Connie took in the scene from the bedroom window, the calm that was Ludlow soothing her tired eyes, stroking her heart.
Every morning for the last two years, she had got up and done her stretching exercises, maintaining the routine of before in an effort to make sense of the now.
In her head, she told herself she must keep supple, toned, so she did not lose the ability to dance.
Every day as she limbered up, she longed to lose herself in the movement of dance and every day she froze, unable to step out, unable to let her grief give in to the music, unable to allow herself to be transported to another world.
How could she dance, indulge herself in the beauty of the communion of music and movement, when her heart was shrivelled with grief?
For two years, she half existed, staying in Amy’s house, unable to communicate the pain that consumed her, unable to speak of what happened, unable to find any reason to continue a normal life, unable to dance.
But she knew too, as she knew maintaining the warm-up routine was vital to her being able to take any dance step, so too to lose herself in dance would be the only way of journeying from this state of existence to living life again.
This morning she woke up with a firm resolve in her head, which she tried to keep strong until she had finished her stretching exercises.
Walking down the stairs, she felt the skip of movement ripple through her, so when she got to the study she felt ready. Slipping the switch on the CD player, she stood listening as the music permeated the room, surrounding her, teasing her to move, so that she felt a frisson of excitement that this time she would let the music lift her away to a place where nothing bad happened, to a place where she felt satisfied and content.
Tentatively she stretched, stepping out, letting the music lift her, letting her talent be her partner. She danced like an audience of one thousand watched her. She danced this audition to be included among the living. Her body tingling, her muscles straining to the limit, she moved across every corner of the room, the pain of dancing replacing momentarily the pain of her loss, the beat of the music and her steps bequeathing a freedom on her that felt good. Every effort in her being she put into the dance, the sweat jumping off her as she twirled across the floor, the music taking over her body, her spirits soaring as she flew almost like a bird, the music holding her aloft. Sweat ran down her face, but she worked harder and harder, almost out of breath when the music stopped. Slumping on the floor, the joy of flying evaporated, she was afraid now the dance was over reality would again consume her.
Exhausted but buzzing, she moved to the kitchen. She had been up since gone past five. Energised by the dancing, she set to work. Boiling kettles of hot water and using a thick disinfectant, she tackled the kitchen presses and fridge first, scrubbing away years of neglect, before throwing a cloth over the brush bristles to trap the cobwebs in the high corners of the ceiling. She scrubbed the sink until the stainless steel shone and wiped down the window glass with hot water and vinegar until it gleamed. Not sure what to do with the Aga, she cleaned the outside and rubbed a cloth on the inside of the ovens.
Draping a new oilcloth from the Rosdaniel hardware shop in tones of yellow and red across the table, she felt at last she was making this room her own. She was so busy she did not hear Michael drive up and park near the barn. When she opened the door, she saw the wide box he was carrying first.
“Eve said you might need a bit of help, so I brought you a few things, a few staples for the cupboard: tea, bread, milk, that sort of thing. Some things from the delicatessen.”
She did not know what to say, but Michael Conway did not wait.
“I will put this on the table,” he said, pushing gently past her.
“I did not order anything.”
“I know, but Eve, Mrs Brannigan, thought you might need a nudge in the right direction. You can’t just live on tea and biscuits.”
He placed the box down, pushing it in from the edge of the table, rubbing his hands together, nervous of her reaction.
Peering into the box, she saw a paper bag with slices of freshly cut ham, vine tomatoes, salami and fresh bread rolls. There was a box with two cream cakes and two packets of chocolate butter biscuits.
“She told me to pick savoury and sweet. If you don’t like anything I can bring it back, bar the ham of course, but who doesn’t like a slice of ham.”
He was prattling on, feeling uneasy. She giggled, reaching into the box to take out the paper bag, salty wet with ham.
“There is enough here for a party, Mr Conway.”
“I may have overestimated with twenty slices,” he said, jiggling his car keys in his trousers pocket.
“What do I owe you for this?”
“Nothing at all, see it as a welcome gift. About time, too, that somebody around these parts made you welcome.”
“Mrs Brannigan brought flowers.”
“Lilacs, her favourite.”
“Sit, stay a while.”
She moved to switch on the kettle, as he pulled out a chair to sit down. When he saw the small book on the table he reached over and picked it up.
“Eve wondered where she had left this.”
His hand trembled as he held the book.
“It was on a side table in the drawing room.”
He shook his head. “I offered to break in and search for it, but she said, knowing the bank and the type they employ to protect repossessed properties, they would have me charged and thrown in jail. I came up early one morning to pull off the hoarding and get into the house, but I was not early enough. I only managed to dislodge some of the wood nailed into the frame on the side window when I saw the security men come up the avenue.”
“What did you do?”
Michael Conway traced a pattern on the oilcloth with his finger. “God forgive me, I pretended to be surveying the damage, said I found the place like that.”
“Weren’t they suspicious to see you so early?”
“If they were, they kept it to themselves.”
He picked up the book, flicking through it, as Connie threw two tea bags in a teapot and got down the mugs.
“Eve should have asked me for the book. I am more than happy to return what is hers.”
“Ludlow Hall is hers. She loves it with all her heart.” He stopped, frowning, knowing he had said too much.
Connie, reaching into the box, selected the cream cakes, setting them on a plate beside the mugs.
“I inherited this place, Mr Conway. I am down the chain from the bank.”
He slopped milk into his tea, splashing spatters over the sides in his confusion.
“I did not mean it like that. I was just trying to explain how much the old place means to Eve. She adores Ludlow.”
“It must have been terrible for her, having to leave.”
He did not say anything. They sat quietly, the antique upright hall clock wound up the day before ticking loudly, biting into the silence.
Michael reached over to cut an end off one of the cream cakes.
“You know about the eviction?”
“Mrs Gorman might have mentioned something.”
“I am sure she did.”
Connie straightened on her chair.
“Mr Conway, I am not responsible for Mrs Brannigan’s eviction; neither was my husband. It was before our time.”
He sighed loudly.
“We all know that, it is just it is so hard for Eve, to see somebody else live here. You know the bastards who evicted her came three hours early? The night before, she stayed up most of the night, reading her little book in the drawing room and walking from room to room, saying goodbye. I offered to stay with her, but she was not having it. At five she fell asleep. Next thing, at seven, there was a loud banging on the door. She just about got her clothes on. When Eve went to the front door, they wanted her out straight away, would only let her take her coat from the stand in the hall. She took a tin box of buttons on the hall table and they even looked in it, to make
sure she was not taking anything of value. She was treated like dirt, start to finish.”
Connie picked up the book.
“The book, is it important to Mrs Brannigan?”
He fumbled with the handle of his mug.
“As far as I know it is,” he said, pushing back his chair, and standing up. “I had better get along. I was thinking I would tidy a few things around the lake. The path is very overgrown in places.”
“Thanks for keeping the gardens under control. I presume you had some arrangement with my husband.”
“He sent me $500 every Christmas for myself and another $300 towards upkeep of the equipment, like petrol for the mower and all that.”
“But you have not been paid in a while.”
“I kept working on the upkeep: it’s very hard to pull a garden like this around if it goes too far.”
“Thank you. Do you mind continuing on the same terms, if I catch up with the arrears owed?”
“I enjoy it, so I will,” he said.
“Would you like to give the book to Mrs Brannigan?”
“Best it comes from yourself, I don’t want Eve thinking I was sitting gossiping about her business.”
Connie put her hand on his arm. “I am very touched by the grocery delivery, Michael. I will personally deliver the book to Mrs Brannigan.”
“She asked those bastards could she go into the drawing room to look for it; they refused point-blank. When she asked why, they had the cheek to tell her everything in the house was the property of the bank. For all they knew, it was a valuable first edition that she was trying to hide from them. She told them the book was precious only to her, but still they wouldn’t have any of it.”
“I will give it back to her today.”
“Don’t let on you know any of this.” He made his way to the back door, turning around as he put his hand on the handle. “If you don’t mind me saying, you are a right fit for Ludlow. Give it time and it will all work out.”
He was out the door and crossing the yard to get his shovels and rake from the car before she had time to answer.
Waving, he walked past the window on the way to the lake, as she emptied the box, finally plugging in the fridge so she could store the butter, milk and ham.
Picking up the little book, where, over the years, poems and recipes had been handwritten, she decided to call on Eve straight away. Rushing off to get dressed, before she changed her mind, she stopped when she heard the ping of the shovel in the distance. The sharp scraping sound tearing across her heart, she only heard the whoosh of the loose earth, the thud as the earth landed where it should. She clung to the bannister, suspended between the past and the present.
His words hammering in her head.
Pain shot through her, like a knife through the butter Michael Conway had put in the box. Moments like these were as devastating as the first time, crueller maybe, because of their frequency. She stood and listened to Michael Conway working, the sound of his shovel travelling in the light breeze buffeting around the house.
Pushing herself to continue the climb up the stairs, she looked out the side window, to a swathe of yellow daffodils, the paddocks green-brown with moss. Forcing herself forward, she climbed to the landing.
When she got to the room, she pulled on her jeans and blouse and ran a comb through her hair before tying it in a ponytail. Grabbing her bag and car keys, she rushed downstairs, snapping up the book from the kitchen table on the way to the car.
Michael Conway, looking up from his work, saw her drive too fast down the avenue. He wondered had he said anything to upset the new owner of Ludlow Hall.
Eve was sewing inside the window, when she saw Connie’s car pull up. She waited to see if she was coming to her house or just availing herself of a parking spot near the town. When Connie opened the front gate, Eve jumped up, gathering stray threads into a ball, closing the door to her sewing room, plumping up cushions on the couch.
Connie’s knock was short and sharp.
“You are a day late for the Ludlow Ladies’ Society, but come in,” Eve said as she opened the door for her guest.
Connie, slightly embarrassed, edged into the front room.
“I found a book in the drawing room. I thought maybe you would like to have it, that it means something to you.”
Eve showed her visitor to the couch, as Connie handed her the book.
“I thought it was well gone, where was it?”
“Where you left it, I would imagine, in the drawing room. I put it back in the library, but after I talked to you the other day, I thought maybe you should have it.”
“It is very dear to me. I call it my Ludlow Bible. A dear friend gave it to me in my first few weeks at the Hall. All sorts of things I like are in it: poems, recipes, quotations. Did you have a look?”
“I flicked through. I saw the inscription.”
Eve lifted the cover, reading the personal note as if she was seeing it for the first time.
“So important to me. Thank you.”
“Michael Conway called this morning with a box of food.”
“You did not think it was too forward of us?”
“I think it very kind. I suppose I have been hiding away.”
Eve sat down on the couch beside Connie. “It is easy to hide out, but . . .”
“I want to hide out.”
“As long as you know you have friends.”
Connie took out her car keys. “I had better get along.”
Eve put her hand out, as if to stop her. “I wanted to ask you something. You can refuse and there’s no harm done.”
She paused, until she saw Connie relax back down on the seat.
“We are making these memory quilts for the Rosdaniel Festival. None of us has enough space at home for fabric storage or even to spread out the quilts. We are hoping we will win a prize and a chance to show our quilts at a special exhibition for the visit of the Obamas to Ireland.” She felt she was going on a bit, her throat tightening because she was nervous. “We wondered, as the Society used to meet at Ludlow, could you find any room for us? We are ten at most, but there are only a few of us taking on the quilts. We meet once a week, but near the deadline we might need access more often, if you don’t mind, of course.”
Connie was silent.
“Have I overstepped the mark?” Eve asked gently.
Connie shook her head. “Is this your way of keeping an eye on me?”
Eve twisted the ring with the ruby stone on her right hand. “Yes and no. We all know how difficult it is trying to move on, after losing a husband.”
Connie jumped up. “Mrs Brannigan, I know you mean well, but I am not prepared to discuss my grief.”
Eve put a hand out to Connie, but she brushed it away.
“You and the women can have a room at the Hall, just please don’t expect me to open up about anything else.”
Eve got to the front door, as Connie opened it.
“I am sorry, I forgot how raw grief is, even after time has passed. I have been a fool, I am sorry.”
“It is not your fault, Eve. I have too much grieving left to do. And I mean it about the room. Call up on Friday morning, you guys can have a look around.”
Eve nodded sheepishly, almost sorry she had suggested the idea. She watched Connie leave, the car shuddering as she wrestled with the gears.
Feeling shaky, Eve picked up the book. Turning it over in her hands, she noticed it did not close as it should, stuck after being left face-down on the drawing room side table for too long. All she had wanted that early morning was to pick it up, to bring it with her into the unknown. It would have given her so much comfort. She smiled to think of how angry Michael Conway had become when she told him, pacing up and down this sitting room, his eyes staring in anger.
Even if they had tried to sell the book, it was worth nothing to anybody: only the owner and giver. The memory of the day he handed it to her flooded back. In his shy, reticent manner, he put it unwrapped into her hand
s.
She liked that it was not wrapped: it made it more important, more a necessity of life than a gift easily accepted and discarded.
“You won’t have to scribble on scraps of paper any more.”
“How did you know that?”
“The time I asked you for the lemon drizzle recipe, you had it on the back of a Shaws bag.”
“Did I really?”
He shook his head, his smile broad and indulgent.
“I thought it would be handy to write down your favourite things, like that poem you were talking about the other day.”
It was only when he was gone that she saw the inscription.
From me to you.
With love
xx
From that moment, she knew Michael would always be a big part of her life, and she liked that.
Date: April 6, 2013
Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY
*****NEWSFLASH*****
Ludlow ladies,
We have the most exciting news!
Thanks to the extraordinary generosity of Ms Connie Carter, the new owner of Ludlow Hall, the Ludlow Ladies’ Society is to be allowed to return home.
Connie, who hails from the United States, has allowed the Ludlow Ladies’ Society access to Ludlow Hall. Wherever she decides to put us, it means we will have plenty of space to carry out the arduous work of completing our memory quilts. This means a great deal to the Ludlow Ladies’ Society, and we are most grateful to Ms Carter and to Eve Brannigan for organising it all.
The first meeting of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society in our new surroundings will be next Tuesday. We must have a good turnout, so we can thank Ms Carter in person.
It is fantastic Ms Carter has not only decided to keep the grounds of Ludlow Hall open for the community, but has reinstated the Ludlow Ladies’ Society in a place where we had so many happy years.
We are all very excited about the move. There is no excuse now not to put all our heads together and do a fine job of finishing our memory quilts.
The Ludlow Ladies Society Page 11