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Authors: Ann O'Loughlin
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times and bad.’
‘She hardly married him for the meat,’ Ella said.
‘Well, the lad she has gone off with is younger than her. They say he is a mature student, whatever that is. I wonder what he saw in her. For God’s sake, Ella, she is in her sixties if she is a day. She must be mad, throwing up a good man like Tom Mason. So good he never asked her once to help out in the shop. He said a lady of her gentility should not have to look at dead animals. What I wouldn’t give for a man like that.’
Ella did not answer, but Muriel continued regardless.
‘You know what will happen. That young man will throw her over next month or maybe next year and that saint of a butcher, the fool, will take her back. Well, I for one will never talk to her again. She can buy her stamps somewhere else.’
‘They might be in love,’ Ella said.
They sat quietly for a moment, each in their own way envious of the butcher’s wife.
‘It will come to no good end. I know that for sure,’ Muriel snorted.
‘Maybe,’ Ella said.
A van trundled up the driveway.
‘You are getting another delivery, Ella.’
‘A few pots of flowers to brighten up the front.’
Behind the screen, Debbie slumped against the sink, her head down, pain gripping her insides, a sick feeling rising inside her. She pulled over a small stool and sat, her head resting on the cool stainless-steel rim of the sink, her body stiff with pain. Pulling deep breaths, she waited, hoping this episode would pass. She had only a few weeks left in this place; why she was wasting it helping set up the Ballroom Café, she simply did not know.
9
Bowling Green, October 1968
Agnes had been missing exactly a month when Debbie’s birthday came along. They had a small cake with eight candles and she blew them out quickly, the pain in her heart too much that Mommy was not there. That morning she had got up and sat by the window until Rob called her, taking her into such a tight bear hug she could feel the well of grief inside him. When he produced the cake, she loved him because he remembered and because he was so strong for her.
It was the first year there was not the usual trouble around her birthday.
Every other year an agitation infused Agnes, who became crotchety and cross with her daughter. Debbie only picked up on the tension as she approached her fifth birthday.
For weeks she pestered Agnes about a party. She thought of cake and balloons and her mother happy and beautiful. Mary Power’s mother had baked and iced a cake to look exactly like their house, with Mary waving from the top window.
‘If we try to do that it will look a mess, because your father never bothers about the upkeep of the house.’
Agnes surely griped a lot more, her mouth contorted, her eyes narrow, but Debbie did not listen. She tuned in for the last bit, which came loud and clear.
‘You can forget about a party this year. I am just not up to it.’
She went upstairs to lie down and was still there when her husband came home from work. The house was quiet; his daughter was sitting, her arms folded, at the kitchen table.
‘What’s wrong, baby face?’
Debbie threw herself at him and began to sob.
‘Hey, hey, what could be so bad?’ He took out his handkerchief and dabbed her eyes gently.
‘Mommy says I can’t have a birthday party and I’ve told everybody at school I’m going to have the best party ever.’
‘I’m sure Mommy didn’t mean that exactly. Let me go and talk to her.’ He tucked her up in a blanket with a plate of cookies in front of the TV.
She waited until she heard him go into the bedroom before tiptoeing up the stairs.
‘Aggie, you can’t do this to her. She is only four, for Christ’s sake.’
‘“I want, I want, I want.” I’m not running myself ragged over this.’
‘Aggie, she’s excited. Remember when she was born? We were so happy.’
There was a loud crash. When she looked through the keyhole, Debbie saw her father ducking down by the
‘She hardly married him for the meat,’ Ella said.
‘Well, the lad she has gone off with is younger than her. They say he is a mature student, whatever that is. I wonder what he saw in her. For God’s sake, Ella, she is in her sixties if she is a day. She must be mad, throwing up a good man like Tom Mason. So good he never asked her once to help out in the shop. He said a lady of her gentility should not have to look at dead animals. What I wouldn’t give for a man like that.’
Ella did not answer, but Muriel continued regardless.
‘You know what will happen. That young man will throw her over next month or maybe next year and that saint of a butcher, the fool, will take her back. Well, I for one will never talk to her again. She can buy her stamps somewhere else.’
‘They might be in love,’ Ella said.
They sat quietly for a moment, each in their own way envious of the butcher’s wife.
‘It will come to no good end. I know that for sure,’ Muriel snorted.
‘Maybe,’ Ella said.
A van trundled up the driveway.
‘You are getting another delivery, Ella.’
‘A few pots of flowers to brighten up the front.’
Behind the screen, Debbie slumped against the sink, her head down, pain gripping her insides, a sick feeling rising inside her. She pulled over a small stool and sat, her head resting on the cool stainless-steel rim of the sink, her body stiff with pain. Pulling deep breaths, she waited, hoping this episode would pass. She had only a few weeks left in this place; why she was wasting it helping set up the Ballroom Café, she simply did not know.
9
Bowling Green, October 1968
Agnes had been missing exactly a month when Debbie’s birthday came along. They had a small cake with eight candles and she blew them out quickly, the pain in her heart too much that Mommy was not there. That morning she had got up and sat by the window until Rob called her, taking her into such a tight bear hug she could feel the well of grief inside him. When he produced the cake, she loved him because he remembered and because he was so strong for her.
It was the first year there was not the usual trouble around her birthday.
Every other year an agitation infused Agnes, who became crotchety and cross with her daughter. Debbie only picked up on the tension as she approached her fifth birthday.
For weeks she pestered Agnes about a party. She thought of cake and balloons and her mother happy and beautiful. Mary Power’s mother had baked and iced a cake to look exactly like their house, with Mary waving from the top window.
‘If we try to do that it will look a mess, because your father never bothers about the upkeep of the house.’
Agnes surely griped a lot more, her mouth contorted, her eyes narrow, but Debbie did not listen. She tuned in for the last bit, which came loud and clear.
‘You can forget about a party this year. I am just not up to it.’
She went upstairs to lie down and was still there when her husband came home from work. The house was quiet; his daughter was sitting, her arms folded, at the kitchen table.
‘What’s wrong, baby face?’
Debbie threw herself at him and began to sob.
‘Hey, hey, what could be so bad?’ He took out his handkerchief and dabbed her eyes gently.
‘Mommy says I can’t have a birthday party and I’ve told everybody at school I’m going to have the best party ever.’
‘I’m sure Mommy didn’t mean that exactly. Let me go and talk to her.’ He tucked her up in a blanket with a plate of cookies in front of the TV.
She waited until she heard him go into the bedroom before tiptoeing up the stairs.
‘Aggie, you can’t do this to her. She is only four, for Christ’s sake.’
‘“I want, I want, I want.” I’m not running myself ragged over this.’
‘Aggie, she’s excited. Remember when she was born? We were so happy.’
There was a loud crash. When she looked through the keyhole, Debbie saw her father ducking down by the
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