The Ballroom Café (25 page)

Maybe she should have sold up when there was good money to be had for an old place like this. Where would she and Roberta have gone? They could never live in a small house or get on with neighbours; they were both too set in their ways now.

She had four cakes in the oven and was sitting having her first cup of tea of the morning when Garda Moran pulled up in the squad car. Squaring back her shoulders so that she felt brave, she opened the back door before he knocked.

‘You are here early, Martin. Is there anything wrong?’

‘Ella, can I come in?’ He stepped into the kitchen, his wide frame taking up the door space.

Ella felt sick; her knees began to buckle. When she heard Consuelo’s name, her stomach twisted. She counted four shrivelled lemons in the bowl on the kitchen table, and an apple, which was bruised. She thought she would throw it out later. She felt his hands take hers and lead her to the table, where she sat down, her mouth dry.

‘Please listen, Ella.’

A pain shot up her neck, flaring across the side of her face.

‘Files were hidden under her bed in old suitcases. Yours was on top. Your boy was sent to New York.’

As simple as that, she thought. He is in New York. Her heart began to flame; pain ran up her arms and legs; she wanted to get excited and yet she felt exhausted, a sense of desolation thumping across her head, a well of loss drowning her.

She placed her head in her hands and Garda Moran thought she was crying. She heard him rummage and take some mugs from Roberta’s cupboard. He placed a tea, too white with milk, in front of her, but she did not sit back until the steam fluffed past her face.

‘Did he go to a good family?’

‘The documents show they had plenty. Ella, we have to talk about what happens next.’

‘What?’

‘It is not as simple as just giving you the details. An expert is going to take over the cases and contact the families involved.’

‘More waiting.’

‘Ella, the same rules apply. It will be up to your son whether he wants to make contact and up to you if you want to meet.’

‘Even though he was stolen from me.’

‘All you can do now, Ella, is wait.’

‘I suppose I am good at that.’

Roberta walked into the kitchen and put her kettle on the ring.

Martin Moran pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I will ring you.’

‘What about Debbie?’

‘We are going through the files; there are a lot of them. Ballygally Convent gave us a pile and we found more in searches at the convent in Moyasta,’ he said as he rinsed his mug out under the kitchen tap.

He tapped Roberta on the shoulder and beckoned her to follow him. Outside, Garda Moran moved quickly to the car, so he was out of earshot of the house.

‘I know you don’t get on the best, but she needs you now, Roberta. Maybe try and talk to her.’

‘What is it, Martin? Have you found the child?’

‘Something like that,’ he said, getting into the driver’s seat before she could ask any more questions.

Roberta returned to the kitchen, scalded the inside of a mug and stirred in a heaped spoon of coffee and sugar. She sat at the table, picking at the tablecloth edge, watching her sister. She did not feel able to say a word. The tick of the clock sounded louder than usual. She stuttered out a sentence.

‘Where is he?’

Ella heard Roberta’s question, but there was no fight left in her.

They sat, the only sounds the clock ticking and the hens outside clucking, waiting to be fed.

Roberta picked tiny balls off her dressing-gown sleeve, her head down as if in deep concentration. Ella watched her snag a small ball and pull it hard.

‘In New York.’

Roberta stopped, her fingers still on her sleeve.

‘Not so far; I am glad,’ she said.

They did not know what else to say to each other, the chasm of decades too wide between them.

‘The café won’t open on its own,’ Ella said, loud enough for Roberta to hear. Jumping up to turn off the ovens and scoop out the cake tins, Ella began to knock the cakes out. Roberta brought her tea to the drawing room.

Debbie pretended to be very busy and flitted about the café so that even Muriel could not pull her into conversation. The postmistress made several attempts to engage her, calling her over to her table and asking aloud where Ella was, but Debbie answered quickly or waved in a frantic gesture to show she was under pressure.

‘There was a time they would linger to chat, but since this place started being mentioned in the national press their heads have swelled somewhat,’ Muriel sniped to the woman beside her, from behind her hand.

Chuck Winters enquired after both Debbie and Ella.

‘I don’t know, Chuck; sometimes I wish I’d never come here.’

‘Don’t ever even think it; after all, you have been a lifeline to Mrs Hearty,’ Chuck whispered, touching Debbie’s arm lightly.

‘The service around here has gone to the dogs. Maybe we were too hasty in abandoning Molloy’s,’ Muriel snapped, but the other women ignored her tight, jealous tone. Muriel hated more than anything not knowing what was going on behind the scenes at Roscarbury. She jumped up of a dash. ‘I don’t have time to sit around and gossip all day,’ she said, leaving the price of her cup of tea on the table. Without even a sideward glance to the counter, she left.

‘I always think she is like a spoilt child, adorable in so many ways,’ Chuck said, gathering up his cup and saucer and making for the window seat.

With Muriel gone, the noise level in the café went down and Debbie had time to sit at a table and rest. That her coming to this country had caused such a furore was difficult to comprehend. If Ella’s son did not want to meet her, Ella would surely blame Debbie for raking up old embers and setting a fire alight none could put out.

Soon, she was alone in the empty café with the tables not cleared. When Garda Moran tapped on her shoulder, Debbie jumped, making the little vase holding a tulip fall over, spilling water across the tablecloth. Garda Moran stepped back, apologising profusely.

‘Miss Kading, is there somewhere private we can talk?’

Sweat prickled on her back. Debbie swept her arms across the span of the room. ‘There is nobody here, officer.’

Garda Moran took off his cap and carefully placed it on a chair. ‘Did Ella tell you we have got access to new files?’

‘Yes.’

Her throat was painfully dry, her head throbbed; she found it hard to concentrate.

‘We have only started to go through them, but we have found a reference to your adoption.’

She could not look in his face but zoned in instead on the parkland, where a golden retriever was running in circles around its owner and barking.

‘I was one of the babies taken from my mother, without her consent?’

She sat watching the dog evade its owner and she wanted to be out in the grass, still wet with dew; she wanted to be in a day where there was no worry, only everyday niggles that could easily be forgotten.

‘Is there somebody I can call, to sit with you?’

Debbie sat up straight. ‘There is nobody. Please, let’s get this over and tell me.’

She saw him swallow hard before he launched into his explanation.

‘We know you were born on April 15, 1959 and adopted several days later by Agnes and Rob Kading, but it appears only after the baby they had intended to adopt died unexpectedly at birth. Mrs Kading was distraught and Sister Consuelo arranged for another baby to be brought to her.’

Debbie put up her hand to tell him to stop. She could see Agnes making a scene, telling them how far she had travelled and how she was not leaving without a child. She had seen her do it often enough in Bowling Green when she did not get her own way, insist with her marbles-in-her-mouth voice, placing her bag primly on a counter, her body stiff with determination.

‘Will I continue?’

Debbie nodded.

‘Sister Consuelo arranged for a baby who was born two days later to an unmarried mother to be taken instead for adoption. We believe your actual date of birth is April 17. The mother was told the baby died.’

‘My birthday isn’t even real.’ Debbie stood out onto the floor.

He looked directly at Debbie. ‘You know Mary Murtagh was your mother?’

‘Yes.’ Debbie got up from the chair and straightened the painting on the wall. ‘I had better get the tables cleared or Ella will have something to say about it.’

‘I don’t think Ella is going to mind today,’ he said, watching Debbie as she over-stacked a tray. He made it to her just as the china cups slipped to one side, managing to catch a blue thistle-patterned cup in mid-flight. ‘Sit down,’ he said, guiding her back to her seat. ‘A baby that young would have needed a passport to leave the country. It is possible Agnes Kading pretended you were their natural child and had you registered at birth, putting herself and her husband down as the natural parents.’

‘Could they do that?’

‘Quite a few Americans did, those stationed or living in the UK; we will have to wait and see.’

Debbie slumped into her chair. The pain in her chest prevented her bolting, so she sobbed, her tears gushing down her face, seeping into her silk scarf, making it look thin.

‘I will make some tea,’ Garda Moran said, and he went off in search of cups, as Debbie sat facing the window. The woman with the dog put it on a lead and headed towards the lake. No doubt the dog would soon begin to strain and sniff the air as the ducks swam to the centre of the lake to stay safe. Only last week a cocker spaniel had romped into the water and nabbed a duckling as all around it adult ducks squabbled ferociously. The sun was shining, highlighting the bench under the branches of the cherry blossom. Grey clouds waltzed across the sky; Debbie knew that soon the lake would be obliterated by sheets of rain.

‘I have grown too attached to the place,’ she said half aloud, so that Garda Moran stopped what he was doing and asked if she was all right. She did not answer. ‘This is the end of my journey,’ she said, as Garda Moran set a china cup and saucer and a small teapot for one in front of her. Debbie poured her tea and stirred in a sugar. ‘Ella said you were nice, and she is right.’

Garda Moran coughed, to hide his embarrassment. ‘I had better get along.’

She shook herself and stood up and extended her hand. ‘Will you promise me something?’

‘If I can.’

‘Please find Ella’s son and tell him he has to come here.’

Garda Moran smiled. ‘I don’t think there is anyone in Rathsorney who would want it any other way.’

He left her and she listened to his heavy step on the stairs and how he stopped to have a quick word with Roberta before driving off. She watched the squad car bump along the avenue to the gate, sweeping to the left into the town.

She was not sure how she felt: disappointed, for sure, but more angry that after kicking down a huge brick wall there was now an even bigger one in front of her. Mary Murtagh might have known Roscarbury Hall, walked along the avenue, stolen down to the old icehouse.

She felt strangely empty and very, very tired. She got up and had begun to clear the tables when Roberta stepped into the room.

‘I can do that for you.’

‘I’m good.’

‘No, really, I want to.’

Debbie put down her tray and took in the older woman. She was smiling, telling her to take a break. Debbie did as she was told, too numbed to ask why. She wanted to be alone, to wonder if Mary Murtagh liked jewellery at all, to shut her eyes and be in the dark.

Ella tried to imagine the man, but that was impossible when she had not even known the child or the baby. She could only hope he would want to meet her. Almost afraid to think of him and what he might be, she turned to the jewellery box. She should be happy and yet she was so worried. What could be worse than to discover he was alive and have to put up with the pain of his rejection? Reaching down to the bottom layer, she scrabbled until she felt the light tissue holding the happy brooch.

If he wanted to meet her, she would wear it. There never had been an occasion joyous enough to wear the last brooch her mother had received from her father.

A glorious pink flower, the domed brooch was small in her hand. A pink rhinestone was at the centre, navettes of rhinestone radiating from it. There was no special occasion when her father presented it to her mother, which heightened the excitement. John O’Callaghan had surprised them all on a very ordinary day. His wife, Bernie, was busy in the kitchen, her hands covered in flour as she pummelled the brown bread before throwing it in the oven. Sweat formed along her temples and she pushed up her sleeves roughly when her husband walked in.

‘I am a bit behind; get yourself a cup of tea and a biscuit, to keep going,’ she snapped, without looking around.

‘I am all right,’ he said, and placed the small box beside her.

She quizzed him about the contents and chided him for handing her any such thing when she was up to her oxters in flour, but he refused to back away, forcing her to wash her hands and towel them dry quickly, to open the box.

Ella remembered the smile that transformed her mother’s face; the strain of her labours faded away as she took in the delicate pink flower.

‘It is the most beautiful of them all, you mad fool,’ she declared, reaching up, kissing her husband on the lips: a show of affection so unusual that Ella and Roberta stopped what they were doing and stared. Quizzed on the occasion being celebrated, John O’Callaghan simply answered ‘because she makes me so happy’.

Known as the happy brooch after that, it shone on Bernie O’Callaghan’s lapel on those special occasions she decided were so imbued with happiness that they deserved such a signal.

Ella kept the brooch wrapped in tissue, carefully storing it at the far corner at the bottom of the big silver box. Never daring to even consider wearing it, she promised herself now, if she were to meet her son it would surely be the happiest day, deserving of such a significant brooch.

Ella sat and examined her reflection in the mirror. He would never know her as a pretty young woman. Her hair had been rich auburn once, like her mother’s. Her eyes, though still hazel, had lost their glint. She had weathered well, she thought, but what he would make of the old woman who had spent her life grieving for a child who was dead and for another who was not, she simply did not know.