The Ludlow Ladies Society Page 7

  Michael Conway was the last to go, loitering at the bottom of the front steps.

  “Can I drop into the shop tomorrow to settle up?” she asked, and he moved from one foot to another, embarrassed she thought he was waiting for money.

  “Don’t worry about that; whenever you are passing will do. Do you need anyone to stay, show you around the house?”

  “I will be fine, thank you.”

  She sounded formal and he did not argue, saying he would see her the next day. He was a quarter down the back avenue when she called after him.

  “Mr Conway, on the way out, could you pull over the gate at the back entrance? I will do the front myself. I just don’t want anyone wandering through.”

  He looked oddly at her, but waved to show he had heard, before starting up his car.

  She waited until she was completely alone, almost afraid to take the first steps into the house. Crows squabbled high up in the trees near the barn, the breeze lightly catching one of the stable doors, making it bang rhythmically, as she slipped across the yard to the back door.

  The key fitted snugly, turning with only a little effort on her part. Stepping into the kitchen, she had to push a net of cobwebs out of her way. It was a small kitchen with an Aga and a long rectangular table in the middle covered in a flowery oilcloth. The presses were open and empty, and the fridge was unplugged, its door wedged open with a piece of wood. Stepping through the kitchen to the hall, she stopped at the ornate mahogany table with a marble top. A bunch of lilies in a vase had putrefied, the vile smell piercing up her nose, the dust from the stamens staining the tabletop. Some blooms had fallen away, wilting dark brown, sticking to the marble. Others had congealed in a corner, a dark mess that made her stomach turn.

  A mirror above the table had little notes stuck to it, reminders of court dates:

  Tuesday, High Court No. 3, 10.30

  Thursday, High Court No. 10, 11 a.m.

  A shopping list had only four items:

  Steak/Doyle’s

  Spuds

  Carrots

  Irish Times/Michael

  It was written in a neat, tight hand. There was the sense of a life suspended, waiting.

  The door to the drawing room was wide open. Despite it being a spacious light room in various shades of cream and gold, there was little about it she liked. Curious, she picked up the book left face-down on the small table beside the velvet fireside armchair. A notebook covered in silk, it remained splayed, as if it had gone that way permanently because it had been abandoned so long. The pages cracking as she turned them, she saw poems written out in longhand, notes, newspaper cuttings pasted in, recipes gummed in, others written in and dated. At the front, a short dedication:

  From me to you.

  With love

  xx

  The book creaked as she closed it. Looking over her shoulder, she was almost afraid its owner would return and ask what she was doing. The mug beside it was dark brown inside, holding a gelatinous sludge where once there had been tea.

  Sitting back into the armchair, she took in the painting over the fireplace: a man and a woman, sitting stiffly on these very chairs in front of a warm fire. Strange in its composition, the woman was wearing a ball gown, the man in what looked like a dark tweed suit.

  The dress was navy with a lustre of chiffon about it. A row of tiny gold buttons fringed with navy clustered down the centre of the bodice before it pulled into a tight waist, giving way to soft folds of fabric. Short puff sleeves caught into a plain band above the elbow emphasised the simple beauty of both the dress and its wearer.

  The woman sat, her hands held together on her lap, her book closed on the table beside her. Around her neck was a necklace with a purple-red stone in a gold setting.

  The man was crouched in his chair, a newspaper scrunched in his hands, as if he was unaware of the artist at work, or that the woman next to him looked so fine. Lingering on her face, Connie was drawn to the woman’s eyes, gazing into the distance, as if she was deep in thought about something she could not share. There was, she thought, something about the woman’s eyes, a sadness lingering in the gaze.

  Connie moved across the worn old carpet to the front window, stuck with grimy dirt on the inside, cobwebs, dust and spiders huddled in the corners of the outside frame. A soft lace curtain was hanging loose from its elastic wire, dipping in the centre, giving the aura of a place uncared for. Gold brocade curtains were stiffly in place, tethered to hooks in the wall with gold fabric tiebacks.

  She looked beyond to the gravelled front driveway, the bank of rhododendron marching across the sweep of grass to where it turned off towards the yew walk. Standing inside the window, she saw the woman with her two dogs, both frantically barking, one digging a hole.

  Angry, Connie whipped out of the sitting room, through the kitchen, rounding the house to the front, where the woman was already making her way down the driveway.

  Connie ran after her. “Pardon me, pardon me.”

  The woman swept around. The dogs cavorting across the field did not slow down.

  “I am sorry, but you can’t walk your dogs in here any more. This is private property.”

  The woman’s smile turned to a frown, as she eyed Connie up and down.

  “You are the new owner?”

  “Yes, you cannot let your dogs loose here any more.”

  “Ludlow Hall has always been open to the public; there is a right of way.”

  “There is no right to let your dogs run amok, digging holes, barking and making a nuisance of themselves. I am asking you not to return. How did you get in here?”

  “What, are you saying that I jumped the wall? I came in like any decent person, through the gate.”

  Clenching her fists close to her, Connie shook her shoulders in an effort to remain calm.

  “Please close the gate on your way out and make alternative arrangements for walking your dogs.”

  Her voice was dead calm, but she was furious, becoming even more incensed when the woman shrugged, calling her dogs with a piercing whistle.

  “You won’t be welcome in these parts if you continue down this road,” she snapped at Connie, clicking a lead on both her dogs. With a whip of her shoulders, she turned away to stroll down the avenue.

  Connie, her chest heaving, walked over to sit on the seat at the front of the house. Her breathing too fast, she pulled in a gulp of air to calm herself. A light breeze rustled through the fuchsia bush, making it sway; an old leaf curled on the stone step was lifted and dropped back down, landing precariously on the edge of the next step. Connie shut her eyes, letting the billows of air tumble over her.

  Why had she come here?

  His words worried and wormed into her brain, exhausting her. Inside her head was a din of words: his words.

  There was the light flutter of wings as a wagtail, sensing her stillness, landed nearby and watched her intently, the rustle of the rhododendron leaves as they shifted with the breeze, two crows on the roof of the house squawking out, harsh, monotonous. Tears pushed through her lids, cold on her cheeks as the breeze mopped them away.

  “Mama, Mama!”

  She grimaced, jumping up too fast, so her head began to swim in a swirl of words.

  “Mama, Mama!”

  Pins and needles of fear coursed through her.

  “Mama!”

  The cry was more desperate, more anxious.

  Connie ran down the path to the yew walk and the lake, cold sweat forming on her temples, pains shooting through her.

  “Molly, Molly!” she called out.

  Blinded by the words in her head, she tripped over a tree stump, landing on the spent cherry blossom and rhododendron flowers.

  “Mama!”

  A woman with a buggy laughed out loud and reached for her toddler daughter.

  “Silly sausage, Mummy is not going to leave you.”

  The woman turned around to see Connie on the ground, her face contorted in pain, her forehead shiny with swe
at.

  “Are you all right?”

  The woman and child moved closer. Connie jumped up, making a big thing of brushing the petals from her clothes, so she had time to regain her composure.

  “Silly me, I was in too much of a hurry,” she said, smiling at the young mother and daughter.

  “If you are sure.”

  Connie nodded and the woman moved on. She watched them go, a pain in her heart so big she thought she would pass out. Turning away, she bolted for the back of the house, desperate to be alone, where nobody would ask any questions.

  Once in the back yard, she leaned against the wall of the barn panting, her hands shaking, still clammy. She could not go inside. Walking over to the back door, she pulled it hard, locking it, before jumping in her car.

  She drove too fast down the front avenue. A man walking with his three children rushed to pull his youngest daughter out of the way. Clenching his fist in the air, he shouted, but, blinded by the tears, Connie wasn’t exactly sure what he said. The front gate was open, pulled back to the limit as if in defiance, but she did not care. She turned left, back up the hill to the town.

  When Hetty saw her coming in, she noticed Connie had been crying, but she did not pass comment. After ten minutes, she followed her up to the bedroom with a mug of tea.

  “I thought you might like a cuppa. I will do something for you to eat, if you are hungry.”

  Connie, her make-up streaked with rivulets of tears, thanked her host and took the mug.

  “I don’t usually have the beakers, but I know there are those like yourself who prefer them. Do you mind me asking, are you all right?”

  “Just a bit homesick.”

  Connie made to step back into the room and close the door behind her, but Hetty kept talking.

  “I know we don’t know each other very well, but you are welcome to come down to the sitting room. We can have a chat, or not.”

  “I am fine. I might go for a walk after the tea,” Connie said. Disappointment swept across Hetty’s face.

  “Might be just as well, the ladies will all be in soon. If you are up to it, I could introduce you to everyone.”

  “Maybe,” Connie said, and Hetty thought she closed the bedroom door a little too hastily.

  Connie immediately poured the tea down the sink in the ensuite bathroom, before lying on the bed. She must have fallen asleep, because the ping of the doorbell woke her up. The buzz of conversation seeped up to her, making her burrow into the pillow, afraid Hetty would invite her downstairs.

  *

  All the ladies arrived together expect Eve, who doubled back because she had forgotten a new bag of cloth.

  “You know that Yank has only closed up Ludlow Hall. The town is locked out,” Dana Marshall said the minute Hetty opened the door. Not convinced she had the right reaction from Hetty, who stood ushering Dana towards the sitting room, the woman spoke out, louder this time. “It is an absolute disgrace. Eve won’t be happy.”

  The other women all nodded in agreement, the buzz between them heightening as they aired their grievances.

  “Has she moved or is she still here with you?” Eithne Hall asked.

  Hetty’s neck and cheeks flushed red. “She is upstairs. I told her if she was at a loose end, she could join us. I had no idea what happened.” Hetty was wringing her hands, afraid Connie would overhear.

  Kathryn Rodgers threw her eyes to heaven. “The last thing we need at this meeting is that one telling us our business,” she said.

  Dana Marshall, a stout woman with glasses, made for the door. “I won’t stay in any room with her. She ordered me off the property, you know.”

  “Now, now she may not come downstairs at all. Why don’t we all calm down,” Hetty said, directing the women to the seats and gently pushing Dana towards the couch.

  As they fussed like hens, arguing over who got the armchair and who had to sit on the sofas, Hetty retreated to answer the doorbell.

  “For God’s sake, Eve, will you talk to these stupid women? They are nearly ready to lynch the American and she is in the room directly above us.”

  Hetty, flustered, was talking too fast. Eve burst out laughing.

  “They are all just talk, you know that.” Eve patted Hetty on the shoulder and slowly pushed her towards the sitting room. “Let’s put the same energy and vigour into our work,” she said.

  The women, responding to her firm tone, took out their squares of fabric, some threading their needles, others stitching straight away. She let them sew a few stitches, to get into the rhythm, before she spoke again.

  “What does everybody think about the exhibition? If we pull together, we might end up chatting to Michelle Obama.”

  “We should be discussing what is happening at Ludlow Hall,” Dana piped up and the others murmured in agreement.

  Hetty put her hands up, calling for hush. “For God’s sake, will you let Eve speak.”

  Eve sat on the edge of the armchair beside the fireplace.

  “I think this is a great opportunity for us. I, for one, would consider it an honour if Michelle Obama cast her eye over my work. It is a challenge, but a very good and exciting one,” Eve said.

  “We need to up our game if we are going to be picked to meet Mrs Obama,” Kathryn Rodgers said.

  “We can’t take on anything too big,” Dana said and, nodding to Hetty, continued. “No offence, but this place is tiny.”

  Hetty felt a bristle of annoyance run through her, but she said nothing.

  Eve clapped her hands lightly to garner the attention of all the women again. “The Rosdaniel Festival suggested something with a connection to life in the town.”

  “That is a lot of work,” Rebecca Fleming said, but the others hushed her.

  “I was thinking of something a bit different,” Eve said.

  “What do you mean?” Hetty asked.

  Dana Marshall snorted.

  “Remember the year we did cushion covers with Rosdaniel houses on them. That was bloody difficult,” Eithne said.

  The women murmured in agreement.

  “I liked the year we just did our own thing, big or small,” Bernie Martin said primly.

  Eve stood up and everybody quietened down to listen.

  “How about memory quilts? Quilts made of the bits and pieces of fabric of somebody’s life? They tell their own story. It could be a nice way to remember our loved ones.” Eve turned to Hetty. “You still have a lot of Barry’s shirts, don’t you?”

  Hetty nodded, but did not say anything.

  “If you did not mind cutting a few things up, you could sew a memory quilt, patches of his clothes to bring back all the memories.”

  The other women began to mumble in agreement.

  “Sure, we all know Barry was a snappy dresser,” Eithne laughed and others giggled.

  Hetty, not sure how to respond, made to sit down. Two women shoved over on the couch for her.

  “I realise it is a bit of a shock,” Eve said. “I could do one about Ludlow, cutting up old dresses worn at special occasions. It is not as if I have anywhere to wear them these days.”

  All the women began to chat excitedly, but Hetty remained silent. Eve turned to her.

  “I did not mean to upset you, Hetty. If you can’t do it, don’t worry. It is just the whole town loved Barry, such a lovely fellow.”

  Hetty heaved in a deep breath. “I have not touched his clothes in so long.”

  Eve put a hand out, touching her knee lightly. “You don’t have to give a decision right now. Have a think about it.”

  Bernie Martin, by the window, stood up. “Where are we going to make all these quilts? None of us has a room big enough.”

  “We must apply our minds to that, but not tonight,” Eve said.

  Eithne Hall, who lived outside of town, giggled. “It is all right for you, Eve, and you, Hetty: your husbands were something big around here. My Robbie was only ever a small farmer. We buried him in his Sunday suit, so that only leaves the cotton P
Js and a pile of dungarees. Nobody wants to have sight of them.”

  Other women began to murmur in agreement and Eve held up her hands.

  “Ladies, ladies, don’t be silly. We can do a Rosdaniel quilt to represent all facets of life in the town. And Eithne, bring in a strip of dungarees, we will find a place for it.”

  They all laughed, talking excitedly as Hetty slipped away to make the tea and plate up the scones she had taken out of the oven before they arrived. She leaned up against the counter, forcing herself to take deep breaths in an effort to calm down. How could she make a quilt remembering Barry? How could she cut up his clothes? If she did not agree, the others would find it odd. She would have to do too much explaining.

  Date: March 26, 2013

  Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY

  Ludlow ladies!

  Memory quilts it is, and with any luck America’s First Lady will be throwing her eye over them very soon. Thanks to Eve for coming up with such a brilliant idea. Jack Davoren can put that in his pipe and smoke it!

  On a less competitive note, what better way to draw in the whole of Rosdaniel than to remember our finest in the most unique way? Hetty has agreed to sew a memory quilt for her late husband, Barry, who we all know was a man who gave his time to every organisation in this town, helping at the church, bingo nights and the Rosdaniel Town Committee. Hetty will be taking samples from Barry’s shirts and suits and bringing this fine man to life again in patchwork form. We very much look forward to seeing that. There is no better way to remember Barry: we all knew him as a dapper dresser and a gentleman.

  Eve, formerly of Ludlow Hall, is to bring Ludlow Hall to life in patchwork using fabric from all those lovely outfits she wore over the years.

  I will personally oversee the Rosdaniel memory quilt. I am hoping Dana, Eithne, Bernie and Rebecca will give their time. Anyone else who feels they can pitch in, please come forward. We need everybody to give 110 per cent. The timeframe is short, only eight weeks or so, but the rewards will be high.

  Let’s get to work, ladies, we can do this!

  Kathryn Rodgers,