Tray upon tray of food was placed outside her room door, but Ella kicked each one across the landing, until the third day, when Dr Haslett was called. She remained doped up to the eyeballs for three more weeks, until one misty morning she got up and dressed. Gathering up the little cardigans, bootees and jumpers she had knitted, she buried them in a shallow grave at the far side of the lake.
Ella wanted to sneak in the back, but Muriel, holding court at the outside tables, waved enthusiastically and shouted at her to come over. Ella, one hand still on her pocket, shook a smile onto her face. The animated conversation at the table stopped as she approached.
‘We are dying to know. When is he coming?’
Ella fidgeted with the stitching of the pocket, pulling at the threads. ‘Soon, I think.’
Muriel leaned towards her. ‘And?’
‘That’s it. I can’t talk about it, Muriel. Surely you understand.’
The other ladies looked at each other in disappointment; one or two went back to eating their cake.
‘Muriel, thank you for looking after the café. Could I draw on your generosity for another little while? I need to go upstairs and catch my breath.’
A little put out that there was so little forthcoming on the letter, Muriel nodded, adding she needed to get back to the post office before lunch.
‘I just need a few minutes to put on my face,’ Ella said as she made for the front door and stairs. When she passed the café, she noticed it was full and she was annoyed that Muriel was not watching her till as well as she would her own in the post office. She would have to hurry and she felt agitated.
Flopping down, she saw Roberta making her way around the back of the house and she decided she would not even think about why her sister wanted to talk to her. Sliding the letter from its envelope, she pressed it down flat on the dressing table with her hands. It was a printout from a computer with a handwritten part at the bottom. She read it again.
Riverside Drive,
Manhattan,
May 14, 2008
Dear Ella,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, but Ms. O’Callaghan does seem too formal. I must say I am thrilled at your letter to me and so very sorry at the circumstances that saw us separated after birth. I grew up in a very loving home, and for my parents, Jim and Stephanie, this is a very traumatic time. They had no idea your child was illegally taken from you and are appalled at the situation. They were told you had died; often at key moments, such as my birthday, we would remember you, offering a prayer. My mother told me the star that twinkled the brightest in the sky was my mom from Ireland. In a strange way, it helped me as I got older, because I did not harbor any secret hopes of uniting, realizing I was a very lucky boy to be with parents who loved me so.
I know this may be difficult for you to read, but I state it so that you know: while for you there is a terrible void that cannot be filled, for me there are memories of a very happy childhood and parents who now support me in what I propose to you.
I would very much like to meet you and to help you fill in the gaps of my childhood. My father is frail, but my mother would dearly love to make the trip to Ireland with me. Stephanie would very much like to meet you and asks your permission to do so.
I have got to say, for my part I am very nervous and would appreciate Stephanie’s support. Let me know what you think.
I am a lawyer here and have done pretty well in life. We are thinking of coming over in June. Would that suit? I am afraid work commitments mean I cannot come any earlier. Anyway, we can write, talk and get to know each other in the intervening time. Are there any cousins I can meet? Aunts and uncles too? I have never been to Ireland, though in recent years I often thought of making the trip. I wish now I had.
My mother says to include my photograph; I fear I may not live up to your expectations. Can you please send me a photograph, if you have one of yourself and of Roscarbury?
In a handwritten note he had put:
Ella, I can’t imagine the pain you have been through and I hope now I can bring some sunshine into your life. I look forward to meeting with you and spending time together.
Your loving son, James.
She slipped her finger across the handwritten part. He used a fountain pen; she liked that: it denoted a man of good education and style. The paper, too, was thick and the envelope heavy. The photo was a small head and shoulders shot, taken on graduation. He was smiling and her heart skipped, to think he looked so like his father. He had the same whip of the head and his hair was Michael’s dark hair. She was not sure she could see herself in him, but maybe the wide, honest eyes.
A volley of goodbyes downstairs made her jump and she realised she had spent too long. Carefully, she propped the photograph against the mirror. Muriel could wait another few minutes. The occasion of her son writing required that she wear a brooch.
The daisy brooch: white cabochon-stone leaves, a centre of pink-red crystals, and a long curving stem, as if it had just been plucked in the field. Bernie O’Callaghan thought it too common and never wore it. Every time Ella looked at it, she was back in the field, lying in the grass, surrounded by cowslips and daisies, watching the clouds hurry past. It was a symbol of a carefree time; she felt the giddiness of the frothy clouds against the bright-blue sky and the sun shining on her, melting away decades of fatigue. Pinning it to her cardigan, she fancied she looked years younger.
Muriel was busy washing up when Ella came back into the café.
‘I am sorry for keeping you so long, Muriel.’
‘Well, is it good news?’ Muriel yanked at the sink plug.
‘My son is a big-shot lawyer and he wants to meet me.’
Ella stopped, her voice too watery with tears to say more. Without even drying her hands, Muriel went to her and hugged her so hard Ella had to wriggle free.
‘I am so happy for you, Ella; you have no idea.’
Thirty-Four
Michael deserves to be remembered right to his son. He wanted that. Please go to the bother of reading his letter: Act One, Hamlet, top shelf in the library. R.
Ella walked straight to the row of books in the library and took down Hamlet, shaking it until the letter plopped out. How dare her husband write to somebody other than her? What right did Michael Hannigan have to be remembered kindly? She stuffed the letter in her front patch pocket to be read later.
She slipped a note onto Roberta’s library chair.
What is in the past can stay there. Michael Hannigan has no rights now: he is dead. I will not have you spoil the one moment of happiness I have left in the world. E.
In the café, she fingered Michael Hannigan’s letter. If she got time later on, she might throw her eyes over it, though she would not let on to her sister.
‘I have never seen one linger so long over a cup of tea,’ Ella muttered.
Ella took the stranger in. Hunched, her elbows on the table, she was looking intently out the window. A paisley scarf slipped down her front, but she hardly noticed.
‘She might just be taking time out,’ Fergus whispered as he wandered off to clear a few of the far tables.
Muriel Hearty and a small group of women in the centre tables spoke quietly together, before Muriel beckoned to Ella to join them.
‘Have you heard from Debbie?’
‘I talked to her on the phone last night. She is being well looked after; I can’t say more than that. It is just a waiting game now.’
‘She should have stayed; we would all have pitched in.’
‘She has her aunt and uncle and friends.’
‘But we went through something together; we would not have minded looking after her.’
The other women murmured in agreement.
‘That’s silly talk and well you know it. She is getting the best specialist care in that hospice. Good intentions can never match that.’
Muriel pulled Ella closer. ‘Who’s your wan at the window?’
‘No idea.’
>
‘Well, she won’t boost the café profits,’ Muriel tootled, and the other women giggled. They all got up at the same time, noisily scraping their chairs along the wooden floors. ‘There is bingo in the hall tonight, Ella. You should come along. Bring Fergus too.’
Ella did not answer but got a tray and began to clear the table. She already had one tray full and was working on the second when the woman at the window rose from her seat and went to the till to pay.
‘I will be with you in a minute,’ Ella said, grumbling to herself that she should choose this moment to pay for her cup of tea. ‘Was everything all right for you?’ she asked, putting her hand out for the money.
‘Why wouldn’t it? Sure, you can’t go wrong with a cup of tea.’
Ella laughed. ‘I guess you are right.’
‘Are you Miss O’Callaghan, the owner?’
‘Yes, Ella: Ella O’Callaghan.’
‘You won’t remember me. I am Fran Murtagh.’
‘Fran Murtagh?’
‘Mary Murtagh’s sister. We used to live beside the bridge in Rathsorney, at one time. I am Frances Rees now.’
Ella looked at the tall, well-dressed woman in front of her. She noted she was wearing an expensive raincoat and that her handbag was leather. Ella undid her apron and walked with the woman back to the table by the window. ‘We didn’t know any of the Murtaghs were still in the country, or have you travelled from afar?’
‘I have lived in Malahide, Dublin, all my life. That is where my family moved after Rathsorney.’
‘I see.’
‘I was hoping you had a forwarding number or address for Deborah Kading.’
‘You know the situation?’
‘Yes, that is why I am here. I wrote to the convent seeking help; they did not bother to reply. Unfortunately it appears I am now too late; Deborah has already left the country.’
‘And Mary?’
‘My sister died of a broken heart in a mental institution, because nobody would believe her insistence that her child had been stolen from her. She was told the baby died, but she never believed it. I think it is only a matter of weeks before she is proved right, but …’
‘It will be too late for Debbie.’
‘Exactly.’
‘How is Deborah?’
‘Very weak; some days are better than others. She is in a lot of pain, doped up to the eyeballs, so I have to talk to her aunt Nancy mostly.’
Frances shifted in her chair, to move closer to Ella. ‘I thought I should tell her she was welcome to our family, that her mother had always wanted her. Was she happy with the Kadings?’
‘As far as I know, though she lost her mother when she was very young.’ Ella looked away, not wishing to say anything further.
Fran Rees let a tear slip down her cheek and she shook her head, like a horse hoping to dislodge a fly. ‘Those nuns have a lot to answer for. I wrote to the convent after I heard Deborah on the radio and got no reply. Any time I rang, I was told nobody could help. It was only when I knocked on the convent door and insisted I would go to the press that Assumpta met me.’
‘What did she say?’
Fran looked out the window. The sea far away was glistening like a starry night. A bluster of a breeze was agitating the trees in the far wood and the rhododendron was swaying, throwing its old flowers away. A group of girls were messing as they walked up the driveway, pushing each other into the rhododendron bushes.
‘She told me Deborah had gone and everything else was in the hands of the inquiry and gardaí and she could not possibly comment.’
‘Sounds like marbles-in-the-mouth Mother Assumpta, all right.’
‘Deborah was told Mary Murtagh was her mother?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘I can fly out. Bring photographs of Mary.’
Ella felt the tears rise up. ‘You would do that?’
Fran Rees twiddled with the cup and saucer Fergus had quietly slipped in beside her. ‘I owe it to my sister, Miss O’Callaghan. I was a few years older than her. When she spoke of keeping her baby, I never let on that I knew my father would not in a million years let it happen. I let Mary plan, knitting matinee coats in several colours and crocheting little bootees. I suppose I was too caught up in my own life; I was planning to marry Richard then. When she had the baby, she was told it had died; I did not say anything.’
She stopped to gulp a mouthful of tea.
‘I was brought up to believe my parents knew best. When they put her in the mental hospital, I never thought she would be there so long. Every time I visited her, which to my shame was only at Christmas and Easter, she begged me to find her child. Even though I had my suspicions my father probably had the child adopted and it was more than likely alive, I never said that to Mary. I wronged her, don’t you see? I am now trying to right that wrong.’
Ella reached over and patted Fran’s hand. ‘You were young. Looking back and regretting is always the easy part.’
‘Do you think it would mean something to her now?’
Ella squeezed Fran’s hand. ‘I know it will mean everything. Book the flight straight away.’ She reached into her pocket, pulled out a notebook and jotted down Debbie’s address and phone number. ‘Take it, and let me know how you get on.’
The other woman could not muster any words but smiled her appreciation as Ella, hearing the young girls come up the stairs, quickly disappeared behind the counter.
Thirty-Five
Marian Hospice, Ohio, April 2008
‘She’s my aunt, Mary’s sister?’
Nancy nodded, tears brimming up. ‘You don’t have to see her if you don’t want, darling.’
Debbie tapped Nancy on the wrist. ‘Don’t be silly, of couse I want to meet her. How did she find out where I was?’
‘Ella O’Callaghan. She just walked into the café.’
That had been three days ago, when Debbie could still chat. Now every sentence was an effort and she wondered if her mother’s sister would make it on time.
She asked Nancy to pat a bit of powder on her face, and pink lipstick, because for some reason even though she was dying she wanted to look good meeting this woman for the first time.
‘It’s time; I’ll see if she’s arrived,’ Nancy said, making for the door, but stopping halfway. ‘Are you sure you’re up for this, Debs?’
Debbie smiled. ‘Go, Nance, please. Don’t worry.’
Frances Rees nervously waited in the reception area and wondered how everyone could be so cheerful in a place where dying was the business. It had been an easy decision to come here, and when she had rung ahead, Nancy Slowcum cautiously welcomed the plan.
‘She is near the end. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘I have some photos of her mother. I don’t want to intrude, but I thought it might help.’
Nervously holding a package of family photographs, Frances wondered if she had been mad to declare her family interest in this woman: Mary’s daughter, her niece, dying in this place where everybody spoke gently.
A plump lady in a tracksuit, her face heavily powdered, walked towards her, two arms extended. ‘Mrs Rees, we’re almost family, aren’t we? It was so good of you to come.’
Frances Rees was pulled in to a bear hug by Nancy.
‘Debbie is very eager to see you, but she gets tired easily, so it won’t be for very long,’ Nancy said, leading her down the corridor to a blue door. ‘She has a beautiful view across the gardens, though she says it will never match the loveliness of Roscarbury Hall.’
Nancy opened the door slowly, beckoning Frances to follow. Debbie was propped against several pillows, as if her bed had been specially arranged for this moment.
Her voice was low, but definite, when she spoke. ‘I am so grateful you made the journey; come sit with me.’
Nancy hovered at the end of the bed until Bert called her out of the room.
‘She fusses over me, always has done.’
‘Deborah, I am sorry …’
<
br /> Debbie put up her hand. ‘Frances, let’s not waste time. Pull up a chair and tell me about Mary.’
Frances sat on the edge of the chair and started to gabble on. ‘Call me Fran; everybody in the family calls me that. Mary was five years younger and I can tell you a right strap when she was a young woman, always going off to meet some young lad or other.’ Frances hesitated.
Debbie smiled. ‘Please, don’t hold back.’
‘I don’t want you to think less of her. She was a kind, generous girl, a bit shy, and a pair of hands on her that could style any type of hair. I worked in Arklow, hairdressing, but it was Mary who had the real talent. It all just came naturally to her. She once dyed her hair pure blonde; needless to say, my father went mad. And then there was the time she straightened her hair; she decided to iron it—she ruined her long tresses that day and had to go for a boy’s cut; that was before girls went down that road. She looked so sexy, in the boyish cut and the short skirts.
‘My father couldn’t contain her. We all admired her spunk, and all the young lads were after her. She only had eyes for one man, though. He was no good, and married.’
‘My father?’
‘I am afraid so. She would do anything for him. Meet him in Arklow, standing for hours waiting for him by the cold stone bridge, and he would not have the decency to give her an explanation when he arrived. Sometimes he could not stay more than half an hour. She was besotted with him. He was only married a short time too, but there was no telling her he was no good.’ Frances stopped as she felt the tears rise inside her. ‘One day, she said they were going to go away together, away from Ireland, and he would find some way of marrying her. Even if they didn’t, they would be together. She loved him dearly, was prepared to turn her back on her family for him.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A good-for-nothing who strung her along, that is who.’
‘What do you mean?’
Frances took a deep breath. ‘She did not tell him about the baby until she was well on and could not hide it any more; the red welts on her hips were huge from the corset she had to wear all the time.’
The Secrets of Roscarbury Hall Page 24