Fourteen

May Dorkin walked in to the café and slapped her small rectangular cake heavily on the counter. She was dressed up, wearing a cloche hat with a feather on her head and the coloured summer raincoat. But it was the determined look in her eye that made Debbie enquire whether she should get Ella.

‘Please; I have a business proposition to discuss,’ May said, reaching out to tidy a stack of plates on the counter.

Ella threw her eyes to heaven. ‘No doubt there is some hare-brained idea for the café. I might as well listen to her; it will move her along faster,’ she grumbled to herself as she moved to the counter. ‘You are looking well today, May. Is it an occasion?’

‘Taste my cake and then we can do business,’ she said, her voice a little shaky.

When Ella did not immediately respond, May pulled the cling film from the cake and reached for a knife. ‘Best carrot cake there is,’ she said gruffly.

‘May, I don’t know what you are at, but I am very busy.’

May Dorkin took a step back, her nose tipped. Her voice was slightly hoarse. ‘Ella O’Callaghan, I am trying to help you out here. I will bring three cakes each morning, eight good slices in each: that is twenty-four euros, but twenty-two to you, and you can sell them on at whatever you like.’

‘I am not buying your cake, May.’

‘But you will happily take in a whole cake without any qualms every day. You must think I am a right old fool. Sure, don’t I know you are selling it the minute I am out the door?’

‘I only sell my own cake, May Dorkin, and very popular it is too. I have no need for yours. I told you, May, I can make my own cake.’

‘Nonsense, Ella, just taste it.’

Ella could not hold it in any longer. ‘I am not in need of these cakes.’

‘People are getting tired of the same old thing. Molloy’s will be happy to take them, but I will give you first refusal.’

Exasperated, Ella slapped down a teacloth heavily. ‘Tell Molloy’s they are welcome to them.’

May Dorkin was furious: two red spots ringed on her cheeks and her little hat slipped an inch to the side of her head, making her look like a crazy exotic bird, as she began to shout at Ella.

‘There is no fear you have changed a bit, Ella O’Callaghan, thinking you are better than everyone else. Everyone says when the milk of human kindness was flowing down the road the O’Callaghans were behind the wall. You were willing to take my cakes every morning when they were free.’

Chuck Winters, who had stepped in behind May, made an attempt to say something, but both women glared at him.

Ella got out from behind the counter. ‘Let me help you to the front door, May. You are not well.’

May wrenched her arm from Ella’s grip. ‘I want the money you owe me for all those cakes you sold.’

‘I have not sold any cakes of yours.’

‘You have and you know it. Do I have to bring in the law?’

Ella grabbed hold of May’s arm again. ‘Do you want to know what I did to those rotten cakes, with the fruit in them so old it was furry? Do you? I gave them to the hens, and even they got mightily fed up of them.’

May Dorkin, her cheeks pink, stared at Ella. ‘Thank you for your time. You won’t be seeing me again,’ she said, pulling herself free of Ella’s grip and making for the stairs. Chuck Winters ran after May, calling out to her as she whipped down the avenue.

*

Ella was wiping down the outside tables when Muriel Hearty led her posse from the second morning Mass up the avenue.

‘We met poor May Dorkin and she is in bits. What happened?’ Muriel asked, almost out of breath after pounding up the stairs.

‘I don’t gossip, Muriel,’ Ella snapped.

Muriel Hearty rubbed her hands in excitement. ‘Ella O’Callaghan, what have you been up to? We want a blow-by-blow account.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Muriel. What will it be today?’

‘Come on now, May is in floods of tears. Don’t tell me you had nothing to do with it.’

‘Oh, that. I am sorry she is upset. I am afraid it was all of her own making.’

‘Tell us.’

The women standing behind Muriel nodded their heads enthusiastically.

Ella’s face was distorted with discomfort. ‘There is nothing to tell.’

‘Well, she is spitting fire between the tears. Mark my words, there will be more.’

Muriel Hearty and her party settled in across two tables in the centre of the upstairs café.

‘Ella, I was just telling the girls, Fergus Brown only has eyes for the O’Callaghan sisters.’

‘God forgive you, Muriel Hearty; the man is married and his wife is very ill.’

‘Well, the story is he is sweet on ye.’

‘You should know better than to spread gossip, Muriel Hearty.’

‘Don’t take it so seriously, Ella.’

Ella did not respond. When the women were finished, she decided to close the café early, pushing the big bolt of the front door into place.

She went straight to her room. By now, May Dorkin would have badmouthed her to the whole of Rathsorney and Muriel Hearty would have added her bit of spice. Opening the silver jewellery box, she felt the hard grip on her heart melt slowly. She skimmed over to the small, blue half-moon pin, set in clear blue and sparkling stones. She had worn it only once. This brooch had never been her mother’s. Tracing her finger along the crescent, stopping at the azure rectangular crystal, she felt her heart flutter at the memory of receiving the gift.

It was two years after Michael Hannigan had died, and yet she had still felt guilty at accepting a gift from a man she found attractive. Stephen Kenny was a pen pal. They corresponded for a year, letters going back and forth. At first, they spoke of their faith, because that was what they had in common. Slowly, they gave little details of each other and became friends. When Stephen said he would be in Ireland for a few days and asked if he could call on her, she declined but arranged to meet him in Dublin. The only fancy place she knew grand enough for the occasion was the Shelbourne Hotel.

Ella dressed with understated elegance and got an early train from Rathsorney, making sure to sit on the box pleats of her skirt, to keep them in place. She gave herself plenty of time, arriving an hour early.

When Stephen Kenny came up and introduced himself, she was both embarrassed and proud to be having tea with the tall, broad American in the tan suit. He ordered coffee and spoke loudly in a musical voice Ella found attractive. They had chatted for several minutes when he reached into his inside pocket and took out a small box wrapped in gold paper.

‘I would like you to accept this gift,’ he said.

Flustered, she did not know where to look. ‘There was no need to bring a present.’

He reached out, holding it so she could see the delicate black ribbon, tied in a perfect bow. Slowly, she stretched out her hand and accepted the package.

‘Go on, open it.’

‘It seems a pity to upset this beautiful wrapping.’

‘I think you’ll like it.’

Delicately, she picked at the sellotaped sides, managing to release the little box without tearing the main part of the wrapping. Examining the brooch, Ella felt again the flutter of delight and panic when she saw the blue, crescent-moon-shaped pin.

‘I thought it would be nice to pick up one of the brooches at Weiss for you,’ he said. ‘Please, I would love to see you wear it.’

She self-consciously pinned it to her jacket, sure that others were watching her.

‘Just lovely,’ he said.

Ella straightened before her dressing-table mirror, pinning the brooch to her cardigan. It shimmered like it had done at the Shelbourne and she felt a rush of giddiness.

There was a moment as he sat smiling at her when she indulged in a hope for the future. When he made to get up, she was going to follow.

‘Please stay where you are. It’s Connie, my wife.’

Confused, Ella slipped back into the chair at an awkward angle so that when the other woman put out her hand she could only manage a feeble handshake.

‘I just love the way you write. You have a gift. Stephen here loves getting your letters. We show them to all our friends.’

Ella could hear the piercing pitch of her voice and see the sugary smile. Her words hit her like missiles.

Betrayal swept around her: to think that her words were babbled over and commented on by people she did not know. That her letters were passed around was too painful to bear. Even now, all these years later, she felt her breath catch at the memory. She tugged the brooch off.

She had stood up and excused herself in the Shelbourne, and the Americans stood back, thinking she was going to the bathroom.

At reception, she asked for a sheet of paper and penned a short note, explaining she could not accept a gift from a married man. Her mouth was dry, her back wet with perspiration, as she asked for the note and the brooch in its box to be delivered to Mr Kenny and his party. Hurrying to the railway station, she realised she had been a fool and sat to wait for two hours for her train home. Only when the train had pulled away from the city and she was in a compartment on her own did she allow tears to bubble up.

When a package was delivered to Roscarbury Hall a few days later, Ella knew what it was. A letter accompanied it.

Shelbourne Hotel,

Dublin

3/6/1961

Dear Miss O’Callaghan,

I am so dreadfully sorry for having given you the wrong impression and I ask your forgiveness for my crass stupidity.

Please take this brooch, as a token of my friendship and esteem. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me and that we may continue to correspond.

Yours sincerely,

Stephen

Ella never replied to the letter.