‘I would like you to accept this gift,’ he said.
Flustered, she did not know where to look. ‘There was no need to bring a present.’
He reached out, holding it so she could see the delicate black ribbon, tied in a perfect bow. Slowly, she stretched out her hand and accepted the package.
‘Go on, open it.’
‘It seems a pity to upset this beautiful wrapping.’
‘I think you’ll like it.’
Delicately, she picked at the sellotaped sides, managing to release the little box without tearing the main part of the wrapping. Examining the brooch, Ella felt again the flutter of delight and panic when she saw the blue, crescent-moon-shaped pin.
‘I thought it would be nice to pick up one of the brooches at Weiss for you,’ he said. ‘Please, I would love to see you wear it.’
She self-consciously pinned it to her jacket, sure that others were watching her.
‘Just lovely,’ he said.
Ella straightened before her dressing-table mirror, pinning the brooch to her cardigan. It shimmered like it had done at the Shelbourne and she felt a rush of giddiness.
There was a moment as he sat smiling at her when she indulged in a hope for the future. When he made to get up, she was going to follow.
‘Please stay where you are. It’s Connie, my wife.’
Confused, Ella slipped back into the chair at an awkward angle so that when the other woman put out her hand she could only manage a feeble handshake.
‘I just love the way you write. You have a gift. Stephen here loves getting your letters. We show them to all our friends.’
Ella could hear the piercing pitch of her voice and see the sugary smile. Her words hit her like missiles.
Betrayal swept around her: to think that her words were babbled over and commented on by people she did not know. That her letters were passed around was too painful to bear. Even now, all these years later, she felt her breath catch at the memory. She tugged the brooch off.
She had stood up and excused herself in the Shelbourne, and the Americans stood back, thinking she was going to the bathroom.
At reception, she asked for a sheet of paper and penned a short note, explaining she could not accept a gift from a married man. Her mouth was dry, her back wet with perspiration, as she asked for the note and the brooch in its box to be delivered to Mr Kenny and his party. Hurrying to the railway station, she realised she had been a fool and sat to wait for two hours for her train home. Only when the train had pulled away from the city and she was in a compartment on her own did she allow tears to bubble up.
When a package was delivered to Roscarbury Hall a few days later, Ella knew what it was. A letter accompanied it.
Shelbourne Hotel,
Dublin
3/6/1961
Dear Miss O’Callaghan,
I am so dreadfully sorry for having given you the wrong impression and I ask your forgiveness for my crass stupidity.
Please take this brooch, as a token of my friendship and esteem. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me and that we may continue to correspond.
Yours sincerely,
Stephen
Ella never replied to the letter.
Fifteen
Debbie rounded the rhododendron to see the house sombre, asleep and grand in the morning light. The birds were shrill in full chorus and a fox flitted past the fountain. There was no hint of anybody inside being awake. Treading lightly, she crossed the gravel courtyard by the fountain, the stones crunching under her step. Up close, she could see the stonework on the house needed pointing and the paint on the windows was falling off in wafer-thin slices.
She mooched into the back yard. In the walled garden, some beds were tidy and had been recently tended, but others were still floundering under a blanket of weeds. She did not see the person wrapped in a wool coat sitting on a wooden bench near the pear trees at the high stone wall.
Unable to sleep, Roberta had put on her warm coat and hat and set off for the kitchen garden, where she sat holding her hip flask by her side. She liked the early mornings, when the blackbirds called out loud and the robins hovered nearby, hoping for crumbs. She had a slice of bread in her pocket. As she sat and worried, her fingers scrunched and broke up the bread until it was time to throw the crumbs out, near the terracotta pots.
Debbie watched as a flutter of small birds descended on the shower of crumbs, picking, jumping and squabbling over the tiniest specks.
Roberta saw her stroll along the shingle path, engrossed in the layout of the beds. Stuffing her hip flask into her handbag, she stood up.
‘Hello. You couldn’t sleep either.’
‘Did I wake you, when I left the house?’
‘Will you walk with me to the pond?’ Roberta said, casting a glance at the kitchen window, where soon Ella would be getting her cake mix ready for the oven.
Debbie hesitated.
‘I don’t bite, Miss Kading. It is lovely by the pond in the early morning, though the ducks do make a racket. They have got quite greedy because the local children throw them bread.’
Roberta led the way across the field, heavy with dew, to a bench at the side of the eucalyptus grove. She patted the seat beside her. ‘Sit, please, Miss Kading.’
Debbie began to shiver with the cold.
‘I know why you are in Ireland. I imagine the whole country does, but please tell me why you are so taken by Roscarbury Hall?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think you are going to gain?’
‘I don’t mean to gain anything.’ Debbie jumped up. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to shower and get the café ready.’
‘Roscarbury Hall is not for sale and it is never going to be for sale.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Roberta stood beside Debbie. ‘You might think you are all pals with Ella, but not one blade of grass, not one china cup will be yours; I will make sure of that. You think you can ingratiate yourself into my sister’s affections. I am telling you, I am watching you and I will not let that happen.’
Debbie turned and walked away, leaving Roberta to shout that it was time she booked a flight.
Ella, on the way to the kitchen, feigned surprise when Debbie pushed in the front door.
‘You should not be going out so early with so little on. You look frozen; you will catch your death.’
Debbie made to go up the stairs when Ella called after her.
‘Next time, don’t be so polite and tell that sister of mine where to go.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Don’t I know my own sister? And I have a good pair of eyes in my head.’
‘For somebody who hasn’t talked to you in so long, she is so protective.’
Ella guffawed, throwing her eyes upwards as she turned to the kitchen. ‘More protective of her interests in Roscarbury, more like,’ she grumbled.
*
Muriel Hearty waved the newspaper frantically as she scurried up the avenue.
‘She is in a dither. Let’s see what gossip has tickled her this morning,’ Ella said, polishing the tables.
Iris, who was about to wash her mug, poured another cup of coffee. ‘I might stick around for this,’ she said, settling into a table near the counter.
Muriel Hearty burst in to the room, her perfume so strong it made Ella and Iris rub their noses. ‘Is Debbie here? She has got to see this.’
‘Is there something wrong?’
Muriel rustled the paper noisily. ‘Those nuns have done it now; they only had two sets of books going all along, conning every poor thing looking for information, including Debbie.’
Iris grabbed the newspaper and began to read out sections.
‘A full inquiry has been ordered after it emerged the Order of the Divine Sisters of Ballygally ran two sets of record books. Every person who called attempting to trace a birth mother was told that there was no record of the birth. It also emerg
ed that every adopted child who wanted to have contact with the birth mother was told the mother did not want anything to do with them. The same applied to birth mothers looking for their children. Sources said it is likely the investigation will be extended to other convents in the coming weeks.’ Iris crumpled the paper onto her lap. ‘I don’t want to read any more.’
Ella sat down, her head in her hands. ‘It sucks the energy out of you, for sure,’ she said.
‘We have got to tell Debbie. It might mean she can trace her mother. Can we sit together and have a coffee?’ Muriel said, flopping down beside Ella.
Without waiting to be asked, Iris poured three cups of steaming coffee and brought them to the table.
‘Where is she anyway?’ Muriel asked.
‘What does it matter? She is a Trojan worker when she needs to be,’ Ella said firmly.
Muriel seemed disappointed that she could not impart the news directly.
‘I will go up in a while and tell her; let her read the paper in peace.’
‘Whatever you say, Ella; it is your house,’ Muriel said, stirring her coffee so fast some splashed over the side. ‘I am sure Roberta isn’t happy at all about the American staying here.’
‘Is she ever happy, Muriel? Where are all the other ladies? Don’t tell me they have given up on the Ballroom Café.’
Muriel laughed nervously. ‘I am afraid I skipped Mass, I was so excited.’
‘There is nothing wrong with that,’ Ella said, rising to greet ten other women who had begun to block up the hall. Some had left directly after communion, hoping to get the tables in the centre of the floor, because there you could join in all the conversations. Only strangers to the Ballroom Café rushed to take up the window seats, giving a view priority over gossip.
When Debbie walked into the room soon after the first gaggle of women placed their orders, there was a hush as each woman sat back and smiled at her. Muriel Hearty made to stand up, but Ella pushed her down gently on her chair.
‘Debbie, love, there has been a bit of a development. It might mean you get to find out who your mum is after all.’
Debbie saw the happy, expectant faces of the women and she laughed. ‘I feel like I’ve won the Lotto. Is someone going to tell me?’
Iris handed her the newspaper. Debbie sat down and began to read. Anger swept up through her. Jumping up, she scrunched the newspaper and let it fall to the ground, like a discarded chocolate wrapper. Tears of frustration sprayed out. ‘When is it ever going to end?’ she snapped, before making a dash for the door.
A woman, her arms outstretched, made to stand in her way, but Debbie pushed past.
‘Well, I never have seen the likes; talk of ungrateful,’ Muriel muttered, but the woman beside her snarled at her to hush.
Ella stepped into the centre of the café. ‘Ladies, I am so awfully sorry. This is all so intense and emotional for Debbie; none of us knows what she has been through. Why doesn’t everybody have a free cuppa on the house,’ she said, motioning Iris to take over.
‘I’ve had my fill of hot drinks; no thank you,’ Muriel told Iris when she approached, a coffee pot in one hand and a teapot in the other.
*
Debbie stumbled along the gravel path past the pond. The warm wind sprayed the pink petals of the cherry blossom across her; the sun pushed its rays through the trees. Trudging slowly along, she could feel the anger slip away, leaving a loneliness weary in her bones.
She sat on a wooden bench under the cherry blossom; the branches whispered overhead and watery-pink petals skated past her, some attaching to her top. Clouds leaned on the trees and it began to rain on far-off hills. A rabbit ran for home; the crows flew low.
She saw Ella skirt past the fountain, the eucalyptus grove and the old oak tree. When she was within spitting distance, Ella called out her name softly and asked to join her.
‘I see you have found Carrie’s bench.’
Debbie made to stand up, but Ella pressed her down with her hand.
‘It is nice to see it being used. Usually it is a lonely old bench looking across at a sad, grey house.’
Ella sat down with a sigh. Shoulders almost touching, they sat looking across the sweep of land to the far-off mountains. A blackbird sang out loud above them. At the pond, one duckling was pecking another fiercely on the back.
‘I hope the rain holds off or we will get drowned,’ Ella said, flicking petals off her cardigan.
‘There was no need to follow me.’
‘I couldn’t see you upset.’
Debbie jumped up and began to kick small tufts of grass. ‘I just don’t understand why it has to be so complicated. I never intended to cause all this trouble.’
‘I know that, but we can’t always pick the set of circumstances we live in; we just have to deal with it.’
‘Like you and your sister.’
‘In a way.’ Ella stood up, flapping her hands across her clothes to dislodge the petals.
‘You don’t like them?’
‘I planted this tree in memory of Carrie and I find I can never come here. There is no comfort in the petals as soft as a baby’s touch, the beautiful flowers that remind me of her innocent smiles. There is no comfort in seeing the way the wind can ravage the beauty of the tree, like the sea destroyed my daughter. I never knew when I planted it, it would cause me so much pain.’
‘Can’t you knock it down?’
Ella stamped her feet and took a deep breath. ‘That is the greatest pain: I cannot bear to think of it not being here. I can’t bear not to be reminded.’
‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago, but the pain is as hot as ever.’
‘What happened to Carrie?’
Ella looked alarmed. In all the years, nobody had asked her that question. Nobody mentioned Carrie: it was like she never existed; the daughter she had brought into the world and brought home was treated as a child nobody ever knew. She felt Debbie’s arms come around her and she moved in and let herself collapse into her, sobs wrenching through her, snorts of pain breaking from her across the grass. Pushing her head up, she said she was a show, but Debbie hushed her.
‘I will be all right in a while. It just comes over me.’
Sitting up, she clasped her hands together on her tweed skirt.
‘Carrie drowned at the harbour; a gust of wind blew the pram into the water. An accident. She was out for a walk with my sister and my husband.’
Debbie reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘You don’t need to say any more.’
Ella sighed loudly. ‘I don’t think I can.’
Sheets of grey rain advanced on them.
‘We’d better hurry back or we will get soaked.’
They got up and walked at a smart pace across the grass. When they got to the fountain, Ella faltered.
‘I am going to my room for a while, just to get myself together. Why don’t you do the same? Most of the women are gone anyway.’
‘I think I should go back and apologise for my outburst.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Ella said, as she made for the back stairs. She waited until she got inside her bedroom to buckle like an old soft toy discarded on the floor.
Sixteen
Mother Assumpta stirred an extra sugar into her tea. After the visit of the Order administrator and solicitor, she needed something an awful lot stronger, but extra sugar would have to do. She had been told very sharply to sort this mess out, and she had no idea how she was going to do it. Every day brought new and ludicrous rumours. She knew she had to take measures to quell the rising hysteria that had attracted so much comment. Consuelo, the last time she interviewed her, was both aggressive and belligerent.
Assumpta cursed the competitive drive in her, which had seen her push for this position against more senior members of the community. She was paying the price for her past naked display of raw ambition, for sure. To think she turned down a transfer to the Italian house three years ago because it did not
fit in with her long-term goal. Curse her stupidity, Assumpta thought, because it had landed her in this very hot water.
The civil servant leading the inquiry was unhelpful and even turned down an offer for tea in the drawing room. The administrator’s final words as she made her way through the hallway were ringing in her ears still.
‘Assumpta, you have let this get way out of hand. You need to come up with something fast, to limit the damage being done to our sisters all over the world as a result of this nonsense. There are rumblings in the Bishop’s Palace: be warned.’
A slight tap on the door and she rose to ready herself, even though she had not even touched her tea.
‘The car is here, Mother.’
‘Thank you, Marguerite. Tell the others to keep a low profile while I am away.’
Mother Assumpta buttoned up her raincoat and, carrying a small handbag, she slowly made her way down the curve of stone steps to Gerry O’Hare’s car.
‘It is a nice day for an outing, Mother,’ he said, and she nodded, smiling that Gerry O’Hare should think this trip was one of leisure. In her handbag was the letter she had got in yesterday’s afternoon post. She tried not to dwell on the contents, but she knew it was very troubling.
Sea Road,
Malahide,
Co. Dublin
Dear Mother Assumpta,
My name is Frances Rees, née Murtagh, from Bridge Street, Rathsorney. My sister was Mary Murtagh of the same address who gave birth to a baby on April 15, 1959 at Wicklow General Hospital.
I write to you on a matter of serious concern. My sister was told her baby had died and she never recovered from that loss. However, she insisted the baby did not die but was stolen from her. She died in a mental institution, almost twelve months to the day after the birth. She always insisted her baby had been taken from her, and now that I hear Deborah Kading on the radio, I am wondering was she in fact correct. We were never told where the baby was buried; Sister Consuelo said she would take care of everything.
The Secrets of Roscarbury Hall Page 11