The Ballroom Café

by Ann O'Loughlin

  ‘I have to go, Ella.’

  ‘I know. I just wish it were different.’

  ‘Don’t you think I wish that too? That I was not going to die, that Agnes and Rob were not dead, that somebody knew where my mother Mary Murtagh moved? For all we know, she was in the States all along.’

  ‘Mary Murtagh?’

  ‘That was my mother’s name; the family moved away soon after she had me. Assumpta finally told me.’

  ‘Mother Assumpta? When did this happen? Were you ever going to tell me?’

  ‘I was waiting for the right moment, I suppose. She only told me yesterday.’

  ‘At least I know before Muriel Hearty,’ Ella sighed.

  ‘Ella, you’ve been so good to me; of course I was going to tell you, but I’m still trying to take it all in myself.’

  Ella put down her glass and walked over to put her arm on Debbie’s shoulder. ‘Don’t mind me; I am a selfish, jealous old cow.’

  ‘There is not much to tell, Ella.’

  ‘Did they live in Rathsorney itself?’

  ‘Bridge Street.’

  ‘There was a lot of chopping and changing in those houses over the years.’

  ‘It’s not the ending I hoped for,’ Debbie said quietly.

  ‘I know,’ Ella replied.

  They sat in the big fireside chairs sipping their drinks, not needing to say more. Ella refused a top-up.

  ‘I am up extra early on account of Iris being away.’

  Ella pulled herself out of the chair; Debbie followed her up the stairs, afraid to be left on the dark staircase on her own.

  22

  Ella was cleaning out the coffee machine the next morning when Chuck Winters rushed up the avenue.

  ‘What brings you so early, Mr Winters?’ Ella said, taking in his red cheeks and his coat flying open.

  Unable to catch his breath at first, Chuck stood in the middle of the café, panting like an old dog after chasing a rabbit. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Miss O’Callaghan, but is Debbie here by any chance?’

  ‘She is having a cuppa in the kitchen, before the rush starts.’

  ‘I will wait for her.’

  He took a seat at a window table, drumming his fingers as he kept his eye on the door.

  ‘Do you want me to call her?’

  ‘No, no need.’

  ‘Would you like your coffee while you wait?’

  Slightly agitated, Chuck nodded. When he heard Debbie on the stairs, he jumped to his feet. ‘Miss Kading, I have come with important news.’

  Debbie, who was tying her hair up in a chignon, smiled at Chuck. ‘And before Muriel. Not many people manage that.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  Ella came out from behind the counter. ‘There is nobody due for another twenty minutes at least. Why don’t you go to one of the window tables?’

  When Chuck hesitated, Ella added, ‘I have more to be doing than eavesdropping on your conversation, Mr Winters.’

  Embarrassed, Chuck protested that the thought never crossed his mind, but he picked the table furthest away from the counter and kitchen.

  ‘My apology for the secrecy, Miss Kading. A friend of mine who is close to the inquiry has given me some valuable information.’

  ‘About me?’

  Chuck dropped his voice. ‘I think you will find it important.’

  Debbie looked over at Ella, who was making a big deal of polishing the glass on the old painting.

  ‘What is it?’

  This time he edged his chair a little closer, so that his back was turned to Ella. ‘My source informs me that a woman has come forward with important information.’ He paused for effect. ‘The woman, who worked in County General Hospital, says women at the hospital as well as the orphanage were told their babies had died when in fact they were smuggled away for adoption by American couples.’

  Debbie sat back. ‘Are you saying my mother thought I was dead all along?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss Kading, only that they are going back on the records over a fifteen-year period, 1954 to 1969, and that the Little Angels plot at the orphanage, where all those babies were buried, is to be dug up.’

  ‘Mr Winters, I’m not sure this concerns me.’

  Ella’s stomach began to churn. She rushed downstairs to gasp in some air, while pretending to check on the outside tables. Muriel Hearty was pounding up the avenue.

  ‘They have cordoned off the convent. The word is they are going to dig up the graves,’ she said, her face flushed with excitement.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have my sources, Muriel.’

  ‘Tell us what it is all about then. Has this got something to do with Debbie?’

  Debbie appeared in the doorway. ‘I know nothing about it.’

  Muriel looked disappointed.

  ‘I should be there. I am sorry Ella, but I don’t think I could face coffee and cakes, knowing the little graves of those poor babies are being dug up,’ said Muriel.

  Ella waved off Muriel, shutting and locking the gate before quickly propping up the closed sign in case anybody came looking for a café. Her head thumped. What would they find when they broke the compacted earth holding those little remains? There were a lot of women who would not sleep a wink until this whole mess was sorted. She could not bear them all talking about it non-stop, as if it were some big scandal instead of the tragedy it was stirring up to become. She wrapped plates of cake in tin foil. If she plopped on enough cream tomorrow, nobody would notice the cake was a day old.

  She laid out her best navy coat and matching scarf on the bed for Margaret Brown’s funeral. Opening her big silver box, she picked out the Weiss silver and blue starburst brooch and pinned it to her lapel. She liked that it blended in with her coat, silver rays moving out from one central blue stone. Little blue stones trimmed the edge, aurora borealis stones wedged between the rays.

  She set off early, walking into town and to the church at the far side. She sat halfway down the aisle.

  Flanked by his son and daughter, Fergus looked frail. In a suit and a long black coat she did not know, he looked every inch the gentleman.

  They must have complemented each other well at one time, Fergus and Margaret, she thought, and she felt a pang of jealousy rise inside her. When it came to her turn to sympathise, Fergus kissed her on the cheek, which made her feel both happy and embarrassed. She was in no doubt that that particular peck on the cheek would be ruminated on when the ladies of Rathsorney had time.

  ‘Ella, it was so good of you to call at the house. I am so sorry Michael here turned you away.’

  ‘Fergus, I am so dreadfully sorry about Margaret.’

  She saw a tear slip from him and he clenched her hand tighter.

  ‘We are going to bring her home, to bury her with our eldest son, Miles. I am going to stay in Dublin with my daughter after the funeral.’

  ‘You do the right thing, Fergus,’ she said and gripped his hand a little tighter.

  By the time Ella got home, Roberta had placed two notes in different colours on the hall table.

  That American has started big trouble, and whether we like it or not it will catch us in its net, thanks to you. R.

  Don’t think Fergus Brown is going to put his feet under our kitchen table. I won’t have it. R.

  Ella did not have the energy to throw them away, so she ripped them up, leaving the pieces on the hall table, before rushing upstairs to look at the news.

  ‘The dig was ordered after a midwife in County General Hospital, Wicklow, between 1954 and 1969 came forward with information. It is claimed that in some cases women were told their babies had died when in fact the babies were taken away for adoption without the knowledge or consent of their mothers. Gardaí are also waiting to interview a nun who was in charge of the home for unmarried mothers at the time.

  ‘A spokesperson said records are being examined and each woman involved will be contacted in
the next few days and kept informed with developments …’

  Ella switched off the television. Not wanting to go to sleep, she went back to the café and sat in the window seat, watching the moonlight travel across the sea. When they were young, she and Roberta used to steal into the ballroom and pretend to have grand evenings, dancing, sitting and chatting until, almost asleep, they sneaked back to their beds. Sometimes they saw their father’s car turn up the avenue, the lights beaming across the room as if searching for them. They bellyflopped like soldiers.

  Those were the happiest days, when the sisters had no secrets. They formed the Ballroom Club and swore allegiance to Roscarbury. Roberta cut both their hands and they pledged their faith to each other in blood. Bernie O’Callaghan had later seen the cuts and got so angry at the girls she slapped them three times each on their bottoms.

  Debbie stuck her head around the door. ‘Do you want anything before I go to bed, Ella?’

  ‘No, dear, you sleep well.’

  Debbie dithered at the door. ‘I don’t think I could imagine it: finding out the baby you thought was dead is alive.’

  Ella did not answer. She felt a twinge of pain up her arm, so she sat a little longer in the café.

  What if they came looking for her? What if her baby was not dead? How could she have believed them? What did he look like now? A chap with strange clothes and a hairstyle she did not like, no doubt. Would she speak to him?

  Would she feel anything for him? God, she hoped they came looking for her, because even in the middle of the tragedy of it all, wouldn’t it be amazing to meet her son? She was afraid to feel excited; the awfulness of it clouded her head, pushing in on top of her. She traipsed up to bed, though she knew she would not sleep.

  She had wanted him so much: a reprieve from grief after losing Carrie. She could remember every detail, except him; she was never allowed to even look in his face, never allowed to hold him, marvel at him. She did not know his smell. She had turned to the wall, back in County General Hospital.

  Sweat lathered her face, sweeping across her eyes, blinding her, so she could make out ridges of grey. She reached out; her hands were brushed aside, like she was a madwoman in a crowd.

  ‘I want to hold my baby,’ she shouted. Nobody listened.

  Sister Consuelo told her to hush, that it was all over. Pain pressed down on her. She heard them clicking with their tongues, as if she were creating an unnecessary fuss. She asked again, stretching her fingers to try to reach her baby; they ignored her. Attempting to sit up, she was pushed back roughly.

  ‘Leave it. It is for the best,’ Sister Consuelo snapped in her ear, her breath hot and short.

  Her arm was held rigid; a fog blanketed her; ghosts hovered over her. Her head was heavy, her neck thick with pain; she could not lift her hands, could not talk. She sank away into a river of tears.

  Sister Consuelo’s snoring woke her up. The nun, her head on her chest, her arms folded over her bosom, was slumped like an old sack of flour on the pantry floor. Scanning the room, she searched for the cot. She tugged the nun’s starched uniform hard.

  ‘The baby? Where is my baby?’

  Consuelo massaged her eyes slowly with her knuckles. ‘Dead. We tried everything.’

  ‘I heard it cry.’

  Consuelo stood up. ‘Only that breath. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘A boy or a girl?’

  ‘Does it matter? A dead baby is a dead baby.’

  She tried to sit up, get out of bed, find her baby, but was gripped by the shoulders as Consuelo rang the bell.

  ‘The most unlikely ones cause trouble. She needs to quieten down,’ she said as she pressed her weight onto her chest. Someone gave her an injection. She stayed drugged in a heavy sleep.

  On the third day, Consuelo, anxious to have the room for the next admission, marched in and pulled back the curtains so that the spring sunshine needled Ella’s eyes.

  ‘You are going home today, dear. Time to get up and get your things together.’

  Smelling the sharpness of the starch, she shrank back.

  ‘Now, no point feeling sorry for yourself. It was only a baby.’

  ‘Can I see it, hold it?’

  ‘Don’t be so silly. What good would that do you?’

  ‘Was it a boy or a girl?’

  ‘A boy, I think. Don’t be worrying yourself; we have taken care of the burial.’

  ‘Can I say a prayer at the grave?’

  ‘And upset yourself and everybody else. You go home and forget about it. It is for the best.’

  Ella sat up; she must have fallen asleep. Unfortunately the nightmare which made her clothes wet with sweat a reality she could never get away from … She was shaking with cold as she fumbled in the dark to switch on the light. She did not even know where he was buried. She hadn’t asked, did not think she could. Sister Consuelo had told her to move on. She remembered she had met her six months later and had begun to cry.

  ‘Dear, it is in the past; leave it and move on. You are still a young enough woman to meet a man and marry, have another child. You are one of the lucky ones. What about all those women who have lost the chance to have a baby? Toughen up.’

  She had no choice. Everybody told her to move on. She went back to talk to the midwife, to ask about him, but she could not help.

  ‘Miss O’Callaghan, I help deliver a lot of babies; some live and some die. I don’t have time to be counting the hairs on their head.’

  ‘I never got to see him. I just wanted to know if he had any hair. My daughter had a soft, golden little thatch.’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  She had nothing to hold on to, only the night he was born and died. The starch, the only smell that came back to her, smothering her, blotting out her brain. She dared not think he might be alive; there was too much sorrow stored there, waiting to encompass her. She might as well be baking.

  The kitchen was cold and she turned on the ovens first thing to warm up the place, before making a cup of tea. No doubt there would be a right crowd in the café in the morning, looking for clues that she was one of the women waiting for news.

  23

  Debbie stood outside the small terraced house. Lifting the latch on the front gate gently, she walked to the front door, edging past the rose bushes blistered with rainwater. Junk mail clogged the letterbox; a telephone directory was propped against the doorway. She knocked loudly on the glass panel of the door, but there was no sound from inside.

  ‘Are you looking to rent the place?’

  A woman stuck her head over the roses.

  ‘I was looking for the Murtaghs.’

  ‘Never heard of them. The place has been rented for years. Are you sure you have the right house?’

  ‘The Murtaghs are from way back, distant relatives.’

  ‘You should go to Mrs Messitt at Number 22. She has lived here all her life.’

  ‘She won’t mind me knocking at the door?’

  ‘I am walking that way anyway. I will do the introductions. Aren’t you the woman from the café?’

  ‘Roscarbury Hall.’

  Debbie waited while the woman locked her hall door.

  ‘You can’t be too careful these days. Time was when we would only lock the door if we were moving out of the county.’

  She fussed with her shopping bags as she walked slightly in front of Debbie to the far end of the street.

  ‘How is Ella doing?’

  ‘Just fine.’

  ‘Tell her Martina Cleary was asking after her.’ She walked up the neat footpath of Number 22 and knocked loudly. ‘You will need to speak up: Betty is a bit deaf.’

  A small, thin woman with a shy smile opened the door.

  ‘Betty, this woman is looking for a local historian and I told her you know everything there is about this street and the scandal of all its inhabitants.’

  The old woman laughed nervously. ‘That’s a nice way of saying I was always a busybody.’

  Debbie put out
her hand and noticed that Betty Messitt, though frail, gave a vice-like grip of welcome. Martina waved goodbye, but neither Debbie nor Betty Messitt seemed to notice.

  ‘I wanted to know about the Murtaghs.’

  ‘Are you family?’

  Debbie dithered. ‘A distant relative from the States.’

  ‘Welcome, come in. I remember the Murtaghs; they had two good-looking girls. They were always up here trying out the hairstyles. My sister was friendly with them.’

  Debbie felt her chest tighten. ‘What can you tell me about Mary?’

  ‘There was a Mary and a Frances: Frances was very tall; Mary was younger, a little bit quieter.’

  Betty fussed with the kettle and took down her china cups and saucers.

  ‘This is a treat, being able to share a cuppa. Most people these days are too busy to stop for a chat. What relation are you to the Murtaghs?’

  Debbie shifted uncomfortably in her velvet seat. She noticed a jug of roses on the table contained the same tea rose as the bush outside Murtaghs’. ‘Our mothers were related.’

  ‘They did not live long here, you know. Left in the middle of the night; some said they emigrated, but I heard afterwards they only went as far as Dublin.’ She stopped and eyed up Debbie carefully. ‘I don’t want to say anything untoward.’

  ‘Please, anything at all you tell me would be most helpful.’

  Betty poured the tea and fussed over the milk and sugar. ‘Let me put it straight. I will be honest with you, if you are honest with me.’ As Debbie flustered, she continued. ‘I heard you on the radio. Age has not stolen my good sense yet, you know. Do you think Mary Murtagh was your mother?’

  Debbie felt her face flush pink. ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, you look like her: same long, glossy hair, though she always had it in some elaborate hairstyle. Before they even named it the beehive, Mary Murtagh was styling her hair up on top of her head like that.’

  ‘Did she go to school locally?’

  ‘Not at all; her sister helped out at a hairdresser’s in the next town, but Mary stayed at home: the mother was not well, so she looked after her mainly. She had a bit too much time on her hands, that one.’