‘I more remember the mighty rows that used to go on – Daddy was a divil for cheating,’ Imelda retorted, and the two of them laughed, united by the memory of a happier time in their lives.

Please let there be no rows. Please let this be a time of healing, Brigid prayed silently as Imelda washed their cups and she dried them. So far the hour she’d spent with her sister had been unexpectedly pleasant, but there were five more days to get through, and with Imelda, anything was possible.

*

The trip up to the capital had sped by, Imelda reflected, taking the Ballymun exit of the M50. She indicated to get into her lane to turn left at Northwood. Now that they were getting close to the hotel she was beginning to feel nervous. In a couple of hours she would be face to face with her daughter. She knew it was an encounter that neither of them were looking forward to.

They hadn’t spoken yet. Imelda had sent a text saying that she was looking forward to the trip to Scotland, and rather pointedly, she supposed, adding that it was nice to be included.

Keelin had responded with an equally insipid text saying that she was looking forward to it also and that she was glad Marie-Claire could join them, and that three generations of the family would be on Iona to give honour to Mary Magdalene.

Nothing about the row at Brigid’s party. And not a word about Armand. She would have to apologize, Imelda supposed, but the old indignation began to rise and she felt herself becoming grumpy.

Stop it! She silently rebuked herself. She’d given herself a talking-to that morning before Brigid arrived, telling herself to be on her best behaviour and not to make snippy remarks. It actually hadn’t been as hard as she’d anticipated. Brigid had been most affable and interested in all that was going on around her as they zipped along to Dublin.

‘That’s a very nice building, very modern,’ Brigid observed, noticing a curved glass structure to the left of them.

‘That’s the Santry Sports Clinic. That’s where I had my hip done, under Denis Collins. He does complicated ones,’ Imelda informed her. ‘And if you ever have trouble with your shoulder, go to Hannan Mullett. He’s an expert. The best in the country,’ she added knowledgeably. ‘I get cortisone injections from him for the pain. I hurt my shoulder after hauling Larry’s mother into a sitting position in the bed, back when I was minding her.’

‘Oh dear,’ murmured Brigid. ‘Lifting people is difficult. When I was doing my nursing training all those years ago, I knew dozens of nurses and nuns with crocked backs and shoulders from lifting. Lifting children was so much easier.’

‘Do you know, I almost forgot you did nursing,’ Imelda remarked, driving into the car park of their hotel.