Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Biddy folded her arms defensively and made round the back of the shed. There, leaning up against it, was a well-used but serviceable ladies’ bicycle. “Dinny!” she screeched in childish excitement, all pretence at being casual and aloof gone. Apart from Tara, Dinny was the only person who had ever given her anything in her life. She ran her hands over the worn leather seat, and along the back wheel. “Where did you get it?”

  “Never mind where I got it.” He gave a suggestive leer and sidled up next to her. “I’m more interested in what you’re goin to give me now.”

  Biddy turned towards him, her eyelashes fluttering and her hands on her hips. “It’ll have to be quick,” she said with a playful smile. “Lizzie could come out any minute and catch us.”

  “It’ll only be as long as it takes,” Dinny told her, delighted to be in charge of the situation again. He gave a quick glance round the side of the cottage, to make sure there was nobody about, then he motioned Biddy to go round to their usual spot at the back of the turf shed.

  In the time that it took Dinny to unbutton his trousers and release his straining erection, Biddy had quickly stepped out of the new knickers she had bought in Tullamore with Tara last weekend, and was unbuttoning the front of her polka-dot dress. She held the dress up around her thighs and then leaned up against the trunk of the massive hawthorn tree for support.

  “You’ll pull out before anything happens, won’t ye?” Biddy checked. “The last time ye nearly left it too late.”

  “I promise I’ll pull out in plenty of time,” he said thickly, his eyes roaming over the exposed parts of her ripe teenage body. As they moved together, one of Dinny’s hands found its way down the front of her brassiere, while the other worked between her legs.

  “Your hair smells lovely,” he grunted, then he lifted her left foot to rest on a log, placed there for the purpose so that she could accommodate him more easily. Then, he pushed upwards and thrust himself deep inside her young body.

  “I washed my hair for goin’ to the pictures,” Biddy replied, and then – as he started moving in and out of her – Biddy closed her eyes. She imagined that it was PJ Murphy who was holding and touching her, and she found the whole procedure surprisingly easy to endure.

  Chapter Eight

  October, 1949

  “I can’t imagine why you should want to ask a girl like that to your birthday party,” said Elisha Fitzgerald in an exasperated tone. “She’ll feel completely out of her depth with all your friends from boarding school.” She paused for a moment to stifle the huge sigh which she knew would only antagonise her daughter further. They had been at loggerheads since the summer holidays and it was late October. Every weekend that Madeleine came home from school brought fresh conflicts between the two women. It had now reached the point where Elisha dreaded her daughter’s arrival on a Friday evening.

  “Tara’s not typical of the girls from Ballygrace,” Madeleine answered evenly, leaning forward to take another blank invitation card, from the pile on the dining-room table. “And anyway, you’ve never even spoken to her, Mother. You can’t judge a person if you haven’t given them a chance.” She started to write Tara’s name on the envelope.

  “Mrs Scully says she’s from a very ordinary family, and that the girl has had to practically bring herself up.”

  “I should think that’s to Tara’s credit.” Madeleine’s voice was taking on an edge now, and she was starting to rub her right hand over her left forearm – a sign that she was getting agitated. A sign that her mother should not push the issue any further.

  “But she won’t know anyone at the party,” Elisha persisted. “The poor girl will be like a fish out of water! Her clothes – everything – will be different from the other girls.”

  “Mother!” Madeleine’s eyes were wide and starting to fill up with tears. “I will be eighteen years old in two weeks’ time. You’ve got to let me make my own decisions. I’ve been friends with Tara since we moved to Ballygrace, and I want her to come to my birthday party! I like her better than any of the other girls I know from school.” She halted for a moment to catch her breath. “I’ve agreed that it’s not suitable to ask Biddy Hart to the party. I can understand that Biddy would feel out of her depth with the other girls – but you have to have faith in my judgement over Tara. You know nothing whatsoever about her . . . she speaks very well, and there are times when she wears better clothes than I do.”

  Disbelief was stamped all over Elisha Fitzgeralds’s face.

  “I can assure you,” Madeleine reiterated, “she is very different to the other girls from Ballygrace.”

  Elisha took a deep breath. “All right!” she snapped. “Invite her if you must.”

  Madeleine stopped rubbing her arm and calmly laid her hands on the table. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Then, looking her mother straight in the eye, she added, “I intend to ask her to stay overnight, because it will be much too late, and too cold, to have her cycle home in the dark. As you well know, her family don’t have a car like the other girls.” Then, ignoring the indignant look which had spread on her mother’s face, she reached for a pen to continue writing Tara’s invitation.

  As she mounted the stairs to her bedroom, Elisha Fitzgerald wondered what she had done to deserve this latest thorn in her side. Things had only recently settled down to a more civilised basis between herself and William, now that their financial situation had improved.

  The move from Dublin to Offaly, he had decided, was a blessing in disguise. Just last month, William had come rushing home excitedly one afternoon, and asked Elisha if they could talk privately. “I have something to ask you – and I want you to think carefully before answering.”

  “What is it?” she had replied warily, her hands smoothing her severely coiffuired hair as she led the way to her husband’s study.

  William had walked over to the window and looked out at the berry-laden bushes and the late autumn roses, as though gathering inspiration. Then, he had strode across the room and taken both her hands in his and kissed them. The first gesture of affection he had shown her in a long time.

  He said beseechingly: “I want you to have faith in me, and back me in a new business venture.” He placed a finger on her lips, to silence any protest. “Hear me out before saying anything – and remember – I vow that I will never let you down again.”

  The outcome of the conversation was Elisha’s agreeing to fund William’s buying into another auctioneer’s office in Naas in County Kildare. A profitable business was due to go up for sale with a solid, dependable manager already at the helm. William reckoned that it was just the stepping-stone he needed to regain the business acumen he had lost in Dublin.

  He pointed out that Kildare was more lucrative land-wise due to the Curragh racing course and the growing number of stud farms. Another factor worth considering, was that the auctioneering businesses would provide careers for Gabriel and Madeleine, should they show any interest.

  After some thought, Elisha conceded that her husband had, after all, settled into rural life in the Midlands much better than she had hoped at the beginning. He had worked harder than she had ever seen him work at building up this new business. She did not admit to her husband that the idea of a position for Madeleine in his business had swayed her decision considerably. Gabriel was not a worry. He was a quiet, academic boy who would clearly do well in his chosen career. His sister was a different kettle of fish altogether.

  *  *  *

  On a Wednesday, two days later, Tara’s hands shook with excitement as she read the invitation that she had just received in the post. She had not seen Madeleine for months, although she had looked out for her – and Gabriel – at Mass in Ballygrace Church every Sunday. She presumed that since the family’s business concerns were firmly rooted in Tullamore, they had decided to patronise the town’s church on a more regular basis.

  “I can’t believe it!” she said to herself, turning the thick, gilt-edged card over and over
in her hands. As she read the PS on the back, inviting her to stay overnight, an anxious little frown creased her forehead. It was just over seven years ago since the day she was shown the door in Ballygrace House by that horrible Mrs Scully. And a lot had changed in seven years.

  Tara herself would be eighteen in January, and had been working full-time in the offices of a Tullamore whiskey distillery since May the previous year. She had kept up her piano classes and had passed every exam with honours so far. She had taken Gabriel Fitzgerald’s advice and was now in her second year attending bookkeeping and typing classes in Tullamore. Two evenings a week – on Tuesdays and Thursdays – she went straight from work to Molly and Maggie’s for her dinner, had a couple of hours’ practice on the piano, and then went on to her evening classes. Around ten o’clock she cycled back to Ballygrace with another local girl who was taking evening classes, too.

  Tara had kept up her little egg and poultry business over the years, and a few hours over the weekend doing the books for some of the little shops in Ballygrace and Daingean. As a result, her bank account had grown larger and larger – and she had grown more and more secretive about the money, knowing that her father would only be too delighted to get his hands on anything he thought she could spare.

  Shay never looked further than the few days – or at most, the week – ahead. Tessie, having seen the youngest child start school, had got herself a part-time job cleaning in a hotel in Tullamore. This was supposed to have given the family a bit extra, but Shay had seen it as an opportunity to allow himself a few extra jars of stout after his hard week’s work. He gave no thought to the work involved bringing up the houseful of children, and indeed after a few jars at the weekend, he often bemoaned his lot to his elderly father and bachelor brother.

  “If I had been anyway wise,” Tara had heard him rambling on to her granda and Uncle Mick the previous Friday evening, from the refuge of her bedroom, “I would have stayed here at home, where I was well off. If I had known what I know now . . . I would have contented meself with bein’ a bachelor again.” He’d gestured towards the glowing turf fire. “I could be happy sittin’ here nights with Tara to make me a cup of tea, and to bring me my bit to eat after work. I could have gone up the road for a few pints in the evenin’ without havin’ to explain meself. There’s never a penny I can call me own.” He had shook his head in sorrow. “Women are the ruination of men.”

  “Away with you! You’re nothing short of a fool, man.” Noel Flynn’s voice was now thin and frail, as was his body. He had struggled up from his old armchair, made his painful way to the door and unbolted it. “Go home, ya amadán – will you? Go home to your wife and childer! The wife and childer ye were well warned about. The road ye were determined to go down.”

  When Shay got up unsteadily to his feet, Mick laid a firm hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the open cottage door. “You made yer bed, Shay,” he said quietly, “now you may lie in it.”

  “Jaysus!” Shay had said, staggering out into the night air. “It’s great sympathy I’m gettin’ from ye all.” He gave a drunken, strangled sob. “I thought me own kind at least would have had a sympathetic word for me.”

  “Mind yourself and go easy on the bike,” Mick had called into the darkness. Then, with a sigh of relief, he closed the door.

  Tara had also heaved a sigh of relief when she heard her father departing. The older she grew, the more grateful she grew that her father had had little or nothing to do with her upbringing. Though she often felt the lack of a mother, she knew that she was better off with her granda and her Uncle Mick than her father. Since she had reached womanhood, they had let her come and go as she pleased, and left any major decisions in her life up to herself. Her granda was always there to offer advice if she asked for it, but he never interfered with her business.

  Lately, Tara had been out very little, apart from her evening classes and her piano lessons, and the odd Saturday afternoon at the pictures. Since her granda had not been so great, she felt happier staying at home. In fairness to him and her Uncle Mick, they both encouraged her to go out in Tullamore or to the dances in the town hall in Daingean, but recently she always refused. The local boys from Ballygrace and the surrounding villages held no great interest for her, although she got on well with them. Apart from the ones who came into the dances with a drink on them. She had seen enough of that in her father, and couldn’t bring herself to be pleasant to anybody who remotely resembled him after a few pints.

  If somebody like Gabriel Fitzgerald had gone to the dances – then that would have been different. But it wasn’t the type of place he would go. He had left school this year, too, and was now in his first year at UCD. Tara supposed it made no difference where he was, whether it was boarding school or university in Dublin, because she never saw much of him anyway.

  She derived some comfort from the fact that his name had never been mentioned with any local girls. The talk amongst Biddy and the others she met at Mass revolved around who was at the pictures last night or the local dances – and Gabriel never seemed to be there.

  Tara always stood just on the fringe of the circle of giggling girls, waiting for Biddy to have a chat on their own. It didn’t matter that she and Biddy never went out together very often; they were still good friends, and always kept each other up to date on what they were doing.

  Meanwhile, Tara was busy at her night classes, her music, reading up on the latest fashions – and improving herself generally. Since leaving school, Tara realised that there was no point in dressing like a lady, if she didn’t sound like one. Working on the telephone in the office had sorted out her problem, and forced her into adopting a more ‘refined’ accent.

  When she first started in the office, many of the people who rang the distillery from Dublin and England had expressed difficulty in understanding her Ballygrace brogue. Initially, Tara was mortified and very self-conscious, and on one particular occasion went home and cried on her granda’s shoulder.

  “You sound fine to me, mavourneen,” he comforted her, “but if you’re going to travel any distance, you’ll have to lose some of the ould Ballygrace brogue if you want to be understood. Rightly or wrongly, you’re judged by the way you look and by what comes out of your mouth. You need to make sure you sound right if you want to get on in the world.” The old man leaned over and patted her hand. “You’re not going to be one of the ones that stay around Ballygrace, Tara, and you need to know how to adjust to the big world outside. My own sisters and brothers had to adjust when they went to America and England. Who knows,” he said softly, “you might end up in one of them places yerself.”

  “I’m quite content where I am,” Tara had quickly replied. “I wouldn’t like to live anywhere else other than here – with you and my Uncle Mick.”

  “That’s grand for now, girleen,” Noel said with a smile, “but time changes many a thing. It’s like the tide coming in with the sea. It comes in whether we like it or not.”

  Tara meant what she said. Her life had changed enough recently – leaving school and going to night classes and all the cycling to and from Tullamore every day. For the time being, she wanted everything else to continue as it was. She wanted to come home from work in the evenings, make supper for the three of them, then tidy up. She spent the rest of the evening studying or maybe visiting Mrs Kelly, who – like her granda – was now housebound. During October, Tara had gone to Devotions in church with Biddy on the evenings she didn’t have night school, but the rest of the night was spent with her granda and Mick.

  Recently, when Tara studied the old man, a cold hand clutched at her heart, for she could see a big change in him. Over the last two years he had undoubtedly lost weight, and his normally ruddy cheeks had a sickly grey pallor to them. Tara had tried to tempt his failing appetite by giving him larger portions of his favourite plain, but nourishing, meals. But Noel Flynn was no longer fit to digest the slices of ham and beef which Tara and Mick made sure they had in plen
ty for him.

  Tara looked down at the card once again and wondered why she had received the invitation to Ballygrace House. It most certainly would have been discussed with Madeleine’s parents, because she would not dare to invite her without their permission.

  As she pondered over it, a little knot of doubt tightened in her stomach. The last time she had been in Ballygrace House, she had been a naive eleven-year-old girl, too curious for her own good. But Tara was no longer that naive child. In those intervening years she had studied carefully from magazines and books, and had more insight into how the other half lived. She had studied the clothes and habits of people like the Fitzgeralds, until she knew by heart the cutlery that they used and the sorts of dishes that they ate. She had read up on table settings and napkins, and had tried out new recipes from cookery magazines whenever she could find the ingredients.

  Never again would Tara Flynn be told by the likes of Mrs Scully that she wasn’t good enough. She owed it to herself and her granda to prove that she could hold her head up in any kind of company. She knew that she was the smartest dressed girl in Ballygrace Church every Sunday, and was constantly being asked where she had bought this hat or that pair of shoes from. The look of amazement on some of the girls’ faces, when she told them that she had bought them in Dublin, said it all. Since she was sixteen years of age, Tara had found her way up to the city. She had cycled into Tullamore, then caught the train up to Dublin, and had made her way to the glamorous shops that she saw advertised in the national newspaper and in the ladies’ magazines. After she had found the big department stores in Grafton Street and O’Connell Street, Tara knew she would never be satisfied with the smaller shops in Tullamore, ever again.

  She put the invitation down on the old pine table and decided that she would go. Even if Madeleine’s parents were not very welcoming, she would still go to the party and stay the night. She would not put a foot wrong, because she would keep silent rather than risk saying the wrong thing.