The Ballroom Café Read Free Page B

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