The Ballroom Café Read online

  Debbie, hunching up her shoulders against the cold wind blowing in from the sea, walked past a cluster of red-roofed houses and a cemetery set across a hill of two fields. At the bridge she lingered, leaning over to watch the hurrying water. It whooshed out Rob’s name, a rhythm she could not get out of her head: the quiet murmur of the funeral crowd as they remembered her father.

  After everybody had drunk enough, talked enough about Rob, buried him twice over, after everybody had run out of words, she was in the attic looking for nothing or something, filling in time, nudging boxes around corners, when she saw the small one greased with dirt, stuffed under the water pipes. It was sealed with brown tape and a pink label splotted dirty grey was curled up on one side, probably from where the heat of the hot-water pipe had dried it out. She could just about make out the neat handwriting: ‘Baby Bits’.

  She picked up the box, shaking off loose mouse droppings, and made her way carefully to the spare room. Battered old suitcases lay opened and discarded on the red sofa bed. A stack of yellowed newspapers was spilled on the floor.

  ‘Debs, are you finished up there yet?’

  Aunt Nancy thumped up the stairs, swiping the sweat from her forehead with her hand, her breath wheezing.

  ‘Don’t be bothering yourself with all that rubbish, dear. We can get somebody to clear it out.’

  ‘I want to pick a few things.’

  Nancy caught Debbie tight by the shoulders.

  ‘You do what you have to do, sweetheart, but memories don’t hold dust.’

  Nancy kicked at the newspaper stack and stood back, taking the room in.

  ‘Your mother would have a fit if she knew how the place had turned out. Look at the dirt on the curtains: the finest embossed cream silk, she ordered specially from the store in Cleveland. Bert said he would come at five to fill up the U-Haul. Is that everything in the sitting room? It’s very little.’

  ‘Yes, but the rocking chair on the porch as well.’

  ‘Not worth taking, but suit yourself. Let’s have tea. What about the box of baby bits?’

  ‘It’ll fit on the front seat.’

  ‘Your mother was so good with storage. Look at that neat labelling. She really was something.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. This house will have new owners and the unhappiness will fade away.’

  ‘Except in our hearts.’

  The goods train pelted through to Chicago, the clatter of the railroad crossing penetrating the lonely air. Nancy shuffled about the kitchen; Debbie sat tracing shapes on the red Formica tabletop.

  Several days passed in New York before she got around to opening the box. A whoosh of dust punched the air as she pushed the flaps of dirty cardboard to the side, ripping open the top.

  Layers of thin tissue paper sprinkled with lavender were stacked on top of each other. Removing five neatly creased squares of soft paper pressed like a cushion into the centre of the box, Debbie ran her hand along the silk and lace of a christening gown she did not know. As her fingers slipped across the cream silk, whispers fluttered in her ear, words like butterflies blotting away the tears but creating a new, persistent angst.

  Two crocheted bootees tied with narrow pink ribbons were tucked to one side. Gently, she shook the robe so that the musty aroma of stale lavender wafted through the room, wispy ghosts of Agnes coasting about her for a few moments, cushioning her from the ingrained memory of her loss. A battered pink rabbit and an envelope, small and white, half concealed, were at the bottom of the box. Scanning at first, she was not sure what it said and some of the words were joined together so tightly they were hard to make out. Agnes’s sweet perfume surrounded her, now strangling at her throat.

  The letter had haunted her every minute until she came to this place. Would that she had left it, marked it down as a part of forgotten family history.

  A rubbish truck reversing drew her back. She ran her hand along the smooth cold of the stone bridge, her palms fizzing red as she dawdled over to the heavy iron gates, set back to one side of the riverbank. An old house lay half hidden beyond the trees. The driveway was pocked with weeds and tough grass, the padlock on the gate rusted. A jeep bumped across the bridge and pulled in beside her.

  ‘You are out early. Are you looking for somewhere?’

  The man yanked at the lock and pulled a key out of his back pocket. He clicked the gate open and watched it shudder back.

  ‘I was wondering about the house and the café.’

  ‘It is some old place all right. The old dears who live here won’t mind if you walk up the path. I am only the gardener,’ he said, before jumping back in behind the wheel. A dog scooted up the avenue after the jeep, only inches from the back wheels.

  3

  Ella O’Callaghan watched the small dog in the garden running, sniffing, pissing as if it were in a public park. She stayed behind the curtain, easing the big leather armchair out of her way, leaning to the left to get a better view. It was a cold, sharp morning. The frost lingered in the dark, heavy corners of the rhododendron. A wagtail foraging for crumbs flew in to peck the ground closer to the house. The woman, who had followed the dog in behind the high wall and iron gates, was standing on the gravel avenue, smoking a cigarette. ‘It is a dirty habit,’ Ella snorted to herself as she looked at the stranger propping up the broken fountain, blowing smoke rings towards the house.

  Roscarbury Hall was a sight to behold: a sorry pile, three storeys high. Long neglected, it looked empty. The dirty windows were covered in a thick layer of grime. The wisteria was out of control, its gnarled stems woody and bare. The front door, with the dull, brass knocker, was covered in decades of blown dust built up and mixed with layer upon layer of dried-out, peeling paint. Leaves, trapped in the corners at the threshold, were stuck with cobwebs. It did not matter; the front door at Roscarbury was never opened any more.

  Ella shrank back from the window as Roberta came in to the room and switched on the second bar of the heater. It let out a low hum and the dry heat choked her throat. Bristling with indignation, because the heater would now pong out the place, she sighed loudly. She could not move to the back room, which was so cold there was a layer of thin ice on the far wall.

  She saw the woman, her hair falling into her eyes and her walk ungainly, trudge across the grass towards the lake. Ella moved from the window, stopping to switch off a bar of the heater on the way. She paused in the hall to pick up a red note.

  Order a roast beef from the butchers. We also need onions, and cream for the apple tart. Tell Iris to stop polluting the house with her filthy smoke. R.

  Ella’s kettle was already boiling when Roberta shuffled from the drawing room, halting her walking stick long enough to check the note had been removed and to scrunch Ella’s note into the hall bin.

  Taking down her rosebud teapot with matching cup and saucer, Ella set them on a tray. Swirling the boiling water fiercely to scald the pot, she reached with one hand for the box marked ‘Ella’s Tea’.

  Roberta stood beside her and slowly placed her kettle on the gas ring. She patted the tight bun at the back of her head, humming a tune to herself.

  Her china teapot on the tray, along with a small jug of milk and a spoon holding three cubes of sugar, Ella walked past her sister and out of the room.

  No word was spoken between the two, but this was not surprising: no word had been exchanged between the two sisters in decades. Those who knew the sisters well were aware of the hard frost, thick and deep, between them. It had, at one time, been the source of extreme speculation, but as the years went by, the interest of others in the travails of the O’Callaghan sisters receded.

  Ella, on the way back through the hall, slapped down a reply on the table.

  You give up the booze, I will tell Iris to give up the cigarettes. Pigs might fly as well. E.

  She settled back in the drawing room and sipped her tea. The hot drink warmed her and she turned off the last bar of the electric fire. She listene
d to her sister fuss around the kitchen, tidying up her things: each mug and plate in its place and her provisions labelled ‘R’ tidy and in a separate cupboard. She stayed on in the drawing room because it was, this morning, the warmest room in the house. On a walnut table, framed photographs of the sisters were smeared with greasy dirt. Happy days when they played tennis on the grass in front of the house and had day-long picnics by the sea. There were only two frames that were polished regularly: the wedding photograph of their mother and father and the wedding-day picture of Ella O’Callaghan and Michael Hannigan.

  She touched the picture glass, remembering the warm summer’s day they had exchanged vows. Swinging around to the congregation, the light flashing on the aurora borealis stones of her Weiss brooch, those in the front rows had predicted a happy and long union. Small but exquisite, the brooch was a cluster of flowers with big petals made out in brilliant white cabochon stones. Smaller, delicately coloured, sparkling aurora borealis stones peeped through the gaps. She had picked this brooch because it was the first her father gave her mother.

  ‘Young and foolish,’ Ella muttered, impatiently wiping the glass with the end of her skirt before carefully setting down the heavy silver frame in its place. She noticed the stranger lingering by the front door. Sighing impatiently, she stuck her head out the drawing-room French doors.

  ‘Have you come about the job?’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘Come in; keeping the door open is making a draught run through the house. I need help in the café. God knows, I could do with a good pair of hands. Are you interested?’

  Ella O’Callaghan stepped back so she could sweep the length of her visitor. Nice-looking. Her silly years were definitely behind her and she might have half a sensible head on her. Her jeans were faded, washed too many times, and her hair was too long for a woman her age; she would have to tie it back.

  ‘Ma’am, I’m not looking for a job. I’m on vacation. Is the café open? The lady in the post office said it’s very good.’

  ‘I don’t need big signs when I have Muriel Hearty. You are too early. I have only just got the buns and cakes out of the oven and the tables have to be set yet. A girl from the town promised to help this week, but she has skedaddled: more money cleaning out rooms in the fancy hotel off the N11.’

  ‘I can help.’

  Nervousness made Debbie’s voice sound too high-pitched.

  Ella flustered with her apron strings, her cheeks pinching red with embarrassment.

  ‘Not at all. It is easily done, only a few tables. Give me an hour, maybe less.’

  ‘If you’re sure. I waited tables during vacation at my local diner. A while back, sure, but it’s like riding a bike, isn’t it?’

  Ella grimaced, as if she had heartburn.

  ‘It is a very kind offer. Just for this morning, mind. My name is Ella. Ella O’Callaghan.’

  She held out her hand and grasped the other woman’s firmly.

  ‘From America?’

  ‘Yes, Deborah Kading; call me Debbie.’

  ‘Roscarbury Café has only been open a few weeks. Just a few tables in the drawing room, but we are doing nicely. If I could only find proper help, it could be magic.’

  She walked over and pushed open the heavy cream door. The walls were a dull gold and a chandelier hung low over four small tables with lace tablecloths. A leather couch veined with age was pushed up against the bay window; bulky armchairs blocked the front of the fireplace.

  ‘It is simple, but the food is good and we give an extra cup of coffee on the house, which goes down well with the ladies after Mass.’

  Deborah walked over to a side window draped in heavy gold brocade curtains and overlooking the rhododendron grove.

  ‘This is a very lovely place.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ella said quietly and moved quickly towards the sideboard. ‘You will find all you need here. We only serve tea and coffee in the best china cups. They were my mother’s. I am not sure she would be happy with the women of Rathsorney turning them over every day, but needs must. Three settings per table. I will be in the kitchen. Shout if you need any help,’ Ella said, walking smartly from the room, tightening her apron at the waist.

  The sideboard door was stiff, so Deborah tugged it, making a sweet-smelling mahogany cloud puff around her. Stacks of china cups and saucers were neatly tucked together, plates to the side. Each was decorated with lilac and blue thistles, the stems rough, contrasting with the delicate bite of the china rims. She walked between the tables, carefully placing each setting, her hand hovering over every cup as it rattled into position. She was pulling out a drawer looking for cutlery when Ella came back in with two silver platters of cake, crumbly warm, arranged in neat rows, and scones, buttered and laid out flat. Two big flasks of coffee and tea she placed on the sideboard beside the platters.

  ‘They will be along in the next ten minutes. The old priest races through in a rush back to his bed. We have time for a cup before they descend on us.’

  Ella did not ask but took two china cups and poured strong coffee, the aroma curling past them, fading into the mustiness of the room.

  ‘Can you just do this: set up a coffee shop?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just did it; if we don’t get extra money in, the house will fall down around our ears.’

  ‘It is very brave letting people into your home like this.’

  Ella snorted loudly. ‘Stupid, more like, but it is not as if I have much of a choice.’

  ‘I would never have the nerve. I’ve been a teacher all my life and getting up in front of classes full of teenagers doesn’t bother me, but I could never do this.’

  ‘Necessity brings out all sorts of hidden traits.’

  Ella jumped up when she heard the sound of gravel scrunching under the heavy but swift steps of the twelve ladies who bothered each morning to rise to hear Fr Hurley stumble too fast over his words, his eyes heavy with sleep still and his hair tousled at the top of his head.

  ‘You pick the seat near the window; that is the best,’ Ella told Debbie, ushering her along gently as the mumble of women chattering got louder.

  Ella pulled open the side French doors, greeting each woman by name. The cold of the early morning air freshed out the room, settling on the pleated drapes at the window.

  Each took a cup and saucer and lined up at the sideboard to help themselves, nodding politely as they passed Debbie and squeezing in too many to a table, so they did not have to share with a stranger. Aware of her intrusion, Debbie slipped out the French doors when the hum of chat in the room lowered to a contented level. Strolling down a side path, she stopped at the stone fountain to light a cigarette.

  There was a faded quiet about the place, which she liked. It reminded her of home in Bowling Green, a house lost on the outside but brimming with memories. What a fraud she was. Rob Kading would never have let her work in the diner. The skirts the waitresses wore were too short, the shifts too late. Mr Peabody from out of town grabbed the waitresses’ butts.

  The ladies of Rathsorney were a loud lot; she could hear them still, the lilt of their conversation fluctuating with the importance afforded to each subject. Muriel Hearty’s shrill could be heard above all others.

  ‘There you are. I thought you had left.’ Ella seemed out of breath.

  ‘I was daydreaming.’

  Debbie stubbed out her cigarette quickly with her fingers, flitting her hands through the air to break up the smoke.

  ‘Won’t you come back to the house? The girls are heading and we can have tea and cake in peace.’

  ‘That’s kind, but I should be getting along.’

  ‘Maybe another morning? I hope you will come to the café again, though at the moment we are only open until eleven. Until I get my permanent help sorted.’

  ‘I hope you find someone soon.’

  ‘Yes. Enjoy your holiday.’

  Ella watched her for a few moments, sauntering down the avenue, before she turned back for the house.
If she got a nice woman like that to help out, she just might be able to hold off the bank. Spying Roberta lurking at her bedroom window, Ella hurried to the back stairs so that she would not have to hear her sister slap down another note. Already this morning she had made the hall table shake as she banged down two red notes in quick succession.

  Taking in strays now, are we? Our mother and father would be ashamed of you. R.

  Muriel Hearty says you are the laughing stock as far as Gorey, with your highfalutin ideas for a coffee house. R.

  Her head thumping with the silent fuming of her sister, Ella moved swiftly to her room and her dressing table. The crows were bickering in the high trees. Closing her eyes, she imagined it like she had done so many times, every detail just right: the buzz of conversation, the ping of china cups, the crunch of the gravel as people came and went to her café, the old house humming with life.

  Reaching into the silver jewellery box, she took out the green brooch. Shaped like a pansy flower but coloured inky black-green, her mother grumbled loudly it should have been purple, yellow or even all black. Bernie O’Callaghan wore it once with her dark coat, but it was never accorded another outing.

  ‘I like a flower to look like a flower,’ she said, clicking her teeth in annoyance that her husband should have wasted his money on something she could not like.

  Ella loved the Weiss pansy, the green stones glistening and the darker crystals shimmering, outlining perfectly the curved petals of the flower. The centre was black, except for one green crystal shaped like a teardrop.