The Ballroom Café by Ann O'Loughlin Page B

as always.’
    She nodded politely and he wondered why her eyes looked so troubled.
    ‘Won’t you take a break and we can discuss the recipe?’
    Ella shook her head, but she smiled kindly at Chuck, whose complexion had deepened pink. She ducked in behind the screen.
    ‘Are all the orders out?’ she asked Debbie.
    ‘Yes. Don’t worry. And you?’
    Ella faltered a little. ‘Fine. We should clear off some of the tables. Get a head start on closing.’

11
     
    When Sister Marguerite burst in without knocking, her voice high-pitched, her body spinning across the room, Mother Assumpta knew something dreadful had befallen the community. She carefully replaced her pen on her desk and waited for the younger nun to get her breath. Marguerite reached behind Mother to the window ledge and switched on the radio, all the time whimpering like a dog that knows that trouble has visited.
    ‘Do you want to share with us why you want in particular to trace your mother, Debbie?’
    There was a lull, and Mother Assumpta put her head in her hands, listening intently.
    ‘I dearly wish to meet her, before I die.’ Debbie’s voice was calm and steady. ‘I don’t want to go from this world not having met her or knowing about her.’
    ‘Are you going to die, Debbie?’
    ‘In a few weeks: things are going to start getting bad pretty soon. Gall bladder cancer.’
    ‘What can we do to help you, Debbie Kading?’
    ‘I want my mother, if she’s out there, to get in touch. I was born on April 15, 1959, and adopted by the Kadings of New York. Sister Consuelo of the Divine Sisters handled the adoption.’
    ‘Couldn’t the sisters help you?’
    Debbie sighed deeply. ‘I’ve tried, but there’s no give there, not even in my case.’
    ‘Shouldn’t you be at home in the arms of your family at this moment?’
    ‘My mom isn’t around any more, and my father passed away two months ago. He didn’t even know about my cancer; I didn’t even know about it then.’
    There was another silence, which the interviewer did not try to fill.
    ‘I want to look in her eyes, to talk to her, to know her touch, to find out if she likes what I like. If she has passed on, I want to hear stories of her, stories that will keep me strong in the difficult weeks ahead.’

     
    *
     

     
    It came out of the blue. Ella, washing up, stopped: her hands treading the sink water, sludge circling around her elbows, the water going cold. Debbie’s voice was low to start with. She had never said she was going on national radio, did not even hint at it. Ella wiped her hands dry, sitting down to take it all in.
    Roberta, downstairs, the open bottle of sherry in her hand, forgot to pour a glass, the air around her crowding with the words. Debbie spoke slowly and clearly, as if she had all the time in the world. Everybody listening knew this was something that would go wider and deeper, like the circles to the far shore when a small stone sinks. She had started with a hesitant voice, but ended it with tears, full of thanks to the good people of Rathsorney and, above all, to Ella, who ran the Ballroom Café.
    ‘A romantic name, for sure; what sort of establishment is it?’ the presenter asked.
    Debbie giggled, the lightness of her voice conveying more than the description that followed of the best little café this side of the Atlantic. Ella felt her cheeks glow red with embarrassment and pride, despite the tears streaming down her face, plopping into the dish water. She dried her hands carefully, as if she were about to collect a prize, and decided to get up an hour earlier the next morning, to throw a few extra cakes in the oven. It might be time to try out a lemon meringue pie, though she worried she would not have the time or patience to stand at the stove and stir to get the required thickness of the lemon curd. Maybe a duck-egg sponge cake with a dusting of icing sugar. She needed extra anyway, because even the lackadaisical would make an effort after hearing that