‘What do you mean?’
‘She was young and really lovely-looking with a yen for the very short skirts. She used to wear them with very high shoes. My father said he did not know how her parents let her out, wearing clothes like that. There were rumours.’
‘What do you mean?’
Betty fiddled with a doily on the table. ‘They were only rumours spread by people who had nothing better to do with their time.’
Debbie reached and took the old woman’s hand. ‘Please, don’t spare me.’
‘You don’t know any of this?’
‘None of it.’
Betty reached for a handkerchief as she felt the tears rise inside her. ‘You understand I can only tell you what I know and what I heard. I can’t distinguish between fact and fiction.’
‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’
‘Straight out: I heard she died, went off her head after the baby was born.’
Debbie’s head began to thump. The sitting room, with its patterned wallpaper and carpet, made her feel claustrophobic.
‘Will I continue?’ Betty asked gently.
‘Please.’
‘There was word that young Mary was expecting and that it could have been any number of men. Her father took to locking her in the house while he was at work, and when he came back she was only allowed out the back garden under his supervision, though the harm was done by then.
‘He never stopped her when she was out walking the roads, meeting up with different men and hanging around street corners. There was a lot of rowing in the house; Felicity Feighery, who lived next door, used to hear Mary sobbing after the father had reared up at her. It was always the same thing: he wanted to know who the father was, and she would not tell. From the time she told them she was having a baby, she was treated like dirt.
‘It affected Frances too: they married her off to a young man from Wexford, who had no idea of the family history, and we never saw her in Rathsorney again.’
Betty stopped when she saw Debbie start to cry, and she reached into a drawer in the china cabinet, taking out a box of tissues. ‘Help yourself. Will I continue?’
‘In a minute.’
Betty got up, saying she had washing to hang on the line. ‘You take your breath.’
Debbie blew her nose. There was a pain somewhere under her chest. Any chance of a happy reunion was gone now, because Betty was surely right on the key fact that Mary was dead, and had been for a very long time.
She looked around the sitting room. On every spare piece of wall there were photographs: graduations, weddings, christenings, Betty standing tall among the children she loved.
Debbie jumped up and followed the old lady to the back garden. ‘You are very good to let me take up your time like this.’
Betty did not turn from the line, where she was pegging out towels. ‘Time is the one thing I have to spare. I am just sorry it is causing you so much pain.’
‘I hate to think of her so alone.’
Betty gathered up her empty laundry basket. ‘We will go inside; the wind has a knack of carrying your words from this garden, and next thing Muriel Hearty will be spouting it out at the post office.’
Inside, she poured a fresh cup of tea and opened a packet of chocolate biscuits. They sat quietly for a moment, until Betty was ready to begin again.
‘It gave you a jolt, didn’t it, to find out she was dead?’
‘Is there any chance you’re wrong in that?’
‘I was thinking out at the line that that was what must be going through your head. I should not have broken off like that. I met her sister Frances; I think it was ten years ago. It was at my middle grandchild’s graduation at UCD; she was there for the same reason. She had not changed a bit: still tall, with the hair done to the nines; you could see she had done well for herself. It was only a few minutes we had, but I asked her was it true Mary had died and she said it was. I could see it upset her to even to talk about it. Neither of us wanted to spoil the day, so we chatted on about stupid things. She said she lived in Dublin, but for the life of me I can’t remember her married name. He was a businessman.’
Betty stopped talking and reached over to pat Debbie on the knee.
‘I have not been much good to you.’
‘You have filled in the gaps; without you, I would not know she is dead. It means a lot to me.’ Debbie stood up to leave, but immediately a pain stabbed through her and she flopped down again.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Just give me a minute.’
‘It has all been too much for you. Will I call someone?’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘I will make some more tea.’
Betty flustered around the kitchen, watching her charge keenly.
Debbie sat slumped, knowing this pain would pass. The rattling of the china cups was loud inside her head; the kettle boiling sounded more like a ship’s whistle. Through the fog of pain, she heard Betty fussing, placing a blanket over her, talking on the phone. Fatigue washed through her and she tried to close her eyes, images of Agnes in her ballgown floating past, Blue Grass perfume resting in the air, cloaking Debbie in its sweet softness. Agnes always wore Blue Grass. Even if she were going to the mailbox, she would sit first at her dressing table, check her make-up and dab her perfume on the wrists, the neck and finally an extra spray on the hemline. A lady, she told her daughter, was not properly dressed if she did not wear her perfume: never too sweet or strong, but pleasant.
When the phone rang at Roscarbury Hall, it was Roberta who answered it.
‘Mrs Messitt, it is very kind of you to ring, but what do you expect me to do? I hardly know the woman; it sounds to me like she needs a doctor.’
‘Maybe I had better talk to Ella.’
‘You will have to hold; I think she is in the café.’
Betty Messitt, who was in her hallway, pulled up a chair and waited.
Roberta scribbled a quick note.
There is somebody on the phone – something about that Yank being ill and in the town. R.
She stopped three women as they made to ascend the stairs. ‘Ladies, my leg is not good today; would you mind giving this note to my sister Ella, most urgently.’
Turning back to the phone, she spoke again to Betty Messitt.
‘Mrs Messitt, my sister will be down shortly; I am sure she can sort out this mess. I will leave you now.’
Betty threw her eyes to heaven. She never liked that Roberta: always a bit of a snooty toots.
Agitated, Roberta pulled a notebook from her pocket and rushed another note, propping it beside the phone.
I told you that woman was trouble. Maybe now you will finally get her out of my home. R.
Ella tore down the stairs.
‘Betty, what is wrong?’
‘The poor thing came asking about the Murtaghs and we were having tea and I don’t know; it is like she is sleeping. She seemed to have pain.’
‘I will send Iris over and she can bring her to Dr Carthy. I thought she looked drained the last few days.’
‘All this is too much for her.’
‘You might be right. Were you able to help her?’
‘That’s for her to tell you; I don’t work at the post office, Ella.’
‘You never were like that, Betty, and it is much appreciated.’
It was only ten minutes before Iris pulled up on Bridge Street.
‘Betty is she all right?’
‘Sleeping, but she does not look too good.’
They trooped into the sitting room and stood looking at Debbie.
‘She is doing too much,’ Iris said.
Betty was about to answer, when Debbie stirred; they withdrew to the hall.
At first Debbie was not sure where she was, staring at the wedding photograph, wondering why Rob and Agnes looked so strange.
‘I am so sorry; I must have dozed off. I didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘That is all right, dear. It was a l
ot to take in. Iris came to bring you home.’
‘I thought the doctor first,’ Iris said.
‘No need, I feel fine.’
‘But Betty said you seemed in pain.’
Debbie smiled. ‘Iris, I have cancer; pain is part of the package.’ She turned to Betty. ‘Thanks for being so kind and so frank.’
‘I wish I could have told a happier story.’
‘The truth was all I wanted; you gave me that.’
Iris clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Ella says to bring you to the doctor.’
‘No need for that; I will be glad of a lift to Roscarbury, though.’
Betty waved them off, until they had rounded the bend before Main Street.
‘Has the cancer got worse, do you think?’ Iris asked gently.
‘Stage 4, as bad as it gets.’
‘You are sure?’
‘I am.’
They reached Roscarbury’s avenue.
‘I need to talk with Ella. Do you think she could meet me at Carrie’s seat?’
Debbie paced slowly across the grass, stopping every now and again to catch her breath and take in the view.
Her two mothers were dead; the only family she had left was Nancy, who had worried and fussed over her all these years. It was time to ask Nancy to pack her bags and come to the hospice. Her quest here was at an end.
She saw Ella hurriedly pull on a coat at the front door and salute a group at one of the outside tables before heading across the parkland, buttoning her coat as she moved. When she came closer, Debbie saw the deep frown on her face and her hands clenched inside her pockets.
‘I couldn’t face meeting any of the women. I’m sorry to drag you away.’
‘You forget about that. How are you?’
‘Mary Murtagh is dead.’
‘Good Lord in heaven; how did you find that out?’
‘Betty Messitt remembered her, and met her sister a few years ago.’
Ella sat down and put her arm around Debbie. ‘That is desperately sad news. I am so sorry.’
‘I came looking for answers, and now I know. Maybe I always knew it wasn’t going to end with a tearful reunion.’
‘We all prayed it would.’
‘I know, and you have made me so welcome. I loved working in the café. It has been the best fun.’
Ella turned Debbie’s face towards her. ‘It is time for you to go, isn’t it?’
‘I have a hospice place arranged.’
Ella felt her heart wrench inside her. ‘Stay, and we will be with you.’
‘I know you mean that, Ella, but my aunt Nancy will be with me; she stepped into Agnes’s shoes and has always been there for me. I can’t deprive her of this drama.’
Debbie managed a giggle and Ella slapped her lightly on the wrists.
‘I am glad you have not lost your sense of humour.’
‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘I am not sure I knew Mary Murtagh very well.’
‘They only lived here for about a year. At least I know her name. That’s something.’
‘You started something huge over here. You are some person, Deborah Kading Murtagh.’
‘You make me sound important, Ella.’
‘Are you going to tell the others you are leaving?’
‘I think even if I was in my full health, I couldn’t cope with Muriel’s reaction.’
‘She will be disappointed.’
‘Which is something I can live and die with, Ella.’
‘You are sure about going back?’
‘Yes.’
They sat quietly, watching the wind rustle through the high grass at the far side of the parkland, the trees swaying as the wind grew.
‘It is getting blustery; time to get you back inside.’
They walked arm in arm, avoiding the front door, making for the back.
‘It was a lucky day when I met you, Ella.’
Ella snorted loudly. ‘Not at all: you are the one who has woken up this old house. Would it be all right if I planted a tree beside Carrie’s for you? It will make that corner of the land a pleasant spot, for sure.’
‘I’d like that.’
24
Iris pulled back the big gates as the squad car turned in. Garda Martin Moran saluted her and continued up to the house, driving around to the back.
Roberta, who was sitting in the walled garden, began walking towards the house. ‘Is there something wrong, Martin?’
‘I was looking for Ella.’
‘You will find her up in the café. What is it, Martin?’
‘I need to talk to Ella.’
‘Go in by the back door and up the stairs. First landing.’
Martin Moran took off his cap and threw it on the front seat before knocking on the back door.
‘She won’t hear you. Just go on up,’ Roberta shouted after him. She was hanging back, waiting to follow once there was a bit of distance between them.
Iris came puffing around the back. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It must be the baby, something about the baby.’
‘That couldn’t be,’ Iris said, pushing past Roberta.
Martin Moran knocked on the café doors and waited. He heard somebody working inside, so he knocked louder. Ella slapped down her tray and wiped her hands with a tea cloth.
‘My God what will it be next? An all-night café they are looking for,’ she grumbled, as she went to the door. ‘I am sorry, we are closed,’ she shouted out.
Martin Moran felt uncomfortable. ‘Ella, it is Garda Moran; I need to talk to you.’
The stench of starch surrounded her, creeping across her heart, seeping into her, strangling her so she could not say anything. It went up her nose, the pong of it hurting her and making her eyes water. She knew why he was here; he did not need to say it.
‘Can I come in, Ella?’
She opened the door and stood back, letting him step into the café, his broad frame taking up the space between the tables. Iris shot in behind him. Roberta lingered at the doorway.
‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
Ella looked to Iris. ‘Just let me talk to Garda Moran here.’
Iris retreated, pulling the door gently behind her. Ella could hear her whispered warning to Roberta to leave them be.
‘Iris is very protective of me,’ Ella said. She sat down at a table, clenching and unclenching her hands, in an effort to remain calm. She motioned Martin Moran to join her. ‘You are here about my boy?’
‘The baby you had in County General Hospital on December 21, 1959.’
‘Oh God, he did not die, did he?’
‘We don’t know, Ella. The midwife, Alice Kearney, has come forward with information on about fifty cases; yours is one. This morning we intend to dig up your baby’s grave.’
‘In Ballygally?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘God forgive me, I didn’t. They never told me. Was he given a name at all?’ Her hands were clenched on the table in front of her.
‘We have a reference number. He is called Baby Hannigan.’
She nodded her head to show she understood. Raising her fist, she bit into a knuckle. To feel pain meant she was still alive, and that at least must account for something.
‘You have a hard job, Martin.’
‘I am sorry, Ella. What do you want to do? You can wait for word in the garda station or if you like go to Ballygally. I will warn you there are a crowd of press and hangers-on there.’
‘I will stay here at home. When will you know?’
‘By noon. We will need to take a statement, when you are ready.’
‘You don’t think you will find the body of my baby, do you?’
‘We honestly won’t know until we open the grave, Ella. I promise you will be the first to know. I will give you a mobile and I will ring you the minute we have anything definite.’
‘If he is not dead, where do we go from here?’
‘We will cross that bridge whe
n we come to it. It could take a long time.’
‘So we could face the relief that our children are not dead, but suffer the pain that they are missing?’
‘Let’s get through the next few hours and days first, shall we?’
He sounded so strong, and she trusted him.
‘Sister Consuelo told me they looked after the burial.’
‘Ella, we are going to get to the bottom of this. What you must do now is wait. I know it is devastating, but we will help you through it. Have you somebody who can stay with you?’
‘The whole of Rathsorney will be here in the café.’
‘Have you got somebody who can run the café?’
Ella stood up and straightened her apron. ‘You are a good man, Martin; your mother is a lucky woman.’ Carol Moran had her baby two days before her; her son and Martin might have been friends, gone to school together, dances. ‘Are you married yet?’
‘A few years now, Ella.’
‘Good. Don’t worry about me. I will wait and you will ring me when you know.’
‘You will be all right then?’
‘As all right as I can be.’
He walked out and left her sitting, the mobile phone on the table in front of her. She heard him talk quietly to Iris and Roberta before he went downstairs. The squad car would be well gone by the time Muriel and her friends made it to the café.
‘Are you all right, Ella?’ Iris, followed by Roberta, walked into the café.
‘Tell her to leave. I don’t want her around me. Not now.’
Roberta turned on her heel and marched out of the room.
‘That was a bit harsh, Ella. She is concerned about you.’
Ella stood up and went behind the counter. She started to slice the carrot cake. ‘It’s her shenanigans that lost me my daughter and left me vulnerable to those witches who took my baby. They knew I was a woman without a husband.’ She stopped, knife in mid-air. ‘Imagine all these years lost; will he ever even want to talk to me?’
‘Ella, leave all that; we will organise the café. You need to sit down. Have a whiskey,’ Iris said, taking the knife and gently directing Ella away from the counter.
The Ballroom Café Page 17
