The Ballroom Café (16 page)

‘And the rest?’

‘We will see.’

Ella was grumpy. When the phone rang she at first ignored it, but when after five rings she did not hear Roberta’s shuffle in the hall, she rushed down the stairs. Spinning quickly across the tiles, she picked up the heavy old receiver.

‘Ella, is that you? That bastard husband of mine has made me homeless.’

Iris was shouting so loud, Ella had to hold the phone a distance from her ear. ‘What? Just get away from there and come here.’

‘My three-piece suite is in the front garden and my walnut bureau has been chipped on the side.’

‘Get somebody to keep an eye on things and come here. Gerry lives down the road. I will get him to mind the place for you. You come here until we can work it out.’

Iris, she knew, was crying, because her voice was extra high-pitched and slobbery, like she was trying to pretend everything was all right.

‘Come now. You can stay at Roscarbury until you get sorted.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, the sooner you get here the better, and we will have tea and a chat.’

‘Ella?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Not a bother, just come as soon as you can and we will get a room fixed up for you.’

When Ella got off the phone, Roberta was standing beside the hall table, staring hard. She screwed up her nose and sucked in her cheeks, but she did not say anything. Instead, she whipped a page from her red notebook and wrote furiously. Ella pretended not to notice and walked past, up the stairs to her room, so she could watch out for Iris. After all, she did not need to read the note; she knew what was in it.

An hour later, Ella watched as Iris struggled past the rhododendron; a holdall in one hand and a large suitcase in the other. Maybe she should have sent a car to pick her up. Kicking another big suitcase in front of her, Iris slowly made her way up the gravel drive. The dog, on a long lead, snapped and growled at the case every time it rumbled past. Iris, muttering, was grumbling, stopping every few paces to massage the palms of her hands and kick out at the dog. Ella hurried to open the front door. Hearing the bolt go across, Iris dropped her load.

‘Goddamn taxi would not come up the avenue. Ella, grab something,’ Iris snapped, her face red.

‘Come in, you look upset.’

Iris clapped her hands in exasperation. ‘Of course I am upset, Ella. The house was supposed to be mine. When that good-for-nothing husband of mine walked out three months ago, it was decided I could have the house. He said there was no need for solicitors; like a fool I trusted him.’

‘I am sure it can be sorted.’

Iris walked over to the eucalyptus tree and kicked it; a slice of bark fell off. ‘Ella, I have nowhere to go. A woman my age: homeless. Turns out the house we settled he would give me was not even his, it was his brother’s, and no mortgage was paid for two years, so the bank has thrown me out. Upstanding Iris O’Callaghan, who has paid her bills all her life, has been evicted. They threw my furniture out in the garden, flattened all my good shrubs.’

She stopped to gather herself, fiercely shaking away the tears, which were making her shoulders shake and her knees wobble.

‘Ella, I am homeless. If I ever set eyes on him again, I will kill him. Get rid of a bad egg, and get a roof over my head and three square meals a day in one go.’

Ella laughed and Iris sniggered.

‘We will send you food parcels and books, plenty of books.’

‘Ciggies. That is all I need.’

‘Come on, let’s get you inside and put a whiskey down the hatch. I will ring O’Hare and tell him to arrange to collect your furniture.’

She waited for Iris to raise an objection, but if Iris heard Gerry O’Hare’s name, she did not react.

The Jack Russell ran into the field and squatted down for a crap.

‘Sorry about the dog. I had to bring him. Stupid dog.’

‘Of course you did. Let’s get you inside and sit down,’ Ella said.

‘Roberta is going to have a conniption. I don’t blame her. I would not like somebody walking in on top of me either. And there is the dog.’

‘Leave Roberta to me.’

They left the cases where they had dropped them, in a pile inside the front door, and went to the kitchen.

‘You will have to bunk down on the drawing-room sofa for tonight, but tomorrow we will see about getting you a bed.’

‘You should have set up a guesthouse instead of a café. I have an appointment with a solicitor in a while, so hopefully this arrangement won’t be for too long.’

Ella did not answer.

Afterwards, when Iris banged the front door on the way to meet the solicitor, Ella went upstairs to open the café, stopping to read the notes Roberta had slapped down in quick succession.

Iris struts about like she owns the place. We don’t want her or her stinking problems. You have some nerve, bringing her here and letting her stay. R.

The husband has left her. I bet she did not tell you that. This is my house too and I won’t have her here. R.

It will be a field day for the gossips, this. You have turned Roscarbury in to a dosshouse. R.

Ella tore the notes into little pieces, letting them flutter onto the table, before thumping down a hastily scribbled reply with her fist.

Iris O’Callaghan is family, or had you forgotten? She can stay here as long as she likes. Leave her alone or she will be told exactly the sort of person you are. One harsh word to her and your secret will be out, to be picked over by the gossips. E.

Roberta picked up the note and brought it to the drawing room. She sat at the brass coffee table and took out a box of matches. She struck a match and, holding it over the cut-glass bowl, set the note alight. She watched the flames dissolving the words as the paper deepened black. It sank into the bowl, blackening the sides, the ash lodging in a heap at the bottom.

Debbie managed to doze for two hours towards the start of morning. Her skin was dry and a bit flaky, and around her eyeballs was showing brushes of yellow. Nancy would probably notice the most change, she thought. The disease was beginning to devastate her. Soon she would have to go back to Bowling Green to wait out the end.

Ella got up extra early. Switching on the ovens, she decided she would need at least two batches of biscuits to get through the day. Multiplying the lemon cake and the chocolate cake recipes by three, she cracked the eggs, threw in the sugar and forced herself to weigh the self-raising flour, because too much would make her lemon cakes heavy and stodgy. Slicing the lemons, she pushed them onto the squeezer, locking it tight to extract as much juice as possible, and decided she would be better off investing in a machine to do the job. The eggs for the chocolate cake she separated, flinging the yolks from side to side until the whites had dripped away into a big mixing bowl, where Ella let them whisk away until stiff. She sliced open the packets of ground almonds and broke up the chocolate to melt into a big bowl over a pan of boiling water. She wasn’t too sure where she had got the other recipes, but this one was her mother’s: the Good Cake she called it, because they always made it when they were trying to put on a show for visitors.

Bernie O’Callaghan took great pride in the fact that the cake, made with the darkest chocolate she could find in Gorey, looked sinfully rich and decadent but was light and moist to taste. She took greater pleasure when her guests fought over the last slice or tried to guess the secret ingredient, which gave this cake an intense chocolate fluffiness. Bernie straightened on her seat and waited for a hush in the room before saying in a high and mighty voice: ‘This is such a simple cake I don’t know what the fuss is all about. I am sure anybody can guess the ingredients.’

She sat looking for hands up, smiling broadly when all sort of wild suggestions were made and clapping when one woman triumphed with almonds.

‘Well done, but it is what is missing in this mix that is most important.’

Ludicrous ingredients were bandied about, until Bernie gave in.

‘Flour: there is no need for it; I will say no more than that.’

When the time came to reveal the recipe to her daughters, Bernie O’Callaghan had made such a big deal of guarding her methods for the Good Cake that the girls felt rather cheated to find that only egg whites, whisked to resemble snow, gave the cake its magical lightness.

Ella stacked the cakes in two ovens, rattling the racks to even out the mixture.

She had got out the lemon cakes and put the biscuits in the top oven when Debbie put her head around the door. Breathing in the warm aroma of chocolate and almonds, it made her feel cosy and safe and she managed to smile brightly.

‘You should have called me; I could have helped.’

Ella shook her head. ‘Don’t you have enough on your plate today, going to the convent to inspect the books? Get a bit of breakfast inside you. Gerry will be here in half an hour.’

‘I can’t eat; my stomach is sick.’

‘Strong sweet tea it has to be then. It will settle you nicely.’

She ignored the protests and poured a mug of tea, stirring in two heaped spoons of sugar. Debbie accepted it and sat at the window, sipping slowly, the steam from the mug causing a small cloud of fog to blot out the view.

Ella finished and shot upstairs to change into her good clothes. She chose a flecked tweed skirt with a soft blue cardigan under her black swing coat. Sitting at the dressing table, she rummaged for a brooch.

The sun flowed across, highlighting favourites in the myriad of colours in the silver box. Reaching into the right corner, she picked out the smallest Weiss brooch. She could hear Iris greeting customers in the café. Taking her time, she angled the pin so it looked as if a fragile and colourful moth had taken refuge on her shoulder.

Looking down at the front gravel, she saw a stranger photographing his companion in front of the house. Gerry O’Hare was leaning against the fountain again. Ella saw he was wearing a suit. When Debbie had said she could not face driving herself, he came straight away. She knew he had made the effort for Debbie, so she would not chastise him this time for leaning against the stonework.

Debbie tugged at her hair and flattened her raincoat when she saw Ella. ‘I didn’t know we were supposed to dress up.’

‘Overdressed, more like; I am cursed by an obsession with dressing to the nines every time I encounter officialdom.’

They were both giggling when Iris, followed by May Dorkin, came upstairs.

‘I found May leaning on the door, wanting to wish you luck,’ Iris said.

May stepped forward. ‘I have had my arguments with Ella here, but I hope it is in the past. I want to wish you luck and tell you, no matter what you find out today, you have done your mothers proud.’ Reaching into her pocket, she fumbled her words. ‘I have a few buns; the hens must be missing my sweet ingredients,’

‘May, you are one big bird yourself,’ Iris said, snatching the bag of buns.

May laughed shyly.

Debbie reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I am very touched by your kind gesture.’

May glowed with the pride of appreciation. ‘I will have a tea while I am here,’ she said.

‘And a slice of cake,’ Ella instructed. ‘The new lemon drizzle, on the house.’

The two women nodded to each other.

A woman sipping tea at a central table elbowed her friend. ‘Ella O’Callaghan is going soft,’ she muttered.

‘We had better get a move on,’ Ella said, and they left, May and Iris waving them off from the upstairs café window.

*

It was quiet at the convent when the Mercedes pulled up the driveway, except for a gardener raking cherry-blossom petals from the grassy patch at the front. The front door was opened immediately by a man in a suit.

‘Deborah Kading? Come in,’ he said, leading the way to a small front office. The desk was pulled out in the middle of the floor, a number of high-backed chairs placed around it.

‘I am Bernard Morrissey, appointed by the Minister to supervise the viewing of the records by those women who wish to come forward and check the information. I will tell you at the outset, I can’t myself immediately see a record of your birth.’

‘Is that the right book?’ Ella asked.

Mr Morrissey sighed. ‘Everybody who comes asks that question. Yes, it is.’ He opened the book for April 15, 1959. ‘According to your letter, you say you were born on April 15, 1959 at the convent and adopted by Robert and Agnes Kading, then of New York. As you will see, on that date two girls were born and one boy. One girl was adopted by a couple in Philadelphia. The other unfortunately died at birth. The boy was adopted by a couple in Ireland.’

He continued to talk, while showing her the record for the previous and following days; Debbie saw the names and addresses all over the East Coast of America, but none for Agnes and Robert Kading.

By the time he had finished and closed the book, she could not speak. Her brain was whirring; her head was pounding. She felt she was an observer from a distance, removed and remote, all emotion sucked away.

‘What does this mean?’ Ella asked.

Mr Morrissey took off his glasses. ‘I am afraid there is no record of Miss Kading’s birth in the official record of the convent. I am sorry to impart this news; I know your hopes must have been built up as a result of this appointment. However, Mother Assumpta has been most helpful and supplied me with additional files, which we are currently examining.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’

‘Yours is by no means the only case. We have several men and women who were adopted, yet no record of their birth appears. It is a mystery we will only be able to solve after careful investigation.’

‘That sounds like it could take a long time,’ Ella said.

‘How long is a piece of string?’