The Ballroom Café

by Ann O'Loughlin

  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.

  35

  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?’

  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. Whe
n 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.

  36

  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 sh
e 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.’