They were lost in their own thoughts when Marie-Claire slid a CD into the player. ‘Listen to this. I was at a gig this fabulous singer/songwriter was playing at a while back and I’ve absolutely fallen in love with her. What a voice. What a talent. What a committed activist,’ she enthused. ‘Midwives for Choice, Repeal the Eighth, she’s always quietly working in the background, seeking no fame or glory. But wait until you hear her voice and listen to the song she wrote for the Magdalene women. It blew me away. Her name is Ciara Sidine. It’s called “Finest Flower”.’

She turned the CD on and a voice, pure and resonant with depth and emotion floated from the speakers.

There’s a valley of stone

Deep down in my soul

A restless place where stories roam

Nights when I lie awake

In a traceless haze

Of steam and smoke

There’s a sisterhood of fallen dreams

Landed in a godless place

And oh though I lost you there a long time ago

Oh, my joy to care in a barren zone

Not for one minute of an hour

My finest flower

Did I ever let you go

Mary said she’d get free

Though she made good her plan

Did she know she’d be running still

When out into the night she ran?

For Jenny Dwyer

The same night came

By a fever taken so they told us

They who took her name

And oh though she lost you there a long time ago

To live and die unmarked, unknown

Not for one minute of an hour

My finest flower

Did she ever let you go

Me, I guess that I was blessed

For I knew love

Could know no shame

When I held you to my breast

And called your name

Till the day I found

An empty space

The day I never let you go

Oh the weight of the love you have

But cannot hold

Cos I lost you there a long time ago

My joy to care in a valley of stone

Not for one minute of an hour

My finest flower

Did I ever let you go

My heart my joy my very own

Not for one minute of an hour

My finest flower

No I never let you go

The last poignant notes faded away. Brigid sat stock-still in the back seat beside Imelda, tears pouring down her face. That could have been written about me, if I’d had my baby,’ she wept. ‘But even though I lost her, those words – “Not for one minute of an hour, My finest flower, Did I ever let you go” – that’s my life every day. I think of my child and know that she is always with me. Always,’ Brigid sobbed. Broken.