John O’Callaghan, when he entered into correspondence with the Weiss jewellers of New York City, also thought the idea of a pansy in varying green hues was both beautiful and different. Mr O’Callaghan ordered two brooches a year, from Weiss, New York. The family-run jewellers were happy to post the small parcel care of Rathsorney post office, so that Bernie O’Callaghan never fully realised the lengths to which her husband would go to show her he loved her.
In all the years, Ella only wore the brooch once. Intent on keeping it for a special occasion, she lost her moment. The time came when the only significant event left in her life was the funeral of her husband. Just before his coffin was taken from the house, she pinned the brooch to the wide collar of her black swing coat. Those who saw Ella that day said she never looked so pale, stylish, heartbroken or so alone.
Even after her parents died, there was a delivery from New York, as if the love of John O’Callaghan for his wife was indestructible. Ella still kept those brooches in the same small cardboard box they arrived in.
Muriel Hearty had run up the avenue, her forehead furrowed; she was stuttering her words. ‘I got it in yesterday and I saw Mr O’Callaghan going down the street. Next thing I was distracted; I should have called out to him. I will never forgive myself.’
Opening up the brown paper and separating the two folds of the lid to reveal the two brooches carefully wrapped in white tissue paper, Ella took out the topaz and orange rhinestone brooch. It would have perfectly matched her mother’s new burnt-orange coat, the one she had bought in Gorey and was saving for her birthday. The brooch, with a circle of smoky topaz and dull yellow stones was highlighted with deep orange rhinestones, which radiated, like shafts of sunlight, from a central topaz. Held to the light, the orange stones sparkled.
It was the other brooch that Ella adored: a simple square of clear stones that, when trapped in the light, threw out the colours of the rainbow. It would have sat so perfectly on the floaty dress her mother had fashioned for the night of the choral recital.
She had felt an anger rise in her, that Muriel Hearty had not stopped her infernal gossiping and run after her father.
Ella had dispatched a postal order for the amount of the brooches and also wrote to Mr Weiss as to the tragic accident, which meant no further pins would be ordered by the O’Callaghans of Roscarbury Hall.
A month later, Muriel Hearty had rushed up the driveway of Roscarbury, again in an agitated state of excitement. ‘It is another box,’ she shouted.
Even Muriel Hearty had been silenced when Ella ripped it open to reveal not one but two exquisite black brooches. The letter of sympathy attached was graceful and dignified. Ella took out the second brown box and looked at the two brooches. At the time, Roberta declined to accept her one, and though Ella never wore hers these days, in the first year after the death of her parents, she found comfort in the pin, which was a simple black flower.
Pushing the box to the back of the drawer, she pulled on her heavy coat. Stopping in the front hall to take out a small compact from her handbag, she strained to see in the tiny mirror. Carefully she powdered her face, shoving her powder puff in the creases under her eyes, for a moment squashing her wrinkles so she looked like the young Ella with the big, some would say sad, eyes.
Banging the back door behind her, she waved to Iris, not slowing her pace, moving quickly through the back yard to the well-worn path across two fields and through a small wood, to the cemetery.
Quickly, she walked to the small plots to the right. Shaking her head so the tears had no time to lodge and swell her face, she turned to the small grave under a single cypress tree. Once Carrie’s grave had been alone at the far end of the graveyard, but now there were well-worn paths to nearly an acre more of the dead.
BELOVED DAUGHTER
Carrie Hannigan, who Died Tragically on June 23, 1959.
Deeply Missed by Her Mother, Ella, and Father, Michael.
Gone, but Never Forgotten.
Another Angel in Heaven.
A wave of impatience rolled over her, like it always did. Walking quickly away, she unfurled her shopping bag. Slowing her pace, she dithered at the narrow, overgrown track around the outside of the cemetery wall. Two years they had been married. Slowly, she walked up the path and stood at his grave, leaning down to scrub the dust off the plain wooden plaque.
Private Michael Hannigan.
A Soldier with the Irish Army
Died September 4, 1959.
Sadly Missed by His Loving Wife, Ella.
Straightening, she spotted the dog, a leg up against a pot of plastic flowers on McDonald the grocer’s grave. Iris was forever letting that dog roam free; she would have to tell her to keep it tied up in future.
4
Bowling Green, March 1968
Rob Kading, pulling in to the driveway, saw the porch door swinging open. Stepping out of the driver’s seat, he stooped to straighten a supporting rod on the raspberry canes and waved to old man Haussman across the way. Placing his briefcase in its usual spot inside the door, he called out to Agnes softly before making his way to the kitchen. Surprised the table was not set for dinner, he called to his wife again as he moved across to the dining room.
He unfastened the leather strap of his watch and checked the time against the dining-room clock before placing the timepiece carefully on the mantelpiece. Hearing a light step on the outside porch, he was so sure he called out ‘Aggie’.
‘Mr Kading, it’s Moira Rochdale. Silly of me, but I wondered is Agnes all right? She didn’t turn up to teach her flower-arranging class.’
‘Moira, I think she’s gone out. I’m just home from work. Maybe she was called away.’
Moira Rochdale angled closer on the porch.
‘The ladies were so disappointed. Agnes isn’t usually like this. So dependable. Usually,’ she twittered.
Rob Kading was not listening. He noticed her raincoat and her handbag were missing from the coat rack.
‘Mr Kading is everything all right?’
‘My wife must have an urgent appointment. I will convey your concerns to her,’ he said, as he manoeuvred Moira Rochdale’s ample frame back out onto the porch. He didn’t know why exactly, but Rob Kading felt very strange. A nausea of worry crept through him and settled. ‘Can I drop you home, Moira?’
Moira Rochdale fluttered like a girl asked out on a first date.
‘Not at all, the stroll will do me good; you must have so much to do.’
She skipped off across the road as Rob jumped into his car, coasting down the incline to Nancy’s house.
Nancy Slowcum was drinking tea and on page two of her Ladies’ Home Journal when Rob burst in.
‘Is she here?’
‘Who?’
‘Agnes – her bag and coat are gone, do you know where she is?’
‘Maybe she took a bus somewhere; no need to panic.’
Rob slumped onto the chair beside the kitchen table.
‘She’s been acting so strange lately. Nancy, what’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s tired, Rob, did that ever occur to you?’
‘She’s unhappy, has it in for Debbie all the time.’
‘It will pass.’
‘She never said she was going anywhere today.’
‘Give her a bit of time. Can’t a woman move from her routine without the police being called?’
Rob jumped up. ‘Where’s Debbie? Wasn’t she with you today?’
‘No, never on a Tuesday. Maybe she and Agnes decided on the spur of the moment to do something.’
Rob guffawed out loud. ‘You know, Nance, Agnes isn’t capable of doing anything on the spur of the moment. I must find Debbie first.’ Without waiting for an answer, he made for the door.
‘She’s probably playing in her room; Debbie does that a lot lately.’
‘Will you come with me, Nance?’
She reached out and touched his arm. ‘It’ll be all right Rob, maybe she just wants a bit of space.’
Nancy bustled about, closing the kitchen door behind them. She did not answer Rob, and when she sat in the passenger seat beside him she put up her hand to stop any further questions. ‘Let’s find Debs,’ she said.
Debbie was swinging on the gate waiting for either her mother or father to come back. When she saw her father arrive home from work, she presumed her mother was already back. When she saw Rob rush off as quickly, she worried and she waited.
‘Mommy isn’t here.’ He wrapped his arms around her, so she could smell the tobacco on his lapel. ‘Darling, let’s not worry about it. I am sure Mommy will be home soon.’
‘Why don’t we tidy up the kitchen and get some food going, for when Mommy comes home,’ Nancy said, her voice high-pitched with worry.
Taking in her father’s harried look, Debbie moved in beside her aunt. Rob pulled Nancy aside. ‘I’m gonna cruise around and call on a few of her friends. I’ll check back in an hour. The bus from Cleveland gets in around that time; if she’s not on it I’m going to the police.’
‘Wait until ten; that’s when the last bus pulls in from anywhere.’
‘Will Mommy bring me a present when she gets off the bus?’
Nancy gently hushed her niece. ‘Well, if she does, we better have this place looking nice.’
She ushered Debbie into the kitchen.
*
Order of Divine Sisters, Rathnew, Co. Wicklow, March 2008
‘We had a lot of wealthy Americans in those days who wanted to help out. There is really nothing unusual about this letter. I am afraid I cannot help you.’
Mother Assumpta handed the page across her desk. A smile crawled across her mouth, as if she had been examining a child’s drawing. She concentrated on straightening the box of pencils in front of her. Flicking her eyes to the wall clock, she pulled her diary forward. Flinching as if cold, anger shuddered inside her: not at this woman, but that she had to cover up once more. How many times had she seen such a letter? Double digits she supposed, and all before her time.
Consuelo she had always admired for her natural savvy, a quality that was obviously lacking in her early years, when she had put pen to paper. Assumpta flared inside at the pompous gratitude expressed in the letter.
Order of Divine Sisters,
Ballygally,
Rathnew,
Co Wicklow.
May 15, 1959
Dear Mr and Mrs Kading,
Please find enclosed a receipt for the £300 paid to us in April for services offered. Without the help of good Catholic families in the United States, we would not be able to help so many women and children. I thank God for people like you, willing to give a good home to these unfortunate children.
We will continue to pray for you and your family. We wish you happiness with your little girl. I am sure under your guidance she will become a good and loyal daughter.
Yours sincerely,
Sister Consuelo
‘I must have been adopted from here: why else would my parents have this letter?’ Debbie said firmly.
Mother Assumpta, turning the pages of her desk diary, impatiently looked over her black-rimmed glasses.
‘I have checked the records book myself. I am sorry to say you are putting two and two together and getting five. There is no mention of an adoption by Agnes and Robert Kading from the US. It was a very kind donation, but that is all.’
‘Why give a donation to a convent in a country they didn’t know? Sister Consuela, is she still here?’
‘Sister Consuelo is an old woman now and won’t have the memory for this sort of thing. It is the records that count.’
‘You did give out children for adoption in the States?’
‘Of course. We got fine Catholic homes for a lot of orphans.’
‘But not a baby to my mother and father?’
Mother Assumpta clicked her tongue loudly. ‘I realise you have come a long way, Miss Kading, but really it is a wasted journey. There is nothing—’
‘But there must be something. Can I see the records?’
‘And violate the sacred privacy of so many unfortunate women …’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
A heavy woman, Mother Assumpta pushed herself out from behind the desk. ‘I am sorry Miss Kading. I am afraid we are quite familiar with this situation. Sometime in all the years that have passed, the information has somehow been changed, interfered with. It is nobody’s fault.’
‘Surely you can search again, in case you made a mistake.’
A shadow flickered across Mother Assumpta’s eyes. ‘I have checked the records, Miss Kading, and even two days either side. There is nothing further I can do to help you, only to wish you luck in your quest.’
She stood up and walked to the door. ‘Maybe this business is best left. Don’t get bogged down in the small details of the past; it will only bring bitterness. You have had a good life: look forward, not back.’
Debbie remained seated. She turned to Mother Assumpta, who was tugging a loose thread from her skirt. ‘Is there anything I can do to get access to the records?’
‘Like what, Miss Kading?’
Debbie swallowed. ‘A donation.’
Mother Assumpta opened the door with an agitated flourish. ‘These are different times, Miss Kading. Thankfully this order no longer relies on the handouts of rich Americans. Accept the answers to the questions you have asked. We will include you in our prayers.’
When Debbie stood up, Mother Assumpta ushered her out of the room quickly.
‘Are you doing any sightseeing while you are here?’
‘I have no plans …’
‘What a pity …’
Debbie’s lip quivered; tears threatened to burst out. ‘Is there any way?’
‘I am afraid it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Our sisters all over the country, and other orders too, took in poor girls and found good homes for their illegitimate children.’ She put her hand on Debbie’s shoulder. ‘Be thankful for the life you have and leave all this in the past,’ she said gently.
Debbie shrank from the heaviness of her touch. ‘I can see myself out,’ she said, slipping down the first steps of the staircase sweep.
Mother Assumpta waited until she reached the front door before disappearing back into her office to take two tablets for her thumping headache.
Outside, the sturdy door clicking shut behind her, Debbie breathed in the fresh air, angry tears spouting from her. The gardener, who was tending to flower pots on the stone steps, stopped to look at her.
‘Are you all right?’
Debbie swiped her hand across her eyes. ‘I’m good. Thank you.’
He shrugged his shoulders, dropping back to the pots on the bottom stone step.
She wanted to throw up. She was stupid; she had taken all those tablets this morning on an empty stomach. Last time she did that, she threw up in Dr Lohan’s office in Manhattan. He remained smiling as splats of vomit landed on his desk, his calendar, his light-blue carpet stained dark by a woman who was not sure who she was.
Her throat felt dry and tight. She rushed down the steps, and when the puke came she directed it into a bed of daffodils that had yet to bloom, before wiping her mouth with her coat sleeve. A grey fog curled around her.
She pushed her hands in her pockets and, feeling the late afternoon damp creep up under her coat, she pushed forward to her car. Pain coursed through her; tears tumbled down her face.
Driving through Rathsorney a few minutes later, she pulled in to have a coffee in Molloy’s; Ella’s café was too intimate a place when she was in a state like this. Curse the Baby Bits box: her life had been so tidy, structured and predictable before.
5
The sun shining through the glass seeped across her. She sat in the warm glow, but inside she felt cold. The harsh spring rays pierced at her eyes; the hum of Molloy’s coffee shop faded away.
Funny how ac
customed she got to the idea that Agnes had gone away. It did not mean she did not want her to return, just that she was used to her being away. They waited the first night and most of the next day. Agnes did not phone and she did not come back. Rob paced the porch. After twenty-four hours, Agnes was declared missing; police were asking questions, putting up posters, checking bus and train lists.
Somebody thought they’d seen her get on a bus to Cleveland. Rob drove there, cruising along the streets, like a criminal looking for trouble. When he came home he was tired; he said his eyes were out on stalks.
The neighbours were sympathetic, then fearful to mention Agnes when more than a week had passed. Debbie and Rob were lost. He spent his days looking for his wife and his nights pacing up and down, a bottle of whiskey for company. After four days and four nights, Nancy insisted they move in with her.
‘Rob Kading, if she is going to come back, don’t you think she’ll know where to find you?’
‘It’s like we’re giving up.’
‘It’s like you’re accepting an offer of some normality in the midst of this awful mess.’
Debbie’s normality was that Agnes was gone. Sometimes she dreamed that Mommy would come back. She would slowly pace from Nancy’s porch to the fence, willing Mommy to be coming down the little hill. Some days, she imagined Agnes came running from the other side, her hair bouncing about her shoulders, all apologies, all stories about why she had been delayed by weeks.
She wanted that warm feeling of relief to course through her, like a waterfall rushing, to feel Agnes’s excitement, be enveloped by her Blue Grass perfume, to finally show her the gold star she got that day for spelling.
The Ballroom Café Page 3