The Secrets of Roscarbury Hall

by Ann O'Loughlin

  Fergus led her to a chair and made her sit down. ‘Isn’t there somebody who can do this work for you?’

  ‘It keeps my hands busy.’

  ‘Will I get you a coffee?’

  She nodded, and he went behind the counter to get some cups. Consuelo had hatched it; she was sure. Hadn’t she held her down, told her to forget about it? They had sat beside each other in secondary school, Ella always telling her to buck up or she would never make anything of herself. She was a right one for the boys as well, until her mother started forcing her to Mass every morning.

  Ella knew Consuelo secretly liked being in the convent church, often sneaking in during break. It was not a surprise when she did not return to the classroom after the Easter holidays and word went round she had entered the convent. Ella did not see her for another five years. When they did meet, Consuelo, who had put on a lot of weight, was bossy and full of herself.

  Fergus came back with a tray and two cups of tea.

  ‘I thought hot sweet tea might be best,’ he said, placing a cup and saucer in front of her.

  ‘You are a kind man, Fergus. How have you been?’

  ‘Strange, I lost Margaret to Alzheimer’s a long time ago. I have got to say I was not prepared for the pain I would feel in her passing.’

  ‘You loved her so much.’

  ‘I did, but in truth, these last years have been so hard. I don’t miss her recriminations or her wanderings; she could walk for miles, you know, and refuse to come home. I should have put her in a home, but in one of her more lucid moments at the start, she made me promise I would not.’

  Ella stretched out her hand and cupped his tight. ‘You did your best, Fergus; that is all any of us can do.’

  They sat holding hands, each heavy with their own thoughts for a few moments, until Fergus spoke.

  ‘Ella, I came for a reason today,’ he said, his mouth dry with emotion. He coughed lightly and swallowed hard, before continuing. ‘I wanted to say how much I have missed you, this past while. Losing Margaret has been an awful blow, but to be honest there is a relief that this section of my life, looking after her, is over. I want to start over, and I want you in my life.’

  Ella pulled her hand away. ‘Fergus, my mind is full of the child I lost. Please do not say any more; it will break my heart, because there can only be one answer. I let down that baby all those years ago; I know I did.’

  ‘You are a victim here,’ Fergus snapped, his voice angry.

  ‘I appreciate your defence of me, I really do, but tell me what I did to locate my baby? I never asked enough questions. For God’s sake, I did not even know where he was supposed to be buried.’ The tears spouted from her eyes, but she brushed them away, digging her fists into her eyes. ‘I like you Fergus, a lot, but I don’t deserve any happiness after what I have done. I have to concentrate on finding him, if only to say sorry for letting him down.’

  Fergus got up and pulled Ella to her feet. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said, guiding her to the window. She resisted, but only a little. ‘Look out there. What do you see?’

  ‘I see the garden, that Iris has not dug out all the rills fully, and if she doesn’t soon they will silt up more, and if it rains as much as last winter we will be flooded in the parkland at the front.’

  He put an arm across her shoulders and gently whispered in her ear. ‘There are the fields and the sea, the road leading to other towns, there is the wide-open sky. There is a whole world beyond Roscarbury, Ella, and when you are ready, I want to show it to you.’

  ‘Fergus, now is not the time.’

  He pulled away, his face sad. ‘Ella, we both have seen too much of life. What you are going through now is gut-wrenching. I know you will meet your son. When you are ready, we will take the next steps together, and only then.’

  Placing her hands on his chest, she felt his heart thumping. ‘Margaret was such a lucky woman, and I am too, to have made such a good friend at this late stage. I thank you, but I can’t say more, even if you want me to. My son is my only priority now. It has to be that way.’

  ‘I understand, Ella,’ he said, his voice low and tired.

  He told her he was planning to sell the house in Rathsorney.

  ‘I have always liked Italy; I fancy I will buy there.’ He stopped talking, because he saw in her face the strain of trying to maintain politeness when a far greater thing was eating her up inside. ‘I am rambling on, Ella, and you have much to do.’

  ‘No, Fergus.’

  He stood up and she did not protest. Reaching over, he pecked her on the cheek, saying he would let himself out.

  She saw him drift along the avenue, never stopping to look back at the window. Iris came tramping up the stairs.

  ‘What was Fergus Brown doing here?’

  Ella shook her head and closed two buttons on her cardigan, to regain her composure. ‘He just dropped in. He is thinking of selling the house.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity.’ Iris gave her a look, checking closely for her reaction.

  ‘He might buy an apartment in Italy.’

  ‘That is what money does for you: it gives you freedom,’ Iris replied, starting to stack the dirty dishes in the sink.

  ‘Leave them, Iris,’ Ella said, her voice wobbly.

  Twenty-Seven

  Debbie could not sleep, so she stole to the drawing room to sit quietly in the musty gloom, a small table lamp spotting a soft light around her. The house was dark, the only sound the mice scrabbling in the walls. She tucked up her feet under her on the velvet couch, after pouring a large Baileys.

  She dozed and was almost asleep when the drawing room door opened and Roberta walked in.

  ‘I saw the light and thought it had been left on by mistake. I am sorry to disturb you,’ she said, her face betraying her disappointment that the room was not empty.

  ‘There’s plenty room for the two of us. Won’t you have a Baileys?’

  Debbie stood up and took a crystal glass from the cabinet. Roberta watched, unsure of what to do next.

  ‘You know I’m leaving?’

  Roberta relaxed and sat in the leather armchair, fitting the rug around her knees. ‘It is for the best.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Debbie said, handing the glass to Roberta.

  They sat, an awkward silence between them, the mice scrabbling louder as they moved up the walls and into the ceiling, making their way to the kitchen.

  ‘Has there been any news about the child?’ Roberta asked, fixing her handbag on her lap.

  ‘No. It is terrible for Ella.’

  ‘Terrible for all of us.’

  Roberta sipped her drink and enjoyed the change from the sharp, cheap sherry she had to buy these days.

  ‘In the village, they say you are a nice person.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘I wondered, then, why you did not leave when I asked you.’

  ‘I stayed while there was still hope of tracing my birth mother.’

  ‘You have not done so?’

  ‘No.’ Debbie drained her glass and got up. ‘I’d better get to bed. It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘Thank you for the drink.’

  Debbie smiled and let herself quietly out of the room, her arms and legs tired and aching.

  On her own, Roberta took down the battered Complete Works of Shakespeare from the top shelf of the bookcase. Turning to Act One of Hamlet, she lifted the envelope from its hiding place. Pressing it to her nose, it was damp and musty, but still she fancied she could smell him. It was addressed to her, but it was a father’s letter to his son. If Michael Hannigan’s son was to come back to Roscarbury, then she must fulfil his father’s wishes, whether her sister liked it or not.

  September 4, 1959

  My dearest Roberta,

  What I am about to do is going to let you all down, especially Ella and our unborn baby. I feel it must be a boy and that brings with it such terrible joy. In her grief, Ella is going to be extremely angry with me, so I ask you
, please, to represent me to my child. I want him to know I could have been a good father, but circumstances have brought me to this place and I see no way back.

  I caused the death of beautiful Carrie and for that I will never forgive myself. I do not have to forgive myself for loving you, because in truth, I loved both of you, Roberta and Ella. I regret deeply the hurt I am about to cause.

  Please, Roberta, tell my boy I loved him but I just could not stay. Tell him to be good to both of you and to grow up to make his mother proud. Tell him she is a strong, loving woman and he must respect and love her always. Stay strong, and keep each other strong.

  May God bless the three of you, and I hope some day in your hearts you will be able to forgive me and remember me fondly.

  Roberta, please stay with Ella and help her when she needs it. She is a proud woman and I know she values your company. I have not been a good husband or a faithful lover. In time, you will know how weak I have been and how I have wronged you all. I humbly ask your forgiveness. I am a coward and a weak man. I am deeply sorry. When the time comes, look kindly on me. In time, I hope you both can forgive me.

  All my love,

  Michael.

  He gave the letter to a private who was going home on sick leave. Tardy about posting it, the private only remembered to throw it in a postbox on his way back to barracks two weeks later, when Michael was already seven days buried. Roberta rushed to show it to Ella, but Ella would not talk to her. When she tried on several more occasions, Ella screamed until the spit flowed out of her mouth. After that, Roberta kept it in the book, returning to it from time to time.

  She placed the envelope carefully in her handbag before leaving the drawing room and turning off the light, because the first curls of sunrise were forming and the birds were mooching, getting ready to greet the day.

  It was only an hour later when Ella made her way downstairs to turn on the ovens. Her head thumped and she wandered outside to breathe in the cool air. A hedgehog, surprised in the herb bed, snuffled slowly away as Iris’s dog watched it, afraid to move closer.

  Two magpies took up position by the henhouse, in readiness for the scrap bucket. She had nothing to offer a child: only this place, which sapped every bit of her money and energy. The café, too, would only always be just that: a tea and cake house to help make things meet.

  She made biscuits again this morning, because she liked the feel of the butter and flour pressed through her fingers, and rolling out the dough and stamping out the different shapes.

  Maybe she should have sold up when there was good money to be had for an old place like this. Where would she and Roberta have gone? They could never live in a small house or get on with neighbours; they were both too set in their ways now.

  She had four cakes in the oven and was sitting having her first cup of tea of the morning when Garda Moran pulled up in the squad car. Squaring back her shoulders so that she felt brave, she opened the back door before he knocked.

  ‘You are here early, Martin. Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘Ella, can I come in?’ He stepped into the kitchen, his wide frame taking up the door space.

  Ella felt sick; her knees began to buckle. When she heard Consuelo’s name, her stomach twisted. She counted four shrivelled lemons in the bowl on the kitchen table, and an apple, which was bruised. She thought she would throw it out later. She felt his hands take hers and lead her to the table, where she sat down, her mouth dry.

  ‘Please listen, Ella.’

  A pain shot up her neck, flaring across the side of her face.

  ‘Files were hidden under her bed in old suitcases. Yours was on top. Your boy was sent to New York.’

  As simple as that, she thought. He is in New York. Her heart began to flame; pain ran up her arms and legs; she wanted to get excited and yet she felt exhausted, a sense of desolation thumping across her head, a well of loss drowning her.

  She placed her head in her hands and Garda Moran thought she was crying. She heard him rummage and take some mugs from Roberta’s cupboard. He placed a tea, too white with milk, in front of her, but she did not sit back until the steam fluffed past her face.

  ‘Did he go to a good family?’

  ‘The documents show they had plenty. Ella, we have to talk about what happens next.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is not as simple as just giving you the details. An expert is going to take over the cases and contact the families involved.’

  ‘More waiting.’

  ‘Ella, the same rules apply. It will be up to your son whether he wants to make contact and up to you if you want to meet.’

  ‘Even though he was stolen from me.’

  ‘All you can do now, Ella, is wait.’

  ‘I suppose I am good at that.’

  Roberta walked into the kitchen and put her kettle on the ring.

  Martin Moran pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I will ring you.’

  ‘What about Debbie?’

  ‘We are going through the files; there are a lot of them. Ballygally Convent gave us a pile and we found more in searches at the convent in Moyasta,’ he said as he rinsed his mug out under the kitchen tap.

  He tapped Roberta on the shoulder and beckoned her to follow him. Outside, Garda Moran moved quickly to the car, so he was out of earshot of the house.

  ‘I know you don’t get on the best, but she needs you now, Roberta. Maybe try and talk to her.’

  ‘What is it, Martin? Have you found the child?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, getting into the driver’s seat before she could ask any more questions.

  Roberta returned to the kitchen, scalded the inside of a mug and stirred in a heaped spoon of coffee and sugar. She sat at the table, picking at the tablecloth edge, watching her sister. She did not feel able to say a word. The tick of the clock sounded louder than usual. She stuttered out a sentence.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Ella heard Roberta’s question, but there was no fight left in her.

  They sat, the only sounds the clock ticking and the hens outside clucking, waiting to be fed.

  Roberta picked tiny balls off her dressing-gown sleeve, her head down as if in deep concentration. Ella watched her snag a small ball and pull it hard.

  ‘In New York.’

  Roberta stopped, her fingers still on her sleeve.

  ‘Not so far; I am glad,’ she said.

  They did not know what else to say to each other, the chasm of decades too wide between them.

  ‘The café won’t open on its own,’ Ella said, loud enough for Roberta to hear. Jumping up to turn off the ovens and scoop out the cake tins, Ella began to knock the cakes out. Roberta brought her tea to the drawing room.

  Twenty-Eight

  Debbie pretended to be very busy and flitted about the café so that even Muriel could not pull her into conversation. The postmistress made several attempts to engage her, calling her over to her table and asking aloud where Ella was, but Debbie answered quickly or waved in a frantic gesture to show she was under pressure.

  ‘There was a time they would linger to chat, but since this place started being mentioned in the national press their heads have swelled somewhat,’ Muriel sniped to the woman beside her, from behind her hand.

  Chuck Winters enquired after both Debbie and Ella.

  ‘I don’t know, Chuck; sometimes I wish I’d never come here.’

  ‘Don’t ever even think it; after all, you have been a lifeline to Mrs Hearty,’ Chuck whispered, touching Debbie’s arm lightly.

  ‘The service around here has gone to the dogs. Maybe we were too hasty in abandoning Molloy’s,’ Muriel snapped, but the other women ignored her tight, jealous tone. Muriel hated more than anything not knowing what was going on behind the scenes at Roscarbury. She jumped up of a dash. ‘I don’t have time to sit around and gossip all day,’ she said, leaving the price of her cup of tea on the table. Without even a sideward glance to the counter, she left.

 
‘I always think she is like a spoilt child, adorable in so many ways,’ Chuck said, gathering up his cup and saucer and making for the window seat.

  With Muriel gone, the noise level in the café went down and Debbie had time to sit at a table and rest. That her coming to this country had caused such a furore was difficult to comprehend. If Ella’s son did not want to meet her, Ella would surely blame Debbie for raking up old embers and setting a fire alight none could put out.

  Soon, she was alone in the empty café with the tables not cleared. When Garda Moran tapped on her shoulder, Debbie jumped, making the little vase holding a tulip fall over, spilling water across the tablecloth. Garda Moran stepped back, apologising profusely.

  ‘Miss Kading, is there somewhere private we can talk?’

  Sweat prickled on her back. Debbie swept her arms across the span of the room. ‘There is nobody here, officer.’

  Garda Moran took off his cap and carefully placed it on a chair. ‘Did Ella tell you we have got access to new files?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her throat was painfully dry, her head throbbed; she found it hard to concentrate.

  ‘We have only started to go through them, but we have found a reference to your adoption.’

  She could not look in his face but zoned in instead on the parkland, where a golden retriever was running in circles around its owner and barking.

  ‘I was one of the babies taken from my mother, without her consent?’

  She sat watching the dog evade its owner and she wanted to be out in the grass, still wet with dew; she wanted to be in a day where there was no worry, only everyday niggles that could easily be forgotten.

  ‘Is there somebody I can call, to sit with you?’

  Debbie sat up straight. ‘There is nobody. Please, let’s get this over and tell me.’

  She saw him swallow hard before he launched into his explanation.