The Ballroom Café (22 page)

‘I thought the doctor first,’ Iris said.

‘No need, I feel fine.’

‘But Betty said you seemed in pain.’

Debbie smiled. ‘Iris, I have cancer; pain is part of the package.’ She turned to Betty. ‘Thanks for being so kind and so frank.’

‘I wish I could have told a happier story.’

‘The truth was all I wanted; you gave me that.’

Iris clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Ella says to bring you to the doctor.’

‘No need for that; I will be glad of a lift to Roscarbury, though.’

Betty waved them off, until they had rounded the bend before Main Street.

‘Has the cancer got worse, do you think?’ Iris asked gently.

‘Stage 4, as bad as it gets.’

‘You are sure?’

‘I am.’

They reached Roscarbury’s avenue.

‘I need to talk with Ella. Do you think she could meet me at Carrie’s seat?’

Debbie paced slowly across the grass, stopping every now and again to catch her breath and take in the view.

Her two mothers were dead; the only family she had left was Nancy, who had worried and fussed over her all these years. It was time to ask Nancy to pack her bags and come to the hospice. Her quest here was at an end.

She saw Ella hurriedly pull on a coat at the front door and salute a group at one of the outside tables before heading across the parkland, buttoning her coat as she moved. When she came closer, Debbie saw the deep frown on her face and her hands clenched inside her pockets.

‘I couldn’t face meeting any of the women. I’m sorry to drag you away.’

‘You forget about that. How are you?’

‘Mary Murtagh is dead.’

‘Good Lord in heaven; how did you find that out?’

‘Betty Messitt remembered her, and met her sister a few years ago.’

Ella sat down and put her arm around Debbie. ‘That is desperately sad news. I am so sorry.’

‘I came looking for answers, and now I know. Maybe I always knew it wasn’t going to end with a tearful reunion.’

‘We all prayed it would.’

‘I know, and you have made me so welcome. I loved working in the café. It has been the best fun.’

Ella turned Debbie’s face towards her. ‘It is time for you to go, isn’t it?’

‘I have a hospice place arranged.’

Ella felt her heart wrench inside her. ‘Stay, and we will be with you.’

‘I know you mean that, Ella, but my aunt Nancy will be with me; she stepped into Agnes’s shoes and has always been there for me. I can’t deprive her of this drama.’

Debbie managed a giggle and Ella slapped her lightly on the wrists.

‘I am glad you have not lost your sense of humour.’

‘Not yet, anyway.’

‘I am not sure I knew Mary Murtagh very well.’

‘They only lived here for about a year. At least I know her name. That’s something.’

‘You started something huge over here. You are some person, Deborah Kading Murtagh.’

‘You make me sound important, Ella.’

‘Are you going to tell the others you are leaving?’

‘I think even if I was in my full health, I couldn’t cope with Muriel’s reaction.’

‘She will be disappointed.’

‘Which is something I can live and die with, Ella.’

‘You are sure about going back?’

‘Yes.’

They sat quietly, watching the wind rustle through the high grass at the far side of the parkland, the trees swaying as the wind grew.

‘It is getting blustery; time to get you back inside.’

They walked arm in arm, avoiding the front door, making for the back.

‘It was a lucky day when I met you, Ella.’

Ella snorted loudly. ‘Not at all: you are the one who has woken up this old house. Would it be all right if I planted a tree beside Carrie’s for you? It will make that corner of the land a pleasant spot, for sure.’

‘I’d like that.’

Iris pulled back the big gates as the squad car turned in. Garda Martin Moran saluted her and continued up to the house, driving around to the back.

Roberta, who was sitting in the walled garden, began walking towards the house. ‘Is there something wrong, Martin?’

‘I was looking for Ella.’

‘You will find her up in the café. What is it, Martin?’

‘I need to talk to Ella.’

‘Go in by the back door and up the stairs. First landing.’

Martin Moran took off his cap and threw it on the front seat before knocking on the back door.

‘She won’t hear you. Just go on up,’ Roberta shouted after him. She was hanging back, waiting to follow once there was a bit of distance between them.

Iris came puffing around the back. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It must be the baby, something about the baby.’

‘That couldn’t be,’ Iris said, pushing past Roberta.

Martin Moran knocked on the café doors and waited. He heard somebody working inside, so he knocked louder. Ella slapped down her tray and wiped her hands with a tea cloth.

‘My God what will it be next? An all-night café they are looking for,’ she grumbled, as she went to the door. ‘I am sorry, we are closed,’ she shouted out.

Martin Moran felt uncomfortable. ‘Ella, it is Garda Moran; I need to talk to you.’

The stench of starch surrounded her, creeping across her heart, seeping into her, strangling her so she could not say anything. It went up her nose, the pong of it hurting her and making her eyes water. She knew why he was here; he did not need to say it.

‘Can I come in, Ella?’

She opened the door and stood back, letting him step into the café, his broad frame taking up the space between the tables. Iris shot in behind him. Roberta lingered at the doorway.

‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

Ella looked to Iris. ‘Just let me talk to Garda Moran here.’

Iris retreated, pulling the door gently behind her. Ella could hear her whispered warning to Roberta to leave them be.

‘Iris is very protective of me,’ Ella said. She sat down at a table, clenching and unclenching her hands, in an effort to remain calm. She motioned Martin Moran to join her. ‘You are here about my boy?’

‘The baby you had in County General Hospital on December 21, 1959.’

‘Oh God, he did not die, did he?’

‘We don’t know, Ella. The midwife, Alice Kearney, has come forward with information on about fifty cases; yours is one. This morning we intend to dig up your baby’s grave.’

‘In Ballygally?’

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘God forgive me, I didn’t. They never told me. Was he given a name at all?’ Her hands were clenched on the table in front of her.

‘We have a reference number. He is called Baby Hannigan.’

She nodded her head to show she understood. Raising her fist, she bit into a knuckle. To feel pain meant she was still alive, and that at least must account for something.

‘You have a hard job, Martin.’

‘I am sorry, Ella. What do you want to do? You can wait for word in the garda station or if you like go to Ballygally. I will warn you there are a crowd of press and hangers-on there.’

‘I will stay here at home. When will you know?’

‘By noon. We will need to take a statement, when you are ready.’

‘You don’t think you will find the body of my baby, do you?’

‘We honestly won’t know until we open the grave, Ella. I promise you will be the first to know. I will give you a mobile and I will ring you the minute we have anything definite.’

‘If he is not dead, where do we go from here?’

‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it. It could take a long time.’

‘So we could face the relief that our children are not dead, but suffer the pain that they are missing?’

‘Let’s get through the next few hours and days first, shall we?’

He sounded so strong, and she trusted him.

‘Sister Consuelo told me they looked after the burial.’

‘Ella, we are going to get to the bottom of this. What you must do now is wait. I know it is devastating, but we will help you through it. Have you somebody who can stay with you?’

‘The whole of Rathsorney will be here in the café.’

‘Have you got somebody who can run the café?’

Ella stood up and straightened her apron. ‘You are a good man, Martin; your mother is a lucky woman.’ Carol Moran had her baby two days before her; her son and Martin might have been friends, gone to school together, dances. ‘Are you married yet?’

‘A few years now, Ella.’

‘Good. Don’t worry about me. I will wait and you will ring me when you know.’

‘You will be all right then?’

‘As all right as I can be.’

He walked out and left her sitting, the mobile phone on the table in front of her. She heard him talk quietly to Iris and Roberta before he went downstairs. The squad car would be well gone by the time Muriel and her friends made it to the café.

‘Are you all right, Ella?’ Iris, followed by Roberta, walked into the café.

‘Tell her to leave. I don’t want her around me. Not now.’

Roberta turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

‘That was a bit harsh, Ella. She is concerned about you.’

Ella stood up and went behind the counter. She started to slice the carrot cake. ‘It’s her shenanigans that lost me my daughter and left me vulnerable to those witches who took my baby. They knew I was a woman without a husband.’ She stopped, knife in mid-air. ‘Imagine all these years lost; will he ever even want to talk to me?’

‘Ella, leave all that; we will organise the café. You need to sit down. Have a whiskey,’ Iris said, taking the knife and gently directing Ella away from the counter.

‘I have to keep busy; I can’t sit, Iris. What am I going to do?’

‘You will wait, Ella, and we will wait with you.’

‘What will we do with the café?’

‘What do you want to do?’

Ella walked to the window. ‘There are three hours before I can expect any news. Best to keep busy.’

Iris made to protest, but Ella ignored her and began to set the tables. ‘He is Martin Moran’s age now. I wonder what job he has. Do you think if we ever met, would we have felt something? Surely we could not have passed in the street without some stir of recognition.’

Debbie, her hair tied back and fresh from the shower, walked in. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Everything has changed,’ Ella said, pulling the tops of the sash windows down to air out the room.

Iris pulled Debbie in behind the kitchen partition. Ella heard their hushed, urgent whispers. She had no energy to resist when they came and told her to take it easy; she said she would go to her room.

‘I will call up in a while, once the rush is over,’ Debbie said.

Ella stopped at the door marked private, opposite the ballroom. She had notions before he was born that it could be his little hideout, when he was older. She had been painting it a fresh lemon. Turning the knob, she pushed the door with her shoulder to open it.

In all the years she had not come in here, had passed it by, because the room contained too many hopes for the future. She left it a mess to lie down that sunny Tuesday and never came back in, because by the end of that week her baby was dead and she could not bear the little room facing the busy backyard.

She was going to call him Little Michael, though as he got older he might have resented the prefix in front of the name. She knew it was a boy; God knew she could not cope with another girl.

The paint was peeling on the walls, and there were blisters of damp across the ceiling towards the window. The paint bucket was rusted, a slick of dried-out oil and a hard brush all that was left of her decorating. The air was heavy with cold and damp. In a brown paper bag were the folded curtains she had had Mrs Murphy run up; she was dead ten years now. She had paid extra to have a row of cars hand stitched above the hem. Mrs Murphy said it was tempting fate to be so certain it would be a boy.

Scraping the mouse droppings from an armchair, she sat down. The cold rose up from the floor; not even the warm sunshine through the glass could heat the room that had been empty so long.

She heard Muriel rush up the stairs. She knew by the pounding on the steps, the seconds taken to catch her breath, followed by the loud voice and the charge as the ladies in the entourage jostled for position at Muriel’s elbow.

‘Where is Ella?’ Muriel screeched.

‘Not here this morning. You only have us beauties,’ Iris said, tying an apron around her waist.

There was a murmur of disappointment in the group and Ella sank back in the old armchair damp with dirt, glad she was hidden from view.

‘Is she gone to Ballygally?’

‘No, no shopping there. Took a day off and went to Gorey.’

Ella, in all her pain, smiled. Iris would boast of this tall tale for many years to come.

‘Does she know what’s happening?’

Iris, who had begun serving out the teas, ignored the question. Muriel sat down, her mood deflated. When Debbie came with her coffee, she pulled her on the arm.

‘You know they are digging up her baby’s grave. Ella should know.’

Debbie looked to Iris.

Iris bustled down the room.

‘We all deal with things in different ways. Ella has gone shopping.’

‘Well, I never heard the like,’ Muriel snapped, and the ladies around her murmured in agreement. ‘When will she be back?’ Muriel asked Debbie.

‘I think she has a long list. Sometime this evening, I suppose.’

Muriel clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘I will have to cut short this morning; it is going to be a very busy day in the post office,’ she said, making sure to drain her cup before rising to pay.

Ella shrank back as she heard Muriel and three other women leave.

‘I have never heard the likes. Those O’Callaghans were always as odd as two left feet and this proves it. I thought today of all days would be a great day at the Ballroom Café,’ she snorted.

Over the next hour, the café remained busy. Ella listened, sitting in the cold, damp room that no amount of sun could heat up, the mobile phone on her lap. When she closed her eyes, she could think back to when the room walls were like lemon icing, when there were no cobwebs and brown fly spots, no wet patches and damp blisters of paint. She used to sing and paint, ignoring the protestations of the other women that she should not work so hard. She locked herself in and painted, pretending that life was as normal, Michael away on manoeuvres. She only stopped when she became so fatigued her arms ached. It was as she lay on her bed at night that tears overwhelmed her and she worried how she was going to cope with a child on her own.