The Ballroom Café (30 page)

‘Ella did you get the post?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘And what, Muriel?’

Never deterred by a sharp voice, Muriel persisted. ‘Is he coming?’

‘Who?’ Ella pretended she wasn’t interested.

Muriel sat down. ‘Ella, we have been friends for years. I want this for you: for you to be happy.’

Ella shrugged and wiped her forehead, as she felt queasy.

‘I have not opened it, Muriel. It is not that I am not telling you. I am afraid to open it.’

‘Oh.’

‘It has taken him so long to reply; there surely can only be one answer.’

‘Open it, Ella. Open it.’

‘I am sorry, Muriel, I need to be on my own. It will have to wait until I can close the café; Fergus is in Dublin on business, on today of all days.’

‘Ella, I can serve the teas and coffees and cut a few slices of cake. You do what you have to do.’

‘Do you mean it?’

‘Ella, how difficult can it be? Go. The post office is covered, so take your time.’

Ella dithered, her hand over her skirt patch pocket, as if she was afraid she would lose the envelope.

‘Go,’ Muriel said, and gave her a slight shove.

‘I will get my coat,’ Ella said, making for the back hall, where she pulled on her raincoat.

Muriel was already on the stairs when Ella came back through the hall.

‘I don’t how long I will be. I will just find a quiet spot on the land.’

Muriel pooh-poohed out loud and continued up the stairs to the café. She hung her coat and hat on the coat stand inside the door and slipped in behind the counter. Far better than the post office, she thought, beginning to rearrange the plates of cake. The coffee machine was in the wrong place too, but she could live with it. Standing, her two hands spanning the counter, she viewed the long room. Ella could have spent more money and covered the floorboards and put proper drapes on the windows. If Muriel Hearty were running this establishment, it would be warm and cosy. She jumped when she heard a slight cough at the door.

Roberta, using a walking stick because her rheumatoid arthritis had flared up, was staring at Muriel.

‘Don’t tell me she has roped you in to help. It is not as if she is overloaded with customers.’

‘Come in, Roberta; have a coffee.’

‘No, Muriel, I prefer the blend they serve at Molloy’s. Thank you.’

Muriel got out from behind the counter and walked over to Roberta. ‘Come on, it is only the two of us and we have a good ten minutes before anyone will darken the door. I will be able to sit and chat with you.’

‘I don’t think Ella would like me to frequent her café,’ Roberta said as she made to move away.

‘Ella is not here. I am in charge and I am inviting you,’ Muriel said, sitting down and patting the chair beside her. ‘Don’t you want to hear the big news about your sister?’

Roberta dithered, but only for a moment. ‘I might do,’ she said.

‘Will you have a tea? I am half afraid to use that coffee machine.’ Muriel pulled down a teapot and threw some teabags in. ‘I know Ella likes her Darjeeling and jasmine teas, but there is noting like a good plain teabag. Don’t tell her I never go anywhere without my teabags.’

‘I am hardly likely to be chatting to my sister anytime soon,’ Roberta said, and Muriel laughed nervously.

‘Do you mind? I couldn’t keep up something like that myself.’

Roberta spilled some sugar into her tea. ‘Of course I mind, but I did not start this; she told me not to speak to her again and started all these stupid notes.’

‘What notes?’ Muriel said, leaning closer to Roberta, even though there was nobody else in the café to hear.

‘We have to have some way of communicating, Muriel; let’s leave it at that.’

Muriel detected a shake in Roberta’s voice and covered her hand with hers. ‘If only the child had not drowned.’

‘Muriel, don’t go there.’

‘At least there is good news on the horizon,’ Muriel said.

Roberta pulled from Muriel’s grip. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

Muriel look flustered. ‘Only that the boy has written to her.’

Muriel rushed to the counter when two women came in, keeping busy getting their orders out. Roberta followed her.

‘How is he?’

‘I only know what you know. Seemingly, he was brought up by a rich couple in Manhattan.’

‘Is he coming here?’

‘Ella has gone to read the letter. God, I hope he does; that woman has put up with enough.’

Roberta nodded and slowly made for the door. Muriel barely noticed; she was so caught up with four of her friends who had congregated around the counter, and she had such a story to tell them.

Roberta pushed past the women coming up the stairs and they stood back.

‘Roberta, is everything all right?’ one woman asked, but Roberta did not answer.

She wanted to follow Ella, read the letter, and discuss the young man they both should have brought up. That this enmity had gone on so long was a huge sadness she tried not to address. Sometimes she sat out in the garden and pretended that Roscarbury was a happy house again, but she was frozen in her heart. Even when Iris came up on her, it was easier to put out the hard word. A weariness seeped through her. A group of women were laughing at the far outside table, but they quietened down as she skirted around them.

She felt in her bag for her hip flask but resisted the urge to take a slug from it. She saw Ella walk across the park and followed her. Her progress was slow, as the walking stick sank into the damp ground, but she persisted. Ella, she knew, would be down by the lake, sitting on the bench Michael Hannigan had put in place one weekend after they married. Roberta sat there too, when she was sure nobody was about. In a quiet corner blocked from view by a hedge of fuchsia, the sitter could view the lake and the mountains beyond without interruption. Once, he had pulled her in there and kissed her, putting his hands up her jumper. She pushed him away, afraid of being found out. He laughed, grabbed her again, pushing his hand between her legs.

‘Why do you think I worked so hard getting a long wide seat? It certainly was not for the view,’ he said, pushing her roughly back on the bench.

The ground was soft and slippery in parts, so she grabbed at the thick old ferns to steady herself. Overhead, the clouds bustled about and a wind whipped the trees, as if announcing her presence. A small mouse hurried across her path; the ducks were kicking up a racket on the water. She pushed into the fuchsia, the water from the leaves soaking into her light jacket and drowning her skirt.

Ella, sitting holding the letter, did not hear her sister approach from behind. When Roberta put a hand on her shoulder, she jumped.

‘Jesus Christ, you frightened the life out of me,’ she said, quickly turning back towards the lake, to discourage her sister from attempting to make conversation.

The wind whipped across the water and Ella shivered because she was only wearing a light coat. Carefully, she folded the letter and put it back in her pocket. Fixing her hair, she stood up to leave, but Roberta blocked the way. With a heavy sigh, Ella plopped down on the bench and began to idly fiddle with an old teasel plant, which was brown and tough.

‘Is he coming here?’ Roberta spoke so softly she did not know if Ella had heard, but she saw a shiver in her shoulders. ‘Ella, I want to talk to you, please.’

Ella shifted in the seat, reaching out to pull at some long grass.

‘Ella,’ Roberta called out louder, moving to sit on the seat.

Ella rose up. ‘Why after all these years do you call on me now? Why now, Roberta?’ Ella shouted, making to move past her sister.

Roberta pushed out her walking stick to stop her. ‘Please, Ella, please.’

Ella yanked the stick. ‘Let me pass.’

‘Can’t we talk?’

Ella guffawed out loud. ‘“Can’t we talk?” Pardon me if I ask why. Why now?’

Roberta shifted on her feet.

‘Why? Have you run out of drink money?

With a fierce push, Ella knocked the walking stick out of the way, forcing Roberta to grip the bench in case she fell.

‘I have a café to run,’ she said as she stormed through the fuchsia. Roberta sat down watching the clouds pressing in on the lake, making it turn grey.

Ella was halfway across the parkland when she felt the tinge of regret that she had not allowed her sister to speak. Since Michael’s death, when Roberta made every attempt to comfort her, there had only been one time that her sister had tried to speak to her: when she came home from hospital. Depressed and grieving, she rebutted Roberta, shouting at her, blaming her and throwing ornaments until eventually she locked herself in her room.

Tray upon tray of food was placed outside her room door, but Ella kicked each one across the landing, until the third day, when Dr Haslett was called. She remained doped up to the eyeballs for three more weeks, until one misty morning she got up and dressed. Gathering up the little cardigans, bootees and jumpers she had knitted, she buried them in a shallow grave at the far side of the lake.

Ella wanted to sneak in the back, but Muriel, holding court at the outside tables, waved enthusiastically and shouted at her to come over. Ella, one hand still on her pocket, shook a smile onto her face. The animated conversation at the table stopped as she approached.

‘We are dying to know. When is he coming?’

Ella fidgeted with the stitching of the pocket, pulling at the threads. ‘Soon, I think.’

Muriel leaned towards her. ‘And?’

‘That’s it. I can’t talk about it, Muriel. Surely you understand.’

The other ladies looked at each other in disappointment; one or two went back to eating their cake.

‘Muriel, thank you for looking after the café. Could I draw on your generosity for another little while? I need to go upstairs and catch my breath.’

A little put out that there was so little forthcoming on the letter, Muriel nodded, adding she needed to get back to the post office before lunch.

‘I just need a few minutes to put on my face,’ Ella said as she made for the front door and stairs. When she passed the café, she noticed it was full and she was annoyed that Muriel was not watching her till, as well as she would her own in the post office. She would have to hurry and she felt agitated.

Flopping down, she saw Roberta making her way around the back of the house and she decided she would not even think about why her sister wanted to talk to her. Sliding the letter from its envelope, she pressed it down flat on the dressing table with her hands. It was a printout from a computer with a handwritten part at the bottom. She read it again.

    Riverside Walk,

    Manhattan,

    May 14, 2008

    Dear Ella,

    I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, but Ms O’Callaghan does seem too formal. I must say I am thrilled at your letter to me and so very sorry at the circumstances that saw us separated after birth. I grew up in a very loving home, and for my parents, Jim and Stephanie, this is a very traumatic time. They had no idea your child was illegally taken from you and are appalled at the situation. They were told you had died; often at key moments, such as my birthday, we would remember you, offering a prayer. My mother told me the star that twinkled the brightest in the sky was my mom from Ireland. In a strange way, it helped me as I got older, because I did not harbour any secret hopes of uniting, realising I was a very lucky boy to be with parents who loved me so.

        I know this may be difficult for you to read, but I state it so that you know: while for you there is a terrible void that cannot be filled, for me there are memories of a very happy childhood and parents who now support me in what I propose to you.

        I would very much like to meet you and to help you fill in the gaps of my childhood. My father is frail, but my mother would dearly love to make the trip to Ireland with me. Stephanie would very much like to meet you and asks your permission to do so.

        I have got to say, for my part I am very nervous and would appreciate Stephanie’s support. Let me know what you think.

        I am a lawyer here and have done pretty well in life. We are thinking of coming over in June. Would that suit? I am afraid work commitments mean I cannot come any earlier. Anyway, we can write, talk and get to know each other in the intervening time. Are there any cousins I can meet? Aunts and uncles too? I have never been to Ireland, though in recent years I often thought of making the trip. I wish now I had.

        My mother says to include my photograph; I fear I may not live up to your expectations. Can you please send me a photograph, if you have one of yourself and of Roscarbury?

In a handwritten note he had put:

Ella, I can’t imagine the pain you have been through and I hope now I can bring some sunshine into your life. I look forward to meeting with you and spending time together.

Your loving son, James.

She slipped her finger across the handwritten part. He used a fountain pen; she liked that: it denoted a man of good education and style. The paper, too, was thick and the envelope heavy. The photo was a small head and shoulders shot, taken on graduation. He was smiling and her heart skipped, to think he looked so like his father. He had the same whip of the head and his hair was Michael’s dark hair. She was not sure she could see herself in him, but maybe the wide, honest eyes.

A volley of goodbyes downstairs made her jump and she realised she had spent too long. Carefully, she propped the photograph against the mirror. Muriel could wait another few minutes. The occasion of her son writing required that she wear a brooch.

The daisy brooch: white cabochon-stone leaves, a centre of pink-red crystals, and a long curving stem, as if it had just been plucked in the field. Bernie O’Callaghan thought it too common and never wore it. Every time Ella looked at it, she was back in the field, lying in the grass, surrounded by cowslips and daisies, watching the clouds hurry past. It was a symbol of a carefree time; she felt the giddiness of the frothy clouds against the bright-blue sky and the sun shining on her, melting away decades of fatigue. Pinning it to her cardigan, she fancied she looked years younger.