The Secrets of Roscarbury Hall

by Ann O'Loughlin

  ‘We know you were born on April 15, 1959 and adopted several days later by Agnes and Rob Kading, but it appears only after the baby they had intended to adopt died unexpectedly at birth. Mrs Kading was distraught and Sister Consuelo arranged for another baby to be brought to her.’

  Debbie put up her hand to tell him to stop. She could see Agnes making a scene, telling them how far she had travelled and how she was not leaving without a child. She had seen her do it often enough in Bowling Green when she did not get her own way, insist with her marbles-in-her-mouth voice, placing her bag primly on a counter, her body stiff with determination.

  ‘Will I continue?’

  Debbie nodded.

  ‘Sister Consuelo arranged for a baby who was born two days later to an unmarried mother to be taken instead for adoption. We believe your actual date of birth is April 17. The mother was told the baby died.’

  ‘My birthday isn’t even real.’ Debbie stood out onto the floor.

  He looked directly at Debbie. ‘You know Mary Murtagh was your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Debbie got up from the chair and straightened the painting on the wall. ‘I had better get the tables cleared or Ella will have something to say about it.’

  ‘I don’t think Ella is going to mind today,’ he said, watching Debbie as she over-stacked a tray. He made it to her just as the china cups slipped to one side, managing to catch a blue thistle-patterned cup in mid-flight. ‘Sit down,’ he said, guiding her back to her seat. ‘A baby that young would have needed a passport to leave the country. It is possible Agnes Kading pretended you were their natural child and had you registered at birth, putting herself and her husband down as the natural parents.’

  ‘Could they do that?’

  ‘Quite a few Americans did, those stationed or living in the UK; we will have to wait and see.’

  Debbie slumped into her chair. The pain in her chest prevented her bolting, so she sobbed, her tears gushing down her face, seeping into her silk scarf, making it look thin.

  ‘I will make some tea,’ Garda Moran said, and he went off in search of cups, as Debbie sat facing the window. The woman with the dog put it on a leash and headed towards the lake. No doubt the dog would soon begin to strain and sniff the air as the ducks swam to the centre of the lake to stay safe. Only last week a cocker spaniel had romped into the water and nabbed a duckling as all around it adult ducks squabbled ferociously. The sun was shining, highlighting the bench under the branches of the cherry blossom. Grey clouds waltzed across the sky; Debbie knew that soon the lake would be obliterated by sheets of rain.

  ‘I have grown too attached to the place,’ she said half aloud, so that Garda Moran stopped what he was doing and asked if she was all right. She did not answer. ‘This is the end of my journey,’ she said, as Garda Moran set a china cup and saucer and a small teapot for one in front of her. Debbie poured her tea and stirred in a sugar. ‘Ella said you were nice, and she is right.’

  Garda Moran coughed, to hide his embarrassment. ‘I had better get along.’

  She shook herself and stood up and extended her hand. ‘Will you promise me something?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Please find Ella’s son and tell him he has to come here.’

  Garda Moran smiled. ‘I don’t think there is anyone in Rathsorney who would want it any other way.’

  He left her and she listened to his heavy step on the stairs and how he stopped to have a quick word with Roberta before driving off. She watched the squad car bump along the avenue to the gate, sweeping to the left into the town.

  She was not sure how she felt: disappointed, for sure, but more angry that after kicking down a huge brick wall there was now an even bigger one in front of her. Mary Murtagh might have known Roscarbury Hall, walked along the avenue, stolen down to the old icehouse.

  She felt strangely empty and very, very tired. She got up and had begun to clear the tables when Roberta stepped into the room.

  ‘I can do that for you.’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘No, really, I want to.’

  Debbie put down her tray and took in the older woman. She was smiling, telling her to take a break. Debbie did as she was told, too numbed to ask why. She wanted to be alone, to wonder if Mary Murtagh liked jewellery at all, to shut her eyes and be in the dark.

  Twenty-Nine

  Ella tried to imagine the man, but that was impossible when she had not even known the child or the baby. She could only hope he would want to meet her. Almost afraid to think of him and what he might be, she turned to the jewellery box. She should be happy and yet she was so worried. What could be worse than to discover he was alive and have to put up with the pain of his rejection? Reaching down to the bottom layer, she scrabbled until she felt the light tissue holding the happy brooch.

  If he wanted to meet her, she would wear it. There never had been an occasion joyous enough to wear the last brooch her mother had received from her father.

  A glorious pink flower, the domed brooch was small in her hand. A pink rhinestone was at the centre, navettes of rhinestone radiating from it. There was no special occasion when her father presented it to her mother, which heightened the excitement. John O’Callaghan had surprised them all on a very ordinary day. His wife, Bernie, was busy in the kitchen, her hands covered in flour as she pummelled the brown bread before throwing it in the oven. Sweat formed along her temples and she pushed up her sleeves roughly when her husband walked in.

  ‘I am a bit behind; get yourself a cup of tea and a biscuit, to keep going,’ she snapped, without looking around.

  ‘I am all right,’ he said, and placed the small box beside her.

  She quizzed him about the contents and chided him for handing her any such thing when she was up to her oxters in flour, but he refused to back away, forcing her to wash her hands and towel them dry quickly, to open the box.

  Ella remembered the smile that transformed her mother’s face; the strain of her labours faded away as she took in the delicate pink flower.

  ‘It is the most beautiful of them all, you mad fool,’ she declared, reaching up, kissing her husband on the lips: a show of affection so unusual that Ella and Roberta stopped what they were doing and stared. Quizzed on the occasion being celebrated, John O’Callaghan simply answered ‘because she makes me so happy.’

  Known as the happy brooch after that, it shone on Bernie O’Callaghan’s lapel on those special occasions she decided were so imbued with happiness that they deserved such a signal.

  Ella kept the brooch wrapped in tissue, carefully storing it at the far corner at the bottom of the big silver box. Never daring to even consider wearing it, she promised herself now, if she were to meet her son it would surely be the happiest day, deserving of such a significant brooch.

  Ella sat and examined her reflection in the mirror. He would never know her as a pretty young woman. Her hair had been rich auburn once, like her mother’s. Her eyes, though still hazel, had lost their glint. She had weathered well, she thought, but what he would make of the old woman who had spent her life grieving for a child who was dead and for another who was not, she simply did not know.

  She paid extra attention to her powder, because she knew many of the women in the village would be watching for any clue she was waiting for definitive news.

  Pinning a small Christmas tree Weiss brooch to her cardigan, for no other reason than it might distract her customers and provide a point of conversation, she combed her hair, pulling it back from her face, pinning it up with a tortoiseshell comb that once belonged to Bernie O’Callaghan. Ella tweaked a few loose curls out, letting them fall down to frame her face.

  It could be days before she knew his name; Martin promised he would tell her his first name whenever he found out, no matter what. When she allowed her mind to wander, she was silly in her head imagining all sorts: thinking of walking across the parkland together, walking down the town, teaching grandchildren to bake, letting them run cars on flour mou
ntains. She shuddered in anticipated happiness at the thought, and then the worry came flooding over her, that maybe he would not want to know her and life ever after would be unbearable.

  Tidying up stray clothes on the way, she made her way out of the room. Walking into the café, she saw the tables had been cleared. The tables by the window were taken up by people she had never seen before.

  ‘You have been run off your feet, tidying up after the hordes,’ she called out, her head down, checking the till.

  When there was no answer, she went behind the screen, where Roberta was drying her hands with a tea towel.

  ‘There is a hand towel; you should not be using that,’ Ella snapped, her voice low and firm.

  Roberta folded the teacloth slowly. ‘I am sorry, I was doing my best.’

  Ella did not answer.

  Roberta fidgeted with her fingers. ‘Miss Kading got news. She was upset. I was helping her out.’

  Ella attempted to keep her composure, but the old anxiety was seeping through her. ‘I am sure she is grateful,’ she said, turning back to the counter quickly so that her sister would not see the tears in her eyes, memories of her husband and her daughter flooding her brain, making her unable to say anything else.

  Roberta slipped past her and out of the café as May Dorkin and Chuck Winters came in. May took up the last seat by the window and Chuck came to the counter.

  ‘We will have two teas and chocolate cake, Miss O’Callaghan, please.’

  He drummed the counter, as he waited.

  ‘Have you something on your mind, Mr Winters?’

  ‘I was wondering, Miss O’Callaghan, could you give me some advice?’

  ‘If I can, Mr Winters.’

  ‘I have asked Ms Dorkin to join me for tea. Do you think she would mind if I asked her for dinner some evening, the new restaurant in Ashford?’

  ‘Why are you asking me, Mr Winters?’

  He looked embarrassed, running his hand nervously along his beard. ‘I am sorry; I know you have a lot more important things on your mind.’

  Ella lowered her voice so she sounded kind. He leaned across the counter to hear her better. ‘Look at her, Mr Winters. Tell me, is that a woman happy to be asked to tea?’

  They both looked at May carefully fixing her blouse, a smile on her face, a nervousness about her as she clasped and unclasped her top button several times.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Isn’t that your answer?’

  *

  Debbie packed her bags and loaded her car before going to see Ella in the café.

  Ella, who had been arranging biscuits on a serving plate, stopped what she was doing. ‘You look well today.’

  ‘In my case, looks are definitely deceiving.’

  ‘Curse that goddamned disease. I wish to God in heaven it was me, not you.’

  Debbie put her arm around Ella’s shoulder and squeezed tight. ‘Never, with the prospect of meeting your son on the horizon.’

  ‘It is an unfair world, Debbie; I won’t have anyone tell me different. I can’t believe what happened to you and my own son.’

  ‘It’s done.’

  ‘But where does it leave you now?’

  ‘I want to go home; this journey is over.’ Debbie sat on the stool Ella normally used towards the end of the day when she was tired and had to count out the drawers of the till.

  ‘Ella, I’m so glad I met you.’

  Ella blubbered, reaching into her pocket for her handkerchief. ‘What have I done, Debbie? If it were not for you, I would not know what happened to my son.’

  Debbie squeezed her shoulders again. ‘I have a long drive ahead.’

  Ella shook herself free and, pocketing her hankie, straightened her dress. ‘Of course you do; that is enough of me, feeling sorry for myself.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ella, I’m tired.’ Debbie picked up a lemon biscuit and bit into it. ‘You have enough on your plate now. I’m genuinely happy for you, Ella.’

  ‘I know you are, darling, but we don’t know yet if my son will want anything to do with me.’

  ‘He would be mad not to,’ she said, and Ella saw her eyes were wet with tears.

  ‘I just wish you were not so hasty.’

  ‘It can’t be any other way,’ Debbie said as she reached and took Ella’s hand.

  ‘Did you meet Roberta?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Don’t let it fester any longer; I think the two of you are quite lonely.’

  Ella walked to the sink and began to sluice it out with water. ‘There is nothing wrong with being alone; I’m alone, not lonely.’

  Debbie picked up her car keys. ‘Will you come down to wave me off?’

  Ella nodded, unable, at that moment, to speak. Slowly, she patted her hands dry before linking her arm tightly with Debbie’s as far as the car.

  ‘You have everything? The brooch?’

  Debbie nodded, throwing her handbag in the front seat. She saw Roberta on the old stone seat and ambled over to her.

  Roberta quickly stuffed her hip flask into her oversized handbag.

  ‘I’m leaving. I wanted to say thank you for this morning, and goodbye.’

  ‘You are welcome. Have a safe trip,’ Roberta said, her hand up to shield the sun from her eyes.

  Debbie had already turned on the path when Roberta added: ‘I am sorry it did not work out for you.’

  Debbie mumbled thanks and continued to where Ella was leaning against the car bonnet.

  ‘You don’t have to go.’

  ‘I have to.’

  Debbie jumped behind the wheel, afraid if she hugged Ella she would not want to leave. She turned the car, revving it too much, when Ella knocked on the window.

  ‘I am not good at words, Debbie. You know how much I care about you.’

  Debbie reached out her hand and Ella gripped it tight, before letting her go.

  Ella stood and watched as the small red car made its way down the avenue, stopping when a group of women waved Debbie down. The car swerved past the crater pothole before rounding the rhododendron, to turn out onto the road to Rathsorney. She could not explain it fully, but Ella felt a terrible loneliness creep up through her. She did not hear Roberta approach from behind. Roberta pushed a note to her sister.

  Close the place now. Haven’t you had your moment of glory? R.

  Ella scrunched the note in a tight fist.

  ‘You would like that, wouldn’t you? The Ballroom Café stays open,’ she snapped, whipping back into the house, making for the stairs before the next wave of customers came bursting in. Iris was in the door behind her.

  ‘That wasn’t Debbie I saw leaving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she coming back?’

  ‘No,’ Ella said, cutting slices of chocolate cake too thin so they broke as she transferred them to a serving plate.

  ‘So how are we going to manage?’

  Ella put down her knife. ‘I have no idea, Iris, simply no idea.’

  ‘You are in a bad way, Ella.’

  ‘I will miss her. She was taken from her mother and sent to America, and look at the life she had. What if my son has been unhappy, or with people who could not love him?’

  Iris pushed Ella in behind the screen. ‘I will take over; go rest.’

  Ella pulled her hands down her face. ‘Don’t you see there is no rest until I meet him, and even then those lost years will haunt me?’

  ‘Will we close up for the day? There are only a few left.’

  ‘Everybody will guess, then, that I am one of the women involved.’

  Iris put up her two hands in exasperation. ‘Sure, doesn’t everybody know that anyway? You sit there and I will put the signs up at the gate.’

  Ella sat on the small stool they usually used to reach the high shelf where she kept the napkins. Her head was swimming with worry for her son, and fear that she would never be able to meet him. Clasping and uncl
asping her hands, she listened to the low hum of conversation in the café, afraid one of the local customers would come to the counter.

  She was in a desperate state; she knew Iris had seen the signs. She wanted to cry, but she could not; she wanted to scream, and she did, inside her head, her hands clasping her fingers tighter, until the realisation of pain made the scream go away. She wanted to tidy up, but she could not move from the stool; her mind and body were paralysed in the time when her baby was taken from her. How could she have ever believed he was dead? She surely should have known; she had carried him for nine months, talked to him every day.

  When she heard somebody go behind the counter, she presumed it was Iris. She ignored the light tapping on the screen.

  ‘Ella, are you there?’

  She jumped when she heard his voice, flustered, wanting to answer but not wanting him to see her in this state.

  ‘Ella?’

  She stood paralysed, unable to move, unable to utter a word. She wanted him to go away, for Iris to return so she could put talk on him. The screen was slowly inched back and Fergus Brown pushed his head through.

  ‘Ella, are you all right?’

  He stepped into the small area around the sink as she tried to wipe her face and take deep breaths to calm down. Placing his arms around her, he spoke in soft tones, as a parent would to hush a distressed baby.

  ‘I heard the news. I had to come.’

  She did not answer but placed her head on his chest and let him stroke her hair.

  They stood like that for a while, until Iris came back into the café and began the final clear-up.

  ‘Will we go for a drive?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Go, a change of scenery will do you good,’ Iris called out from where she was counting the money at the till.

  She pretended not to take too much notice of Ella and Fergus. Ella pulled away and slipped from behind the counter to get ready in her bedroom. She slicked on some pink raspberry lipstick and picked her soft purple coat with the black handbag and shoes. She was about to go out the door when she saw her jewellery box on the dressing table.

  Reaching in, she took out the Weiss triangular-shaped rhinestone pin. A simple clear-stoned triangle, her mother said it was pure in its beauty and should only be worn on extra-special occasions. ‘A mother does not have time for such occasions,’ she announced, and the brooch was confined to the little box it came in. Ella pinned it to her lapel. It flashed, reflecting a rainbow of colours when she moved, making her look and feel peacock-elegant.