She forced herself to think of Gabriel – that was the only thing that could possibly make her feel better. He had been her last comforting thought before going to sleep last night after everything that had happened. She closed her eyes tightly – ignoring the throbbing behind the sockets – until a picture of him came into her mind. A picture of him sitting opposite her in Bewley’s that day in Dublin, and him smiling and chatting to her.
After a few minutes, she opened her eyes again, and let her gaze wander to her new rig-out, which hung outside her wardrobe door. Instead of the happy feeling she should have had, there was a nagging anxiety – the result of the horrible argument she’d had with her father.
Arguments with him were common enough, but the words that had passed between them on this occasion had gone straight to the very core of her. His parting words in particular, had done all but completely shatter her confidence.
After Shay had left, Tara had made a mug of tea for herself and Mick, and had taken one into her granda’s bedroom. She needed to check that he was okay, and the tea was the only excuse she could think of for going in to him, without making her anxiety obvious.
Mercifully, he seemed none the worse for the upset. He was propped up in his bed, with his prayer book in his hands and his brown rosary beads spread out on the top of the worn grey blanket. His lips were back to their usual pale colour, and his breathing was more relaxed.
“Pay no heed to him, mavourneen,” Old Noel said soothingly, moving his legs to let Tara sit down on the bed beside him. “When that fellow has drink taken, he would argue with the divil himself.” He looked up at the thatched ceiling and clucked his tongue in annoyance.
“Did you hear what he called me, Granda?” Tara said, hugging her mug of hot tea comfortingly to her chest. “He called me a beggar on horseback. Isn’t that a terrible name for a father to call his own daughter?”
“Pay no heed to him,” the old man said. “It was the drink talkin’ – not the man. He’ll be sorry about it all in the cold daylight.”
“Granda?” Tara whispered. “D’you think I’m making a fool of myself? D’you think I’d be better off staying at home instead of going to the party?” When the old man hesitated, she rushed on. “I don’t mind about my new costume and things – I can save them for Christmas. They won’t go to waste. I was thinking . . . I could ask the fellow with the hackney cab in Daingean to drop Madeleine’s present in, with a note saying I was taken sick.”
Noel took a sip of the milky tea Tara had pressed into his shaky hands, then he looked up into the sad face of his beloved granddaughter – the young woman who had brought so much light and love into the latter years of his life. For a few fleeting seconds, he saw the little girl in her face – the motherless child he had been unwilling to accept. The child he had grown to love in a fierce protective way.
It was strange the way things turned out, he thought. He had resigned himself to a life of hard work and no female company in the house after Hannah died. Little over a year later, everything had been turned on its head. Tara Flynn had indeed turned everything upside down. He had never had an empty moment after that, his eyes constantly on the burnished curly head as it bobbed from one thing to another, in and out of the house. He had taken her to school every morning until she was big enough to go by herself. Then he had waved her off at the door, watching until the red halo was only a speck in the distance.
Noel was acutely aware of the lack of a woman’s hand about the house, to guide the little girl in the ways only another female could. To be there for her coming home from school – especially in the dark winter evenings – with newly-baked bread and a bowl of hot soup.
But there was no woman. For whatever reason, God had seen fit to remove the two women in the child’s life – her mother and her grandmother. There was only himself and Mick, and there was no danger of his bachelor son ever getting married. The only girl Mick had ever had a notion of, Kitty Dunne, had been wooed away from under his nose, while Mick was still making up his mind.
No – there had never been any womankind in Tara’s life and there wasn’t a damn thing that Noel could have done about it. When she had the chance of going to live with her father and Tessie in Tullamore, Tara had kicked up against it, and had refused to stay. Old Mrs Kelly had been a good help in guiding Tara, but she was only a neighbour, and an elderly woman after all.
As she grew older, Noel watched her pore over her homework books, night after night. And he had smiled at her determination, like the times she had sieved the black flour to make cakes during the Emergency – and then all the efforts to save money for her bicycle.
In the last few years, he had seen the biggest changes take place – from when she had taken up the piano and then started minding the bigger poultry at Christmas. Lately, her energies had gone into her work in Tullamore and her evening classes – while still keeping up with the work around the house, and managing a smile and a cheery word for the people who came to buy eggs.
At times, Noel felt the girl was driven, and he told her so. Tara would only shake her head and laugh. She pushed herself to the limits at everything. Her only indulgence was when she sat down with her books or magazines. Apart from then, she was constantly on the go.
It surprised him too, the company that Tara kept. After all her attempts to improve her speaking and clothes and everything else, she still had plenty of time for poor little Biddy Hart. Not so little now, Noel reminded himself. Only last Sunday she had walked back to the house after Mass, and had sat chatting to Tara over a drink of tea and a slice of Mick’s fruit cake. Biddy had changed a lot in the last few years – not in the same way as Tara had – but enough to make her unrecognisable from the poor orphan of her earlier years.
Now – earning a few pounds cleaning the priest’s house and working mornings in the bakery in Ballygrace – Biddy had filled out, and was as well dressed as any girl in the village. According to the rubbish that Shay talked after a few pints, she was as popular as any with the lads, too.
Too popular, Shay had said, hinting at more.
Noel wasn’t interested in Shay’s hints about Biddy or anyone else. Tara was too level-headed to be influenced by any of her friends’ behaviour, and anyway she didn’t go near the dances or places like that with Biddy. Their friendship was limited to the odd trip into the shops in Tullamore and a chat after Mass on a Sunday.
“Granda?” Tara suddenly said, rousing the old man out of his thoughts. “Would I be better off missing the party? Am I only making a fool of myself?”
“No!” Noel’s voice was stronger than Tara had heard for a while. “You were invited, weren’t you? Pay no heed to that amadán of a father of yours . . . and you go to the party as you planned. You’re as good, if not better, than any of the others that’ll be there. And hasn’t the girl kept good faith with you over the years?” He reached out and patted Tara’s hand. “You go to the party – you’ll learn nothing about life sitting home by the fire, and you do that too often these days. If there’s nobody to yer likin’ at the local dances or hereabouts, then you’ll have to cast your net further. You have to do what pleases you, Tara, because nobody else is going to do it for you.”
Tara put her mug down on the chest of drawers by the bed. “Oh, Granda,” she said, putting her arms round the frail old man. “What would I do without you?”
“You’ll do fine, Tara Flynn,” he replied. “Never doubt yerself – you’ll do just fine.”
And with her granda’s encouraging words rattling around in her head, Tara threw the bedclothes back and jumped out of bed to meet the day ahead.
Chapter Ten
“Mother, stop fussing about – everything’s fine.” Madeleine Fitzgerald gave her mother a big smile, and fluffed up the stiff taffeta skirt of her pale blue dress.
Elisha gritted her teeth and turned back to the exquisitely dressed tables laden with an array of food and drinks. Keep calm, keep calm – you can’t lose your
temper tonight, she told herself. Just pray to God she doesn’t start fiddling with the damned record player again.
“You promise you won’t keep coming in when everyone’s dancing?” Madeleine checked for the umpteenth time. “Any teenage parties I’ve been to never have parents in for dancing.”
“I’ve already told you that I won’t interfere,” Elisha sighed, checking the pile of lace-edged napkins. “Ella or Mrs Scully and I, will be here to greet your guests, and take their coats and things. Then, we’ll disappear until it’s time to serve the food – exactly as we agreed when we discussed things last week.”
Madeleine smiled again and looked at the time on the ornate clock on top of the white marble mantelpiece. “They should be arriving any time in the next half an hour.” She hesitated for a moment. “Do you think I look nice? Is my hair and my dress all right?”
No – damn you! Your hair and dress don’t look all right, Elisha wanted to scream. Instead, she gripped the edge of the table tightly. After a moment, she slowly turned round to face her daughter. “Your hair is lovely,” she lied. “The hairdresser made an excellent job of straightening it all.”
“And the dress?” Madeleine looked down at herself and then fluffed out the stiff skirt again.
“Lovely,” Elisha said in a faint voice. “Just the thing for a modern girl’s party.”
Satisfied, Madeleine skipped across the room like a giddy six-year-old to her new record player. She started checking all her records again, carefully taking them out of the sleeve, and reading the names on each one aloud to herself.
“I’m just going upstairs for a moment,” Elisha said in a tight voice, “to check on the spare bedroom for your friend.” And then, exerting considerable control not to rush from the room, never mind the whole house, she walked out at her usual dignified pace.
Back upstairs in the refuge of the spare bedroom, Elisha Fitzgerald sat down on the edge of the ornate brass bed. What – she thought to herself – was to be done with Madeleine? The party had been a focal point for months now, something to keep her mind distracted from all the nonsense which seemed to obsess her and make her do the first thing that came into her head. Her hair, for instance – her beautiful, white-blonde crowning glory – sheared off on a whim just the other night.
The Mother Superior of the boarding-school had been in a dreadful state when she phoned to say what had happened. Apparently, while the other girls were at supper, Madeleine had gone into the sick bay looking for an aspirin. Finding no one there, she had lifted the small scissors used for cutting bandages and had attacked her own hair. The strangest part of all, the Mother Superior said in a whisper, was that she had left the six inches of golden tresses that she had cut, spread out perfectly in a circle on the sick-bay floor. Just like the rays of the sun. The poor Matron had a terrible fright when she found Madeleine sitting cross-legged in the middle of the arrangement talking to herself.
The Mother Superior had suggested yet another little ‘rest’ from school might do Madeleine good. If that didn’t work – perhaps the Fitzgeralds might consider removing their daughter permanently from the school at Christmas.
Her lengthy absences meant that she had little or no chance of passing her exams in any case, and perhaps the pressure of studying might not be the right thing for someone with such a delicate nature.
What was to be done with Madeleine if she left school? Elisha wondered. Gabriel was the only person who seemed to get through to her, who was able to distract her from her moods. But he was no longer available, as he spent most of his term-time in Dublin. There was always the possibility of a position in William’s auctioneering business, if only Madeleine’s temperament was stable enough.
Although she was desperate for something to occupy her daughter, Elisha knew that having Madeleine working in the public eye would not do William’s business any good, if her behaviour was not dependable. Elisha looked across the room to where she could see her reflection in the mahogany wardrobe mirror. Her fair-coloured hair, now greying at the sides, was swept up in its usual neat chignon, and her pink twinset and pearls blended perfectly with her softly-flared check skirt. Her gaze drifted upwards to her face, and there – in the hollow cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes – she could see the strain of the life she had endured in recent years. First, her old life in Blackrock, shattered by William’s foolish and spendthrift ways, and now – when he seemed to have things back on an even keel – this dreadful business with Madeleine. All the dreams Elisha had of going shopping in Dublin with her beautiful, blonde elegant daughter! Lunching out – sharing confidences about clothes and men – perhaps the odd weekend over in London – all in tatters. Just like Madeleine’s hair.
The glorious white-blonde hair that was now cut above her ears in a severe bob, the best that the most expensive hairdresser in Dublin could do, with the ruined mess she had been presented with. The new style did nothing for Madeleine’s bloated face and body. And these recent demands about getting her own way, not caring who was listening when she ranted and raved. And now this ridiculous obsession about the Ballygrace girl, Tara Flynn.
Where would it all end? And what of the future? What lay ahead for Madeleine? The doctors, whilst consoling, had guaranteed nothing. Take the medicine and hope for the best. If this was the best – what was to come?
Abruptly, Elisha got to her feet. She smoothed down her skirt, and then she smoothed down the green satin quilt on the brass bed. If only, she thought, she could smooth the other areas of her life so easily.
She glanced in the mirror, straightened her pearls, took a deep breath and went downstairs to face the evening ahead.
* * *
Tara set off on her bike for the party, after Mick had checked the front and back lights for the third time. Her granda had been insistent on it, although she had told him everything was all right and that it was only a mile to Ballygrace House. Even if the bike got a puncture, she assured him that it was a mild night, and would take her less than half an hour to walk there. The two men had seen her out to the cottage gate, Mick still in his floury work-clothes from the bakery, and her granda in a dark cardigan over his waistcoat to keep out the November chill.
“Why don’t you get the Daingean hackney car?” Noel said, as though he were used to calling hackney cars every week of his life. They had, in fact, only used it once before, when he and Mick were late in finding out about a funeral. “It would only take Mick a short while to go out to Daingean on the ass and cart . . . and I’ll pay for it meself.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Tara said, giving him a hug. “I’ve everything I need strapped on to the bike now. I’d be there walking it, before Mick even got to Daingean on the ass and cart. Now, go back inside, before you catch your death from pneumonia!”
Noel cleared his throat. “Please yersel’ . . . but the offer of the car is there.” Then, as she hitched her dress and coat up well away from the oily chain, and mounted the bike, he called: “Enjoy yersel’! Ye can tell us all about it in the morning when ye come home – and remember, Tara Flynn – you’re as good, if not better, than any that will be there.”
* * *
As she rode along the dark winding lane to Ballygrace House – lit only by the glow from her bicycle lamp – Tara went over everything she had packed for her night away. In the weekend case strapped on the carrier at the back of the bike, was a blue-striped wynceyette night-dress and matching dressing-gown, and some new underwear. She had bought those along with the case the previous week in Tullamore.
Her purchases had accounted for another few pounds of her precious savings disappearing, but it was money well spent. For travelling back in the morning she had chosen a heavy brown skirt with a beige-flecked cardigan, and a brown velvet bow to tie her hair back. She also had a flowered sponge bag with her toothbrush, toothpaste and a small bar of lavender soap.
Madeleine’s present and card, and Tara’s satin shoes were in the baske
t on the front of the bike. She would step out of the sensible leather loafers she had on for cycling, and slip on the satin shoes when she arrived at Ballygrace House.
When she turned in the gateway, Tara walked the bicycle quickly on up the drive, willing herself to feel confident as she drew nearer to the brightly-it house. What can they do to you? she asked herself. Hadn’t she received an invitation to the party, the same as all the other guests? She wasn’t a gate-crasher. She had been invited to the party and invited to stay overnight at the house. She was dressed suitably for the occasion, and she had a perfectly acceptable present. All in all, she was as good as any of the others, and, remembering her granda’s words – looks-wise, she was probably better than most.
With those inspiring thoughts uppermost in her mind, Tara pressed on, allowing herself no time for second thoughts. As she had planned in advance, she pushed the bike round the near side of the house, where she could conceal it behind a thick bush. Then, very quickly and quietly, she changed into her satin party shoes and took off her camel coat. She took a small hairbrush from her coat pocket and drew it through her long curly hair several times.
Tara untied the case on the back carrier of her bicycle now and put her hand in a little pocket in the front for a sheet of folded brown paper. Deftly, she wrapped her leather loafers in the paper, and then slipped them into the side of the case. The paper would ensure that no gravel from the bottom of the shoes would mark her clothes.
Then, with her coat and the birthday present in one hand, and her overnight case in the other, Tara walked round to the front of the house and mounted the front steps of Ballygrace House.
* * *
As the doorbell sounded once again, Elisha Fitzgerald moved down the hallway towards it. “If you show the other two girls into the sitting-room,” she called back to Madeleine, “I’ll attend to the next arrival.” She checked her watch just as she reached the door and wondered again, where on earth William and Gabriel had got to. They had arranged to take some people from England to look at land out in Kildare earlier in the afternoon. It was now quarter to eight, and there was still no sign of them. Elisha sighed to herself. She should have known better than to depend on William, especially where Madeleine was concerned. Like an ostrich, he preferred to bury his head in the sand.
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