‘She’s lucky to be getting this chance, Maman. Not many would be as decent to her as you and Brigid are after her outrageous behaviour.’ Marie-Claire raised her glass to her mother. ‘Thank God for alcohol! What will be will be. Let the high jinks begin!’

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

‘Terminal two, because it’s Aer Lingus,’ Imelda announced knowledgeably, looking at her boarding pass as they drove along the M1 to Dublin Airport. She was keen to let her family know that she too was an international traveller.

‘Allegedly,’ Keelin threw her eyes up to heaven. We check in at T2, go through security and then have to traipse over to T1 to get to our boarding gate, and then we have to get on a bus to go out to our plane,’ she grumbled.

‘Well you know, when you go on a pilgrimage, in search of truth, obstacles can be put in the way. You have to prove you really want to seek and find,’ Brigid joked.

‘ “Pilgrimage” is surely a bit overly dramatic. You go on a pilgrimage to Lourdes or the Holy Land. I never heard a trip to Scotland referred to as a “pilgrimage”!’ Imelda scoffed.

Brigid’s lips thinned as the familiar irritation surged. She wondered yet again why she’d suggested inviting Imelda along. She was going to ruin their trip with her nit-picking and sniping.

‘A sacred journey of devotion, no matter where in the world you go, is a pilgrimage,’ she riposted tartly.

‘Hmmm! If you say so. And we have to fly on one of those propeller yokes? Sure, we might as well have taken a boat. We’d be there quicker,’ Imelda fired back.

‘You knew that before you booked – you didn’t have to come,’ Brigid reminded her.

‘Stop it, Mam,’ Keelin ordered crossly. ‘I am not travelling to Scotland, on a quest I’ve longed to go on for years, to have it ruined by petty bickering. Mère is right. This is a pilgrimage and we have to go with whatever is thrown at us and get on with it, propeller planes and all.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much fun,’ her mother said sulkily.

‘It will be, if you allow it to be. And remember, you didn’t have to come. No one twisted your arm.’ Keelin couldn’t hide her exasperation with her mother. The airport came into view, and Marie-Claire drove to the long-term car park. Ten minutes later they were sitting on the link bus waiting to drive to the terminal. ‘When we get airside and are having our coffee, we’ll do a kitty purse. We’ll divide the car parking between the four of us,’ Keelin said when they disembarked at T2.

‘Ah no worries,’ Marie-Claire said, lifting the cases onto the kerb. ‘Let me get a trolley. Four Go Wild in Scotland. Enid Blyton, eat your heart out,’ she said cheerfully, trying to lift the tense atmosphere.