The Ballroom Café (17 page)

Still Debbie could say nothing, a humming rising inside her, a loneliness seeping through her.

‘Where do we go from here?’ Ella asked.

‘We will be in touch when we have any new information.’

‘Is that it then?’ Ella said, her voice tight, anger bursting up inside her.

‘I am awfully sorry; there is nothing else I can do at the moment. We are hoping on the full examination of hundreds of extra files that it will yield further results.’

Debbie pushed her hair back from her eyes and inched to the edge of her seat.

Mr Morrissey straightened his cuffs and quickly checked his watch.

Debbie stood up and put out her hand. ‘Mr Morrissey, thank you for your time,’ she said, shaking his hand too vigorously before leaving the room.

Ella hesitated. ‘Is there nothing you can do for her now?’

‘I only wish I could,’ he said, shaking his head.

When they got outside, Gerry O’Hare beckoned Ella.

‘Is everything all right? She has not said a word since she came out of that place.’

‘It is not all right; it is far from it. Take us home, Gerry, please.’

There was silence in the car as they turned around in the courtyard in front of the convent and headed for Roscarbury. Gerry O’Hare deliberately took the long way round, to allow Debbie time to gather herself. She sat in the back seat, the sound of her breathing heaving through the car. As he indicated to turn in the gate at Roscarbury, Ella placed her hand on his arm.

‘You don’t have to drive up to the house. Just drop us at the gate please, Gerry.’

‘Are you sure? It is no bother.’

‘I am sure.’

She patted him on the shoulder, whispering thank you, before climbing out of the car and marching across the wet grass towards the cherry blossom. Stopping after a few paces, she waited for Debbie. Above them, the clouds scampered across the sky and the branches of the tree creaked in the cold wind sweeping across the parkland, hitting Roscarbury Hall full on, rattling the windows and sneaking in the big keyhole on the front door.

‘Don’t be disheartened; we don’t always win the first time.’

‘Or ever,’ Debbie said.

‘We will think of another way. Maybe make another plea on the radio.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Directly to your mother.’

‘I don’t think so. She wanted secrecy and she did a mighty fine job of keeping it secret. I guess there’s a message in that. I need to go home and give up this silly wild goose chase.’

‘What about following up on Consuelo? She is in the convent in Moyasta, they say. Maybe we could go there.’

‘To have another door slammed in our faces and the sympathetic media at hand to listen to my story for the umpteenth time.’

‘We could do it together. Nobody need ever know.’

‘Isn’t that what is wrong with this damned place? Secrecy. Everything’s such a big goddamn secret!’ Debbie shouted, taking off across the grassland, making for the overgrown rhododendron path.

Ella followed her, but chose the nearby shingle track, which was wet and dirty but not so overgrown. Debbie struck out at a fast pace; she did not hear the birds rustle in indignation as she whacked the sprawling rhododendron out of her way. Not caring that the track was mucky and wet in places, keeping her head down she stayed on the route to the old icehouse and the lake. It was overgrown in places, but she pushed branches and briars out of her way, her hands firmly in her pockets.

In one place, pallets had been thrown over a sodden piece of ground in an attempt to maintain the walkway; these too were submerged by mud. Making no effort to dance between the curled-up, stagnant waves of muck and rainwater, Debbie waded through. She felt the thickness of the pallets underneath her shoes. Her trouser leg was snagged, sticking to her. The water made her cold; the mud slowed her down. The first surge of adrenalin faded. Plodding on, elbowing old briars left over from the summer out of her way, she trampled nettles.

The lake was overgrown with reeds in places, but the jetty was still there. She stumbled on, her feet sinking into the soft bank near the water. A heron screeched loudly and skimmed the water, its wings swishing rhythmically, like sails in a good offshore wind. At the old wooden jetty, there were big holes in places where the wood had given way and fallen through.

Stopping by a low stone wall, slicing a bunch of dead leaves out of the way, Debbie sat down. Her socks were ripped and she could see small cuts around the top of her ankles from where she had been whipped by the briars.

All the times she had wanted to look in her face, to know the colour of her hair, to know her likes and dislikes. All the times she had hoped to sit and sip tea, to be comfortable enough with each other, not even to talk. All the times she had simply needed a mom. She did not hear Ella walk up behind her, but when engulfed in a strong, tight hug she let go inside, letting the howls of tears blow across the lake, where the ducklings zipped happily together in circles.

They sat, the two of them, surrounded by the noise of the lake, the water sloshing against the jetty supports, the air cooling as rain drifted nearer.

‘We’d better get back,’ Ella said eventually.

They trudged up the shingle path together, both slower this time, their steps heavier.

‘Go on up and rest. I will bring you up some supper. You will always have a home here, Debbie. I mean it. I really do,’ Ella said, making her way to the kitchen.

‘I know.’

‘Promise me you won’t give up on it yet.’

‘I wish I had half the fight that’s in you.’

Ella grimaced. ‘Too much tragedy has made me bold; don’t wish for that.’

Idly, she picked up the red notes on the table and scanned them, as if they were of no importance, before scrunching them into her coat pocket.

Is she planning to die here? R.

What are you hoping for: to surf on the wave of sympathy the Yank is getting? You are a fool. R.

‘There are some things that never change. Unfortunately, it is the bitterness of my sister which remains my constant in life.’ Ella flicked the tap on and watched the water whoosh into the kettle. ‘I will bring up a cuppa,’ she called after Debbie, who was plodding up the stairs.

Spotting Fergus Brown loitering near the back door, she fixed her hair and walked over to him.

‘How are you, Fergus?’

‘Ella, I had almost given up on you.’

‘There has just been a lot going on.’

‘Roberta said you were not expected back.’

‘I would not believe everything my sister says, Fergus. We don’t get on very well, you know.’

‘I detect a certain frostiness in your voice when you speak of her. She does seem rather stressed and bossy.’

‘An understatement; let’s not talk any more about Roberta.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I wish I could, Fergus, but I can’t,’ she said, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

He caught her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘I understand that sometimes there are things in families you cannot speak of, not outside the household.’

‘Fergus, it is so lovely to have you around.’

He felt giddy, like a schoolboy with a crush. His mouth dry, he licked his lips before speaking.

‘There is no impediment in us getting to know each other more, Ella, becoming good friends. I would like that very much.’

‘Me too,’ she whispered. She felt safe, almost happy and content to be here, beside Fergus Brown.

A thrush pecked at the scraps saucepan outside the back door, and two magpies hovered, watching the chaffinches jump from tabletop to tabletop at the front of the house. She forgot about the tea, until Fergus said he had to leave.

‘I am so glad we can be friends, Ella.’

She smiled and he noticed she had a small dimple on her right cheek. He made to get up from the chair, but turned, an uncertainty across his face.

‘I was wondering would you be free to join me next Friday.’ He stopped and steadied himself, as if he could not manoeuvre out of the seat and ask her on a date at the same time. ‘There is a recital in the old Protestant church in Gorey; I would be delighted if you would do the honour of accompanying me?’

Ella felt herself blush. ‘Won’t people talk?’

He stamped his feet in exasperation. ‘Aren’t we too old to be worrying about that?’

‘But Margaret?’

‘Ella, we are two friends enjoying an evening out. There is no shame in that.’

She stroked the revere of his blazer. ‘I would love to.’

She led the way to the front door. They moved a little closer, their hands almost touching, until they parted and she rushed back inside to make the tea.

Ella set a tray with a china cup and saucer to match the small china teapot with the blue ivy design. Heart-shaped chocolate-chip biscuits she placed on a small plate, before walking to Debbie’s room and knocking on the door.

‘I am sorry about the delay,’ she said, letting the cup slide and clink against the teapot. Changed into her pyjamas, Debbie opened the door wide.

‘I had forgotten.’

‘You are looking better.’

‘Maybe, but I don’t feel it.’

Ella sat down on the bed. ‘You’re not giving up now. Are you?’

‘I’m not, but unfortunately my body is, Ella. The consultant says I have to come back.’ Reaching behind the bedside chair, she pulled out a bottle of Baileys. ‘Do you mind? I don’t feel like tea.’ She poured some into the china cup for Ella and filled a glass for herself. ‘I can’t think of a toast.’

Ella raised her cup. ‘To friends.’

They banged the china cup and the glass, so they looked a bit like two farmers with pints of stout after a good day at the mart. They took long, deep swigs, making Debbie reach to refill.

‘I shouldn’t; I won’t be able to tidy up the café,’ Ella said, but she did not pull away her cup from the bottle.

‘How do you do it, Ella?’

‘Do what?’

‘Stay so nice, even though you lost your daughter and husband and have a sister who doesn’t talk to you. Where I come from, that’s a lot of baggage.’

‘I would prefer to travel hands-free, for sure. Seriously, it is this place. I love every brick, every broken window and dirty bit of glass; I love the gardens and the rickety old jetty. My memories are Roscarbury: good ones and terribly sad, but they make up my life, and this house is the backdrop to all my loves and tragedies, my good and bad moments, my quiet moments and the intense pain of loss. There are plenty of nooks and corners around here to hide baggage.’

‘Tell me about Carrie.’

Ella smiled. ‘You know the worst? People avoid even saying her name, thinking because she was only a mite she was insignificant, had no time to leave her mark.’ Slowly, she pulled a small leather wallet from her pocket. ‘We didn’t get a chance for many photographs in those days. A cousin from Cork snapped the two of us on the front steps of Roscarbury. Pretty as a picture, she was, in that lemon dress and little coat, her best outfit.’

She handed the wallet to Debbie. A small black and white photo of a mother sitting and her little one beside her, pointing at the camera, was pressed behind thick plastic. They were both laughing.

‘You look so happy.’

Ella sighed. ‘We all were back then. Roscarbury Hall was a happy place to be. John, my cousin in Cork, sent me that picture after the accident. Would you believe she was wearing that same outfit the day she died? When I dressed her that morning, I thought the whole town will be looking at her, she is so bonny.’

Ella stopped to tip more Baileys into her china cup.

‘There is nothing worse than losing a child: the touch, the smell, the trust embodied in the hand that slips into yours, holds tight on your finger, the tender touch that will never be replicated, the tinkle of the laugh. I was never just Ella O’Callaghan after that. I was poor Ella who lost her baby. People tried to help me by being normal, not talking about Carrie, but it left me even more isolated. Eventually, I played it their way; I did not talk about her either, and I took part in life not because I wanted to but because it was expected of me. You see, I am not like Roberta. She does not give a goddamn what people think; I worry all the time.’

They could hear Iris clearing off the outside tables and stacking the chairs in a side porch so they did not get wet overnight.

Decades had passed, but time did not matter. The pain of loss abated, but the intensity, when stirred, remained the same. She felt the heaviness of Carrie’s lifeless body, her eyes still open but unseeing, her arms and legs dangling as Michael Hannigan held her, her head thrown back, forever to look upwards. It had happened as quickly as it takes a cat to race across the avenue, the water to fill up the rill after a storm of rain, or a thrush to smash a snail shell.

They told her later she came running, calling out like a madwoman. Roberta rushed to her, babbling, trying to explain, to apologise, but Ella pushed her out of the way.

Carrie looked cold and wet; her blonde curls were straightened and heavy with sea water, her outfit sodden and lumpy.

‘I suppose you know all about it,’ Ella said.

‘Iris may have alluded to something,’ said Debbie.

‘That is when Roberta stopped talking to me. We have never really moved beyond it. That is a story for another time.’

Debbie made to refill the china cup, but Ella put out her hand to stop her.

‘I have had more than enough.’ Ella stared at Debbie. ‘I see it in your eyes at times: the loneliness of losing somebody you loved, the loneliness of not understanding.’

‘I didn’t know it showed so much.’

‘You are in the club, Debbie; only members can recognise each other.’

‘My mother … She went missing … She came home, but died.’

‘Dear Lord in heaven. What age were you?’

‘Eight, almost nine.’

‘You poor thing. To lose a mother at any time is so hard; to lose her when you were still so young, and in that way, must be torture.’

Pain consumed Debbie’s body, so that she buckled. Ella reached to her.