‘I’d say very shortly. There’s our Mother General, and two of our nuns from the Mother House in France coming in now. Excuse me, Imelda, I’d better go and say bonsoir.’

Imelda watched the nun make her way through the room, casting a word here, a smile there, to the guests she knew. She remembered her now: young, vibrant, cuddling Marie-Claire and singing to her, charmed with the child in her arms. Imelda had felt at the time that Marie-Hélène would never stick religious orders, being too exuberant and full of life, and yet here she was, still a nun more than thirty years later, and as lively as ever. She must have had a true calling – unlike Brigid, in whose honour this party was being held, Imelda seethed, watching how all the nuns deferred to the Mother General as though she were the most important person in the room. The French nun carried herself with an air of great authority and hauteur. It was wasted on Imelda. She didn’t take to people who had high opinions of themselves. She could be as haughty as any French Mother General, let there be no doubt about that.

A young waitress carrying a tray of glasses filled with red and white wine offered her a drink. Imelda took a glass of red. She might as well drown her sorrows and make the evening more bearable. She heard her brother’s chortling guffaw and turned to see him enveloping Una in a hug. Well may he laugh, she thought resentfully. He’d never understood how she could be so angry with Brigid and Sean for leaving Ardcloch in their youth.

‘Everyone has to tread their own path,’ he’d pointed out once when she started on one of her rants.

‘Convenient for them. You and I were left to carry the can.’

‘Ah be easy, woman, and stop giving out. Didn’t you do well out of it in the end?’ was his tetchy response. She wondered what was the great present he’d bought for Brigid. That she was curious to know.

‘Everything OK, Mam?’ Keelin arrived at her side.

‘I don’t like this place. I never did. I’ll be glad when this party is over, Keelin,’ she said bluntly, taking a good slug of wine. Her daughter’s face darkened.

‘Keep your voice down, for goodness’ sake, Mam. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn’t have come,’ she hissed.

‘And have everyone talking? I think not. They had enough to talk about years ago,’ Imelda snapped, annoyed at her daughter’s rebuke.

‘Mam, stop it!’ Keelin turned on her heel and walked away, furious.

Imelda felt like going after her daughter and smacking her. Could no one on this earth understand her point of view?