The Ballroom Café (14 page)

‘Well, the story is he is sweet on ye.’

‘You should know better than to spread gossip, Muriel Hearty.’

‘Don’t take it so seriously, Ella.’

Ella did not respond. When the women were finished, she decided to close the café early, pushing the big bolt of the front door into place.

She went straight to her room. By now, May Dorkin would have badmouthed her to the whole of Rathsorney and Muriel Hearty would have added her bit of spice. Opening the silver jewellery box, she felt the hard grip on her heart melt slowly. She skimmed over to the small, blue half-moon pin, set in clear blue and sparkling stones. She had worn it only once. This brooch had never been her mother’s. Tracing her finger along the crescent, stopping at the azure rectangular crystal, she felt her heart flutter at the memory of receiving the gift.

It was two years after Michael Hannigan had died, and yet she had still felt guilty at accepting a gift from a man she found attractive. Stephen Kenny was a pen pal. They corresponded for a year, letters going back and forth. At first, they spoke of their faith, because that was what they had in common. Slowly, they gave little details of each other and became friends. When Stephen said he would be in Ireland for a few days and asked if he could call on her, she declined but arranged to meet him in Dublin. The only fancy place she knew grand enough for the occasion was the Shelbourne Hotel.

Ella dressed with understated elegance and got an early train from Rathsorney, making sure to sit on the box pleats of her skirt, to keep them in place. She gave herself plenty of time, arriving an hour early.

When Stephen Kenny came up and introduced himself, she was both embarrassed and proud to be having tea with the tall, broad American in the tan suit. He ordered coffee and spoke loudly in a musical voice Ella found attractive. They had chatted for several minutes when he reached into his inside pocket and took out a small box wrapped in gold paper.

‘I would like you to accept this gift,’ he said.

Flustered, she did not know where to look. ‘There was no need to bring a present.’

He reached out, holding it so she could see the delicate black ribbon, tied in a perfect bow. Slowly, she stretched out her hand and accepted the package.

‘Go on, open it.’

‘It seems a pity to upset this beautiful wrapping.’

‘I think you’ll like it.’

Delicately, she picked at the sellotaped sides, managing to release the little box without tearing the main part of the wrapping. Examining the brooch, Ella felt again the flutter of delight and panic when she saw the blue, crescent-moon-shaped pin.

‘I thought it would be nice to pick up one of the brooches at Weiss for you,’ he said. ‘Please, I would love to see you wear it.’

She self-consciously pinned it to her jacket, sure that others were watching her.

‘Just lovely,’ he said.

Ella straightened before her dressing-table mirror, pinning the brooch to her cardigan. It shimmered like it had done at the Shelbourne and she felt a rush of giddiness.

There was a moment as he sat smiling at her when she indulged in a hope for the future. When he made to get up, she was going to follow.

‘Please stay where you are. It’s Connie, my wife.’

Confused, Ella slipped back into the chair at an awkward angle so that when the other woman put out her hand she could only manage a feeble handshake.

‘I just love the way you write. You have a gift. Stephen here loves getting your letters. We show them to all our friends.’

Ella could hear the piercing pitch of her voice and see the sugary smile. Her words hit her like missiles.

Betrayal swept around her: to think that her words were babbled over and commented on by people she did not know. That her letters were passed around was too painful to bear. Even now, all these years later, she felt her breath catch at the memory. She tugged the brooch off.

She had stood up and excused herself in the Shelbourne, and the Americans stood back, thinking she was going to the bathroom.

At reception, she asked for a sheet of paper and penned a short note, explaining she could not accept a gift from a married man. Her mouth was dry, her back wet with perspiration, as she asked for the note and the brooch in its box to be delivered to Mr Kenny and his party. Hurrying to the railway station, she realised she had been a fool and sat to wait for two hours for her train home. Only when the train had pulled away from the city and she was in a compartment on her own did she allow tears to bubble up.

When a package was delivered to Roscarbury Hall a few days later, Ella knew what it was. A letter accompanied it.

Shelbourne Hotel,

Dublin

3/6/1961

Dear Miss O’Callaghan,

I am so dreadfully sorry for having given you the wrong impression and I ask your forgiveness for my crass stupidity.

Please take this brooch, as a token of my friendship and esteem. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me and that we may continue to correspond.

Yours sincerely,

Stephen

Ella never replied to the letter.

Debbie rounded the rhododendron to see the house sombre, asleep and grand in the morning light. The birds were shrill in full chorus and a fox flitted past the fountain. There was no hint of anybody inside being awake. Treading lightly, she crossed the gravel courtyard by the fountain, the stones crunching under her step. Up close, she could see the stonework on the house needed pointing and the paint on the windows was falling off in wafer-thin slices.

She mooched in to the back yard. In the walled garden, some beds were tidy and had been recently tended, but others were still floundering under a blanket of weeds. She did not see the person wrapped in a wool coat sitting on a wooden bench near the pear trees at the high stone wall.

Unable to sleep, Roberta had put on her warm coat and hat and set off for the kitchen garden, where she sat holding her hip flask by her side. She liked the early mornings, when the blackbirds called out loud and the robins hovered nearby, hoping for crumbs. She had a slice of bread in her pocket. As she sat and worried, her fingers scrunched and broke up the bread until it was time to throw the crumbs out, near the terracotta pots.

Debbie watched as a flutter of small birds descended on the shower of crumbs, picking, jumping and squabbling over the tiniest specks.

Roberta saw her stroll along the shingle path, engrossed in the layout of the beds. Stuffing her hip flask into her handbag, she stood up.

‘Hello. You couldn’t sleep either.’

‘Did I wake you, when I left the house?’

‘Will you walk with me to the pond?’ Roberta said, casting a glance at the kitchen window, where soon Ella would be getting her cake mix ready for the oven.

Debbie hesitated.

‘I don’t bite, Miss Kading. It is lovely by the pond in the early morning, though the ducks do make a racket. They have got quite greedy because the local children throw them bread.’

Roberta led the way across the field, heavy with dew, to a bench at the side of the eucalyptus grove. She patted the seat beside her. ‘Sit, please, Miss Kading.’

Debbie began to shiver with the cold.

‘I know why you are in Ireland. I imagine the whole country does, but please tell me why you are so taken by Roscarbury Hall?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think you are going to gain?’

‘I don’t mean to gain anything.’ Debbie jumped up. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to shower and get the café ready.’

‘Roscarbury Hall is not for sale and it is never going to be for sale.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Roberta stood beside Debbie. ‘You might think you are all pals with Ella, but not one blade of grass, not one china cup will be yours; I will make sure of that. You think you can ingratiate yourself into my sister’s affections. I am telling you, I am watching you and I will not let that happen.’

Debbie turned and walked away, leaving Roberta to shout that it was time she booked a flight.

Ella, on the way to the kitchen, feigned surprise when Debbie pushed in the front door.

‘You should not be going out so early with so little on. You look frozen; you will catch your death.’

Debbie made to go up the stairs when Ella called after her.

‘Next time, don’t be so polite and tell that sister of mine where to go.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Don’t I know my own sister? And I have a good pair of eyes in my head.’

‘For somebody who hasn’t talked to you in so long, she is so protective.’

Ella guffawed, throwing her eyes upwards as she turned to the kitchen. ‘More protective of her interests in Roscarbury, more like,’ she grumbled.

*

Muriel Hearty waved the newspaper frantically as she scurried up the avenue.

‘She is in a dither. Let’s see what gossip has tickled her this morning,’ Ella said, polishing the tables.

Iris, who was about to wash her mug, poured another cup of coffee. ‘I might stick around for this,’ she said, settling into a table near the counter.

Muriel Hearty burst in to the room, her perfume so strong it made Ella and Iris rub their noses. ‘Is Debbie here? She has got to see this.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

Muriel rustled the paper noisily. ‘Those nuns have done it now; they only had two sets of books going all along, conning every poor thing looking for information, including Debbie.’

Iris grabbed the newspaper and began to read out sections.

‘A full inquiry has been ordered after it emerged the Order of the Divine Sisters of Ballygally ran two sets of record books. Every person who called attempting to trace a birth mother was told that there was no record of the birth. It also emerged that every adopted child who wanted to have contact with the birth mother was told the mother did not want anything to do with them. The same applied to birth mothers looking for their children. Sources said it is likely the investigation will be extended to other convents in the coming weeks.’ Iris crumpled the paper onto her lap. ‘I don’t want to read any more.’

Ella sat down, her head in her hands. ‘It sucks the energy out of you, for sure,’ she said.

‘We have got to tell Debbie. It might mean she can trace her mother. Can we sit together and have a coffee?’ Muriel said, flopping down beside Ella.

Without waiting to be asked, Iris poured three cups of steaming coffee and brought them to the table.

‘Where is she anyway?’ Muriel asked.

‘What does it matter? She is a Trojan worker when she needs to be,’ Ella said firmly.

Muriel seemed disappointed that she could not impart the news directly.

‘I will go up in a while and tell her; let her read the paper in peace.’

‘Whatever you say, Ella; it is your house,’ Muriel said, stirring her coffee so fast some splashed over the side. ‘I am sure Roberta isn’t happy at all about the American staying here.’

‘Is she ever happy, Muriel? Where are all the other ladies? Don’t tell me they have given up on the Ballroom Café.’

Muriel laughed nervously. ‘I am afraid I skipped Mass, I was so excited.’

‘There is nothing wrong with that,’ Ella said, rising to greet ten other women who had begun to block up the hall. Some had left directly after communion, hoping to get the tables in the centre of the floor, because there you could join in all the conversations. Only strangers to the Ballroom Café rushed to take up the window seats, giving a view priority over gossip.

When Debbie walked into the room soon after the first gaggle of women placed their orders, there was a hush as each woman sat back and smiled at her. Muriel Hearty made to stand up, but Ella pushed her down gently on her chair.

‘Debbie, love, there has been a bit of a development. It might mean you get to find out who your mum is after all.’

Debbie saw the happy, expectant faces of the women and she laughed. ‘I feel like I’ve won the Lotto. Is someone going to tell me?’

Iris handed her the newspaper. Debbie sat down and began to read. Anger swept up through her. Jumping up, she scrunched the newspaper and let it fall to the ground, like a discarded sweet wrapper. Tears of frustration sprayed out. ‘When is it ever going to end?’ she snapped, before making a dash for the door.

A woman, her arms outstretched, made to stand in her way, but Debbie pushed past.

‘Well, I never have seen the likes; talk of ungrateful,’ Muriel muttered, but the woman beside her snarled at her to hush.

Ella stepped into the centre of the café. ‘Ladies, I am so awfully sorry. This is all so intense and emotional for Debbie; none of us knows what she has been through. Why doesn’t everybody have a free cuppa on the house,’ she said, motioning Iris to take over.

‘I’ve had my fill of hot drinks; no thank you,’ Muriel told Iris when she approached, a coffee pot in one hand and a teapot in the other.

*

Debbie stumbled along the gravel path past the pond. The warm wind sprayed the pink petals of the cherry blossom across her; the sun pushed its rays through the trees. Trudging slowly along, she could feel the anger slip away, leaving a loneliness weary in her bones.

She sat on a wooden bench under the cherry blossom; the branches whispered overhead and watery-pink petals skated past her, some attaching to her top. Clouds leaned on the trees and it began to rain on far-off hills. A rabbit ran for home; the crows flew low.

She saw Ella skirt past the fountain, the eucalyptus grove and the old oak tree. When she was within spitting distance, Ella called out her name softly and asked to join her.

‘I see you have found Carrie’s bench.’

Debbie made to stand up, but Ella pressed her down with her hand.