The Honey Queen. Cathy Kelly

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      Chapter Four

      The wedding invitation felt as if it was burning a hole in Opal Byrne’s handbag. It was the gold envelope that was part of the problem. Gold envelopes, rather. The sight of so many of them on the mat that morning had given her quite a shock, and she’d hastily gathered them up without a word to either Ned or Freya. There were the usual bills (brown envelopes), fliers (white envelopes), something tax-related (a brown, evil-looking envelope) for Brian and there, in the middle, like a bit of false fairy glitter come to St Brigid’s Terrace, the five gold envelopes.

      Noel and Miranda Flanagan invited Opal and Edward Byrne to the wedding of their beloved daughter, Elizabeth, to Brian Byrne in the Church of the Holy Redeemer, Blackfields, Co Cork, and afterwards to a dinner in the Rathlin Golf and Country Club.

      Opal’s mind had gone blank then. There was one for her and Ned – why hadn’t they called him Ned? Nobody called him Edward – except for his mother and she was dead, God rest her, and had never so much as set eyes on Liz’s parents. Another one for Freya and guest, although that was asking for trouble because Freya would do her best to find the least country-club-looking one of her friends and pitch up with him just for pure devilment. Freya had a hate/hate thing going on with Liz’s mother, and the wedding would be the perfect opportunity to up the ante.

      And there was one each for David, Steve and Meredith plus guests, which Opal felt was for some reason an insult to Meredith and the boys, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why yet.

      Meredith had a flat – sorry, apartment – in the city with panoramic views, curtains that closed if you pushed a button and a sports car that had no room for groceries in the boot, not that Meredith was likely to venture into a supermarket. Miranda could have asked Brian for the address and posted the invitation to Meredith’s apartment but she hadn’t. She knew David and Steve’s address because it was the same as Brian’s. But no, she’d sent them all to St Brigid’s Terrace, which was the same as saying ‘You’re all from the wrong side of town, no matter how posh Meredith’s address is these days.’

      That was it. That was the insult. Opal fumed quietly as she walked towards the shops.

      Redstone was a suburb that had only recently been deemed ‘up and coming’ after years of being considered ‘the wrong side of town’. Opal had been raised half a mile from here and recalled how everyone had looked down on Redstone in those days. It was the place where men with ‘bad backs’ avoided earning a living and instead spent working hours listening to the radio in the bookies. The houses were lined up in terraces and women stood chatting over the fence as they hung the washing out.

      That was how it was between her and Molly next door. As soon as she saw Opal out at the line with her laundry basket, Molly would come out with a cup of tea for her and they would talk.

      Now that Ned had taken early retirement from the bus depot, he might come out to do a bit of pottering in the garden and Molly would make him tea, too.

      Not everyone was as lucky with their neighbours, Opal knew.

      St Brigid’s Terrace had changed a lot over the years. During the boom, property prices had gone up wildly on the terrace and in Redstone in general. Several new housing estates had been built on the fields beside the old lightbulb factory, which had been turned into an apartment complex with electric gates. And the crossroads in the centre of Redstone no longer boasted four pubs, two chippers and a bookie’s. Instead, there was her friend Bobbi’s beauty salon, a delicatessen, the bakery, a mini-market that sold expensive ready-meals, two cafés, a bank, a boutique that sold outrageously priced clothes, and the wool and craft supplies shop that was due to open soon. Opal was thrilled about that because she loved knitting.

      Opal’s mother wouldn’t have recognized the place. She wouldn’t have recognized Opal either, now that she had highlights in her hair every few months.

      Freya had made her do that.

      ‘Aunt Opal, I can see bits of grey. It’s not a good look,’ Freya had said kindly the year before.

      It was funny, Opal thought, that after raising three sons and one daughter, it was the niece she’d taken into her home who was lighting her life up now that she was within striking distance of sixty.

      Freya brought her home the first daffodils of February; it wouldn’t have occurred to the boys to do such a thing. Freya was the one who noticed when Opal’s ankles were swollen on Sundays and made whoever was over for Sunday lunch pitch in and help out so their mother could sit down.

      Meredith would have noticed too, Opal thought loyally, but she was always too busy to drop in to see them at weekends. The boys were different. They liked a good feed on a Sunday. She invited Meredith to these lunches but Meredith rarely came. When she did, she barely ate. She was so slim that Opal worried her daughter wasn’t eating properly.

      Opal was quite sure that cooking wasn’t Meredith’s strong point. She’d refused to do Home Economics in school. Even back then, her mind had been set on loftier things. Whenever she thought about Meredith, Opal felt a sense of failure. They didn’t have mother-and-daughter days out the way some of her friends did. Meredith had never suggested they go away for a weekend to one of those spa places, though she knew Meredith liked those stone treatments and suchlike. Opal had never been herself and, to be honest, she wouldn’t have cared for it. But she’d have gone if Meredith asked her. Except Meredith didn’t ask.