They stood in the hallway, Ella fidgeting with her rings until Muriel took the hint, saying she had better get along.
‘They will be in from the mountains for the dole this morning and Matthew will go mad if I don’t lend a hand.’
She flustered down the avenue, not entirely satisfied with her morning’s gossip.
Iris tidied up the tables at the front, leaning the chairs against the tables before she came back into the house.
‘That is me finished, Ella. I have pushed two tables together in the café and laid for three. You will want a bit of room. All you have to do is set up the coffee machine. The food is laid out on the counter, a few of the good tea towels on top.’
Ella swallowed hard. ‘What would I do without you, Iris?’
‘Pay somebody else good money, that’s what.’
‘It won’t be long now. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’
‘Me? What would I be saying to them?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You know there is only one other person you should be asking, but I will say no more.’
Ella touched her happy brooch. ‘I don’t want anything to spoil the day.’
‘I will leave you to it; Molloy’s have a lunch special, so I am off.’
Iris closed the front door behind her. They had done a good job on the house: the glass in the windows sparkled and the front gardens looked tended, pots of petunias spilling over the front steps, hedges neatly trimmed, the edges of the avenue outlined sharply with a spade. She saw Ella inside the drawing-room window. Roberta, sitting at the library window, sipped a sherry. Iris noticed she was wearing her grey suit, the one she had bought in Gorey two weeks ago, the collar of a pink blouse contrasting nicely with her delicate features.
*
Roberta knew when Ella got her hair done that the time had come. Iris up the ladder washing down the outside of the windows and Sheehy brought in to cut down the grass on the parkland several weeks too early were another giveaway.
She never asked what day he was due to arrive, but Iris blurted it out two days ago, as if she couldn’t but tell her.
‘Will he be staying?’ Roberta asked, never moving her eyes from the newspaper she was pretending to read.
‘I don’t think so. Ella is closing up the café so they can have lunch.’
‘Was she ever going to tell me?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t let on you heard from me?’
‘It is not as if we will be chatting about it,’ Roberta said, her voice stiff.
‘Will you want to meet him?’ Iris was worried she may have caused an upset for Ella.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘No reason, no reason,’ Iris said, before filling up another bucket of soapy water for the windows at the back.
‘I doubt if he will be worried whether the windows have been washed or not,’ Roberta called after her, reaching for a pen to scribble a red note.
I have a right to meet my nephew. Make no mistake of that. Don’t think you are the only one who would like to grasp at the straw of happiness. R.
*
They were driving down from Dublin, so they would be hungry. Ella went upstairs to check the café. Iris had put on linen tablecloths, and the good china, only taken out on special occasions, sparkled. Muriel’s flowers were placed in a glass vase to the side of the counter. Trays of food covered in linen cloths were placed inside the counter ledge; a trolley laden with whiskey, brandy, sherry and liqueur along with two cans of beer was by the far wall.
Feeling sick, Ella began to pace up and down, dodging between tables, counting the knots on the floorboards. When the phone rang, she ran downstairs, slightly slipping on the last step in her rush.
‘Ella, we’re going to be delayed. My mom wasn’t feeling well this morning, so we’re starting off later than intended.’
‘I am sorry. Is she all right?’
‘Nerves, I would say. It may be two-thirty by the time we arrive.’
‘Drive carefully.’
Ella made her way to the kitchen. She felt cross; the dress was sticking too much to her, the brooch picking at her through the thinness of the silk. When she heard Roberta in the hallway, she pushed the kitchen door, hoping she would not come in.
Roberta checked the avenue for a car before making her way down the hall. She noticed Ella’s shoulders hunched as she stood looking out the window at the sink.
‘Are they not coming?’
Ella watched the old dog sitting whining, tied up by Iris before she left. ‘The dog is making a show of us,’ she said to nobody in particular and went out to untie it, pushing it away harshly when it jumped up on her dress, wagging its tail.
Roberta was sitting at the kitchen table when Ella came back in. ‘Is there something wrong?’
Ella took her in, noticing the new clothes, the hair brushed into a tidy bun and the drop earrings. ‘They are late.’
‘What time now?’
‘Two-thirty. I don’t want trouble.’
‘You won’t get any.’
Ella threw the last of her tea down the sink and rinsed out her cup. She was skirting past the table when Roberta spoke again. ‘Have you heard the rumour about Mary Murtagh?’
Ella stopped, the sweat pumping out of her now, squelching through the tight curls of her new perm. ‘So?’
Roberta hesitated, running her finger across the table-cloth. ‘So the American may be entitled to her claim on Roscarbury.’
Ella thumped her fist on the table. ‘She or anybody belonging to her will not have a claim on Roscarbury Hall. That is rightfully my son’s and that is the way it will stay.’
‘But if Deborah Kading is his daughter?’
‘We don’t know that. Talk is only talk. Mary Murtagh is long gone. There is no way of proving the gossip. Gossip holds no legal sway.’
‘I am glad.’
Ella, spit spilling out the corner of her mouth, sat down.
‘Debbie has passed away. I don’t know if you’ve heard.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘She had such little time.’
‘She did.’
They sat, the dog scratching in the corner the only interruption to their thoughts.
Roberta eyed Ella closely before she spoke. ‘Michael Hannigan left his fair share of pain.’
‘More trouble than he was worth; I only wish I’d known it back then.’ Ella reached for a spoon and twisted it around her hands.
Roberta picked at the tablecloth, like it was something she had to do. ‘Me too,’ she said, picking deeper.
They sat quietly opposite each other, the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and the chuntering of the hens on the back step the only sounds. Roberta got up and took the bottle of sherry from inside the tall spaghetti jar in her cupboard.
‘I told Muriel if she continued to spread gossip about Michael, I would go to a solicitor.’
‘You did?’
Roberta spun around. ‘Don’t I love Roscarbury as much as you?’
Ella shook her head, trying to dislodge the tears she felt bubbling up. ‘I know,’ she whispered.
The phone ringing in the hall prevented her saying more. As Ella rushed to answer it, Roberta poured a sherry and made her way to the library. She had settled into her chair at the window when Ella put her head around the door.
‘They have made better time than they thought. They are coming into the town. Five minutes at most,’ Ella said, her voice shaking.
Roberta did not answer immediately, concentrating instead on fixing the old blanket over her knees. ‘I will stay out of the way.’
Ella hesitated but did not answer, walking away slowly to take up position by the drawing-room window. She wanted to run to the toilet, but she knew if she did they might come and it would be terrible to have nobody to answer the door.
The sun was streaking across the gardens, dazzling around the old ash tree and making the water on the fountain sparkle. Her mouth was dry; a pain ran up
the back of her neck. She felt so sick she thought she might throw up, so she squeezed the back of the old velvet chair to distract herself. When she saw the big black car turn up the avenue, she thought she would pass out. She knew her face was as flared red as the dress and she cursed her stupidity at picking such a young person’s colour.
The car moved slowly, the driver wary of the potholes. She should have had Mick Hegarty fill in the bad one, midway between the gate and the entrance, but it had never occurred to her until now.
She leaned, but could not get a glimpse of the driver. The woman in the front looked heavy and appeared to be wearing a hat. Ella patted her hair and cleared her throat; her body was stiff with expectation, her head pounding with pain. So transfixed was she watching the avenue, she did not hear the drawing-room door push open.
Roberta walked up and stood beside her sister. She was not sure if Ella noticed. The car came to a halt at the front steps, but the driver reconsidered the position and reversed slightly, so that the steps were clear. Ella gasped as the car pulled back.
Slowly, Roberta reached out and caught her hand, squeezing it gently. Ella pressed her fingers into her sister’s frail skin. Roberta did not say it hurt, nor did she pull away.
They watched in silence, holding hands as James got out of the car, looked around with a broad smile on his face, and gave a low whistle.
‘So like his father,’ Ella said, her voice faltering.
‘Yes,’ Roberta answered, squeezing her sister’s hand tighter.
‘Michael would have liked that,’ Ella said, squeezing Roberta’s hand back. ‘Shall we go and meet him together?’ she added quietly.
Roberta did not need to answer, and they walked hand in hand to the front door to greet their guests.
COPYRIGHT
First published 2015
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
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This electronic edition published in 2015
ISBN: 978 1 84502 971 5 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 84502 952 4 in paperback format
Copyright © Ann O’Loughlin 2015
The right of Ann O’Loughlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay
The Ballroom Café Page 26