Wrath, primal in its origin, scorched through her. ‘How dare you? You impudent article. What about my conjugal rights?’ Imelda hissed. ‘My husband is the one committing mortal sin, and you’re blaming it on me!’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She stuck her face close to the grille, and all the injustice that she and her kind had endured for centuries impelled the words that erupted out of her. ‘This is my last confession, Priest! I’ll never kneel before one of you lot again.’

Imelda stood up and marched out of the dark confessional, blinking in the daylight into which she emerged, wanting to open the door to where that so-called man of God sat and batter him with her fists. The Church be damned, she raged, ushering her children down the aisle ahead of her, and so what if she was cast into damnation? Hell couldn’t be much worse than the life she was living now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

KEELIN

Summer 1972

‘Put the good toilet roll in the bathroom, and fold the first sheet in a triangle. Give the sink a wipe, and for goodness’ sake tidy up those magazines and straighten up your bedspread,’ Imelda said exasperatedly, standing at the door of her daughter’s bedroom with a cross look on her face. Keelin turned from where she was sprawled on her beanbag and lowered her Jackie magazine.

‘Oh Mam!’ she exclaimed, when she noticed her mother’s new hairstyle. ‘I love your hair. It’s like Jane Fonda’s in Klute.’

‘Do you like it? I’m not sure about it.’ Her mother stared doubtfully at her reflection in the oval mirror on Keelin’s dressing table. ‘It’s shorter than what I’m used to.’

‘It’s fab, Mam! Very sophisticated. I like the feathery bits at the side. Wait until Dad sees it.’

‘Huh, I might as well be wearing a pink wig for all the difference it will make to him,’ snorted Imelda, and Keelin felt a surge of irritation. Sometimes her mam could be so mean to Dad and she hated it. But she knew better than to say anything in his defence, so she hauled herself out of the beanbag and went to her bed to straighten the offending bedspread. Why she needed to do this, she’d no idea. Surely the aunt, whom she’d never met, wouldn’t be upstairs snooping in her bedroom.

‘What time is Auntie Brigid coming?’ Keelin changed the subject.

‘Later this afternoon. She’s going to the home place first to pick up Nana and Granddad, and to see Granny Dunne’s grave. When you’ve tidied up here, come down and help me make the egg mayonnaise and cheese and pineapple skewers.’ Imelda studied her daughter, frowning. ‘Change out of those shorts and put a dress on,’ she said briskly. ‘I want you looking your best when you meet your aunt for the first time.’