Ella got up extra early. Switching on the ovens, she decided she would need at least two batches of biscuits to get through the day. Multiplying the lemon cake and the chocolate cake recipes by three, she cracked the eggs, threw in the sugar and forced herself to weigh the self-raising flour, because too much would make her lemon cakes heavy and stodgy. Slicing the lemons, she pushed them onto the squeezer, locking it tight to extract as much juice as possible, and decided she would be better off investing in a machine to do the job. The eggs for the chocolate cake she separated, flinging the yolks from side to side until the whites had dripped away into a big mixing bowl, where Ella let them whisk away until stiff. She sliced open the packets of ground almonds and broke up the chocolate to melt into a big bowl over a pan of boiling water. She wasn’t too sure where she had got the other recipes, but this one was her mother’s: the Good Cake she called it, because they always made it when they were trying to put on a show for visitors.
Bernie O’Callaghan took great pride in the fact that the cake, made with the darkest chocolate she could find in Gorey, looked sinfully rich and decadent but was light and moist to taste. She took greater pleasure when her guests fought over the last slice or tried to guess the secret ingredient, which gave this cake an intense chocolate fluffiness. Bernie straightened on her seat and waited for a hush in the room before saying in a high and mighty voice: ‘This is such a simple cake I don’t know what the fuss is all about. I am sure anybody can guess the ingredients.’
She sat looking for hands up, smiling broadly when all sort of wild suggestions were made and clapping when one woman triumphed with almonds.
‘Well done, but it is what is missing in this mix that is most important.’
Ludicrous ingredients were bandied about, until Bernie gave in.
‘Flour: there is no need for it; I will say no more than that.’
When the time came to reveal the recipe to her daughters, Bernie O’Callaghan had made such a big deal of guarding her methods for the Good Cake that the girls felt rather cheated to find that only egg whites, whisked to resemble snow, gave the cake its magical lightness.
Ella stacked the cakes in two ovens, rattling the racks to even out the mixture.
She had got out the lemon cakes and put the biscuits in the top oven when Debbie put her head around the door. Breathing in the warm aroma of chocolate and almonds, it made her feel cosy and safe and she managed to smile brightly.
‘You should have called me; I could have helped.’
Ella shook her head. ‘Don’t you have enough on your plate today, going to the convent to inspect the books? Get a bit of breakfast inside you. Gerry will be here in half an hour.’
‘I can’t eat; my stomach is sick.’
‘Strong sweet tea it has to be then. It will settle you nicely.’
She ignored the protests and poured a mug of tea, stirring in two heaped spoons of sugar. Debbie accepted it and sat at the window, sipping slowly, the steam from the mug causing a small cloud of fog to blot out the view.
Ella finished and shot upstairs to change into her good clothes. She chose a flecked tweed skirt with a soft blue cardigan under her black swing coat. Sitting at the dressing table, she rummaged for a brooch.
The sun flowed across, highlighting favourites in the myriad of colours in the silver box. Reaching into the right corner, she picked out the smallest Weiss brooch. She could hear Iris greeting customers in the café. Taking her time, she angled the pin so it looked as if a fragile and colourful moth had taken refuge on her shoulder.
Looking down at the front gravel, she saw a stranger photographing his companion in front of the house. Gerry O’Hare was leaning against the fountain again. Ella saw he was wearing a suit. When Debbie had said she could not face driving herself, he came straight away. She knew he had made the effort for Debbie, so she would not chastise him this time for leaning against the stonework.
Debbie tugged at her hair and flattened her raincoat when she saw Ella. ‘I didn’t know we were supposed to dress up.’
‘Overdressed, more like; I am cursed by an obsession with dressing to the nines every time I encounter officialdom.’
They were both giggling when Iris, followed by May Dorkin, came upstairs.
‘I found May leaning on the door, wanting to wish you luck,’ Iris said.
May stepped forward. ‘I have had my arguments with Ella here, but I hope it is in the past. I want to wish you luck and tell you, no matter what you find out today, you have done your mothers proud.’ Reaching into her pocket, she fumbled her words. ‘I have a few buns; the hens must be missing my sweet ingredients,’
‘May, you are one big bird yourself,’ Iris said, snatching the bag of buns.
May laughed shyly.
Debbie reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I am very touched by your kind gesture.’
May glowed with the pride of appreciation. ‘I will have a tea while I am here,’ she said.
‘And a slice of cake,’ Ella instructed. ‘The new lemon drizzle, on the house.’
The two women nodded to each other.
A woman sipping tea at a central table elbowed her friend. ‘Ella O’Callaghan is going soft,’ she muttered.
‘We had better get a move on,’ Ella said, and they left, May and Iris waving them off from the upstairs café window.
*
It was quiet at the convent when the Mercedes pulled up the driveway, except for a gardener raking cherry-blossom petals from the grassy patch at the front. The front door was opened immediately by a man in a suit.
‘Deborah Kading? Come in,’ he said, leading the way to a small front office. The desk was pulled out in the middle of the floor, a number of high-backed chairs placed around it.
‘I am Bernard Morrissey, appointed by the Minister to supervise the viewing of the records by those women who wish to come forward and check the information. I will tell you at the outset, I can’t myself immediately see a record of your birth.’
‘Is that the right book?’ Ella asked.
Mr Morrissey sighed. ‘Everybody who comes asks that question. Yes, it is.’ He opened the book for April 15, 1959. ‘According to your letter, you say you were born on April 15, 1959 at the convent and adopted by Robert and Agnes Kading, then of New York. As you will see, on that date two girls were born and one boy. One girl was adopted by a couple in Philadelphia. The other unfortunately died at birth. The boy was adopted by a couple in Ireland.’
He continued to talk, while showing her the record for the previous and following days; Debbie saw the names and addresses all over the East Coast of America, but none for Agnes and Robert Kading.
By the time he had finished and closed the book, she could not speak. Her brain was whirring; her head was pounding. She felt she was an observer from a distance, removed and remote, all emotion sucked away.
‘What does this mean?’ Ella asked.
Mr Morrissey took off his glasses. ‘I am afraid there is no record of Miss Kading’s birth in the official record of the convent. I am sorry to impart this news; I know your hopes must have been built up as a result of this appointment. However, Mother Assumpta has been most helpful and supplied me with additional files, which we are currently examining.’
‘What does that mean exactly?’
‘Yours is by no means the only case. We have several men and women who were adopted, yet no record of their birth appears. It is a mystery we will only be able to solve after careful investigation.’
‘That sounds like it could take a long time,’ Ella said.
‘How long is a piece of string?’
Still Debbie could say nothing, a humming rising inside her, a loneliness seeping through her.
‘Where do we go from here?’ Ella asked.
‘We will be in touch when we have any new information.’
‘Is that it then?’ Ella said, her voice tight, anger bursting up inside her.
‘I am awfully sorry; there is nothing else I can
do at the moment. We are hoping on the full examination of hundreds of extra files that it will yield further results.’
Debbie pushed her hair back from her eyes and inched to the edge of her seat.
Mr Morrissey straightened his cuffs and quickly checked his watch.
Debbie stood up and put out her hand. ‘Mr Morrissey, thank you for your time,’ she said, shaking his hand too vigorously before leaving the room.
Ella hesitated. ‘Is there nothing you can do for her now?’
‘I only wish I could,’ he said, shaking his head.
When they got outside, Gerry O’Hare beckoned Ella.
‘Is everything all right? She has not said a word since she came out of that place.’
‘It is not all right; it is far from it. Take us home, Gerry, please.’
There was silence in the car as they turned around in the courtyard in front of the convent and headed for Roscarbury. Gerry O’Hare deliberately took the long way round, to allow Debbie time to gather herself. She sat in the back seat, the sound of her breathing heaving through the car. As he indicated to turn in the gate at Roscarbury, Ella placed her hand on his arm.
‘You don’t have to drive up to the house. Just drop us at the gate please, Gerry.’
‘Are you sure? It is no bother.’
‘I am sure.’
She patted him on the shoulder, whispering thank you, before climbing out of the car and marching across the wet grass towards the cherry blossom. Stopping after a few paces, she waited for Debbie. Above them, the clouds scampered across the sky and the branches of the tree creaked in the cold wind sweeping across the parkland, hitting Roscarbury Hall full on, rattling the windows and sneaking in the big keyhole on the front door.
‘Don’t be disheartened; we don’t always win the first time.’
‘Or ever,’ Debbie said.
‘We will think of another way. Maybe make another plea on the radio.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Directly to your mother.’
‘I don’t think so. She wanted secrecy and she did a mighty fine job of keeping it secret. I guess there’s a message in that. I need to go home and give up this silly wild goose chase.’
‘What about following up on Consuelo? She is in the convent in Moyasta, they say. Maybe we could go there.’
‘To have another door slammed in our faces and the sympathetic media at hand to listen to my story for the umpteenth time.’
‘We could do it together. Nobody need ever know.’
‘Isn’t that what is wrong with this damned place? Secrecy. Everything’s such a big goddamn secret!’ Debbie shouted, taking off across the grassland, making for the overgrown rhododendron path.
Ella followed her, but chose the nearby shingle track, which was wet and dirty but not so overgrown. Debbie struck out at a fast pace; she did not hear the birds rustle in indignation as she whacked the sprawling rhododendron out of her way. Not caring that the track was mucky and wet in places, keeping her head down she stayed on the route to the old icehouse and the lake. It was overgrown in places, but she pushed branches and briars out of her way, her hands firmly in her pockets.
In one place, pallets had been thrown over a sodden piece of ground in an attempt to maintain the walkway; these too were submerged by mud. Making no effort to dance between the curled-up, stagnant waves of muck and rainwater, Debbie waded through. She felt the thickness of the pallets underneath her shoes. Her trouser leg was snagged, sticking to her. The water made her cold; the mud slowed her down. The first surge of adrenalin faded. Plodding on, elbowing old briars left over from the summer out of her way, she trampled nettles.
The lake was overgrown with reeds in places, but the jetty was still there. She stumbled on, her feet sinking into the soft bank near the water. A heron screeched loudly and skimmed the water, its wings swishing rhythmically, like sails in a good offshore wind. At the old wooden jetty, there were big holes in places where the wood had given way and fallen through.
Stopping by a low stone wall, slicing a bunch of dead leaves out of the way, Debbie sat down. Her socks were ripped and she could see small cuts around the top of her ankles from where she had been whipped by the briars.
All the times she had wanted to look in her face, to know the colour of her hair, to know her likes and dislikes. All the times she had hoped to sit and sip tea, to be comfortable enough with each other, not even to talk. All the times she had simply needed a mom. She did not hear Ella walk up behind her, but when engulfed in a strong, tight hug she let go inside, letting the howls of tears blow across the lake, where the ducklings zipped happily together in circles.
19
They sat, the two of them, surrounded by the noise of the lake, the water sloshing against the jetty supports, the air cooling as rain drifted nearer.
‘We’d better get back,’ Ella said eventually.
They trudged up the shingle path together, both slower this time, their steps heavier.
‘Go on up and rest. I will bring you up some supper. You will always have a home here, Debbie. I mean it. I really do,’ Ella said, making her way to the kitchen.
‘I know.’
‘Promise me you won’t give up on it yet.’
‘I wish I had half the fight that’s in you.’
Ella grimaced. ‘Too much tragedy has made me bold; don’t wish for that.’
Idly, she picked up the red notes on the table and scanned them, as if they were of no importance, before scrunching them into her coat pocket.
Is she planning to die here? R.
What are you hoping for: to surf on the wave of sympathy the Yank is getting? You are a fool. R.
‘There are some things that never change. Unfortunately, it is the bitterness of my sister which remains my constant in life.’ Ella flicked the tap on and watched the water whoosh into the kettle. ‘I will bring up a cuppa,’ she called after Debbie, who was plodding up the stairs.
Spotting Fergus Brown loitering near the back door, she fixed her hair and walked over to him.
‘How are you, Fergus?’
‘Ella, I had almost given up on you.’
‘There has just been a lot going on.’
‘Roberta said you were not expected back.’
‘I would not believe everything my sister says, Fergus. We don’t get on very well, you know.’
‘I detect a certain frostiness in your voice when you speak of her. She does seem rather stressed and bossy.’
‘An understatement; let’s not talk any more about Roberta.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘I wish I could, Fergus, but I can’t,’ she said, patting him lightly on the shoulder.
He caught her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘I understand that sometimes there are things in families you cannot speak of, not outside the household.’
‘Fergus, it is so lovely to have you around.’
He felt giddy, like a schoolboy with a crush. His mouth dry, he licked his lips before speaking.
‘There is no impediment in us getting to know each other more, Ella, becoming good friends. I would like that very much.’
‘Me too,’ she whispered. She felt safe, almost happy and content to be here, beside Fergus Brown.
A thrush pecked at the scraps saucepan outside the back door, and two magpies hovered, watching the chaffinches jump from tabletop to tabletop at the front of the house. She forgot about the tea, until Fergus said he had to leave.
‘I am so glad we can be friends, Ella.’
She smiled and he noticed she had a small dimple on her right cheek. He made to get up from the chair, but turned, an uncertainty across his face.
‘I was wondering would you be free to join me next Friday.’ He stopped and steadied himself, as if he could not manoeuvre out of the seat and ask her on a date at the same time. ‘There is a recital in the old Protestant church in Gorey; I would be delighted if you would do the honour of accompanying me?’
; Ella felt herself blush. ‘Won’t people talk?’
He stamped his feet in exasperation. ‘Aren’t we too old to be worrying about that?’
‘But Margaret?’
‘Ella, we are two friends enjoying an evening out. There is no shame in that.’
She stroked the revere of his blazer. ‘I would love to.’
She led the way to the front door. They moved a little closer, their hands almost touching, until they parted and she rushed back inside to make the tea.
Ella set a tray with a china cup and saucer to match the small china teapot with the blue ivy design. Heart-shaped chocolate-chip biscuits she placed on a small plate, before walking to Debbie’s room and knocking on the door.
‘I am sorry about the delay,’ she said, letting the cup slide and clink against the teapot. Changed into her pyjamas, Debbie opened the door wide.
‘I had forgotten.’
‘You are looking better.’
‘Maybe, but I don’t feel it.’
Ella sat down on the bed. ‘You’re not giving up now. Are you?’
‘I’m not, but unfortunately my body is, Ella. The consultant says I have to come back.’ Reaching behind the bedside chair, she pulled out a bottle of Baileys. ‘Do you mind? I don’t feel like tea.’ She poured some into the china cup for Ella and filled a glass for herself. ‘I can’t think of a toast.’
Ella raised her cup. ‘To friends.’
They banged the china cup and the glass, so they looked a bit like two farmers with pints of stout after a good day at the mart. They took long, deep swigs, making Debbie reach to refill.
‘I shouldn’t; I won’t be able to tidy up the café,’ Ella said, but she did not pull away her cup from the bottle.
‘How do you do it, Ella?’
The Ballroom Café Page 13