Chairwoman
P.S. Ludlow Hall has a new resident in situ. It is not clear if the lands will remain open to Rosdaniel residents for public access, but we at the Ludlow Ladies’ Society will appeal to the new owner to consider how dear Ludlow Hall is to all of us and how important it is in our community. Neither are we happy Dana and her dogs were ordered off the lands this week. We will continue to monitor the situation.
9
Hetty was up and had coffee made when Connie came downstairs the next morning.
“How are you feeling? Are you up to having a bit of breakfast?”
“I am sorry, I hope you have not gone to any trouble, but I will just have some coffee.”
Hetty beamed. “That is what I thought. I said to myself, if you come down feeling a great hunger, I can throw it all in the pan. Come into the kitchen and we can have the coffee together.”
Connie followed her, sitting at the small counter while Hetty fussed, taking down her best china mugs for her visitor.
“I hope the ladies did not disturb you last night.”
Connie smiled, allowing Hetty to pour milk in her coffee. “I didn’t hear a thing,” she said, and Hetty fretted she was just being polite.
“We are a noisy lot. We have a lot to talk about.” Hetty was drumming the counter with her fingers, because she was nervous.
“I am moving into Ludlow Hall today.”
“It won’t bother you, staying in that big old place on your own?”
“It is my home now, so the sooner I get used to it the better.”
“Eve loved it there. She was devastated when she had to leave.”
Connie swirled the coffee in her mug. “Why was that?”
Hetty rummaged for some biscuits. “It is not really my place to tell, but that husband of hers took out a huge bank loan and could not repay it. They came knocking on the door early in the morning. Poor Eve had to walk away from her own home.”
“That is terrible.”
“It has nothing to do with you. I suppose there is no harm in you knowing about it.”
“Is that why folks are so agitated about me being here?”
Hetty guffawed out loud. “It is easy to get the good people of Rosdaniel hot and bothered; it will all die down in time. You are the owner of Ludlow Hall now and that is that.”
“My husband was the person who wanted to come here, but he died. I was left with the estate.”
Hetty reached over and took her hand. “Don’t be worrying about what people around here say. You have a friend in me, and the others will just have to get used to it.” She fiddled with a spoon on the counter. “Do you mind me asking what are your plans for the place?”
Connie looked startled. “I don’t know exactly.”
“What did you do back home?”
Connie did not reply immediately.
“I don’t meant to pry,” Hetty said quickly.
“I was a dance teacher, but I have not danced in a long time, that’s all.”
Hetty clapped her hands in excitement. “Ooh, that sounds mighty. You have to give us dance classes. I always wanted to be able to dance properly.”
Hetty began to move her hips, taking mincing steps across the floor, clicking her fingers to an unheard beat.
Connie laughed. “I honestly don’t know. I guess I will have a better idea when I move into Ludlow Hall.”
“Dance classes would be so fantastic, but promise me if you do go ahead with any of those plans, you won’t confine it to the kids. We in the Ludlow Ladies’ Society would love to tango.” Hetty laughed.
“I have to settle in first.” Connie, flustered, got up to go.
Hetty reached out and hugged her. “Don’t forget us ladies when you are making the dance plans.” She pulled back to look Connie in the face. “Just remember, if it all gets too much for you today, you can come back here. I mean it, any time, day or night, there is a bed for you here.” She waved off Connie from the door, a tune in her head, memories flooding back, her hips swaying.
Barry was a lovely dancer, in the early days waltzing her around the kitchen, his hand lightly resting on her waist, softly singing in her ear. Early days, happy memories, she thought, climbing the stairs to the little room beside the attic guest suite.
It was where she kept all of her dead husband’s paraphernalia. Not able to look at his clothes, not able to throw them away since he had died five years ago, she had had the carpenter division off this type of dressing storeroom. On rails were the suits he loved, tweed mainly and some twill, and for the summer light grey and brown blazers, all covered in plastic. He had had special plastic covers made for each suit, saying a man who did not look after his suits was a man you could not trust. His leather shoes, still with the patina of polish, balls of newspaper stuffed in to help them keep their shape, were stacked underneath in a row. To one side hung his good overcoat, long and dark. On the other end of the rail were his Sunday best shirts.
Barry was so particular about his shirts, insisting they had to be starched and rinsed in cold water, and pressed with a handkerchief between the heat of the iron and the linen of the shirt. He spent his money on heavy linen shirts, once ordering from a fancy place in London, but more often than not saving up and purchasing them in Arnotts, Dublin. She should have buried him in the London shirt, but she didn’t. Instead she went to Tesco in Wicklow and bought a light blue shirt. When they lowered the coffin, all she could think of was Barry in his supermarket cotton. But she later worried she would pay dearly for her actions, staying awake into the night, afraid he would come back and haunt her. Most of his other clothes, she kept in neatly stacked boxes, except for his ties, which were wound up and arranged in rows like doughnuts in a drawer.
Quickly, she closed the wardrobe doors, the memories hitting her hard. He was gone five years next week, but it felt as if it was only yesterday. Under the skylight was his dressing table. She sat down, her breathing becoming faster, reaching out, fiddling with his brushes. In her distraction, trying to stay calm, she tipped against the aftershave bottle, making it fall over with a thud. As she put the bottle back in its place, a drop seeped under the seal on to her fingers. Even after all these years, his smell was strong, the aroma snaking around the room, clinging to her, making her nostrils twitch.
Nervously, she straightened on the seat, expecting to hear his step on the stairs, his clearing of the throat. She checked everything was in its place before bolting to the guest suite, where she washed her hands, soaping away the aftershave in a lather of soap and hot water. After he had died, that aroma of his aftershave often stopped her in her tracks, curling around her, drifting past when something of his was disturbed. Sometimes she found a certain comfort in sitting into the fireside chair he used. Every night after dinner, his aroma was so strong she could sometimes imagine him. Other times, the smell of him sneaked up on her, making her recoil and collapse in tears. It had happened when his bolts of fabric, the tools of his trade were collected to be handed out to the pupils of the local school so they had enough fabric for their needlework classes.
She smiled to think she once thought his smell was such an exotic one. She was proud that this man, who had a hint of sophistication, should be so interested in her. She had worked in Driscoll’s drapery in Arklow behind the fabric counter, calculating how many yards were needed and cutting out reams of fabric for the farmers’ wives when they came into town on a Saturday.
Barry was one of the reps who called twice a month, his sample fabrics neatly folded in a battered old leather suitcase. Hair slicked back, his fingernails cleaned and clipped, his shoes polished, Barry Gorman was very much the professional man. Every day he wore a navy pinstripe suit, even though he was only a salesman. His only concession to winter was a grey wool jumper under his suit jacket, his tie tucked underneath.
He was a handsome man, and she fell in love with his style and his warmth and, later, his attention to every little detail about her. Barry smiled and winked at her an
d, being a silly girl, she let her heart be captured. On his third visit to the shop, he asked her out to a dance. Six months later, they were married and Barry the rep had become Barry the shopkeeper, snapping up the fabric shop when old man Driscoll decided to sell up.
Pulling a finger along the top of the dressing table, Hetty found it neat, everything in its place as if he had only stepped away for a while. He was dead five years now, but she still did not know what to do with his things.
A crow flew on to the roof and peered in the skylight. She laughed, making it flit away, leaving only rumbles of clouds and sky. Closing her eyes, she remembered those first days, when they had so little, Barry working so hard in the shop, she spent the whole time waiting for him to come home. Picking up his watch, she looked at it. A fancy silver watch with a bracelet fastening, it had stopped a long time ago. Every night when he came home from work, he took off his watch and placed it on the sitting room mantelpiece, transferring it to the dressing table when he came to bed. He always picked the same spot each night, gently pushing the watch into place as if a special place had been marked out for it. Beside it was a box with his good gold cufflinks. He had bought them with his first and, as it turned out, his only bonus as a salesman.
Hetty made to put out her hand to touch the watch, but, like every other time, she felt his eyes on her and withdrew. Suddenly, she got up from the dressing table and left the room, making sure to lock it behind her. She fumbled about the house, straightening cushions that were already straight and wiping down the kitchen worktops for the tenth time that morning, still not sure if she was brave enough to make a memory quilt.
*
At Ludlow, Connie got out of the car to close the gates after she drove through. As the gates rumbled shut, she felt out of sorts, not wanting to be here, but compelled. The back avenue was a grass track through some fields, so she drove slower, bumping her way to the house.
At the back door, a mouse, surprised, scooted across the yard to the barn. Disgusted, she let herself in, dropping her handbag on the kitchen table. Wedging the back door open, to air out the room, she next pushed up the window by the sink, shoving it up as far as it would go.
Moving to the hall, determined to get a through breeze, she took the big key down off the hook on the wall. Pushing it into the keyhole, she made to turn it, but there was no give. She tried pushing and pulling the door, jiggling the key all the time, but it would not budge.
Disappointed, she went into the big room used as a library and study. A light, airy room, even with every available space covered in books, its long, wide window overlooked the fields and part of the lake in the distance. Pacing across the floor, she jigged up and down, hoping what was underneath the dark carpet was a wooden floor. It was a wide, long room with a high ceiling. If it had a good floor, it would be a start. Could she even dance any more? She had not taken a step since that day, afraid to let go, immersion in the pain of loss draining all life from her.
She sat at the big heavy desk in front of the window, angled so that the sitter could view the fields beyond. The leather office chair was comfortable and well worn. Idly, she opened the drawers, each one stuffed with bunches of receipts, as if whoever had placed them there had scooped them from a full pocket with the intention of sorting them later. The last drawer was empty except for a key in the far corner: tiny, the blade short, the tip chunky, the bow an ornate design. There was no doubt it was for something specific, but there was nothing to indicate what. Connie looked around, but there was no obvious place to put it, so she replaced it in the drawer, before standing to look out the window.
The woman with the two dogs was back, the animals barking and happy, speeding across the grass. Moving to one side, so she would not be seen, Connie watched, envious of the bond between dogs and owner. Frustrated, she turned away, making her way upstairs, trying to ignore the happy yelping. The first room she peeped into was dark, the shutters closed, so she moved gingerly to pull them back.
A man’s room: the furniture mahogany, embossed wallpaper on the walls, the accoutrements of shaving in a cup. Bottles of aftershave were lined up on a table in front of the window. A small dressing room off still had rows of men’s shoes, but was empty otherwise.
Feeling she was intruding, Connie moved to the next room. Here the shutters were already back, the room full of light. Stepping in, she knew this was the room she would use. The dressing table was empty, its drawers pulled out. Only a few pieces were left on the hangers in the dressing room. She pulled up the sash windows to air out the room and dragged an old patchwork quilt from the bed to reveal a bare mattress. She folded the quilt onto a chair, the bed and mattress ready for collection when the Arklow furniture shop delivered her new sleigh bed.
Sitting at the walnut dressing table by the window, she looked at herself in the mirror. She looked tired, bags under her eyes. Once so particular about colour and cut, her hair was now almost completely grey, long, scraggly and shapeless. If she was to go back into teaching, she would have to clean herself up.
Unable to bear the scrutiny any longer, she jumped up, in her haste knocking over the stool she had been sitting on. As she righted it, she spied the woman from the other day standing on the stone seat at the front of the house, her dogs around her as she teased them with a bag of treats.
Connie bolted down the stairs, cursing when she could not open the front door. She hurried out the back and around the house, until she could see the woman dancing like a madwoman and firing treats into the field. Connie faltered, watching the antics. Realising she had not been spotted, she slipped back, scuttling around the house, as she saw the woman walk to the rhododendron, before whistling for each dog and clipping on their leads.
She must ask Michael Conway to find the opening in the fencing this woman saw as her own private entrance and block it up.
10
Eve picked a generous bunch of lilac from the bush in her front garden and wrapped up the stems in tinfoil and newspaper, before getting a nice square of tissue paper to place around the bouquet. She set off early for Ludlow Hall, not wanting anybody to see her walking down the main street holding a huge spray of flowers.
Michael was the only person moving about Rosdaniel. He knew her mission, so he waved, giving her a thumbs-up. The night before, she had told him she intended to call on the new owner. He endorsed the idea and even offered to take her there.
“I think it is something I have to do on my own, Michael,” she said quietly.
She always liked the walk down the hill to Ludlow and this morning was no different. Stopping for a few moments at the bridge, the water hurrying and gushing over the rocks, she remembered all the times Arnold had threatened to get rid of this treacherous narrow bridge, have the road widened. Puff talk, she called it, and it annoyed her. It saddened her, too, that he could not appreciate the little bridge and stream, which offered an oasis of calm.
Letting her hand plane along the top of the bridge until the end, she continued on the journey to the front gates of Ludlow Hall, dragged across and closed, with a sign hanging crooked: “Private Property. Keep Out.”
Slipping through the stile, she trekked slowly up the avenue, her step heavy with trepidation. How many times had she done it in the past, irritating Arnold, making him give out?
“Darling, you don’t need to walk anywhere,” he said, and she knew he was annoyed, not wanting to give the impression that they could not afford to run their gas guzzler of a car.
The house looked quiet as she approached, the sun glinting on the top windows, the wisteria like a ghost crawling across the façade, dipping into the crevices. Shutters upstairs were still pulled across and she wondered if she was too early. In her day, nobody would have got this far without the geese chasing them across the field, the dog turning out from the back. She stood and listened, the breeze tousling the polished leaves of the rhododendron, the branches creaking heavily. In the distance, she could hear the Dublin bus rev up the hill to Rosdaniel. S
he did not want to be seen wandering around the place, as if she still owned Ludlow Hall. Not sure what to do, she perched on the stone seat at the front. She liked the view from here: the avenue, the paddocks when they were lush, the fences mended, the horses sometimes cantering over to push against her, searching for a treat. The geese had flocked over too, sometimes giving away her hiding place on the seat as they hissed and croaked too loud, traipsing across the flowerbeds so that the housekeeper ran out to shoo them away.
She realised that if the American looked out her window now, it would seem odd that she was sitting here, so Eve got up and climbed the stone steps to the front door, stopping to flick dried moss off the rusty balustrading.
Pressing the bell, she heard it brrinng through the house, twirling across the rooms.
She pressed a second time, and was about to leave when a woman came to the window of the drawing room and beckoned to her to go around the back. Eve smiled, dashing down the steps, a little self-conscious that she was carrying a big bunch of flowers.
The American, wearing a heavy dressing gown which was too long and tied with one of Arnold’s old belts, stood at the back door.
“I am sorry, did I get you up?”
“I’m not much of a sleeper.”
“Eve Brannigan, from the village. I wanted to say welcome.” Shyly, she handed across the bunch of lilac.
“This is very kind of you.”
“They are nothing special, just from my patch of a front garden.”
Eve did not quite comprehend, but she detected a certain reticence from the American about the gift. As if she was aware of the observation, Connie smiled brightly.
“Won’t you come in, Mrs Brannigan?”
“No need to offer, I just wanted to make you feel welcome.”
“I know you owned the place for a long time. Maybe you can help me: tell me how I get the front door open?”
“Do you have the key?”
“Yes, but I can’t turn it.”
The Ludlow Ladies Society Page 8
