She would attend the party because she wanted to keep friends with Madeleine . . . and because she wanted to see Gabriel Fitzgerald again. But the real reason she would attend had nothing to do with other people. It was because she was determined to test herself out. To put into practice all the things she had learned over the last few years. To show how much she had changed, to anyone who might doubt her suitability as a friend of Madeleine Fitzgerald’s and as a guest at her home. More than anything, she was determined to pass herself with these people and to fit in with their surroundings.
The following Monday, Tara took a day’s holiday from work. She took a carefully counted six pounds from her savings, and cycled to Tullamore to catch the early morning train to Dublin. She had looked in on her granda, and given him a cup of tea and a slice of soda bread and butter before leaving. He didn’t look too bad this morning, and he gave her his usual parting of ‘Mind yourself,’ as she quietly left the house.
The train went just after seven, necessitating that Tara leave Ballygrace around twenty past six to give herself plenty of time to cycle into Tullamore. As she stepped out into the cold, dark November morning, she paused for a few moments to tie her hair under a floral scarf. She then debated with herself as to whether she should go back into the cottage and get her warmer camel-haired coat, as opposed to the light grey one she was wearing. Two reasons made her decide to brave the cold autumn morning in the lighter coat. First, she had all too often had favourite skirts and dresses ruined by smears of oil from the bike – and the camel coat had cost too much to let that happen. Secondly, it was likely to be warmer later on in Dublin, and she didn’t want to be laden down with a heavy coat all day.
On the open road to Tullamore, as the icy wind bit at her cheeks, and nipped at her hands and legs, Tara wondered about her choice of coat, and hoped and prayed that the weather would improve as the day progressed. At this time of the morning, there was little life about apart from the shadowy cows and sheep standing motionless in the fields, their warm breath forming white clouds around their heads.
As she pedalled along through Cappincur, a townland just outside Tullamore, some signs of human life began to stir in the form of an elderly man with a pony and cart, and several cyclists, huddled over the bike handlebars against the morning chill. By the time she reached the station, Tara had warmed up considerably. She left the bike against the side of the station building. Then, after smoothing her clothes and removing her headscarf, she took her black leather clutch bag from the carrier basket and made her way to the ticket office.
The train was only a couple of minutes late – good by the usual lackadaisical standards. Tara boarded it with mounting excitement at the thought of the whole day which lay ahead of her in Dublin. She found a quiet carriage and, after removing her coat, she sat back in the seat, enjoying the journey as they passed through the expansive, misty fields of Offaly then out through the less familiar territory of Kildare.
When she wasn’t occupied looking out of the little space she had rubbed in the steamed-up window, Tara stole discreet glances at the other passengers, most of them heading off for their day’s work in the big city, intermingled with the odd shopper or nun.
She compared the outfits the other girls were wearing with her own emerald-green dress with the buttoned-down collar and nipped-in waist, and the matching velvet band she wore in her loose red hair.
After eyeing up a number of girls she eventually decided that she was very satisfied with her own outfit. While her mind fluttered from the shops she intended to visit, to the sort of birthday present she should take to the party – she sat completely oblivious to the admiring glances the men in the carriage were giving her.
The green fields and hedges and grazing cattle gave way to buildings that got taller and closer together – and heralding the train’s arrival in Dublin. Tara felt her heartbeat quicken at the thought of the exciting day in front of her. She made her way purposefully out through the city station and, saving the coppers she could have spent on a tram, she headed down along the Quays. She walked along in her neat low-heeled shoes, past the busy Guinness Brewery on one side and the Collins Barracks on the other, enjoying the hustle and bustle of the city traffic.
It would have been nice to have company with her for the day, but Tara knew that there was no point in asking Biddy or any of the other girls from Ballygrace to come up to Dublin. For a start, Biddy would not have been allowed. Lizzie Lawless reckoned that Dublin embodied all that was wrong in the world, with loose women and fast cars – little knowing the carnal deeds that were taking place under her own pinched nose.
Besides, Biddy would not have had the money or the confidence to enter the big shops that Tara intended to patronise. An example of her backwardness had been her reaction to Tara’s party invitation. “You’re hardly going to go?” she had said with wide eyes, after scanning the printed card.
“I am,” Tara had replied.
“I would die!” Biddy said, clutching her throat at the thought. “Imagine having to walk into that place, and you only knowing Madeleine.” Her eyes rolled in horror. “All the ones from that posh school in their fancy cars and their fancy clothes . . .” And then she had hesitated, pondering something over in her mind. “Sure, it will be no bother to the likes of you, Tara. The way you dress yerself and the way you go on is nearly the same as them.”
Tara’s eyebrows had shot up defensively. “What d’you mean? The way I go on?”
Biddy had looked flustered, not wishing to incur her friend’s wrath. “What I mean is,” she said, deliberating each word carefully, “that you can nearly pass yerself off as Quality . . . ye have a fancier – a nicer – way of talkin’ and goin’ on than the likes of me.”
Eventually, Tara decided to accept her friend’s remarks as a compliment – for Biddy was adamant that she was indeed praising her.
Later on that same evening, when her Uncle Mick was out the back fixing a fence, she had told her granda about the invitation, and asked him if he minded her going to the party. Noel had put the book he was reading down on his lap, and looked into the glowing turf fire for a good minute before replying. “Tara,” he said, turning to look at her, “you’re growing up, and you’re going to have to learn to make a lot of decisions from now on.” He’d paused and pursed his blue-tinged lips together. “You’ll just have to learn – like the rest of us – to make up yer own mind about people. I’m not going to argue with you any more, about who you should be chattin’ to, and who ye should be keepin’ away from. You’re a clever girl . . . all the teachers at school and the parish priest have told me and yer father that. From here on in – it’s up to yourself. If you have a mind to go to the party – or anywhere else for that matter – then please yerself and go.”
Half of Tara had felt pleased at her granda’s reply and half of her had felt confused. It was good that he thought she was growing up and mature enough to make up her own mind – but there was something worrying about her granda not giving his usual advice. “D’you still not like the Fitzgeralds, Granda?” she asked quietly.
Noel Flynn reached down for his pipe and tobacco to the little table he now kept beside his rocking chair. This was to save him having to get to his feet to reach the mantelpiece – an action which now left him dizzy. He took his penknife out of his waistcoat pocket, and after opening the wrapping of the small hard block of tobacco, started to peel fine slices off it. “It makes no difference in the world,” he said, “whether I like them or not. If the truth be told, I don’t know the people. I only know their sort – and their sort wouldn’t normally give the likes of us the time of day. This friend of yours – the young Madeleine one – she seems different to the others. She obviously looks for more in people than just money.” Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze back to meet Tara’s eyes. “It’s up to you, and whether you feel you can take it. Whether you can keep yer tongue between yer teeth, and have yer own thoughts, or whether you think you can match them.
You have the looks and the brains, and you have a determination in you to be as good as anybody else. That might be what makes the difference. You’re entitled to better yerself, and you’re entitled to have all the things that comes from doing well. If you have the guts – and the determination – then all I can say is good luck to you.”
“So,” Tara said hesitantly, “do you think it’s all right for me to go to the party?”
Noel struck a match and then lit his pipe with a shaky hand. “If that’s what you want to do, then don’t let anybody stop you. Life’s too short to waste on trying to please other people. It was different when you were small and we had to show you the right road to do everything. You’re nearly a woman now and you’ll have to find yer own road.” He reached out his frail, work-worn hand and took hers. “Whatever you do, my little darlin’ – be careful. You’re a grand-looking girl, Tara, and there’s many a man will set his cap at ye. Just make sure they’re good to you, and don’t be like yer father – always thinkin’ that the grass is greener on the other side. Once you have your bed made, you’ll have no option but to lie in it.”
* * *
When she reached the ‘Ha’penny Bridge’ – the little iron bridge which spans the Liffey – Tara decided to head straight for Grafton Street. There was a Bewley’s cafe around there where she knew she could get a good cooked breakfast for a reasonable price. It was one of the places that the parish priest had recommended, when she and the old aunties were on a day’s visit to see Joe in the seminary. She had been in Bewley’s several times, and felt more comfortable going there than into one she didn’t know.
Dublin city – although busy to country folk – was still in its sleepy, early morning state. It was only half-past eight and the shops were not open until nine or after. Many of the stores were lifeless with blinds pulled and brown paper or newspaper covering any goods which might fade in the early morning sun.
Tara walked along at a leisurely pace, occasionally halting to look into some of the shop windows which caught her eye. Several times she paused outside a cheaper restaurant or cafe, tempted by the smell of bacon and sausages frying, but she pressed on. Instinctively, and no matter how uncomfortable it initially felt, Tara would from now on push herself into the situations and places that she knew the Quality would frequent. Like her foray into Bewley’s – she knew that the more she went into these places, the more familiar and relaxed she would become. And the more she studied the people who patronised the premises – the more like them she would become.
As on her last visit to the restaurant, Tara ordered a small glass of orange juice with her breakfast, and then a pot of coffee for afterwards. The hot drink did not taste as bitter or strange as the first time she had tried it, and she confidently spooned in some brown sugar – and chose cream instead of milk.
Tara was also pleased with the attention she had received from the young waitress, in her long white frilled pinafore and little frilled cap, who had called her Madam. After paying at the till, she stepped confidently out into Grafton Street to enjoy the rest of her adventure in Dublin.
In the hour she had spent having her breakfast, the city had both livened up and warmed up. Tara left the buttons open on her coat, glad that she had opted for the lightweight garment after all. She made her way up the street, stopping every so often to look in at the ladies’ wear shops, and if the prices looked within her range, she went inside and had a look at the clothes on display.
Choosing just the right outfit for the party was not an easy task. Early November was cool enough to venture into winter colours and heavier weight materials, but not near enough to Christmas to warrant the really fancy clothes she could have chosen for the festive season.Tara carefully inspected the racks of dresses and suits and studied the outfits on the shop dummies, trying to gauge the sort of accessories that would complete the right look for the party. She saw one or two promising dresses early on in her shopping, but decided to carry on checking out the rest of the shops in case she saw something better.
Towards the top of Grafton Street, a jewellery display in the window of a large department store caught Tara’s eye and as she scanned the items on one of the black velvet pads she saw the perfect gift for Madeleine’s birthday. It was a beautiful little brooch with a white profile of a lady’s face set on a brown background. The card at the top of the display said ‘Cameo Collection’, and as Tara stared at it, she knew it was exactly the type of present her friend would love.
“The setting and the clip at the back of the brooch are nine-carat gold, madam,” the elderly sales assistant told Tara. Then she asked: “Is it for yourself?”
Tara shook her head. “No, it’s a present for a friend.”
“Well, you’ll be delighted to know that it comes with a special gift box.”
The brooch was slightly more than Tara had budgeted for, but she felt sure that it was just right. It was worth the extra few shillings, both to please Madeleine and to feel confident that she wasn’t letting herself down.
Spurred on by her purchase, Tara came out of the shop delighted with herself, and looking forward to completing the rest of her shopping. She paused outside the shop, first looking towards the top of Grafton Street and St Stephen’s Green, and then back down towards O’Connell Street – debating which would be the best direction to take. She had almost exhausted all the ladies’ wear shops in Grafton Street, and was wondering whether it was worth checking out the few that she had not been in yet.
She decided to try the last few shops in the immediate area, as she knew she might regret it later, when she had trudged all the way over O’Connell Bridge to the shops on the other side. She looked at the little watch her granda and Uncle Mick had bought her last Christmas. It was nearly two o’clock. A wave of panic washed over her, as she realised she had only a few more hours to pick her outfit for the party.
She turned quickly now, in the direction of the next ladies’ wear shop, and bumped straight into a young man who had been looking into the shop window next to her.
“Tara?” a very surprised voice said. “It is you, isn’t it?”
When she lifted her head to look at the young man in the dark overcoat and university scarf, she got the shock of her life. “Gabriel!” she gasped, her legs suddenly weak. “What are you doing here?”
He pushed his blond hair back off his forehead in an embarrassed manner. “I was just about to ask you the same question,” he laughed. “I’ve got the afternoon off lectures. I had a dentist appointment – I’m having trouble with a wisdom tooth and I had to have an X-ray.”
“Was it painful?” she asked sympathetically.
“It wasn’t too bad.” He gave a grin that made Tara’s heart lurch. “Having it out is going to be a different matter, I’m definitely not looking forward to that.”
As Tara looked at Gabriel, she suddenly felt all awkward and shy. Then, she realised she would have to think of something to say to keep the conversation going, or he would go about his business. “D’you often get time off from your classes?” she asked, nervously moving her brown bag from one hand to the other.
“It depends if you can talk your way out of it . . . anyway, I’m off the hook for a couple of hours, thanks be to God!” He paused. “What about yourself? What plans have you?”
“Nothing really,” she said. “I’m just shopping.”
“Have you had lunch yet?”
Tara hesitated, not sure what to say. “I had breakfast in Bewley’s when I arrived..”
“That’s exactly where I’m heading for,” he said. “I don’t suppose you feel ready to eat again, do you?”
Tara held her breath, and gripped the handles of the brown-paper bag tightly. She didn’t know how to reply to his question, because she didn’t really know what he was asking. Did he want her to join him for lunch – or was he just chatting for the sake of it? A sudden breeze lifted the back of her hair. Grateful for the excuse, she turned her head awa
y to smooth her hair down.
“I will, of course, pay for lunch,” Gabriel said quickly. “I’d love the company . . . I hate going into restaurants on my own.”
“No – no – you will not!” Tara protested. “I have my own money.”
His eyes lit up, and he bent his head towards her. “I’ve invited you, so I’m paying. No arguments.” Then he put his hand under her elbow and guided her down Grafton Street.
Tara felt very proud, but nervous, as she walked into the restaurant with Gabriel Fitzgerald. The palms of her hands were damp, and her throat was tight and strange. She also felt as if she had just eaten a huge meal, even though it had been several hours before. If it had been any other person, she knew she would have made her excuses and left. She would not have dreamt of wasting the precious time she had left in Dublin. But Gabriel was not any other person – and there was nothing else in the world she wanted to do but sit across a table from him for the rest of the afternoon.
As Tara’s head was bent over the menu, Gabriel found his gaze drawn to the abundant flaming hair, held in submission by the velvet band, and the long slim fingers curving round the hard-backed menu. Tara Flynn had always caught his eye. When they were younger, he had been acutely aware of her presence. Even when she was silent, she always looked lively and interested in everything. She looked so bright – so vital.
Madeleine had brought a number of friends home from boarding school, on special weekends or at the holidays, but none of them were like the young woman sitting opposite him now. They always seemed boring and childish to him, or silly and giggly.
He hadn’t given Tara any thought recently. Why should he, when she hardly ever crossed his path? University had taken up all his attention, what with moving up to Dublin, and studying – and getting used to having girls around him everywhere. Getting used to girls – that was the strangest part, after spending years in a boys’ boarding school.
Tara Flynn Page 11
