The Ballroom Café (32 page)

Debbie took in the wide smile, the over-the-top hairdo and the slim frame, her hands on her hips like a model.

‘She had a style of her own didn’t she?’

‘And a mind of her own: that was her trouble. You were whipped from her straight away; she said she never got to hold you, never even saw your face.’

Frances stopped as the tears rolled down Debbie’s cheeks.

‘It might be time for me to go.’

‘Please, tell me what happened to her.’

‘The family never went back to Rathsorney: my father got work in Dublin and we moved to Coolock. He thought the change to the city would make Mary forget, but it was terrible. She cried and cried and cried; even in her sleep, she screamed her baby had been stolen. She threatened to go to the gardaí. My father said there was no way they would believe a slut like her. He took to locking her in the house all day. When she continued to fight him, he signed her into the mental home.’

‘And they accepted her in?’

‘She was heavily sedated. I went to see her once a week for a while, but it was incredibly upsetting. She was in with a lot of old women, and she sat babbling to herself that her baby had been stolen. If anyone new walked in, she would run up to them to try and tell her story.’

‘You could not do anything to help her?’

‘My father was the only one who could have got her out of that place; he was never going to do that.’

Relief washed over Frances when a nurse stuck her head around the door to check if they needed anything. She arranged her scarf and flattened her hair, in an attempt to compose herself.

‘How did she die?’

Frances took a deep breath. ‘I had taken to visiting once a month; I dropped it down to once every two months. I am ashamed of that now. Daddy rang me and said Mary was dead and to come home for the funeral. She slashed her wrists with an old piece of glass, left over after a few panes of glass were replaced in the day room. Nobody found her, until it was too late.’

Debbie reached and took Frances’ hand. ‘This was not your fault.’

Frances pulled her hand away. ‘Don’t you see, if I had listened to her, believed her, I might have been able to help her. I was too goddamn selfish, getting on with my own small life.’

‘You are being too hard on yourself.’

‘I am not; I should have been there for her. If the roles had been switched, she would have fought Daddy tooth and nail for me.’

‘Who was my father?’

Frances shifted uncomfortably on her seat. ‘He is dead. He died before Mary; we never told her.’

Debbie pulled herself up further on the pillows. ‘Why don’t you want to tell me?’

‘Haven’t I told you enough things to cause pain? Why can’t we leave it?’

‘It is a vital missing part of the jigsaw, Frances. Do other people in the area know?’

‘He would only ever meet her away from Rathsorney, so nobody really knew. She told me, but that was when she was so sure of him.’

‘The name, please, Frances.’ Debbie’s voice was firm, her face determined.

‘Michael. Michael Hannigan.’

‘Ella’s husband?’

‘Yes. He was an awful cad after he left Mary to deal with her pregnancy; he took up with another young one. That wife of his was a saint.’

‘Does Ella know this?’

‘She does not, and she won’t hear it from me; I think it would kill her.’

‘I’m tired, Frances.’

She reached out her hands and let Frances gently hug her.

‘I can come again tomorrow; we can talk about nicer things.’

‘It’s such a long time to tomorrow, it’s hard to plan, but I’d like that.’

‘Can I get you anything before I leave?’

‘I’ll rest, until Nancy comes fussing.’

Debbie closed her eyes. Swirls of colours pulled her away. She heard Frances walk to the door; she mustered the strength to call out to her.

‘Frances, did she ever say what she was going to name me; had she picked names?’

Frances beamed with delight. ‘I should have told you. She was convinced she was going to have a little girl; she was going to call you Rachel, because that sounded like a posh name, and girls with posh names had grand lives.’

‘I like that. Can you do one thing for me?’

Frances moved closer.

‘Tell Ella thank you from me.’

‘Of course I will.’

Debbie spanned with her hand across the locker. ‘The brooch Ella gave me: is it still there?’

Frances picked up the brooch, the stones glinting as she pressed it into Debbie’s hand.

Debbie closed her eyes as Frances quietly let herself out of the room, softly closing the door behind her.

She remembered now, the surge of excitement that she had a gold star, the sound of the screen as she pulled it too hard, and the thud of the front door as she threw her weight on it.

Flinging her schoolbag on the ground, she called out to her mother. Debbie felt young again, running to find her mother.

‘Mommy? Mommy?’

Skipping to the sitting room, she expected to see her by the window. She stooped to pull up her socks before fixing her hairband; Mommy liked her to look neat. Walking over to the sewing machine, she reached out to the lace-trimmed silk blouse, shimmering blue, bundled to the side and still attached by a thread to the needle. Fingering it gently, she admired the buttons, silver and pearl, in the shape of flowers.

‘Mommy? Mommy?’

She danced to the kitchen. A cup of tea was cold on the table; a muffin lay half eaten and mashed on a plate.

‘Mommy? Mommy?’

Calling louder, she glanced out to the garden and the washing line, her cheeks flushed pink with excitement, her heart bursting, the Big Chief tablet notebook sweaty in her hand. She opened it to check the shiny gold star the teacher had carefully pinned to her spelling test. Running to the stairs, she stopped to put her head around the dining-room door. The table sparkled and the room smelled of polish. A pink envelope with her father’s name printed heavily but neatly was propped against a jug of spring flowers.

‘Mommy? Mommy?’

Growing more agitated, she could feel the sting of tears as uncertainty crept over her. She called out again, but her voice was not sure any more. She climbed three steps before stopping to check the coat rack in the hall. The white raincoat and rain hat were there, her mother’s handbag on the chair inside the door.

‘Mommy? Mommy?’

The steps seemed higher than normal, the house too quiet.

Her heart began to pound; the bones in her knees were hurting.

‘Mommy … ?’

Her voice faltered; her mouth dried up. Gripping the banisters too tight, so her fingers cramped, she felt the sweat ooze from the roots of her hair. Tears gurgled up.

She saw her silk shoes first, the shoes Mommy had specially covered to match her dress last Christmas. She kept them high up, wrapped in tissue in a box at the top of the wardrobe. The diamante heart on the front of each shoe caught the light, glinting, beams of colour stalking her brain. Mommy was not wearing nylons.

‘Mommy?’

A roar thundered through her, making her insides hurt, but no sound came.

Mrs Balcomb next door called out to her poodle. Mr Haussmann over the street spluttered loudly, clearing his throat as he settled himself in to the rattan chair on the veranda.

Mommy was wearing the pink satin dress with the butterfly collar and the seashell buttons. She was still, her slight frame hanging over the second landing.

The notebook slipped from Debbie’s hand; she thundered down the stairs and into the garden, gobbling up the fresh air, not knowing what else to do, afraid she would throw up and make a mess. The door of the small potting shed was ajar. She pushed it and burrowed under the table, beside the stool where Rob liked to sit, pressing little slips and seeds into small boxes of earth. Rolling into a ball, she held her knees tight and hummed a tune she did not realise she knew. Humming over and over, she heard the sirens. She hummed and hummed, hugging her knees. Her father called her name, but she did not stop humming.

‘Debbie. Debbie.’

She stuttered in her humming as she felt Rob’s large hands lift her to him.

Rob called her now softly and beckoned her to follow him; she was ready. Her fingers wrapped around the brooch; she felt the whisper of butterflies, the shift in the air as their wings gently flapped, calling out her name, lifting her away.

Three months later

Ella stood by the window, watching the avenue. There were two hours to go, but she could not settle to doing anything else. The ladies of the village passed in and out of the hallway on the way to the Ballroom Café. She flattened her silk dress with her hands, worrying she was overdressed, that the crimson was too gaudy for a woman her age. Maybe she should have picked the navy one with the white lace collar that shop assistant Hetty Flood had recommended. Her hair felt tight, her scalp itchy from the perm in Rathsorney yesterday morning. She fingered the happy brooch at her collar and checked her watch; little time had passed. Oceans of time left until they arrived.

He had a nice voice, proper and polite, she thought, as she spoke to him last night on the phone. He spoke slowly and clearly, and she tried to do the same, though her mind was in a rush to say so much.

‘Stephanie and I can’t wait to meet you. We thought it best to sleep off the jet lag and drive down in the morning. How is that for you?’

‘Fine, just fine. Come any time.’

‘I reckon it will be around lunchtime, one o’clock.’

‘Marvellous. I will be waiting.’

When he rang off, she thought she sounded like a right fancy cow. She never used the word marvellous, maybe once in the last ten years. It popped into her head, just like that.

Iris walked down the avenue to put up the closed sign, as the last few women chatted at the outside tables. Muriel had brought a big bunch of flowers this morning. All dressed up, she was, as if she expected to be invited to the lunch.

‘It is your day, Ella; enjoy every minute. We have to meet this boy of yours soon.’

‘In time, I am sure, Muriel, in time.’

‘Will he be staying here in Roscarbury?’

‘I have booked him and his mother into Neary’s Hotel off the N11.’

‘Oh.’

‘It will give us all a bit of space.’

‘He is bringing his mother?’

‘Of course, I want to meet her.’

‘I don’t know if I could do that. You are something, Ella O’Callaghan.’

They stood in the hallway, Ella fidgeting with her rings until Muriel took the hint, saying she had better get along.

‘They will be in from the mountains for the dole this morning and Matthew will go mad if I don’t lend a hand.’

She flustered down the avenue, not entirely satisfied with her morning’s gossip.

Iris tidied up the tables at the front, leaning the chairs against the tables before she came back into the house.

‘That is me finished, Ella. I have pushed two tables together in the café and laid for three. You will want a bit of room. All you have to do is set up the coffee machine. The food is laid out on the counter, a few of the good tea towels on top.’

Ella swallowed hard. ‘What would I do without you, Iris?’

‘Pay somebody else good money, that’s what.’

‘It won’t be long now. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’

‘Me? What would I be saying to them?’

‘I suppose.’

‘You know there is only one other person you should be asking, but I will say no more.’

Ella touched her happy brooch. ‘I don’t want anything to spoil the day.’

‘I will leave you to it; Molloy’s have a lunch special, so I am off.’

Iris closed the front door behind her. They had done a good job on the house: the glass in the windows sparkled and the front gardens looked tended, pots of petunias spilling over the front steps, hedges neatly trimmed, the edges of the avenue outlined sharply with a spade. She saw Ella inside the drawing-room window. Roberta, sitting at the library window, sipped a sherry. Iris noticed she was wearing her grey suit, the one she had bought in Gorey two weeks ago, the collar of a pink blouse contrasting nicely with her delicate features.

*

Roberta knew when Ella got her hair done that the time had come. Iris up the ladder washing down the outside of the windows and Sheehy brought in to cut down the grass on the parkland several weeks too early were another giveaway.

She never asked what day he was due to arrive, but Iris blurted it out two days ago, as if she couldn’t but tell her.

‘Will he be staying?’ Roberta asked, never moving her eyes from the newspaper she was pretending to read.

‘I don’t think so. Ella is closing up the café so they can have lunch.’

‘Was she ever going to tell me?’

‘I don’t know. Don’t let on you heard from me?’

‘It is not as if we will be chatting about it,’ Roberta said, her voice stiff.

‘Will you want to meet him?’ Iris was worried she may have caused an upset for Ella.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘No reason, no reason,’ Iris said, before filling up another bucket of soapy water for the windows at the back.

‘I doubt if he will be worried whether the windows have been washed or not,’ Roberta called after her, reaching for a pen to scribble a red note.

I have a right to meet my nephew. Make no mistake of that. Don’t think you are the only one who would like to grasp at the straw of happiness. R.

*

They were driving down from Dublin, so they would be hungry. Ella went upstairs to check the café. Iris had put on linen tablecloths, and the good china, only taken out on special occasions, sparkled. Muriel’s flowers were placed in a glass vase to the side of the counter. Trays of food covered in linen cloths were placed inside the counter ledge; a trolley laden with whiskey, brandy, sherry and liqueur along with two cans of beer was by the far wall.

Feeling sick, Ella began to pace up and down, dodging between tables, counting the knots on the floorboards. When the phone rang, she ran downstairs, slightly slipping on the last step in her rush.