‘That’s true enough,’ Kathleen said, looking up from her knitting. ‘Although if my coat reeks of burnt scones, it’s you I’ll be sending the dry cleaning bill to.’
‘Ah sure, hang it in on the washing line for half an hour when you get home. Give it a good airing and it’ll be good as new. There’s not enough money in a pot of tea and a currant bun for the likes of the drycleaners.’
Kathleen’s mouth twitched, she did so enjoy getting a rise out of Alma.
‘Stop baiting her, Kathleen, would you?’ Agnes paused in her lightning-fast stitches.
She could knit with her eyes closed, Noreen thought, eyeing her needles, from beneath which the beginnings of a mustard sweater were emerging.
‘You know what she’s like. She’ll refuse to top the pot up unless we pay for another brew. How’re you, Noreen?’ Agnes asked, turning her wily blue eyes on her friend.
Noreen would have liked to say she was grand, but she wasn’t, and she’d known these three women too long to bother pretending. She felt as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders despite her visit to Father Peter, though she’d come away clearer in her mind as to what the right thing to do as a good Catholic woman was where Emer was concerned. This was all well and good, but to take the first step towards forgiveness at the wedding was not going to be an easy thing to do. Would the proverbial olive branch withstand the amount of water that had gone under their bridge? ‘I’m right enough, thank you, Aggie.’ That about summed it up she thought, opening her knitting bag and setting her things down on the table. She’d a new project to be starting and she was eager to cast the cheerful red wool on. Perhaps the bright colour would lift her mood.
‘Did you find an outfit for your grand niece’s wedding?’ Margaret asked.
Margaret had seen her waiting at the bus stop the day she’d tripped into town to go shopping. ‘I did. I went to Debenhams and decided on a green dress with three quarter sleeves, given it’s winter, and a matching jacket. It’s very smart.’
‘And you’ve the shoes, bag and hat too, I hope?’ Agnes chirped, looking at her currant bun. ‘Dust dry, so it is.’ She shook her head.
‘I have, indeed.’
‘You’ll have to give us a fashion show, Noreen,’ Kathleen said.
Noreen nodded, having no intention of doing anything of the sort as she deftly looped the wool over her needles.
‘And what of a present?’ Margaret inquired, pausing in her clacking to sip at her tea.
‘I did well there. I chose a Waterford Crystal vase, one of their lace patterns. It’s lovely so it is.’
There was a low hum of ‘ooh, lucky girl’ along with ‘that would have set you back a pretty penny.’. It was interrupted by Alma placing a cup and saucer down in front of Noreen with more of a clatter than was necessary.
‘I see, so let me get this straight. There’s money for Waterford Crystal vases and the like but not a penny spare for a currant bun,’ Alma muttered.
‘Oh, go on with you if it means you’ll leave me in peace to enjoy my tea, I’ll have one of your buns. No butter mind, Alma, and if I can’t do the zip up on my dress on the day it’ll be you who’s to blame.’
Alma scuttled off to fetch the bun, thoroughly pleased with herself.
As it happened the vase had been generously discounted but nobody needed to know that. ‘Sure, it’s nice to receive something special when you embark on married life.’
She didn’t recall Waterford Crystal or the like being received on her wedding day. From memory there’d been practical things for the kitchen. People didn’t give extravagant gifts back then, there wasn’t the money for it for one thing, and for another, people didn’t expect so much.
‘That was a sigh from the bottom of your boots.’ Kathleen’s keen eyes glanced over Noreen. ‘What’s up with you?’
Noreen pressed her lips together tightly for a second or two as her friend waited for her to speak. ‘Ah, it’s this business of Emer being at the wedding. Did I tell you Rosamunde’s after ringing and telling me it’s time to let bygones be bygones and a wedding is a time full of hope for the future. What was I supposed to say to that?’
The three women clucked in sympathy but it was Agnes who spoke. ‘Not much you could say, Noreen, not without coming across as a bitter old woman. She put you on the spot there, alright.’
‘Exactly, Aggie,’ Noreen said, recalling how Rosamunde had gone on to say, in what she had thought a condescending manner given she was the younger sister, ‘What better opportunity to put things right between the pair of you?’ What Noreen didn’t understand was why it had to be her who had to make the first move. It was Emer who was in the wrong and she’d vocalised this to her sister but Rosamunde had only tutted and said that was the problem where she and Emer were concerned. They were peas in a pod. Far too stubborn for their own good and someone had to reach out first. So, why shouldn’t it be Noreen?
She’d left Father Peter’s the other day having heard the same sentiment from him. She’d also realised, as she’d sat relaying the story of what had happened all those years ago, how much she missed Emer. Her leaving Claredoncally had left a gaping hole in her life and the plain truth of the matter was, Noreen was lonely. She’d come here to Alma’s once a week and meet her friends, listening to them
