The Ballroom Café (21 page)

On the third day, Consuelo, anxious to have the room for the next admission, marched in and pulled back the curtains so that the spring sunshine needled Ella’s eyes.

‘You are going home today, dear. Time to get up and get your things together.’

Smelling the sharpness of the starch, she shrank back.

‘Now, no point feeling sorry for yourself. It was only a baby.’

‘Can I see it, hold it?’

‘Don’t be so silly. What good would that do you?’

‘Was it a boy or a girl?’

‘A boy, I think. Don’t be worrying yourself; we have taken care of the burial.’

‘Can I say a prayer at the grave?’

‘And upset yourself and everybody else. You go home and forget about it. It is for the best.’

Ella sat up; she must have fallen asleep. Unfortunately the nightmare which made her clothes wet with sweat a reality she could never get away from … She was shaking with cold as she fumbled in the dark to switch on the light. She did not even know where he was buried. She hadn’t asked, did not think she could. Sister Consuelo had told her to move on. She remembered she had met her six months later and had begun to cry.

‘Dear, it is in the past; leave it and move on. You are still a young enough woman to meet a man and marry, have another child. You are one of the lucky ones. What about all those women who have lost the chance to have a baby? Toughen up.’

She had no choice. Everybody told her to move on. She went back to talk to the midwife, to ask about him, but she could not help.

‘Miss O’Callaghan, I help deliver a lot of babies; some live and some die. I don’t have time to be counting the hairs on their head.’

‘I never got to see him. I just wanted to know if he had any hair. My daughter had a soft, golden little thatch.’

‘I can’t help you.’

She had nothing to hold on to, only the night he was born and died. The starch, the only smell that came back to her, smothering her, blotting out her brain. She dared not think he might be alive; there was too much sorrow stored there, waiting to encompass her. She might as well be baking.

The kitchen was cold and she turned on the ovens first thing to warm up the place, before making a cup of tea. No doubt there would be a right crowd in the café in the morning, looking for clues that she was one of the women waiting for news.

Debbie stood outside the small terraced house. Lifting the latch on the front gate gently, she walked to the front door, edging past the rose bushes blistered with rainwater. Junk mail clogged the letterbox; a telephone directory was propped against the doorway. She knocked loudly on the glass panel of the door, but there was no sound from inside.

‘Are you looking to rent the place?’

A woman stuck her head over the roses.

‘I was looking for the Murtaghs.’

‘Never heard of them. The place has been rented for years. Are you sure you have the right house?’

‘The Murtaghs are from way back, distant relatives.’

‘You should go to Mrs Messitt at Number 22. She has lived here all her life.’

‘She won’t mind me knocking at the door?’

‘I am walking that way anyway. I will do the introductions. Aren’t you the woman from the café?’

‘Roscarbury Hall.’

Debbie waited while the woman locked her hall door.

‘You can’t be too careful these days. Time was when we would only lock the door if we were moving out of the county.’

She fussed with her shopping bags as she walked slightly in front of Debbie to the far end of the street.

‘How is Ella doing?’

‘Just fine.’

‘Tell her Martina Cleary was asking after her.’ She walked up the neat footpath of Number 22 and knocked loudly. ‘You will need to speak up: Betty is a bit deaf.’

A small, thin woman with a shy smile opened the door.

‘Betty, this woman is looking for a local historian and I told her you know everything there is about this street and the scandal of all its inhabitants.’

The old woman laughed nervously. ‘That’s a nice way of saying I was always a busybody.’

Debbie put out her hand and noticed that Betty Messitt, though frail, gave a vice-like grip of welcome. Martina waved goodbye, but neither Debbie nor Betty Messitt seemed to notice.

‘I wanted to know about the Murtaghs.’

‘Are you family?’

Debbie dithered. ‘A distant relative from the States.’

‘Welcome, come in. I remember the Murtaghs; they had two good-looking girls. They were always up here trying out the hairstyles. My sister was friendly with them.’

Debbie felt her chest tighten. ‘What can you tell me about Mary?’

‘There was a Mary and a Frances: Frances was very tall; Mary was younger, a little bit quieter.’

Betty fussed with the kettle and took down her china cups and saucers.

‘This is a treat, being able to share a cuppa. Most people these days are too busy to stop for a chat. What relation are you to the Murtaghs?’

Debbie shifted uncomfortably in her velvet seat. She noticed a jug of roses on the table contained the same tea rose as the bush outside Murtaghs’. ‘Our mothers were related.’

‘They did not live long here, you know. Left in the middle of the night; some said they emigrated, but I heard afterwards they only went as far as Dublin.’ She stopped and eyed up Debbie carefully. ‘I don’t want to say anything untoward.’

‘Please, anything at all you tell me would be most helpful.’

Betty poured the tea and fussed over the milk and sugar. ‘Let me put it straight. I will be honest with you, if you are honest with me.’ As Debbie flustered, she continued. ‘I heard you on the radio. Age has not stolen my good sense yet, you know. Do you think Mary Murtagh was your mother?’

Debbie felt her face flush pink. ‘I do.’

‘Well, you look like her: same long, glossy hair, though she always had it in some elaborate hairstyle. Before they even named it the beehive, Mary Murtagh was styling her hair up on top of her head like that.’

‘Did she go to school locally?’

‘Not at all; her sister helped out at a hairdresser’s in the next town, but Mary stayed at home: the mother was not well, so she looked after her mainly. She had a bit too much time on her hands, that one.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was young and really lovely-looking with a yen for the very short skirts. She used to wear them with very high shoes. My father said he did not know how her parents let her out, wearing clothes like that. There were rumours.’

‘What do you mean?’

Betty fiddled with a doily on the table. ‘They were only rumours spread by people who had nothing better to do with their time.’

Debbie reached and took the old woman’s hand. ‘Please, don’t spare me.’

‘You don’t know any of this?’

‘None of it.’

Betty reached for a handkerchief as she felt the tears rise inside her. ‘You understand I can only tell you what I know and what I heard. I can’t distinguish between fact and fiction.’

‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’

‘Straight out: I heard she died, went off her head after the baby was born.’

Debbie’s head began to thump. The sitting room, with its patterned wallpaper and carpet, made her feel claustrophobic.

‘Will I continue?’ Betty asked gently.

‘Please.’

‘There was word that young Mary was expecting and that it could have been any number of men. Her father took to locking her in the house while he was at work, and when he came back she was only allowed out the back garden under his supervision, though the harm was done by then.

‘He never stopped her when she was out walking the roads, meeting up with different men and hanging around street corners. There was a lot of rowing in the house; Felicity Feighery, who lived next door, used to hear Mary sobbing after the father had reared up at her. It was always the same thing: he wanted to know who the father was, and she would not tell. From the time she told them she was having a baby, she was treated like dirt.

‘It affected Frances too: they married her off to a young man from Wexford, who had no idea of the family history, and we never saw her in Rathsorney again.’

Betty stopped when she saw Debbie start to cry, and she reached into a drawer in the china cabinet, taking out a box of tissues. ‘Help yourself. Will I continue?’

‘In a minute.’

Betty got up, saying she had washing to hang on the line. ‘You take your breath.’

Debbie blew her nose. There was a pain somewhere under her chest. Any chance of a happy reunion was gone now, because Betty was surely right on the key fact that Mary was dead, and had been for a very long time.

She looked around the sitting room. On every spare piece of wall there were photographs: graduations, weddings, christenings, Betty standing tall among the children she loved.

Debbie jumped up and followed the old lady to the back garden. ‘You are very good to let me take up your time like this.’

Betty did not turn from the line, where she was pegging out towels. ‘Time is the one thing I have to spare. I am just sorry it is causing you so much pain.’

‘I hate to think of her so alone.’

Betty gathered up her empty laundry basket. ‘We will go inside; the wind has a knack of carrying your words from this garden, and next thing Muriel Hearty will be spouting it out at the post office.’

Inside, she poured a fresh cup of tea and opened a packet of chocolate biscuits. They sat quietly for a moment, until Betty was ready to begin again.

‘It gave you a jolt, didn’t it, to find out she was dead?’

‘Is there any chance you’re wrong in that?’

‘I was thinking out at the line that that was what must be going through your head. I should not have broken off like that. I met her sister Frances; I think it was ten years ago. It was at my middle grandchild’s graduation at UCD; she was there for the same reason. She had not changed a bit: still tall, with the hair done to the nines; you could see she had done well for herself. It was only a few minutes we had, but I asked her was it true Mary had died and she said it was. I could see it upset her to even to talk about it. Neither of us wanted to spoil the day, so we chatted on about stupid things. She said she lived in Dublin, but for the life of me I can’t remember her married name. He was a businessman.’

Betty stopped talking and reached over to pat Debbie on the knee.

‘I have not been much good to you.’

‘You have filled in the gaps; without you, I would not know she is dead. It means a lot to me.’ Debbie stood up to leave, but immediately a pain stabbed through her and she flopped down again.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Just give me a minute.’

‘It has all been too much for you. Will I call someone?’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘I will make some more tea.’

Betty flustered around the kitchen, watching her charge keenly.

Debbie sat slumped, knowing this pain would pass. The rattling of the china cups was loud inside her head; the kettle boiling sounded more like a ship’s whistle. Through the fog of pain, she heard Betty fussing, placing a blanket over her, talking on the phone. Fatigue washed through her and she tried to close her eyes, images of Agnes in her ballgown floating past, Blue Grass perfume resting in the air, cloaking Debbie in its sweet softness. Agnes always wore Blue Grass. Even if she were going to the mailbox, she would sit first at her dressing table, check her make-up and dab her perfume on the wrists, the neck and finally an extra spray on the hemline. A lady, she told her daughter, was not properly dressed if she did not wear her perfume: never too sweet or strong, but pleasant.

When the phone rang at Roscarbury Hall, it was Roberta who answered it.

‘Mrs Messitt, it is very kind of you to ring, but what do you expect me to do? I hardly know the woman; it sounds to me like she needs a doctor.’

‘Maybe I had better talk to Ella.’

‘You will have to hold; I think she is in the café.’

Betty Messitt, who was in her hallway, pulled up a chair and waited.

Roberta scribbled a quick note.

There is somebody on the phone – something about that Yank being ill and in the town. R.

She stopped three women as they made to ascend the stairs. ‘Ladies, my leg is not good today; would you mind giving this note to my sister Ella, most urgently.’

Turning back to the phone, she spoke again to Betty Messitt.

‘Mrs Messitt, my sister will be down shortly; I am sure she can sort out this mess. I will leave you now.’

Betty threw her eyes to heaven. She never liked that Roberta: always a bit of a snooty toots.

Agitated, Roberta pulled a notebook from her pocket and rushed another note, propping it beside the phone.

I told you that woman was trouble. Maybe now you will finally get her out of my home. R.

Ella tore down the stairs.

‘Betty, what is wrong?’

‘The poor thing came asking about the Murtaghs and we were having tea and I don’t know; it is like she is sleeping. She seemed to have pain.’

‘I will send Iris over and she can bring her to Dr Carthy. I thought she looked drained the last few days.’

‘All this is too much for her.’

‘You might be right. Were you able to help her?’

‘That’s for her to tell you; I don’t work at the post office, Ella.’

‘You never were like that, Betty, and it is much appreciated.’

It was only ten minutes before Iris pulled up on Bridge Street.

‘Betty is she all right?’

‘Sleeping, but she does not look too good.’

They trooped into the sitting room and stood looking at Debbie.

‘She is doing too much,’ Iris said.

Betty was about to answer, when Debbie stirred; they withdrew to the hall.

At first Debbie was not sure where she was, staring at the wedding photograph, wondering why Rob and Agnes looked so strange.

‘I am so sorry; I must have dozed off. I didn’t sleep well last night.’

‘That is all right, dear. It was a lot to take in. Iris came to bring you home.’