The Ballroom Café
Authors: Ann O'Loughlin
To John, Roshan and Zia … my universe.
My late father, Patrick, was a born storyteller; my mother, Anne, a huge reader. They reared their five children in a house of stories and books. Patrick and Anne O’Loughlin lived in a small place in the west of Ireland, but they opened up the world for us through their love and support. I owe them everything. Thanks is such a small word for the support they gave to me and my dream of writing. Neither would the dream have become a reality but for the unstinting support of my husband, John, and my wonderful children, Roshan and Zia. Not once did they let me give up; I love them all the more for it.
A big thank you to my agent, Jenny Brown, who never wavered in her belief in my writing, and to all at Black and White Publishing, especially director Alison McBride, my editor Karyn Millar and rights manager Janne Moller for their good humour and expert advice.
To all my friends in the world of journalism and law, as well as my local community and those dear to my heart in India; I would never have been able to stay on the road to publication without your warm words of encouragement.
Ann
1
Rathsorney, Co. Wicklow, March 2008
‘You have four more weeks, Miss O’Callaghan. It is the way things are now; the bosses in Dublin want to see some effort towards paying the loan. Otherwise we are going to have to take steps to get our money back.’
Bank manager Peter O’Doherty leaned back on his swivel chair. Raising her head sufficiently to look him straight in the eye, Ella O’Callaghan spoke in a slow, firm voice.
‘What do you propose I do: prostitute myself, Mr O’Doherty?’
‘Miss O’Callaghan, there is no need to be like that.’
‘There is no need to threaten to push me out of my home. I won’t let you. Roscarbury Hall is my life. I won’t let you take it.’
‘Maybe there is something you can sell off to get in some money?’
‘Like my extensive jewel collection, I suppose.’
Peter O’Doherty jumped to his feet, impatiently fingering his bunch of keys.
‘Go home, think about it. Come back next week with some sort of plan for repayment.’
He put out his hand to Ella, but she ignored it.
‘In all my prayerful life, I have never felt so crucified. I will die before I move out of Roscarbury Hall.’
If O’Doherty intended to answer, she did not give him a chance, sweeping out of his office, banging the door. What did he care about Roscarbury, how the old house folded around them in bad times, how it was the only place where she felt safe? The rooms were so cold in winter you could see your breath, the stairs to the attic creaked like a banshee, and the chill winds rattled the window latches in a din of constant tapping. The parkland dipped and rolled away to the lake, so it was impossible for Sheehy the farmer to get his hay cutter properly across it; the rills silted up every year, long after the cherry blossom flowers had gone dark brown and sodden and the oak and old horse chestnut trees had shed their leaves.
Roscarbury existed for the worn days of summer sun, when warm air lingered in the house and the hens had to be hunted from the open back door. It was the starlings gathering and chattering on the wonky television aerial strapped to the first chimney that woke Ella every morning. The crows and pigeons in the fir trees destroyed the stone slabs around the fountain and she had to scrub it down once a month. The overgrown kitchen garden gave fruit for enough tarts through the summer months and luscious pears in a hot spell. Ella could never leave Roscarbury: the mists of the past shrouding the old house webbed around her, keeping her calm.
Peter O’Doherty, if she told him, would not care for any of that. Ella O’Callaghan and her tumbledown house were a small, silly aggravation in his busy day.
*
Roberta O’Callaghan was sipping a dry sherry from a crystal glass when she saw her sister skirt around the house. There was a jizz on Ella; she knew by the way she was pounding along. Her stride was just a tiny bit longer than usual and her step heavier and more determined. Neither did Ella bother to linger at the fountain, as she usually did, to remember better times, when water had tumbled, gurgling and gushing on through the garden rills.
The urgent pushing on the back door, the sharp ping of a cup on a saucer and the powerful surge of tap water into the kettle indicated a heightened anxiety in Ella. Roberta pushed her hip flask of sherry deep in her dark-brown leather handbag and snapped the clasp shut. With a deep sigh she got up from the velvet armchair to hide her glass behind the old atlas on the third shelf of the mahogany bookcase. Ella thrashed about the kitchen, cupboard doors slammed, saucepans placed too heavy on the hob. She burrowed into the kitchen whenever she was troubled, baking her worries away, often lifting cakes out of the oven and scraping them straight in to the bin.
She had first turned to the solace of the kitchen the night their mother and father died. On the way home from a choral recital, John O’Callaghan had no opportunity to react when Sean McCarthy drove his tractor the short trip home from the pub, without even a small light showing. All three were killed in what Rathsorney later referred to as the tragic accident. For days, Ella and Roberta were surrounded by so many people, but within three weeks, the girls were on their own in the big, empty house. With their father gone, so too was his solicitor’s salary. Neither had John O’Callaghan found time to provide for his daughters, so busy was he running Roscarbury Hall and throwing money after horses on a Saturday afternoon. Ella did not waste time on resenting her father’s irresponsible attitude but took their new state of low financial means in her stride. She set to getting in as much money as possible to keep Roscarbury Hall standing. She baked cakes for the Rathsorney shops and took in ironing, to keep up with the bills. Roberta continued doing the outside jobs, as best she could. They got in to a routine every day of doing their chores and delivering the bread and cakes in two big bags, while at the same time catching up on their necessity shopping. They did not move far from Rathsorney, but were sometimes called upon by the department store in Arklow to do relief holiday work and also helped out at the local hardware shop on busy weekends.
When the fountain pump broke down, there was no money to repair it. When the garden needed tending and the plants needed pruning, they did not bother until they had to. When rain leaked into the attic rooms, through gaps left when the slates slipped, they called in Hegarty, the local farmer, who brought his extension ladder and gingerly went out on the roof to tack the slates back in place. When the job was too big for the handyman, Ella managed to organise a loan from a sympathetic bank manager.
Tired of the noise from the kitchen, Roberta made for her bedroom, stopping in the hall to read the note Ella had placed there.
Gerry says he will collect a bit early for 10 Mass. Be ready. Don’t make us late. E.
Ella waited until she heard the knocking of Roberta’s walking stick on the landing overhead before she rang her cousin Iris.
‘I need your help. I think I have a good plan; it is about keeping Roscarbury and making money. I think you are going to approve.’
‘Shoot it out for God’s sake, girl.’
‘No, I don’t have time now. Ten o’clock Mass in the morning.’
She rang off before Iris had time to protest.
*
Ella chose the blue swing coat for Mass, a fitting backdrop to her favourite Weiss brooch, nine balls of Montana blue crystals in a simple circle setting. Her mother had only worn it on special occasions. There wasn’t another one like it, she told her daughter, and Ella believed it. Carefully, she fastened the brooch to her left lapel and stood in front of the mirror, tugging her coat lightly to straighten it. Not that anybody took much notice of her these days.
Gerry O’Hare’s Mercedes lumbered up the avenue. She watched as he eased his immense frame from the driver’s seat, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Leaning against the fountain, he puffed quietly as he waited for the O’Callaghan sisters.
Roberta was already in the back hall, wearing her black coat ringed with fur at the sleeves and collar. Her large grey handbag and gloves reflected the patina of her shoes. The sisters took each other in, without saying a word.
‘Good morning, girls. How are we this morning?’
Gerry O’Hare collected the sisters every Sunday, to bring them to and from Mass. He did it out of kindness, though his Christmas box from the O’Callaghans was exceedingly generous. They put up with his silly ways and sometimes even looked forward to his fake, flirtatious line of talk.
Iris pushed in to the seat beside them, towards the middle of the church.
‘You got me to Mass, Ella. What is it you want?’
Ella stayed looking ahead.
‘Come home with us and we will discuss it.’
‘Couldn’t you spit it out now?’
Ella stiffened on her seat.
‘Mass first, discussion later.’
Iris groaned, refusing to stand when the priest came out onto the altar, and fidgeted so much during the service that Ella elbowed her in the ribs.
‘You will come in the taxi with us?’
‘I won’t set foot in anything owned by Gerry O’Hare. He is no friend, advising that husband of mine with his nuggets of wisdom over a pint. Isn’t it Gerry O’Hare who told my wonderful husband he should fight me tooth and nail for everything I have? He is not a cab driver but a DIY divorce expert.’