Later that autumn, Imelda remembered those words, “It could be worse,” and truly despaired. Elizabeth and Tom decided that Granny was too old to be living on her own, day or night, having suffered a couple of falls over the summer. They felt the best option was for her to come and live with them. Now that Brigid was gone, there was room for her.
The brass double bed that Brigid and Imelda had shared was sold, and two new divans installed. “You’ll have a bed all for yourself. No more sharing,” Elizabeth cheerfully pointed out the silver lining.
Imelda was beyond horrified. It hadn’t been all bad, living with her granny. When the old lady went to bed, early, as she always did, Teresa would sneak out for a cigarette and a sip of the altar wine she robbed out of the parochial house where she worked as a maid.
“This is the only thing keeping me going, Teresa,” Imelda sighed the night before moving back home, exhaling a thin stream of smoke in her best Bacall impression before taking a sip of the wine, reassured by the thunderous snores coming from her grandmother’s bedroom. She felt quite the sophisticate, drinking alcohol in the glow of the Tilley lamp, with the flames from the fire casting amber and gold flickering light. There’d be no way she’d be able to drink alcohol in front of her teetotal mother.
Imelda had hung gay coloured scarfs over all the depressing holy pictures in the bedroom and brought her Paul Newman poster to hang on the back of the door. It had been bliss to have the whole double bed all to herself. Now she was going to lose the few perks she’d gained since Brigid’s departure, and her life was going to be even worse than it had been.
“Let me stay on my own in the cottage and Granny can have the room to herself,” she pleaded.
“Indeed, I won’t let you stay there on your own—and after me buying a lovely new bed for you. We’d only be wasting money trying to keep two houses going,” her mother retorted irately.
“But why do I have to share and mind her and do everything for her—”
“How very selfish of you, Imelda. I hope when you’re that age you’ll have children prepared to look after you, miss!” her mother snapped. “When we were young, three of us shared a double bed and your Auntie Peg had a settle bed by the fire—and here’s you turning up your nose at a lovely bed of your own.”
Imelda had had to listen to the old refrain “Have you any idea how lucky you are?” and bury deep her bitter resentments because she knew she’d get nowhere arguing with her mother.
In the middle of September, when the nights became chilly and the trees were on the turn, Imelda and her grandmother moved back to the farmhouse. The welcome luxury of having electricity, rooms blazing into light at the touch of a switch, could not comfort Imelda.
Granny snored like a hippopotamus, and farted great rasping gusts of wind, especially if she ate onions, which she loved. She wouldn’t allow Imelda to read with the “electric” on. What was the point in having this magical bright light if you couldn’t use it? Imelda wept with indignation, to no avail.
So she’d had to read her precious Mills & Boon romance novels under the blankets by torchlight because Granny blew the candle out when it suited her. Worst of all, though, was that Granny Dunne insisted on Imelda accompanying her saying the rosary, though the family rosary had already been recited in the parlour at seven every evening. “Two rosaries a night! I’m saying more prayers than Brigid!” Imelda raged to Teresa one evening, when they met at the crossroads by the pub on their way home from work and stopped to have a chat and a smoke.
“That’s cat altogether,” Teresa sympathized. “You’d better come to the hop in Ballydoran at the weekend and see if you can shift a fella. It’s a good dance for meeting farmers.”
“I don’t want a farmer; I want someone to take me out of this kip,” Imelda moaned. “I want to live in Dublin.”
“Don’t we all,” Teresa said gloomily, dragging the smoke deep into her lungs. “Did you see the new Mrs. Larkin is driving around in a Beetle? Needless to say, it was her da that bought it, not Johnny. He did well for himself, marrying her,” Teresa added conversationally. Teresa always referred to Johnny Larkin’s wife as the “new” Mrs. Larkin to differentiate between her and her mother-in-law.
“Lucky her,” retorted Imelda. “My da won’t ever be buying me a car because he gave all our money to those feckin Missionary nuns so they’d take Brigid.”
“She thinks she’s the bee’s knees, that Larkin one. Why don’t we let the air out of her tyres some night—that would bring her down to earth, literally!” Teresa guffawed.
“I have to go,” Imelda said, stubbing out her fag. “I’ve to cycle over to O’Brien’s with the eggs and there’s a bloody howling gale. I’ll be OK going, but I may as well walk coming home, and I want to be home before dark.” One of her chores was to bring the freshly laid eggs over to O’Brien’s grocery shop in Glencarraig, twice a week.
“Larry O’Brien fancies you,” Teresa teased.
“Well, I don’t fancy him,” Imelda said irritably. “I’ll see you at the dance on Saturday night.” She cycled off down the rocky lane to the farmhouse where her mother had the fresh eggs waiting in the pantry, ready to go.
As she set off for O’Brien’s, her cycling punctuated by deep gusty sighs, Imelda was in a foul mood, thanks to Teresa bringing Johnny Larkin’s wife into the conversation. Though she’d never admit it, she still harboured a deep and unrequited love for the handsome young farmer who had flirted with every girl in Ardcloch and broken more than a few hearts. Her face darkened, assailed by painful memories of her encounters with him the previous year.
Johnny Larkin had been her first kiss, even though she’d been only fourteen and he twenty. He’d been a bit pissed one day when he’d sauntered out of Nolan’s pub and found her trying to mend a puncture on her bike.
“I’ll do that for ya,” he’d said good-naturedly, hunkering down to find where the air was escaping and stick the patch on the hole. She’d looked down at his curly black hair and strong, tanned neck and felt an unaccustomed surge of quivery feelings that made her want to touch his hair and… kiss him. He was an older man, of course, but then the heroes in her romantic novels were always older than the heroines, older and more experienced. She’d watched as he’d pumped up the tyre, admiring the dark hair on his tanned, muscular arms, and his long, strong fingers that made her want him to touch her in her secret hidden places, places that gave her such pleasure.
“There ya go! All ready to take you to Timbuktu and back.”
“Thanks so much, Johnny,” she’d managed breathlessly. “I’m very grateful.”
“Ah, you’re a grand hoult of a girl. Give me a kiss now in return,” he said, grabbing her and planting his mouth firmly on hers, then sliding his tongue in between her parted lips. Imelda was so shocked she opened her mouth even wider, much to his approval. “And a good kisser, too,” he said, eventually drawing away from her when he heard the growling roar of a tractor heading in their direction. “G’wan, before ya get me into trouble.” He laughed as he swung off in the direction of his farm, raising his hand in greeting to Milo Owens when the tractor crested the hill and the cab came into view.
Imelda’s life had changed from that very moment. She was a woman in love—deep, passionate, and all-encompassing love. Her thoughts were full of him. She went to sleep thinking about him, with her hands down between her legs, bringing herself to warm, wet pleasure-filled quivering throbs, though she knew it was a mortal sin and would need confessing. Imelda didn’t care if she went to hell; the pleasure was worth it, although she’d blushed to her roots in the pitch-darkness of the confessional when Father Foster had asked her if “actions” had accompanied her “impure thoughts.”
There had been other interludes, whenever she encountered Johnny on her way between Ardcloch and Glencarraig with the twice-weekly delivery of eggs. Each time her beau, as Imelda thought of him, tried to go further with her. But when he touched her privates, she’d pulled away and said no. Johnny�
�s response was to call her a tease and tell her that he was finished with her.
Her romantic notions, fed by love stories and Hollywood fantasies, were dashed when real-life rejection showed her that dreams were not real and reality sometimes stung, hard.
Imelda had never forgiven him. Watching him parade around Ardcloch with that show-off wife of his was a constant reminder of the intolerable heartache unrequited first love brings in its wake.
“Don’t think about him, the lousy skunk,” Imelda muttered, her words floating off in the air as she cycled.
Larry O’Brien was on his knees, stacking shelves behind the counter, when she walked into the shop with her basket of brown-and-white speckled eggs. “Howya, Imelda,” he said politely, standing up. He was tall and broad shouldered, too, she noted idly, remembering her friend’s teasing.
“Hi, Larry, here’s the eggs.” She laid the basket on the counter.
“They’re a grand size, thanks. Let me get you the money for them.”
“You’ve got a cash register!” Imelda exclaimed, admiring the new gleaming chrome machine on the counter.
“I did,” he said proudly. “We have to move with the times. Besides, the mother was getting a bit confused with her tots on Sunday mornings when there was a crowd in after Mass, and I’d have to do hers as well as my own.”
“Franny Moran would love one of these, but she’s too mean to buy one.” Imelda ran her fingers over the round keys.
“I heard you’re working there. How are you getting on?” Larry pressed the key to release the till and counted out some coins.
“All I’m doing is cleaning and polishing, because she does all the serving. She’s very particular. I even have to empty out the screw and nail containers and clean them once a week. She has me well screwed,” she added humorously.
Larry laughed. “Well, I suppose technically my mam is the boss, but she’s leaving much more of it to me now, and I have plans for this place. I’m going to expand and add a butcher’s counter on because I hear so many complaints about Billy McKenna’s down the road. It’s filthy and he’s spending any profits in the bookies and not putting it back in the business. He’s mad. A good butcher shop will always do well in a town or village.”
“That sounds like a great idea.” Imelda was impressed with Larry’s business sense. He was only eighteen, but he seemed like a man on a mission. She liked forward thinkers. “I better be off; the weather’s getting bad and I don’t want to be drenched. It will be bad enough trying to cycle with the wind in my face.” She put the coins in her purse.
“Here’s a bar of chocolate for the road, to keep you going,” Larry offered kindly, and she smiled delightedly.
“Thanks. I’ll enjoy that,” she assured him, giving him a wave, and had two squares in her mouth before she hopped up on her bike.
* * *
When Larry O’Brien asked her to dance the following Saturday evening, in what was grandly called the ballroom but which was in fact an old renovated barn with a corrugated tin roof, Imelda agreed. A shopkeeper’s son who was presentable enough was as good as, if not better than, a bought farmer any day, she decided, watching surreptitiously as Johnny Larkin whirled his young wife around the dance floor, oblivious to her. And it was that total lack of awareness of her very existence that was the sharpest cut.
“I was talking to the mother…” Larry’s words intruded on her thoughts as he guided her around the dance floor. He was a good dancer, Imelda noted. “And she’d be happy just to come into the shop on Sunday mornings. She’s been working in it all her life and she’d like to retire. I… eh… I was wondering, Imelda, would you be interested in leaving Franny’s and coming to work in my shop?”
“And would you let me use the till?” she teased.
“I would.” He laughed.
“And would you pay me better than what I’m getting in Franny’s?”
“I would do that, too.”
“I’ll hand in my notice so,” Imelda agreed. The shop in Glencarraig was busy all the time, unlike the hardware store, where the hours often dragged. Imelda liked being busy at work. Time went faster.
“Sure, we’ll make a great team.” Larry smiled down at her, his brown eyes crinkling, and she thought if she hadn’t lost her heart to Johnny Larkin, he might have been in with a chance. He wasn’t particularly good-looking. His smile was lopsided, his nose a tad crooked, and his brown hair floppy, but he had a quiet charm and he was a terrific dancer and Imelda loved to dance. And they had a lot in common, as Imelda was to discover in the weeks and months when they worked side by side in the small grocery store for which he had such plans.
He confided that he would like to have studied accountancy, because he loved working with figures. He’d like to have left Ardcloch and gone to live in Dublin, but that was impossible because he was an only child and his father had built up the business from a small corner shop that had sold only the basics, to a well-stocked extended store, only to die of cancer while still a relatively young man. It was expected, now, that Larry would take it over and run the business, and keep an eye on his mother, who was not in the best of health.
Imelda, who had been totally immersed in her own woes, without much interest in anyone else’s, had realised that Larry was a comrade in arms.
He would listen to her ranting and raving about sharing her room with Granny Dunne, or the utter drudgery of her farm chores, nodding his head in empathy. “You’re as trapped as I am, and I’m as trapped as you are. Duty-bound, Imelda, that’s us,” he observed one miserable rainy day as they stood behind the counter, looking at the mist rolling in over the hills, obliterating the view, as the rain grew fierce and heavy, battering the plate-glass windows he’d had installed to brighten up the store.
Every Friday when he handed over her pay, he’d treat her to a box of Milk Tray, her absolute favourite chocolates; then he’d bring her dancing on Saturday and Sunday. And so it was they slipped into coupledom. Imelda had allowed Larry to court her in his shy, awkward way, even though he was second best and always would be and his soft kisses in no way compared to the passion of Johnny Larkin’s. And at the back of her mind she was always hoping that a dishy Sir Galahad would come and rescue her from the dreary drudge of life in the country and whisk her off to the bright lights of the capital.
But no knight in shining armour had come her way, so when, on her eighteenth birthday, Larry had asked her to marry him, Imelda agreed.
She liked her husband-to-be very much. He was kind and stalwart and he made her laugh. But she didn’t love him, not even when she walked up the aisle of the small chapel in her white swing tea-gown-style dress and short veil and he put the ring on her finger and made her his wife.
She would have a house of her own, which thrilled her. They were building it on a plot of land his mother had given them for a wedding present, and Imelda was now, finally, her own mistress. It was, she supposed, watching the roof being put on her new home, an escape of sorts—but a far cry from the life she’d planned.
Chapter Twenty
December 1970
Imelda felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She was sitting in a hospital queue with her mother, waiting for Elizabeth to have a pulmonary function test. They were running late and Imelda had told her mother-in-law that she’d be back from the hospital by three-thirty, so she’d be able to feed Keelin and Cormac after school.
“Excuse me, Mam, I have to go to the loo,” she whispered to her mother.
“Don’t be long in case I get called in,” her mother said nervously. She hated hospitals and doctors.
“Mmmm.” Imelda nodded, afraid if she opened her mouth she’d puke. She hurried down the grim green-tiled corridor at a lick, praying there’d be a cubicle free in the Ladies. Moments later she was doubled over, retching miserably, breaking out in a sweat, the smell of bleach and stale urine making her feel even sicker. When she was finished, she opened the cubicle door and stood at the hand basins, staring at her reflecti
on in the chipped, black-spotted mirror on the wall above them.
Her face was flushed, her brown eyes glazed and watery, and strands of her thick chestnut hair clung limply to her damp cheeks.
She looked like a woman in her fifties, not her thirties, Imelda thought glumly. She splashed her face with cold water, brushed her hair, and reapplied her lipstick. This was her third day in a row to be sick. That and her missed period were enough to tell her that she was pregnant again, and not suffering from a tummy bug as she’d so fervently hoped.
Tears blurred Imelda’s eyes and she struggled to compose herself. She wanted to lie down and cry out in despair at the thought of pregnancy and birthing and minding a new baby and all the stress and extra work it entailed. She had three children: Keelin, her eldest, and only daughter, and her two boys, Cormac and Peter. Three was more than enough. She didn’t want any more. She could just about cope with her life as it was.
A care-worn woman carrying a squalling baby and a holding a lively toddler by the hand came in and Imelda felt a kinship as she swallowed hard and managed a small smile before leaving to rejoin her mother.
She knew Larry wouldn’t mind that she was pregnant. He loved their children and had endless patience with them, far more than she had. She was lucky in that regard, she supposed. She had a good husband who provided well for the family, and who helped her out as much as he could with the children and their elderly parents.
He had taught her to drive after Keelin was born, and bought her a car because he felt she needed to be independent. Being able to drive had balanced, somewhat, the overwhelming sense of being trapped when she’d held her baby daughter for the first time and realised, with a sinking heart, that here was another responsibility, another demand on her, pushing her dreams of living her own life, unchained by the needs of others, away forever.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 11
