‘Dear Lord,’ Imelda prayed, five minutes later, swinging the car out of the small car park, ‘please get me home safe, without harming myself or others, and please don’t let me be stopped at a Garda checkpoint. Amen.’ Torrential rain, so heavy the wipers could barely clear it away from the window, and gusting winds, blowing in from the sea, shook her hatchback, causing her to momentarily ponder the wisdom of her decision to leave Butlersbridge on such a stormy night, especially having partaken of two glasses of wine earlier.

It was too late now. She’d checked out, and she just wanted to go home to her own bed and try to forget all that had happened. Nor could she bear the thought of dealing with any of the family the following day. No, onwards she would go, Imelda decided, slowing down at a bend in the road, feeling the wheels almost aquaplane before she regained control. In the distance, to her left, she saw the lights of the upstairs bedrooms in the Four Winds. She would never set foot in that place again, she vowed, turning at the end of the village’s main street to begin her journey inland. As she drew further from the coast, the hedgerows along the narrow, winding roads offered a little more shelter from the harsh night, although after a particularly violent gust, she prayed, again, that there would be no fallen trees to cause her to crash.

The Flight into Egypt had nothing on this, Imelda thought ruefully, popping a mint in her mouth to help her concentrate. She could imagine what would be said about her, when the family discovered that she was gone. Let them say what they liked, she thought defiantly, squinting against the full-beam headlights of an oncoming car. They hadn’t lived her life. She knew she should feel bad about the way she’d behaved, but right now she didn’t care. Imelda felt strangely liberated, as if letting out all the poison trapped inside her had freed her from a past that had imprisoned her for years.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you both lie to me?’ Marie-Claire demanded bitterly of her parents. The three of them were alone in the small parlour; the nuns had all gone to their rooms, and the minibus driver was rounding up his charges to bring them back to Butlersbridge.

‘I wanted to tell you. Your mother dissuaded me. She didn’t want you to know,’ Armand said angrily. He was furious with Keelin and Imelda. And he was mortified. He should have listened to his gut all those years ago and insisted on nothing being hidden.

‘Is that true, Maman?’ Marie-Claire rounded on her mother.

‘Yes,’ Keelin said miserably. ‘But I wanted to protect you. I was worried you’d feel you were different to other children. Was that so awful—’