Mother of the Bride by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page A

neighbours’ houses, many of which had been sold to be gutted and transformed by their new owners.
    Billy Maguire’s one next door was being extended now. The builders were giving it expensive wooden windows and ceiling-height glass doors that ran the length of the back of the house and opened on to an immaculate paved garden with box hedging, borders of French lavender, and outside silver lighting.
    Helen locked the car and went to the front door. She rang the bell two or three times, waiting for her mother’s footsteps to sound in the hall. Her mother’s hearing was bad; she could see through the patterned glass that Sheila wasn’t coming and opened the hall door with her own key.
    â€˜Mum, it’s me!’ she called loudly, not wanting to scare her as she walked around downstairs. There were newspapers all over the living room, and the curtains were only half-pulled. Passing through the dining room, she noted the table was covered in books and magazines and odds and ends of things. Her mother had become a hoarder of late, unwilling to throw anything out, and even at a quick glance Helen could see some of the papers were months old. The kitchen was worse, with pots and pans atop the cooker and the draining board covered with dirty plates and saucers and cups. Nothing looked clean, and the bin in the corner was overflowing. What was Sylvie, the home help they had hired, doing to have theplace in this state? She was meant to help Sheila twice a week with simple household cleaning and washing.
    â€˜Mum!’ Helen yelled again, hearing movement from upstairs.
    Her mother was sitting in front of the dressing table in the bedroom in her dressing gown, trying to dry her damp hair. Helen stifled her annoyance, as her mother was supposed to have been ready to be collected and brought out to lunch and to the shops.
    â€˜Mum, what are you up to? You told me that you were ready when I phoned you earlier this morning.’
    â€˜I didn’t realize the time, love,’ Sheila apologized, as she tried to manoeuvre the hairdryer.
    â€˜Here, let me do that,’ offered Helen, taking the brush from her mother’s hands.
    Sheila Hennessy might have grey hair but it was still thick and full, with a slight curl to it. She was eighty-four, but was still a very attractive woman. She had great skin and a good figure, with only a touch of arthritis in her hands and trouble with her knee.
    â€˜What happened to Sylvie?’ Helen asked, as she dried the hair.
    Her mother didn’t answer, and Helen made a mental note to phone the home help later and find out what was going on. Her mother had already gone through three other home helps, but with Sylvie – the gentle, calm Filipina who had come to work in Ireland – Helen had thought they had found someone who would stay.
    â€˜She stole my ring,’ her mother whispered.
    â€˜Which ring?’
    â€˜The sapphire one that your father gave me,’ her mother insisted. ‘She was a thief.’
    â€˜Mum, I don’t think Sylvie was a thief,’ Helen protested, searching for her mother’s gold-coloured jewel box. Four rings sat snug on the top layer in their velvet slits, the sapphire among them.
    â€˜Mum!’ She pointed it out. ‘You are wrong. Sylvie’s a lovely girl!’
    â€˜I never liked her.’
    There was no point arguing and Helen concentrated on dryingher mother’s hair. ‘You get dressed, while I go down and tidy the place a bit before we leave,’ she bossed.
    In the kitchen she put on the kettle and filled the sink with hot soapy water, lowering the filthy plates and cups into it. Why her mother had refused to get a dishwasher was beyond her, and she vowed to club together with her brothers and buy her one for Christmas, whether she liked it or not.
    â€˜I’m ready.’ Her mother appeared, smiling, wearing a soft pink pastel twinset and a grey check skirt.
    â€˜You look