Authors: Ann O'Loughlin
‘You will have to walk then.’
‘Not a bother. I will only be a bit behind that slowcoach O’Hare. Is that a tractor he drives?’
When the Mercedes pulled up at the back door of Roscarbury Hall, Roberta marched straight to the hall table and loudly slapped down a note.
I know you are up to something. I do not give permission for any of your stupid plans. R.
A fast walker, Iris was only ten minutes behind. Slightly out of breath, she pushed open the back door.
‘Come and join me here,’ Ella called out.
She had changed into her walking shoes and pulled on her old hat to cross the farmyard to the walled garden. Her hair tumbled in loose curls from under her velvet hat, giving her face a youthful look. The paths were still clear in places, but where there used to be drills of carrots and onions was now a mess of overgrown weeds, briars and nettles, all competing and taking the best from the soil, which had once yielded prize-winning vegetables.
‘I am going to set up a café. This is a good place for all-day sun, but do you think we could tidy it up, put a few tables out here?’
Iris shook her head.
‘Too much work. Better to fix up the fountain and have the tables at the front. We will only have to cut the grass and trim the hedges. The rhododendron and azaleas will be in flower there soon. Brightens up the old house lovely.’
They walked side by side, past the buildings that were falling down and the hay barn that was cavernous, cold and empty. Roberta nodded to Iris as they walked into the kitchen, taking her time making her tea, so she could eavesdrop. As she passed through the hall, she flung another note on the table.
Not that I think they will ever come to anything, these feverish plans of yours, but you most certainly do not have my permission to let people tramp all over Roscarbury Hall. Iris spends too much time here. R
‘Why don’t you start small? A few tables. They have those collapsible ones in the catalogues. With a fancy tablecloth, nobody will know,’ Iris said, her arms folded, leaning against the sink.
‘But where would I put them? It is a bit cold at the front in the mornings.’
Iris jumped across the kitchen and trotted up the hall. Ella followed, snatching the note from the hall table, glancing at it as she went. Iris turned the knob of the drawing room and swept in.
‘Isn’t it perfect for starters? A few tables in the middle.’
‘What will we do for a drawing room?’
‘Ella O’Callaghan, you have one week; we don’t have any better ideas. It is not as if you even use the room. All we have to do is rearrange the furniture. Let’s give it a whirl.’
‘But who will come? It is a daft idea.’
Ella crumpled the note into a tight ball and pushed it deep into her pocket.
Iris gripped her cousin tight around the shoulders.
‘Believe you me, all the ninnies that go to morning Mass will be falling over themselves to have a look at your best china.’
Ella moved to the window.
‘I don’t think I can do it, Iris. Roberta will have a fit.’
‘What does it matter what Roberta thinks? You are the one who has to go and see the bank manager every other week.’
Ella did not answer. The frost was tight on the briars; a robin flew low, looking for grubs; and in the distance, a child called out to his friend to hurry up on the lane across the field. A rat flitted past the fountain. She did not need to be outside to know the late morning sunlight was sheeting across the top windows, so that they glowed gold.
‘Nobody will want to come,’ she said, taking in the formal, stuffy room with high-backed chairs and a chandelier that looked out of place, too big for the setting. The desk at the window was cluttered and dusty. Somebody had shoved a stack of letters on to the windowsill, where, over time, they yellowed and crisped. ‘The house looks a mess from the outside and is no better inside.’
‘Which is why we will call it the Old Café?’
Ella guffawed out loud.
‘You mean the Old and Dusty Café.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Iris said, pushing the big green velvet chair closer to the fireplace.
‘There are a lot of cobwebs and the chandelier will need a thorough rinsing. What will we do about the front door?’
Iris put her hands on her hips.
‘You are looking for excuses, Ella; we will use the French doors to the side.’
‘I just could not bear to be a laughing stock again; it has happened too often in the past.’
A tear splattered down Ella’s cheek.
‘Ella, there has been a lot of sympathy, but the O’Callaghans were never a laughing stock.’
‘I just don’t like being put under the microscope.’
‘Then find something to sell, Ella.’
Ella slumped onto the couch, making the leather crack.
‘This is only a home, Iris; nobody is interested in any of it. It is the home of two biddies who don’t have anything to say to each other in a house with maybe too much history. I am tired of pushing at doors that never open. Roberta is drinking more; I am finding bottles stuffed everywhere. If she even gave up the money she spends on her sherry, we might be able to ride this mess.’
Iris sat down beside her.
‘When did Roberta ever think of anybody else but herself? We can do it together.’
Ella grabbed her hand and clenched it tight.
‘I hope you are right, Iris, because as it stands, there is not much of a market for these old antiques and if anything has to be sold it will be the house.’
‘Let’s not go there. We will do as much as we can today. I will ask Muriel to spread the word about the café, grand opening 9.15 a.m. Wednesday. Though we will need more than four tables, if Muriel is involved.’
‘Four tables are enough to test the waters,’ Ella said, moving to the sideboard where she kept the best china.
It was a cold, damp morning. Kiely’s bus slipped down Main Street, revving high around the corners, the growl of the engine left hanging in the air. The milkman tinkled bottles on the doorsteps; the stray dog holed up in Maurer’s doorway stretched its front paws elaborately, before settling in for a scratching session.
Pat McCarthy, lifting up a bundle from the newspapers stacked at his front door, nodded politely at the stranger as she walked past, her head down, her hands deep in her pockets. Slicing the plastic seal from the
Irish Times
, he watched her as she flitted across the street, darting fast glances from side to side, before stopping to linger outside Rahilly’s hardware. A tightening of her coat belt signalled a decision made. With a whip of her shoulders, she set off at a faster pace, taking the Arklow Road out of Rathsorney. McCarthy, muttering under his breath, threw two empty chip bags and a beer can out onto the street, before fiddling with the ground-level lock and pushing up the window shutters, the tearing steel screeching the start of the town day.
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.
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’.