, missy. Aren’t you so lucky you live in an era when you can try out various men until you find the one that suits you? You don’t have to worry about chastity like my generation did—not that your dear Mère was too bothered about it, either,” Imelda snapped. “At least I was chaste and pure until I got married. I didn’t give myself airs and graces, and pretend to be something I wasn’t. The hypocrisy in this room tonight is sickening—and my own brother there has the cheek to make smart comments about me in front of a crowd of strangers. I’m sorry if I’ve put a blight on the evening, but I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m not condoning any of your lies—”

  “Imelda, stop making a show of yourself. Get your coat!” John ordered, so sternly that Imelda stopped mid-sentence. “Get your coat,” he barked. “You’re leaving. Brigid, I’m very sorry about this,” he said, taking his elder sister’s hand. “Forget all she’s said. She’s only jealous of you. Always has been—”

  “Jealous, you say!” Imelda’s voice shook with anger. She didn’t care anymore. All the resentment she’d swallowed down for years erupted out of her and she wasn’t going to stop now. The wine had loosened her tongue. There was no going back.

  “My sister took everyone I ever loved away from me. My first love was Johnny Larkin. Did you know that, Brigid?” She turned back to her sister. “He stopped walking out with me when I wouldn’t part my legs. Not like you. And then you had the nerve, the absolute hypocritical nerve, to enter the convent and leave me to be a slave to that damned farm. Notions that were paid for by Daddy. There was nothing left for me after he paid your dowry to that French lot, so you wouldn’t have to be cleaning their kitchens and toilets. Not for you to be on your hands and knees scrubbing floors and cooking and washing, like I had to for Mammy and Granny—”

  “Imelda, please, control yourself. This is so unseemly,” Brigid commanded, amazed that her voice was so firm and authoritative, because her knees had started to knock and she was shaking inside.

  “That’s rich, coming from you.” Imelda’s eyes flashed fury. “Do you know what it was like for me, to have to watch all the fuss that Daddy and Mammy made of you, knowing what I knew and knowing that I would be the one left to look after them in their dotage? Oh, you took the easy way out, didn’t you? And never looked back. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You took my daughter, brainwashing her with your talk of life on the Missions! And then we had to live with the shame when she left the convent and came down here to have her illegitimate baby. Oh yes, the word got out eventually, after Larry died. The rumours flowed in Ardcloch and Glencarraig. But I kept my head high even though inside I was utterly ashamed.

  “And now you”—she turned to Marie-Claire—“you’re my grandchild, and where do you come and spend your holidays? With your precious Mère, down here in the back of beyond,” she sneered. “And I’m lucky to get a flying visit. And your parents, with their New Age nonsense, couldn’t even be honest with you, while I have to stay silent? Not anymore. I’ve had enough. I might be out of line, but Reverend Mother Brigid took you from me, too, and that’s the way it is and—”

  “Now you listen to me, Imelda,” Brigid said in a tone that brooked no argument. “It was never my intention to take anything from you. I didn’t know about you falling for Johnny Larkin. I didn’t know you’d walked out with him, because you never spoke about anything like that to me. And yes, perhaps I was to blame for Keelin entering the Order, but I never took her or Marie-Claire from you—you drove them away all by yourself. I’m sorry that you feel t
his way and have held this bitterness inside you for so long. But now you’ve had your say, in front of all the ones I hold dear. And you should be very pleased, Imelda, because tonight you have taken everything from me.” Brigid was wraith white, but she held her head high and turned to her Superior.

  “Mother General, I apologise on behalf of my sister, for the discomfort her behaviour has caused to you and all our guests. Una, I’m so sorry your beautiful party has been ruined. If you’ll all please excuse me, I’m sure you’ll understand that I need to be alone to pray about what has occurred here this evening. Continue to partake of the hospitality of the house. I will be at your disposal tomorrow and we can discuss what needs to be discussed.” She gave a small bow to everyone and left the room at her usual measured pace.

  Maura’s mouth was a round O as she absorbed all she’d heard. Her Majesty Brigid had been royally shagged before entering the convent. She wouldn’t die wondering. Strangely, Maura was glad for the elderly nun. At least she’d had one rub of the relic! A bit of ould sex couldn’t be beat.

  “Are ya happy now, ya mean-spirited briar?” Una couldn’t contain herself, rounding on Imelda with fury.

  “Una!” The Mother General’s warning tone was enough to stop the housekeeper in her tracks. “I’ll deal with this.” She fixed Imelda with a basilisk stare. “I think, perhaps, it’s best if you leave, and that we retire.”

  “I’m not one of your nuns. You can’t tell me what to do,” Imelda retorted.

  “Thank God, in His Divine Mercy, that you’re not.”

  The Frenchwoman’s withering retort took the wind out of Imelda’s sails and she flushed with anger, the red tide creeping up her neck to her hairline.

  “Allez!” The nun pointed imperiously to the door. Imelda turned on her heel and followed her sister through the doorway.

  It was as though everyone in the room exhaled when she disappeared out into the hall.