The Ballroom Café (31 page)

Muriel was busy washing up when Ella came back into the café.

‘I am sorry for keeping you so long, Muriel.’

‘Well, is it good news?’ Muriel yanked at the sink plug.

‘My son is a big-shot lawyer and he wants to meet me.’

Ella stopped, her voice too watery with tears to say more. Without even drying her hands, Muriel went to her and hugged her so hard Ella had to wriggle free.

‘I am so happy for you, Ella; you have no idea.’

Michael deserves to be remembered right to his son. He wanted that. Please go to the bother of reading his letter: Act One, Hamlet, top shelf in the library. R.

Ella walked straight to the row of books in the library and took down
Hamlet
, shaking it until the letter plopped out. How dare her husband write to somebody other than her? What right did Michael Hannigan have to be remembered kindly? She stuffed the letter in her front patch pocket to be read later.

She slipped a note onto Roberta’s library chair.

What is in the past can stay there. Michael Hannigan has no rights now: he is dead. I will not have you spoil the one moment of happiness I have left in the world. E.

In the café, she fingered Michael Hannigan’s letter. If she got time later on, she might throw her eyes over it, though she would not let on to her sister.

‘I have never seen one linger so long over a cup of tea,’ Ella muttered.

Ella took the stranger in. Hunched, her elbows on the table, she was looking intently out the window. A paisley scarf slipped down her front, but she hardly noticed.

‘She might just be taking time out,’ Fergus whispered as he wandered off to clear a few of the far tables.

Muriel Hearty and a small group of women in the centre tables spoke quietly together, before Muriel beckoned to Ella to join them.

‘Have you heard from Debbie?’

‘I talked to her on the phone last night. She is being well looked after; I can’t say more than that. It is just a waiting game now.’

‘She should have stayed; we would all have pitched in.’

‘She has her aunt and uncle and friends.’

‘But we went through something together; we would not have minded looking after her.’

The other women murmured in agreement.

‘That’s silly talk and well you know it. She is getting the best specialist care in that hospice. Good intentions can never match that.’

Muriel pulled Ella closer. ‘Who’s your wan at the window?’

‘No idea.’

‘Well, she won’t boost the café profits,’ Muriel tootled, and the other women giggled. They all got up at the same time, noisily scraping their chairs along the wooden floors. ‘There is bingo in the hall tonight, Ella. You should come along. Bring Fergus too.’

Ella did not answer but got a tray and began to clear the table. She already had one tray full and was working on the second when the woman at the window rose from her seat and went to the till to pay.

‘I will be with you in a minute,’ Ella said, grumbling to herself that she should choose this moment to pay for her cup of tea. ‘Was everything all right for you?’ she asked, putting her hand out for the money.

‘Why wouldn’t it? Sure, you can’t go wrong with a cup of tea.’

Ella laughed. ‘I guess you are right.’

‘Are you Miss O’Callaghan, the owner?’

‘Yes, Ella: Ella O’Callaghan.’

‘You won’t remember me. I am Fran Murtagh.’

‘Fran Murtagh?’

‘Mary Murtagh’s sister. We used to live beside the bridge in Rathsorney, at one time. I am Frances Rees now.’

Ella looked at the tall, well-dressed woman in front of her. She noted she was wearing an expensive raincoat and that her handbag was leather. Ella undid her apron and walked with the woman back to the table by the window. ‘We didn’t know any of the Murtaghs were still in the country, or have you travelled from afar?’

‘I have lived in Malahide, Dublin, all my life. That is where my family moved after Rathsorney.’

‘I see.’

‘I was hoping you had a forwarding number or address for Deborah Kading.’

‘You know the situation?’

‘Yes, that is why I am here. I wrote to the convent seeking help; they did not bother to reply. Unfortunately it appears I am now too late; Deborah has already left the country.’

‘And Mary?’

‘My sister died of a broken heart in a mental institution, because nobody would believe her insistence that her child had been stolen from her. She was told the baby died, but she never believed it. I think it is only a matter of weeks before she is proved right, but …’

‘It will be too late for Debbie.’

‘Exactly.’

‘How is Deborah?’

‘Very weak; some days are better than others. She is in a lot of pain, doped up to the eyeballs, so I have to talk to her aunt Nancy mostly.’

Frances shifted in her chair, to move closer to Ella. ‘I thought I should tell her she was welcome to our family, that her mother had always wanted her. Was she happy with the Kadings?’

‘As far as I know, though she lost her mother when she was very young.’ Ella looked away, not wishing to say anything further.

Fran Rees let a tear slip down her cheek and she shook her head, like a horse hoping to dislodge a fly. ‘Those nuns have a lot to answer for. I wrote to the convent after I heard Deborah on the radio and got no reply. Any time I rang, I was told nobody could help. It was only when I knocked on the convent door and insisted I would go to the press that Assumpta met me.’

‘What did she say?’

Fran looked out the window. The sea far away was glistening like a starry night. A bluster of a breeze was agitating the trees in the far wood and the rhododendron was swaying, throwing its old flowers away. A group of girls were messing as they walked up the driveway, pushing each other into the rhododendron bushes.

‘She told me Deborah had gone and everything else was in the hands of the inquiry and gardaí and she could not possibly comment.’

‘Sounds like marbles-in-the-mouth Mother Assumpta, all right.’

‘Deborah was told Mary Murtagh was her mother?’

‘Yes, she was.’

‘I can fly out. Bring photographs of Mary.’

Ella felt the tears rise up. ‘You would do that?’

Fran Rees twiddled with the cup and saucer Fergus had quietly slipped in beside her. ‘I owe it to my sister, Miss O’Callaghan. I was a few years older than her. When she spoke of keeping her baby, I never let on that I knew my father would not in a million years let it happen. I let Mary plan, knitting matinee coats in several colours and crocheting little bootees. I suppose I was too caught up in my own life; I was planning to marry Richard then. When she had the baby, she was told it had died; I did not say anything.’

She stopped to gulp a mouthful of tea.

‘I was brought up to believe my parents knew best. When they put her in the mental hospital, I never thought she would be there so long. Every time I visited her, which to my shame was only at Christmas and Easter, she begged me to find her child. Even though I had my suspicions my father probably had the child adopted and it was more than likely alive, I never said that to Mary. I wronged her, don’t you see? I am now trying to right that wrong.’

Ella reached over and patted Fran’s hand. ‘You were young. Looking back and regretting is always the easy part.’

‘Do you think it would mean something to her now?’

Ella squeezed Fran’s hand. ‘I know it will mean everything. Book the flight straight away.’ She reached into her pocket, pulled out a notebook and jotted down Debbie’s address and phone number. ‘Take it, and let me know how you get on.’

The other woman could not muster any words but smiled her appreciation as Ella, hearing the young girls come up the stairs, quickly disappeared in behind the counter.

Marian Hospice, Ohio, April 2008

‘She’s my aunt, Mary’s sister?’

Nancy nodded, tears brimming up. ‘You don’t have to see her if you don’t want, darling.’

Debbie tapped Nancy on the wrist. ‘Don’t be silly, of couse I want to meet her. How did she find out where I was?’

‘Ella O’Callaghan. She just walked into the café.’

That had been three days ago, when Debbie could still chat. Now every sentence was an effort and she wondered if her mother’s sister would make it on time.

She asked Nancy to pat a bit of powder on her face, and pink lipstick, because for some reason even though she was dying she wanted to look good meeting this woman for the first time.

‘It’s time; I’ll see if she’s arrived,’ Nancy said, making for the door, but stopping halfway. ‘Are you sure you’re up for this, Debs.’

Debbie smiled. ‘Go, Nance, please. Don’t worry.’

Frances Rees nervously waited in the reception area and wondered how everyone could be so cheerful in a place where dying was the business. It had been an easy decision to come here, and when she had rung ahead, Nancy Slowcum cautiously welcomed the plan.

‘She is near the end. You do understand that, don’t you?’

‘I have some photos of her mother. I don’t want to intrude, but I thought it might help.’

Nervously holding a package of family photographs, Frances wondered if she had been mad to declare her family interest in this woman: Mary’s daughter, her niece, dying in this place where everybody spoke gently.

A plump lady in a tracksuit, her face heavily powdered, walked towards her, two arms extended. ‘Mrs Rees, we’re almost family, aren’t we? It was so good of you to come.’

Frances Rees was pulled in to a bear hug by Nancy.

‘Debbie is very keen to see you, but she gets tired easily, so it won’t be for very long,’ Nancy said, leading her down the corridor to a blue door. ‘She has a beautiful view across the gardens, though she says it will never match the loveliness of Roscarbury Hall.’

Nancy opened the door slowly, beckoning Frances to follow. Debbie was propped against several pillows, as if her bed had been specially arranged for this moment.

Her voice was low, but definite, when she spoke. ‘I am so grateful you made the journey; come sit with me.’

Nancy hovered at the end of the bed until Bert called her out of the room.

‘She fusses over me, always has done.’

‘Deborah, I am sorry …’

Debbie put up her hand. ‘Frances, let’s not waste time. Pull up a chair and tell me about Mary.’

Frances sat on the edge of the chair and started to gabble on. ‘Call me Fran; everybody in the family calls me that. Mary was five years younger and I can tell you a right strap when she was a young woman, always going off to meet some young lad or other.’ Frances hesitated.

Debbie smiled. ‘Please, don’t hold back.’

‘I don’t want you to think less of her. She was a kind, generous girl, a bit shy, and a pair of hands on her that could style any type of hair. I worked in Arklow, hairdressing, but it was Mary who had the real talent. It all just came naturally to her. She once dyed her hair pure blonde; needless to say, my father went mad. And then there was the time she straightened her hair; she decided to iron it – she ruined her long tresses that day and had to go for a boy’s cut; that was before girls went down that road. She looked so sexy, in the boyish cut and the short skirts.

‘My father couldn’t contain her. We all admired her spunk, and all the young lads were after her. She only had eyes for one man, though. He was no good, and married.’

‘My father?’

‘I am afraid so. She would do anything for him. Meet him in Arklow, standing for hours waiting for him by the cold stone bridge, and he would not have the decency to give her an explanation when he arrived. Sometimes he could not stay more than half an hour. She was besotted with him. He was only married a short time too, but there was no telling her he was no good.’ Frances stopped as she felt the tears rise inside her. ‘One day, she said they were going to go away together, away from Ireland, and he would find some way of marrying her. Even if they didn’t, they would be together. She loved him dearly, was prepared to turn her back on her family for him.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A good-for-nothing who strung her along, that is who.’

‘What do you mean?’

Frances took a deep breath. ‘She did not tell him about the baby until she was well on and could not hide it any more; the red welts on her hips were huge from the corset she had to wear all the time,’

Debbie closed her eyes and Frances was not sure whether she should continue.

‘I am tiring you out. Will I go?’

Debbie put up her hand, as if to stop Fran from leaving. ‘Who knows if there will be another time?’

Fran burrowed in to her seat. ‘He would have nothing to do with her. She came home that night in bits; he said he had a wife and family and she would have to get rid of it.’

‘But she was months pregnant.’

‘Exactly, the bastard. He wanted to bring her to a woman in Dublin, have a back-street abortion.’

‘He doesn’t sound as if he really cared for her.’

‘A married man having an affair with a young girl? He was only thinking of himself; that was not going to change.’

‘She must have been devastated.’

‘She knew she wanted to have you; she kept saying the two of you would move to Dublin once you were born and have a life together. It was not something that ever had any reality to it, not when my parents found out about the pregnancy.’

‘Betty Messitt told me she was locked in the house.’

Frances gulped back the tears. ‘I had a flat in Arklow, so I was away for most of the week. To my eternal shame, I was so caught up in my own life I paid little attention to Mary at the time. She was given a hard time by my father. We all knew there was no way he would let her keep the child, but she was persistent and stubborn in her plan for your life together.’

‘Would your father ever have relented, do you think?’

Frances shook her head vigorously. ‘There was never any question she would be allowed to keep the baby; she must have known that deep down it was not the thing to do.’ Frances reached into her packet and pulled out a few photos. ‘I thought you might like these. Mary was some looker, don’t you think?’