Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Also by Geraldine O’Neill

  The Flowers of Ballygrace

  The Grace Girls

  Tara’s Fortune

  Aishling Gayle

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook Published 2012

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © Geraldine O’Neill 2002

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Typesetting, layout, design, Ebook © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781781990834

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Geraldine O’Neill was born in Lanarkshire, Scotland, and now lives in County Offaly in Ireland. She is married to Michael Brosnahan and they have two adult children, Christopher and Clare.

  Acknowledgements

  A very warm thanks to Paula Campbell, and the staff at Poolbeg for their encouragement, advice and help. A special thanks to my editor Gaye Shortland for her constant support and cheery optimism, given in such a down-to-earth, friendly way.

  Thanks to my agent, Sugra Zaman from Watson, Little Ltd., London, for her total belief in Tara Flynn and in my writing.

  Thanks to the Offaly Writers’ Group for their long-term support, especially Malcolm Ross-McDonald for his guidance and expertise. A warm thanks to Peter Brady for his advice and suggestions, and to Pauline Walshe for her encouragement.

  Thanks to my mother, Be-be O’Neill for information about Offaly during Tara Flynn’s time and to my mother-in-law, Mary Hynes for details about Stockport.

  Thanks to my own family; my father Teddy O’Neill, sisters Teresa, Kate and Berni, my brother Eamonn and brother-in-law, Eddie McManus, for their support in a difficult year.

  Loving thanks to my children, Christopher and Clare, who have always praised and encouraged me in my writing.

  And a final thanks to my old college boyfriend, Michael Brosnahan, for his endless support and constant encouragement. I’m delighted that Tara Flynn has come to print in our Silver Anniversary year.

  Tara Flynn is dedicated to my beloved sister,

  Patricia McManus

  who left us in May, 2001

  For Patricia

  No matter where its seed fell,

  it made a tree which struggled

  to reach the sky.

  It grew lushly in the tenement districts,

  Some people called it

  ‘The Tree of Heaven’.

  A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

  PART ONE

  If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost:

  That is where they should be.

  Now put the foundations

  under them.

  henry david thoreau

  County Offaly, Ireland

  1956

  Ballygrace House stood in several acres of neglected gardens, about a mile outside Ballygrace village, and three miles west of Tullamore. The house was large, rambling and run-down, but still had the imposing charm that had long led the local children to refer to it as ‘Ballygrace Castle’.

  According to the auctioneers’ brochure, it had been built first in the late eighteenth century, then badly damaged during the Troubles, and later rebuilt in the 1920’s. It waited patiently for its new owner. Someone fortunate enough to have the asking price, and another small fortune to pay for the running costs. The house was waiting to soak up money – like the miles of bog surrounding it would soak up water.

  The auctioneer observed the tall elegant woman as she paced up and down the large marble hallway with its sweeping staircase. Meticulously wrapped in her brown velvet coat and extravagant matching hat, she had examined every inch of the house, making notes in a leather-bound notebook.

  John Costelloe followed her Italian crocodile shoes as they tapped up and down stairs, in and out of rooms, and then out into the overgrown gardens. She obviously had no need or wish for him to show her around the house. She had started off at a confident pace the moment she had stepped inside Ballygrace House, as though she knew exactly where she was going.

  Strangely, she had returned several times to one particular bedroom door on the upstairs landing – but had hovered outside the room, as though afraid to cross the threshold. Instinctively, John Costelloe retreated back downstairs, not wishing her to feel that her movements were being observed. He made no comments whatsoever, knowing that she was perfectly capable of asking for his help when it was required.

  She had asked him none of the usual questions that a female viewer might ask, and paid scant attention to the existing furniture or decor – apart from the grand piano. The first time she had stepped into the drawing-room, she had made straight for the carefully covered instrument. She had thrown the dusty sheets aside, and then placed her graceful hands on the cool, ebony wood.

  It was on her second visit to the drawing-room that she had lifted the lid of the piano, and ran her fingers over the black and ivory keys. While John Costelloe had loitered in the hallway, she pulled out the velvet-covered stool and started to play the most beautiful, haunting music.

  When the piece was finished, she had remained silent in the room for several minutes, then she came out into the hallway for one last look around the rest of the house. As she passed by the auctioneer, her head bowed, he was convinced he saw her wipe away a stray tear. But John Costelloe’s thoughts were quickly diverted by the subtle tones of her perfume and her graceful carriage as she mad
e her way back upstairs.

  The odd comment she had made about the house had surprised the auctioneer. He was taken aback by her knowledge about the structure of the property, her observations of the stonework and the pointing, and the general condition of the building. These were all the areas he would have scrutinised if he were buying such a house, but that was his business. It was an auctioneer’s business to know such things – hardly the business of a wealthy, elegant young woman.

  John Costelloe felt very little would escape this particular lady’s notice. The longer they spent together, the more curious he became. “You seem familiar with the house,” he dared to venture.

  The well-manicured hands snapped the notebook shut. She lifted her green, penetrating eyes, and studied him for a few moments. “I used to know it very well,” she said in a measured tone. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “You haven’t been back in recent years?”

  She walked across the hallway and looked out through the stained-glass window at the late autumn sky. “I haven’t been in Ballygrace House since I was eighteen years old.”

  John detected an Irish accent beneath the polished, English veneer – and his interest was whetted even more. Everything about the woman spoke of breeding and money – from the expensive clothes to the exquisite pearls in her ears and around her elegant throat. If anyone could be described as the perfect owner for Ballygrace House – she was that person.

  “It feels all right,” she suddenly said, her face breaking into a smile. “The house feels much better than I thought it would.”

  John Costelloe smiled back, then wondered how old she was. Her polished, confident bearing had made him estimate her as approaching thirty. But now, her face relaxed and smiling, she looked much younger. She looked younger than his own age of twenty-eight. She must come from a very well-heeled family, he thought, to contemplate viewing a house like this. He suddenly wondered how she would look without the hat. He watched her now ascend the staircase again and fancied he could see wisps of flame-coloured hair trying to escape from under it.

  She reached the upstairs landing and hesitated outside the same room once again. Then he felt his own body tense as she finally threw open the bedroom door and walked in. After a few minutes of pacing around the bedroom, she came back downstairs. Her face revealed nothing. “I need time to think about it,” she told him now – her manner brusque and businesslike again. “To move over to Ireland would be a considerable upheaval.”

  “Of course,” John Costelloe replied. “I imagine a property like this will be on the market for some time yet . . . it’s not everyone who could afford the asking price. You have our phone number.”

  The auctioneer carefully locked up Ballygrace House and together they descended the mossy stone steps. “Would you like a lift to the end of the driveway?” he asked, knowing she had arranged to be picked up from that spot.

  She checked her watch. “Yes, thank you,” she replied. “We’re a little earlier than I thought.”

  He held the passenger door open for her as she climbed gracefully into the car. She loosened her coat and then a hand came up to sweep the hat from her head.

  John Costelloe had been right about her hair. He held his breath as a cascade of russet curls tumbled down around her shoulders. He was not the first man who had felt the desire to run his fingers through that beautiful, unruly mane of hair.

  Chapter One

  1937

  The draught from the open door scattered a flurry of snowflakes across the stone floor of the thatched cottage.

  “You’ve left it till the last minute, as usual.” The old Irishman’s voice was low and full of reproach. He straightened his spine against the wooden rocking chair, prepared for the usual conflict. “For God’s sake close the door behind you or we’ll lose the bit of heat we have.”

  Shay Flynn carefully negotiated the step down into his father’s cottage. Too many times lately – due to the drink – he had missed it, and gone sprawling his full length across the floor. He closed the door and, with great concentration, made for a three-legged stool on the opposite side of the turf fire from his father.

  “I’ve come straight from Midnight Mass,” Shay said in a pious whisper. “I never wasted a minute.”

  Old Noel gave a grunt of disbelief and closed the book he was reading. “Well,” he said, thumbing towards the small settle bed in the corner, “did you bring her anything?”

  Shay stood up and fumbled deep in his overcoat pocket. “I got her a few apples and oranges . . . that’s all I could find.” He placed them on the mantelpiece, beside the stocking that was pinned down by a heavy candlestick. “The shops were closing by the time I got into town . . .”

  Noel Flynn cleared his throat and spat in the fire. “Pity about the shop selling porter and whiskey. By the cut of you, you’d no trouble finding that.”

  Shay bent his knees to sit back down on the stool; then he remembered. He straightened up again and dug into his other pocket. “Oh . . . an’ Mrs Kelly gave me a few nuts and sugar sticks for her, too.”

  The old man looked over at the little bed again, checking the child was still asleep, then he got up and went into his bedroom. A few moments later he came back with a small package wrapped in brown paper. It was a child’s story book. “Here,” he said gruffly, “put that in the stocking for her. If that and the other things don’t fill it, you may dig deep in your pocket for any coppers the pub didn’t get.” He lifted his pipe from the mantelpiece. “I don’t suppose it will make any difference what you put in . . . nothing but the doll will please her.”

  Shay’s shoulders slumped. He pulled off his damp cap and twisted it between his hands. “Christ Almighty. . . how could I afford ten bob for a china doll? Where the hell does she think the money comes from?”

  “It’s not where the money comes from that matters,” Noel replied, “but where it goes.”

  Shay shook his curly dark head. “I have her brother to think of, too,” he whispered heatedly. “By the time I give the ould aunties somethin’ for him every week, and pay for the bite to eat here and everythin’. . . sure I’m left with nothing.”

  “Your priorities are all wrong,” his father stated. “The child’s doll would have been paid for long ago if you’d left the porter alone.”

  “Oh, feck off about the doll, will you?” Shay grabbed viciously at the stocking, wishing it was his father’s scrawny old neck. “She’ll get what I can afford to give her and it’ll have to do – whether it pleases her or not. This oul’ Christmas craic is nothin’ but a heap of shite!”

  Shay had come home tonight with more on his mind than Christmas. He’d come home with news that would benefit them all, but his father had spoiled things as usual – with his oul’ moanin’ and groanin’. Well, his father could feck off. He would keep his good news until he was sure it would be properly received.

  “You have Tara spoiled,” Shay said bitterly. “She’s nothin’ but a little oul’ brat . . . lookin’ for china dolls, when we’ve hardly a bit to ate in the house at times.” He sighed, suddenly weighed down by all the demands made on him. “An’ I’m going to have to go into Tullamore tomorrow, to give Joe a few coppers, as well.” He shook his head. “I can’t make meat of one and bones of the other.” It suited Shay to visit Tullamore for another, more important reason, but they could all wait until tomorrow to be told about that.

  The slur in his voice and his coarse language made the old man cluck his tongue in annoyance. “Put the stuff in the stocking, will you – and get yourself off to bed. I don’t want the child disturbed at this hour of the night.”

  There was a hostile silence between father and son. Shay fumbled about, dropping apples and oranges on the floor, while Noel struggled to hold his tongue and smoke his pipe at the same time. It was only the sleeping child that stopped him from venting his temper on his drunken, widowed son.

  But neither of the warring men knew that Tara Flynn was not asleep.


  She was lying on her little hay mattress, pretending. Pretending as usual, that she did not hear the adult conversations that went on in the room around her. Pretending that there was a Santy, when now she knew there was none. At five years of age – and as bright as a button – the flame-haired Tara Flynn was an expert at pretending.

  *  *  *

  The following morning, dressed in a second-hand night-gown, which had come all the way from America, Tara wiped away a tear and sucked thoughtfully on Mrs Kelly’s sugar stick. She was thinking of her friend, and how poor Biddy Hart wouldn’t have got anything at all for Christmas. Not even a bit of fruit. Her little friend didn’t even have a daddy – never mind a mammy. Biddy only had oul’ Lizzie Lawless to look after her and the other girl, and she was horrible to them. She was always in bad humour and they didn’t get very much to eat.

  Sometimes Tara had to share her bit of cakebread at dinner time in school. Poor Biddy hardly ever had bread with her, and she would eat anything, she was so hungry. Tara decided to keep one of her oranges and give it to Biddy at ten o’clock Mass.

  “Are you going to eat your stirabout, now?” Noel asked, lifting a small pot of oatmeal out of the fire.

  “Don’t want it!” Tara said with a pout, still thinking of the china doll she never got.

  “You’ll eat it,” her grandfather said slowly and firmly, “or you’ll have no dinner after Mass.”

  “Don’t want it,” she repeated, but her tone was less certain now.

  “Suit yourself, but don’t complain when we’re all eating the goose and you’re going hungry.” There was a pause. “And your Uncle Mick’s made a currant cake, too.”

  Tara sucked on the sugar stick a bit longer and worked things out in her mind. When she had cried earlier this morning over the doll, her father had mentioned somethingabout it not being long until her birthday. Her sixth birthday was in January and that wasn’t long after Christmas. January was the first month of the year.