“Ludlow?”
“Yes, Eve of Ludlow Hall started it when she moved to Rosdaniel; it has been going for donkey’s years. When Ludlow Hall was sold off, we were out on our ears. It was the start of all our woes: with no proper place to meet, a lot of the women dropped out. These days we depend on the generosity of the remaining members to open their homes for the Society meetings. At this stage, everyone is getting fed up, but we are limping on. Kathryn, our chairwoman, does a nice newsletter-type thing – we can put you on the email list, keep you up to date on what is happening.” Hetty giggled. “Kathryn often loses the run of herself. The emails are entertaining, if nothing else.”
When Connie did not reply, Hetty led the way downstairs to the front room: small, with a flowery carpet, a cream leather suite taking up most of the space, along with a television.
“Sit down and I will make a cuppa. You are taking the room for tonight anyway.” Worried she had said too much, Hetty scurried off to the kitchen.
Connie sat into the couch, listening to her host fussing in the kitchen, the rattle of china cups settling on to saucers, small spoons tinkling into place.
When Hetty came back in with a tray laden down with plates of biscuits and sweet cake, she seemed to have regained her composure. “I assumed you would have tea, but if I have got it wrong, I can easily make some coffee.”
“Tea is fine.”
Hetty poured, handing a china cup and saucer to her guest. “Do you think you will stay longer than one night?” she asked gently.
“I am hoping to move into Ludlow, and I am not sure how long that will take. Maybe after I get in to see the place tomorrow, I will have a better idea.”
“Eve should be able to help you.”
“Eve?”
“Mrs Brannigan. Mrs Ludlow as she is called around here. The Brannigans owned Ludlow Hall for generations.” Hetty was afraid she had overstepped the mark. To hide her confusion she picked up the teapot and offered a refill.
Shaking her head, Connie set down her cup and saucer. “I must do a few things in town. Thank you for the tea.”
Hetty grimaced, reaching into her pocket and taking out a set of keys. “You come and go as you please. Nobody around here is going to be asking you your business.”
Connie pushed the keys into her pocket before slipping out into the hall.
Hetty, feeling flustered, poured herself another cup of tea and sat down at her computer to check her email.
Date: March 21, 2013
Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY
Ludlow ladies,
What are we going to do? If this great society of ours is to survive, we need to find premises.
We are most grateful to the kindness of Mrs Hetty Gorman, who has given over her cosy sitting room every Tuesday evening for the meetings of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society.
Mrs Eve Brannigan has kindly offered her little sitting room for a few weeks after that, but frankly, ladies, unless we can find some more permanent arrangement, we are out on the street. Ladies, we cannot continue like this, depending on the kindness of our members. This year has to be the one when the Ludlow Ladies’ Society finds a home to call its own. This is a most urgent matter and I want you all to investigate all possibilities. Surely somebody knows somebody who can offer us a permanent home. We are not asking for much: a big enough room for the ladies of the Society to sit and work, toilet facilities, and a little kitchenette or even a socket where we can plug in a kettle.
I have pestered the Town Committee about the use of the Town Hall again, which we all know is vacant on Tuesday and Wednesday nights. Chairman Jack Davoren is being particularly awkward and won’t hear of it. He had the cheek to tell me we were too small to even be considered AND when we open up our group to all sections of the community, especially men, we may be considered. That is his twisted way of saying never!
What nonsense. What sane man would want to spend his evening with a group of women chatting and stitching. Honestly, if we were organising an orgy it would be easier to find some premises in this town.
Ladies, we shall overcome this by working together, so get your thinking caps on.
Kathryn Rodgers,
Chairwoman
*
Connie reversed quickly out of Hetty’s driveway, continuing down the road a bit before pulling in to the side.
Was she nuts coming here, crazy to think she could take this place on? Maybe she should let the auctioneer sell off the estate, but then she might never get the answers to the questions constantly swirling across her brain, keeping her awake when everyone else slept. This house had been hers for two years now, but it was only recently she had decided to come here. Whether her decision was good or bad, only time would tell.
She had not even wanted to attend the reading of Ed’s will after his death, but the attorney insisted.
“When can I have access to Ed’s bank accounts, Charles? He has left me with so many bills.”
“There is only one checking account, Connie.”
“But there is the savings account.”
“There is no savings account.”
“Whatever it is called – the account with all the money from the Manhattan apartment sale. Ed set it up after he sold a small apartment his mother left him.”
Charles Slowcum looked uncomfortable.
“He had a lot of development deals. He finally closed that account a while back, Connie.”
Cold creeped up her back. Her knees were shaking, so she put her hands on her lap and pressed down on them.
“What do you mean?”
Charles Slowcum sighed deeply, as if he was about to explain something to a child.
“The last $2 million financed the purchase of that big property in Ireland.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Her mouth was dry, pain shooting up one side of her body. “He never closed any account.”
“He did, Connie.”
A ringing whirred in her ears, pain flared across her body, her knees jugged up and down.
“What does this mean, Charles?”
She stopped, the cold realisation freezing the words in her throat. Her heart was pounding, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.
“Is it all gone, Charles?”
He nodded his head, afraid to look her in the eye.
She stared out the window. Across the way, a woman was laughing, waving out an office window to the street below.
“What was he thinking? What did Ed know about Ireland?”
“I presumed you knew all about it, Connie.”
“Ed shut me out.”
Charles Slowcum threw his hands in the air. “I am sorry, Connie. Ed told me you guys were moving there but keeping it hush-hush until you were ready to tell everyone.”
In the park, she could see the playground, the moms with their takeout coffees standing watching their kids, chatting, laughing and sharing gossip.
“At least the house in Ireland is yours and unencumbered.”
“Unencumbered: a long and complicated word, just like my life. There are other things, Charles, that weigh down my daily existence.”
Charles did not answer, but coughed to hide his embarrassment and continued to read out the will. Numb, she heard only words, the name Ludlow Hall. When he finished, Charles Slowcum sat back, his hands clasped across his ample stomach, his fingers fiddling with one of his shirt buttons.
“It has all been a dreadful business, Connie, but this is your chance to move on. Sell the monstrosity that is the Irish estate, live off the proceeds.”
“Ed never said one word, never even hinted . . .” She got up and walked to the window. “Down there on the sidewalk, he proposed to me, kneeling down. I thought it was so romantic. How could he do this to me?”
The attorney cleared his throat, waiting for her next question.
“What is this place in Ireland?”
“Ludlow Hall. About fifty kilometres from the capital city.”
&n
bsp; “Did Ed say why?”
Charles Slowcum abruptly closed the file in front of him and looked at Connie.
“Connie, please take this advice from a friend: you need to move on. The sale of this property could help you do that.”
“Move on? Build a new life with what, Charles? He took everything I had, everything I loved, everything I held dear. The only thing left is this place in Ireland.”
The attorney fidgeted with the corner of the file. “You have been through enough, Connie, it is time now to let it go. Sometimes we are only left with questions, because there are no answers.”
Jumping up, she banged her knee against the desk, making it shake.
“Let it go? Let it go: what does that mean? It has a grip on me; I can never let it go. Now this! I never heard of this damn place until today.”
Charles Slowcum drummed the table with his fingers.
“It need not be like this. You can get some money back. Not as much, but something.”
Connie slumped back into the chair, her knees shaking. She pressed her hands on them, her bum pushing deeper into the cushion.
“What are you saying?”
“The property in Ireland is already up for sale. I spoke to the realtor over there and he is confident that if you slash the asking price he can get a sale, but I think you will be lucky if you get anything near what Ed paid for it. The country is only limping out of recession; property prices are still at an all-time low.”
“Why did he do this?”
“Why any of it, Connie, we will never know. I did not see Ed again after he purchased that property.”
“You never said anything to me.”
“Why would I say anything? I thought you knew. I thought in your own good time you would both announce your plans for the future.” He stopped talking, realising his explanation sounded naive and stupid.
Pangs of pain blazed across her chest. She wanted to scream, to screech so loud, to wake the dead, so that he knew the pain she was in. Tears engulfed her body. She bent over, not caring that her attorney was sitting patiently, waiting for her to compose herself.
Charles Slowcum got up from his desk. He put his arm around her and she let him hold her, as she sobbed into his jacket lapels. After a few minutes, she pulled away.
“I am sorry, I should not be taking this out on you.”
“Connie, there is no need to apologise. Very few have had to endure what you have.”
“Have you told me everything, Charles?”
“Hand on heart, I have nothing else to tell.”
“Why didn’t Ed tell me?”
“I wish I could answer that one, Connie.”
“Why didn’t he involve me?”
Fisting Charles Slowcum’s desk so he abruptly stood back, she shook her head from side to side.
“Are you telling me he owned this property and never told me? Why did he do it, Charles?”
“Did he have any connection with that side of the world?”
“Not that I know of. If he did, it would have been nothing but a made-up connection like all US presidents find at election time. But what do I know?”
Charles Slowcum did not answer, concentrating on straightening his tie.
“I must go there. I might live there.” She only realised she had said it aloud when she saw Charles throw his hands in the air.
“Connie, what are you thinking? Are you crazy?”
“It is something to do.”
“You won’t know anybody there.”
“That brings certain advantages.”
“Are you seriously going to do this?”
She ignored his frustration, the thick frown edging into his big eyebrows. She heard herself say yes, she was content with her decision.
“What will you do?”
“I have no idea. I just want peace and quiet, away from the well-worn phrases of death.”
“It is in a small town. You might find there is little there for you after a while.”
She stood up and made for the door. “There is nothing left for me here, Charles. Amy wants me to go rest up somewhere, but I don’t know. I can’t think straight.”
He followed her to the door. “If you need anything at any time, just call me.”
She smiled at his sincerity, and that he thought anybody could offer her comfort. Like understanding, like forgiveness, comfort was never going to be her companion.
The bus for Dublin sweeping past made her jump. She started up her car again. She could remember the conversation with Charles so clearly, yet she could barely call up the following two years, when she got lost in a fog of grief and depression. All she could remember was the deep sadness pulling her down every day.
She found herself driving to Ludlow Hall. This time, she drove up the open back avenue to the kitchen door. It might not have any answers for her, and it made no sense, but Ludlow Hall was where she had to be.
Walking to the side of the house, she stepped through a rusted old gate into what must have once been a fine ornamental garden: four grass squares edged by a clipped low box hedge. A woman walking on one of the grassed squares nodded to her.
“You might as well enjoy the place. There is a new owner; I think it won’t be long before we are all stopped coming in,” she said, calling her two dogs, who romped across the grass barking.
“Shouldn’t the dogs be on a leash?”
“Sure, there is nobody around these parts, what harm are they doing?” the woman said, giving Connie an odd look. She stooped down to pat the dogs, who were yelping and trying to jump up on her. “You are not from these parts?”
“Out of town.”
The woman nodded her head, as if this meant something significant. “If you go through the far gate, there is a lovely yew walk down to the lake. Get it in now, before the new owner locks the lot of us out.”
Connie thanked her and set off for the gate. Once she stepped through, a long, straight path lay ahead, the trees with branches arching over, creating a wide tunnel. The path was soft strewn with the fallen, faded flowers of rhododendron and cherry blossom. She stood and stared, the light dotting on the purple and pink blanket across the ground, her eyes sending soft messages to her heart, to slow down and take it in.
Why Ed had bought this place she did not know, but she knew one thing: she wanted to walk along, to feel the stillness and savour, for a moment, the fleeting peace it brought. Slowly, she made her way under the branches of the yew trees, feeling their protective cover, until they opened out at the end, where the water of the lake lapped gently, the rushes straggling along the side, the ducks in the middle detecting her presence, creating a fuss. A heron, disturbed, silently rose from the rushes, gliding across the water to the far end of the lake, its wings skimming the water in an acrobatic display, as if it wanted to be noticed.
This walk, this spot was why she was going to stay here: she knew that now. That she would have to share it with strangers who regarded the land as their own was something she would deal with in time.
Date: March 23, 2013
Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY
Ludlow ladies,
Just a quick update. As you all know, a number of ladies visited the local schools this week to show off our wonderful talent.
Eithne Hall arranged for us to visit Rosdaniel Primary and Secondary to bring the world of sewing to the students. Parents were very happy the tradition of sewing was brought back to the classroom.
We went to Rosdaniel Primary first, armed with needles and thread and small samples of patchwork. It all went very well until somewhere near the end. Everybody presumed, but nobody directly told us, we should not hand out needles and thread to the children. Although everything went well for so long, unfortunately one lad suffered a puncture injury to his thumb. Mrs Brannigan, who always carries all necessities in her handbag, attempted to placate the child and put a plaster on it for him. It was the tiniest pinprick! The teacher told us all we could do was put water on it. T
he poor lad sobbed for the rest of our time there. However, it became rather chaotic after one young lad (why is it always the boys?) stabbed another in the forearm with a needle.
That brought an abrupt end to our visit!
The visit to the secondary school and Transition Year went very well. We had no takers to do a bit of tacking, but the teenagers were good fun, taking selfies while wrapped in two patchwork quilts we brought along.
Thank you, Eithne, for organising the visits.
Unfortunately, Jack Davoren heard all about the fiasco at the primary school and is threatening to bring the matter up at the next Town Committee meeting. What a petty little man he is. He needs to be squashed like a snail.
Kathryn Rodgers,
Chairwoman
4
Eve walked down the street to Doyle Butcher’s, where they were already clearing away the trays.
“Your usual piece of steak, Mrs Ludlow?”
The butcher, every Friday, set aside a small piece of round steak for Eve. He never let on it was about twice the size she ever asked for, and if she was aware of his generosity, she did not pass comment. Always, she peered over the counter grumbling, making him trim the little fat from around the sides, complaining he wanted her to build up too much muscle.
“I have lovely lamb coming in at the weekend for the roast. Will I keep one for you?”
She frowned. “I swore I would only ever eat lamb from the fields at Ludlow Hall. Nothing could measure up to it,” she said, paying for her round steak, stuffing the small plastic bag, which was knotted at the neck, into her handbag.
Next on her list was Michael Conway’s newsagent and grocers. Michael was watching out for her, killing time flicking dust from shelves that were not dusty. Whipping his cloth across glossy magazines, spanking the covers, an agitation rose inside him: whether he should tell Eve about the new owner of Ludlow Hall.
When Eve crossed in the door, she sensed his upset. His back was to her, and she took in the hunched shoulders, his tight grip of the teacloth as he swatted the spines of neatly stacked magazines.
“Can it be that bad, you have to take it out on Horse & Hound?” she giggled.
The Ludlow Ladies Society Page 3
