Mother of the Bride by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page B

lovely,’ said Helen, giving her a kiss. ‘The hair looks great.’
    â€˜Where are we going?’ asked her mother. ‘Is Lar coming, too?’
    Helen nearly dropped the cup she was drying with a tea towel. Her dad, Larry Hennessy, had died ten years ago.
    â€˜Mammy, you know Daddy’s not coming,’ she said gently. ‘We are going to lunch in Poppies, and then we’ll do a bit of shopping. We’ll get a few groceries, and see if there are a few things you want for Christmas.’
    Her mother gave a little smile as Helen helped her to put on her blue wool jacket. Helen tried to hide her concern as she buckled her mother into the front seat of her car.
    Poppies restaurant was busy, but the waitress managed to find them a table for two near the back. It was a regular haunt, and there were lots of women friends and mothers and daughters having lunch there. Helen and Sheila ordered Poppies’ chicken special and a pot of tea.
    â€˜How are you?’ asked Sheila, patting Helen’s hand. ‘You look a bit tired.’
    â€˜I am tired,’ Helen admitted. ‘There’s a lot to be done with the wedding. I always seem to be rushing around checking things and phoning people and getting prices. I mean, it’s lovely, but there is a lot of work, and I’m trying to give Amy a hand with it all.’
    â€˜Will I be going to the wedding?’ her mother asked hesitantly.
    â€˜Mum, of course you’re coming to Amy and Dan’s wedding! You’re her granny.’
    â€˜I love weddings,’ smiled her mother, as the waitress put the plates of creamy chicken with crunchy topping and salad down in front of them. ‘I’ll get my hair done and wear something nice.’
    â€˜Of course you will,’ laughed Helen, wondering what the hell had got into her mother. She normally demanded a blow-by-blow account of her grandchildren’s doings and love lives, and here she was, acting as if she didn’t remember about Amy’s wedding. She knew old people could be forgetful, but usually her mum was as sharp as they came. She hoped Sheila wasn’t coming down with something.
    â€˜Mum, are you feeling OK?’
    â€˜I’m fine, Helen. My knee is acting up a bit, but I have those tablets Doctor Shaw gave me. Still, I can’t complain at my age about a bit of stiffness when I get up in the morning.’
    â€˜I get stiff myself,’ confessed Helen, wondering what she was going to be like when she was her mother’s age.
    â€˜Are we having a dessert?’
    â€˜You have one, Mum. I’m cutting back for the wedding.’
    â€˜I’ll have a meringue, then.’
    Watching her mother tuck into the huge meringue shell filled with cream, Helen dismissed the nagging sense of worry she had about the old woman.
    Sheila Hennessy was entitled to dislike a home help, and to have a messy kitchen and sitting room. Look at Fran! Some of her other friends had homes like tips, too, and they weren’t near her mother’s age. Old people let things slide. Anyone who ever went to see a house that was up for sale where elderly people lived was usually appalled by the state of it. She and Paddy would probably be the same when they were eighty. No! She was worrying needlessly. There was her mother sitting across the table from her looking pretty in pink andenjoying her favourite dessert. She’d talk to Sylvie. Find out what had happened, and if she couldn’t reconcile the two of them, she’d see if the agency could find Sheila a new home help. Meanwhile, she’d talk to her brothers about getting home help for an extra day a week. Sheila had always treasured her independence and refused to consider moving to a retirement home the way many of her elderly neighbours had done. Helen hoped that her mother would still be able to live alone.

Chapter Fourteen
    Jess studied herself in the mirror. Despite heroic efforts, and using all