The Ballroom Café (24 page)

Her mouth was dry. She sat down. She did not know what to say.

‘Ella, are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes, I am. Where is he, Martin? Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. Do you have somebody there with you?’

‘Debbie is here. Debbie Kading.’

‘Do you want me to outline to her what happens next?’

Ella did not reply but handed the phone to Debbie, tears streaming down her face. Ella heard Debbie talk to the garda as she reached inside her pocket for her hankie and buried her head in the linen and lace. She would never know him as helpless and dependent, but only as the man.

Debbie left the phone on the table and put on the kettle. ‘He says he’ll call in the morning to take your statement of what you remember of the time of the birth. They have to look into it further, because there’s no record yet of where the children ended up.’

Ella stood up. ‘What do you mean “no record”?’

‘They’ve seized all files at the convent and they have detectives going through them, but so far there is nothing.’

‘So we don’t know where my boy was sent.’

‘I am sure they will find him, Ella. We just have to be patient. They have a team combing the hospital files as well.’

Ella fisted the table. ‘I have waited decades; I thought there was nothing in this lifetime that could return my son to me. I want to meet him.’

‘Garda Moran said to prepare yourself; it could take weeks, or longer.’

‘Do they know what it is like to find out there is a chance of speaking to your child? What I wouldn’t have given to get that chance with Carrie, to have her open her eyes as she lay on that quayside, her lungs full of water. ‘

‘It’ll come; we’ll both have to wait.’

‘But we needn’t: that bitch Consuelo knows.’

Debbie took down Ella’s flowery teapot and poured hot water into it. ‘Don’t you think we should leave it to the police?’

Ella sat down, her head in her hands. ‘I can’t sit here and do nothing. I can’t do it.’

Iris walked in. ‘Muriel Hearty rang and said they had opened the grave.’

‘I know. Empty,’ Ella said.

‘Well, where in God’s name is the child?’ Iris said, sitting down opposite Ella.

‘The man, Iris. The man.’

‘Jesus Christ, you are right.’

Ella insisted on closing the café herself. She was busy clearing the tables when Fergus Brown stuck his head in. ‘Have I got it wrong again, Ella? I thought Wednesday was the half-day.’

She looked at him. His face was still pale. Automatically, she straightened her dress with the palms of her hand and attempted to smile.

‘Fergus, it is so nice to see you. I am afraid we are closed; something urgent has come up.’

‘Nothing is the matter, I hope.’

He saw distress in her eyes, and her forehead was lined, as if she was worrying and thinking too hard.

‘It is hard to know where to begin. You have heard the news about Ballygally?’

‘Yes, an awful business.’

‘They dug up my baby’s grave this morning.’

Fergus reached her in two strides. ‘I had no idea. I am so dreadfully sorry.’

‘My baby is a man now, and alive. Somebody else has mothered him, loved him, advised him. Now I don’t even have the memory of him in my head, because he was never dead. Isn’t it strange I have gained him and lost what I had, in the space of minutes? And they say it could take weeks, maybe months to locate him; so far there is no record …’ She was babbling, but she could not stop.

Fergus led her to a chair and made her sit down. ‘Isn’t there somebody who can do this work for you?’

‘It keeps my hands busy.’

‘Will I get you a coffee?’

She nodded, and he went behind the counter to get some cups. Consuelo had hatched it; she was sure. Hadn’t she held her down, told her to forget about it? They had sat beside each other in secondary school, Ella always telling her to buck up or she would never make anything of herself. She was a right one for the boys as well, until her mother started forcing her to Mass every morning.

Ella knew Consuelo secretly liked being in the convent church, often sneaking in during break. It was not a surprise when she did not return to the classroom after the Easter holidays and word went round she had entered the convent. Ella did not see her for another five years. When they did meet, Consuelo, who had put on a lot of weight, was bossy and full of herself.

Fergus came back with a tray and two cups of tea.

‘I thought hot sweet tea might be best,’ he said, placing a cup and saucer in front of her.

‘You are a kind man, Fergus. How have you been?’

‘Strange, I lost Margaret to Alzheimer’s a long time ago. I have got to say I was not prepared for the pain I would feel in her passing.’

‘You loved her so much.’

‘I did, but in truth, these last years have been so hard. I don’t miss her recriminations or her wanderings; she could walk for miles, you know, and refuse to come home. I should have put her in a home, but in one of her more lucid moments at the start, she made me promise I would not.’

Ella stretched out her hand and cupped his tight. ‘You did your best, Fergus; that is all any of us can do.’

They sat holding hands, each heavy with their own thoughts for a few moments, until Fergus spoke.

‘Ella, I came for a reason today,’ he said, his mouth dry with emotion. He coughed lightly and swallowed hard, before continuing. ‘I wanted to say how much I have missed you, this past while. Losing Margaret has been an awful blow, but to be honest there is a relief that this section of my life, looking after her, is over. I want to start over, and I want you in my life.’

Ella pulled her hand away. ‘Fergus, my mind is full of the child I lost. Please do not say any more; it will break my heart, because there can only be one answer. I let down that baby all those years ago; I know I did.’

‘You are a victim here,’ Fergus snapped, his voice angry.

‘I appreciate your defence of me, I really do, but tell me what I did to locate my baby? I never asked enough questions. For God’s sake, I did not even know where he was supposed to be buried.’ The tears spouted from her eyes, but she brushed them away, digging her fists into her eyes. ‘I like you Fergus, a lot, but I don’t deserve any happiness after what I have done. I have to concentrate on finding him, if only to say sorry for letting him down.’

Fergus got up and pulled Ella to her feet. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said, guiding her to the window. She resisted, but only a little. ‘Look out there. What do you see?’

‘I see the garden, that Iris has not dug out all the rills fully, and if she doesn’t soon they will silt up more, and if it rains as much as last winter we will be flooded in the parkland at the front.’

He put an arm across her shoulders and gently whispered in her ear. ‘There are the fields and the sea, the road leading to other towns, there is the wide-open sky. There is a whole world beyond Roscarbury, Ella, and when you are ready, I want to show it to you.’

‘Fergus, now is not the time.’

He pulled away, his face sad. ‘Ella, we both have seen too much of life. What you are going through now is gut-wrenching. I know you will meet your son. When you are ready, we will take the next steps together, and only then.’

Placing her hands on his chest, she felt his heart thumping. ‘Margaret was such a lucky woman, and I am too, to have made such a good friend at this late stage. I thank you, but I can’t say more, even if you want me to. My son is my only priority now. It has to be that way.’

‘I understand, Ella,’ he said, his voice low and tired.

He told her he was planning to sell the house in Rathsorney.

‘I have always liked Italy; I fancy I will buy there.’ He stopped talking, because he saw in her face the strain of trying to maintain politeness when a far greater thing was eating her up inside. ‘I am rambling on, Ella, and you have much to do.’

‘No, Fergus.’

He stood up and she did not protest. Reaching over, he pecked her on the cheek, saying he would let himself out.

She saw him drift along the avenue, never stopping to look back at the window. Iris came tramping up the stairs.

‘What was Fergus Brown doing here?’

Ella shook her head and closed two buttons on her cardigan, to regain her composure. ‘He just dropped in. He is thinking of selling the house.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity.’ Iris gave her a look, checking closely for her reaction.

‘He might buy an apartment in Italy.’

‘That is what money does for you: it gives you freedom,’ Iris replied, starting to stack the dirty dishes in the sink.

‘Leave them, Iris,’ Ella said, her voice wobbly.

Debbie could not sleep, so she stole to the drawing room to sit quietly in the musty gloom, a small table lamp spotting a soft light around her. The house was dark, the only sound the mice scrabbling in the walls. She tucked up her feet under her on the velvet couch, after pouring a large Baileys.

She dozed and was almost asleep when the drawing room door opened and Roberta walked in.

‘I saw the light and thought it had been left on by mistake. I am sorry to disturb you,’ she said, her face betraying her disappointment that the room was not empty.

‘There’s plenty room for the two of us. Won’t you have a Baileys?’

Debbie stood up and took a crystal glass from the cabinet. Roberta watched, unsure of what to do next.

‘You know I’m leaving?’

Roberta relaxed and sat in the leather armchair, fitting the rug around her knees. ‘It is for the best.’

‘Maybe,’ Debbie said, handing the glass to Roberta.

They sat, an awkward silence between them, the mice scrabbling louder as they moved up the walls and into the ceiling, making their way to the kitchen.

‘Has there been any news about the child?’ Roberta asked, fixing her handbag on her lap.

‘No. It is terrible for Ella.’

‘Terrible for all of us.’

Roberta sipped her drink and enjoyed the change from the sharp, cheap sherry she had to buy these days.

‘In the village, they say you are a nice person.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘I wondered, then, why you did not leave when I asked you.’

‘I stayed while there was still hope of tracing my birth mother.’

‘You have not done so?’

‘No.’ Debbie drained her glass and got up. ‘I’d better get to bed. It’s been quite a day.’

‘Thank you for the drink.’

Debbie smiled and let herself quietly out of the room, her arms and legs tired and aching.

On her own, Roberta took down the battered Complete Works of Shakespeare from the top shelf of the bookcase. Turning to Act One of
Hamlet
, she lifted the envelope from its hiding place. Pressing it to her nose, it was damp and musty, but still she fancied she could smell him. It was addressed to her, but it was a father’s letter to his son. If Michael Hannigan’s son was to come back to Roscarbury, then she must fulfil his father’s wishes, whether her sister liked it or not.

September 4, 1959

My dearest Roberta,

What I am about to do is going to let you all down, especially Ella and our unborn baby. I feel it must be a boy and that brings with it such terrible joy. In her grief, Ella is going to be extremely angry with me, so I ask you, please, to represent me to my child. I want him to know I could have been a good father, but circumstances have brought me to this place and I see no way back.

I caused the death of beautiful Carrie and for that I will never forgive myself. I do not have to forgive myself for loving you, because in truth, I loved both of you, Roberta and Ella. I regret deeply the hurt I am about to cause.

Please, Roberta, tell my boy I loved him but I just could not stay. Tell him to be good to both of you and to grow up to make his mother proud. Tell him she is a strong, loving woman and he must respect and love her always. Stay strong, and keep each other strong.

May God bless the three of you, and I hope some day in your hearts you will be able to forgive me and remember me fondly.

Roberta, please stay with Ella and help her when she needs it. She is a proud woman and I know she values your company. I have not been a good husband or a faithful lover. In time, you will know how weak I have been and how I have wronged you all. I humbly ask your forgiveness. I am a coward and a weak man. I am deeply sorry. When the time comes, look kindly on me. In time, I hope you both can forgive me.

All my love,

Michael.

He gave the letter to a private who was going home on sick leave. Tardy about posting it, the private only remembered to throw it in a postbox on his way back to barracks two weeks later, when Michael was already seven days buried. Roberta rushed to show it to Ella, but Ella would not talk to her. When she tried on several more occasions, Ella screamed until the spit flowed out of her mouth. After that, Roberta kept it in the book, returning to it from time to time.

She placed the envelope carefully in her handbag before leaving the drawing room and turning off the light, because the first curls of sunrise were forming and the birds were mooching, getting ready to greet the day.

It was only an hour later when Ella made her way downstairs to turn on the ovens. Her head thumped and she wandered outside to breathe in the cool air. A hedgehog, surprised in the herb bed, snuffled slowly away as Iris’s dog watched it, afraid to move closer.

Two magpies took up position by the henhouse, in readiness for the scrap bucket. She had nothing to offer a child: only this place, which sapped every bit of her money and energy. The café, too, would only always be just that: a tea and cake house to help make things meet.

She made biscuits again this morning, because she liked the feel of the butter and flour pressed through her fingers, and rolling out the dough and stamping out the different shapes.