I’m so glad I too have lived long enough to find my own truth, Brigid thought gratefully, remembering the words of Sister Martha who had been in the Suez crisis and lost her faith in the Church. Most of all, she was relieved that she and Imelda had finally made peace with each other. How sad, after all the wasted years, to think they could have been friends if they had trusted and liked each other enough to confide in each other. There was still time left. They could be the friends in old age that they could not be in their youth, and enrich the years they had left. Imelda had mentioned that she would like to go to Lourdes. Perhaps they could take a trip together and then stay with Keelin for a few days. That would be lovely, Brigid thought. Her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep and dreamed she was on the summit of Canigou looking right across to the sparkling blue Mediterranean.

*

‘Now I’m not getting into the habit – excuse the pun – of this drinking lark,’ Brigid avowed, as Marie-Claire urged another glass of red wine upon her.

‘Brigid, that was good . . . “habit” . . .’ giggled Imelda, who had made no protest to the offer of a top-up.

‘It’s the last night of our mini hols, we deserve it,’ Keelin assured them. ‘We’ll all be back to normal next week.’ They were sitting in the comfortable dining room of the Premier Inn, having decided to stay put for dinner instead of going back into Edinburgh. The hum of convivial chat and laughter from the other diners added to their own.

‘I see the Pope’s coming to visit Ireland,’ Keelin remarked. ‘How well I remember John Paul II’s visit in ’79. I’ll never forget walking to the Phoenix Park. Hundreds of thousands of people streaming in from everywhere on that gorgeous morning, and the wave of excitement that swept over us when the Aer Lingus jumbo he was on swooped low over the park. It was the last time the Church was in control and people behaved as good, obedient little Catholics should,’ she added acerbically.

‘It was a great day, all the same. And in Galway, when he said, “Young People of Ireland, I love you,” I actually believed him. And he probably did mean it – but oh, he was such a disappointment in the end,’ Brigid said sadly.

‘He was,’ agreed Imelda. ‘And he’s a saint now for his trouble. This new fella is dishing out sainthoods to beat the band.’

‘Are you going to go and see him, when he comes, Mère?’ Marie-Claire asked.

‘No, dear. Are you?’

‘I think that would be a no too.’ Her great-niece shook her head, smiling.

‘Are you going, Mam?’ Keelin looked across the table at her mother, who was larruping into the wine.