“You’re the . . .” Mrs Scully faltered, her face taking on the appearance of a lightly-boiled beetroot, “you’re the young Flynn one, aren’t you? Noel Flynn’s grand-daughter?”
Tara held her gaze fast, instinctively knowing that she would cross the path of many Mrs Scullys – the sort who would hate her for daring to step out of her class.
“You’re right – I’m indeed Tara Flynn,” she replied with a bright smile.
Mrs Scully’s eyes narrowed. “You’re so well got up in yer fine clothes, that I’d have hardly known ye . . .”
Tara raised an indifferent eyebrow. Then, she leant across the table, and said in a low, icy voice: “But you don’t know me, Mrs Scully. You might know my name and my family connections – but you don’t know anything about me at all.”
The housekeeper’s eyes opened wide in shock and her heavy body started shaking with rage. What was it about this flame-haired, tall girl that got her goat up so much? Then, as the housekeeper opened her mouth to retaliate – to say something which would expose this Flynn one for the lowly brat she undoubtedly was – Elisha Fitzgerald moved down the table beside them.
“Are you all right, Mrs Scully?” she asked, her brow furrowed in concern. She looked from the housekeeper to the young woman standing in front of her. “Has Tara everything she wants from the buffet? We must make sure that Madeleine’s friends have everything they want tonight.”
Tara smiled. “I have everything I want, thank you, Mrs Fitzgerald.” She made to move away, then, on second thoughts, she turned back. “Mrs Scully was just informing me that she knows my grandfather, weren’t you, Mrs Scully?”
“Yes,” the old woman snapped, looking fit to burst a blood vessel. “Indeed I do! And not only yer grandfather – but every breed and bit of ye!” She took a deep breath, as though building herself up to scatter all the skeletons out of the Flynn family cupboard.
“Well,” Elisha said, “that’s very nice, isn’t it? Now, Tara,” she said, guiding the young girl away from the table, “let me get you a glass of wine to accompany your meal.”
“Thank you,” Tara replied, “but I already have one which I’ve hardly touched. I’m not too used to wine and I don’t want it going to my head.”
“Very sensible, but make sure you enjoy yourself. Madeleine is so pleased you have come.”
After checking on the other guests, who seemed to have little to say for themselves – and Madeleine, who was saying rather too much – Elisha made her retreat to the drawing-room. There, she found herself wishing that the house had been full of girls like Tara Flynn, instead of the handful which had actually come. How could she have been so naive as to think that word of Madeleine’s ‘problem’ had not got round to all the families in the area? How could she have imagined that her behaviour at school and in church had not given the gossips plenty of tittle-tattle about the Fitzgeralds?
She sank into a leather armchair by the side of the fire, and lowered her head into her hands. How much more of this could she take? Surely all the years of anxiety and shame over William’s gambling and womanising had been enough? The move to Offaly had been her decision and her decision alone. But it had still taken its toll. William may have been embarrassed about their move to ‘The Boghole of Ireland’ – one of his many derogatory descriptions of the Midlands. He resented his loss of authority and financial control – but what of her feelings? Elisha had had to leave a beautiful home behind in a refined area, with several staff at her beck and call. All a far cry from Mrs Scully and Ella.
She had to make lame excuses to friends and neighbours about having relatives near Tullamore who had offered William a wonderful business opportunity which they could not resist. Lies – all lies. And it was she who had had to come up with each and every lie, because William – like his business and gambling deals – had simply crumbled under the pressure.
And Elisha had carried everything through, until the lies had become the truth. Until William had redeemed himself and now had a more prosperous business than the one in Dublin. He had lately been offered the chance to open another auctioneer’s office in Naas, making the prospect of a return to Dublin a possibility in the future.
Gabriel had succeeded well at school and was now coping with university and even Elisha’s own health had improved. Her difficulty in sleeping and her general anxiety had improved greatly after the first couple of years in Ballygrace. She had now actually grown to love the peace and beauty of the countryside. So much so, the idea of moving back to Dublin held no great interest at present.
Since their move to Offaly, a huge mountain had indeed been climbed. Now – with the summit in clear view – was the immense effort going to be for nothing? Were they going to slide back down to the bottom again – on the back of Madeleine this time?
A knock came to the drawing-room door. Elisha quickly got to her feet and smoothed her hair and her skirt down.
After being bid to do so Mrs Scully came into the drawing-room. “They’re all fed and watered, as far as I can see,” she said to her employer in a flat tone. “There’s a terrible lot of stuff left – it’s a crime when ye think of all them starvin’ children in the world. Do you want me to start coverin’ it or putting it away in the pantry?”
Elisha shrugged. “I’d give it a while longer – they might eat more later. If not, you’re welcome to take what you can carry home with you.”
Mrs Scully kept a solemn demeanour, even though she had just been offered what would feed her, and her extended family, for several days. She wasn’t happy with being snubbed in front of the young Flynn one earlier on, and she was going to make Elisha pay for it one way or the other. The food was no compensation for being belittled. It was a perk of the job she was well used to. She had in fact earmarked a good-sized piece of bacon earlier in the evening to bring home with her. “I’ll see what’s left,” she sniffed, “and if it’s the kind of thing they fancy, then I might take a few bits home with me.”
“Have something to eat yourself and take a glass of sherry or wine, or whatever you prefer,” Elisha said. “And go and put your feet up in the kitchen. We can have a break for an hour or so before going back to the party.”
“Whatever ye like,” Mrs Scully said, refusing to be softened. She turned on her heel and stomped out of the room. ‘Party – me arse!’ she said under her breath. “I’ve had more feckin’ laughs at a wake!”
As she poured herself a large glass of sherry to ease her agitation, the housekeeper – in a rare flash of insight – suddenly realised why she hated Tara Flynn so much. She reminded her of her own sister, Cecelia. Her sister who was in America this thirty-five years. Cecelia had been a pretty nineteen-year old, with an uppish attitude and big ideas, when Rosie, at twenty, was made junior housekeeper in one of the big houses in Tullamore.
Rosie had been delighted with herself, because she could rise at six o’clock, wash and dress, and be at the big house for half-past six. She was paid reasonably well, and it would let her save towards her wedding day to Jimmy Scully.
“How can you bear to be a servant to those people?” Rosie could still hear her sister say. “And are you sure you want to be married to someone like Jimmy Scully? He’s a nice enough lad, but you won’t go very far with him. You should emigrate to England or America and make a decent life for yourself, instead of skivvying for other people! You’re clever enough and should make more of yourself.”
Rosie had seethed, and hoped and prayed for her younger sister’s downfall – but it seemed a long time in coming. Cecelia had got herself a job in one of the best draper’s shops in town, where she didn’t have to start until half-past nine in the morning. She got a discount on all the nice clothes, and stepped out for work every morning wearing her gloves and hat, as though she were going to a wedding. Her well-groomed hair was long and curling, while Rosie’s thin mousy hair had to be kept short and neat for work.
It was worse when, a year later, their mother
insisted that Cecelia was her bridesmaid at the small unglamorous wedding.
“You should have landed yourself a big farmer like me, Rosie,” Cecelia had whispered, as they lay squashed together in the three-quarter size bed, the night before the wedding. Then she told Rosie all about the son of a big Protestant farmer from Carlow who was working in town, who had an eye for her. “Of course I won’t let him lay a hand on me unless he asks me to marry him. I want somebody to take me out of all this. I want a life where I don’t have to lift a hand . . . I want somebody else to do all the dirty jobs.”
“And what about yer soul?” Rosie had snarled back. “You’ll be damned to hell if you marry a Protestant!”
“It’ll be time enough to think about hell when I’m dead!” Cecelia said with a tinkling laugh. “But if I marry a big farmer with plenty of money, then at least it won’t be a hell on earth.”
Jimmy Scully would never have dreamt of laying a hand on Rosie before they were married. She would have marched him straight up to the priest if he had even suggested it. She was a decent, God-fearing Catholic girl, and she knew where allowing lads to put their hands on you led to. You only had to listen to the priest giving out from the pulpit on a Sunday, about the temptations of young people who danced too close together. In any case, sex was only something that women put up with – the side of marriage that you gritted your teeth and got on with.
Six months later, Rosie found out that Cecelia had no such scruples about the Carlow farmer ‘laying his hands’ on her. It was touch and go when she confronted him about the baby. His family put up all sorts of arguments and threatened all sorts of things. But in the end, he agreed to marry her in the registry office in Dublin, before they set off for a new life in America.
It didn’t seem like thirty-five years ago when her parents had ranted and raved and cried. Thirty-five years ago since Cecelia had made a mockery of the family and still went her own selfish, uppity way. All that distance to America, and leaving everyone else behind to face the gossip and the jeering. And if Rosie met Cecelia tomorrow, she would hate her with the same venom she had felt all those years ago.
She would hate her, because Cecelia had been right.
After a short spell in New York City, they moved further up the state. They moved into the country, where they ended up owning a farm ten times the size of the one in Carlow. Cecelia had never dirtied her hands. She had maids like Rosie to do everything – even change the nappies of her two sons and two daughters. At one point, she had the cheek to write and say she would pay Rosie’s fare, to come out and visit her in America. The letter – and the other letters which followed – had gone straight in the fire unanswered. As far as Rosie and the rest of the family under her influence were concerned Cecelia was dead and gone.
Rosie had gone to Mass every Sunday, and occasional weekdays, praying piously for Cecelia’s soul. It was an absolute certainty that it was damned forever. And over the thirty-five years, as she worked hard cleaning her own house and other people’s houses, Rosie wondered if Cecelia might have been right. Secretly, she often wondered how different her own life might have been, if she had set her sights just that little bit higher than Jimmy Scully.
It was all water under the bridge now, because Jimmy was dead – and Cecelia was as good as dead.
Rosie screwed up her eyes, and threw back the glass of sherry.
* * *
Gabriel knocked on the drawing-room door. “Madeleine’s fine,” he reassured his mother with a bright smile. “She’s the best I’ve seen for ages. There’s dancing going on now, so it’s not too bad . . . I’ll get back in, because there’s only four boys between six girls.”
“Thank you, Gabriel,” Elisha said quietly. “I’m keeping out of the way. I know Madeleine doesn’t want me checking up on things.” She hesitated. “You will let me know if there’s any problems . . . if she changes moods.”
Gabriel nodded. “She’s spent most of the time dancing with Tara . . . she’s a nice girl and very good with Madeleine. She seems to know how to handle her better than the others.”
“I noticed that myself . She’s a very beautiful-looking girl, too – isn’t she?”
Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “She is indeed.”
A few minutes later, William appeared in the drawing-room with two glasses of champagne and two smaller glasses of whiskey on a tray. He set the tray down on a side table, and then he handed one of the champagne glasses to his wife and lifted the other for himself. “Here’s to the future,” he said, lightly touching her glass with his own. “I’ve a feeling things are going to get better.”
Elisha sipped her champagne and said nothing.
By half past ten, all still seemed well. Fortified by several stiff drinks – Elisha found that she was fairly relaxed. Even if the guests decided to leave now, it was a reasonable time to end a party, she consoled herself. Given the situation, the evening had not turned out too badly. She and William had actually sat together listening to the radio, and apart from Mrs Scully coming in with more turf for the fire, and later bringing in a plate of party food for William, they had not been disturbed by any problems from the social gathering.
Elisha was so relieved that she told Mrs Scully that if she cleared and covered the remaining food, that she could cycle home now, rather than wait until all the guests had gone.
At the back door, she gave the housekeeper her extra wages for the evening’s work, saying: “You needn’t rush back too early in the morning, as we’ll have a later breakfast. “We’ll go to one of the later Masses in Tullamore, so if you’re here for around half past nine, that would be fine.”
“I’ll do me best, for I’ll have to be up for first Mass meself in the mornin’, if I’ve to cycle back here,” Mrs Scully said with a tight mouth. Then, after tying her headscarf tightly on her head she added: “I’ll bid you all a goodnight, ma’am . . . and I hope the young ones enjoy the rest of their party.”
As she cycled back into Tullamore on her loaded bicycle, Mrs Scully cursed a vengeance on Tara Flynn for showing her up in front of her employer that evening. The young cur – the cheeky, impudent whelp – the uppity little bitch! Her mind conjured up words too bad to even voice in her head. And the way the impudent little brat had wafted down the table, as though she was used to fancy dinners all her life – instead of the bacon and cabbage and spuds she was reared on.
Mrs Scully’s eyes took on a hard furious glint as she pedalled along, remembering how Tara had dared to look and speak to Mrs Fitzgerald, as though they were equals! Instead of keeping quiet about her poor, motherless background – the foxy-haired bitch had flaunted it.
Curse a hell on Tara Flynn! Rosie Scully hissed into the dark night sky – and curse a hell on all belonging to her! Then, the worst of her thoughts rattling through the midnight air, the old woman consoled herself that she had not only taken as much food as her bike could safely carry – but a bottle of sherry too! And if she got the chance in the morning, she would slip off with as much again.
Oh, it would take more than a few extra shillings, and a few bags of fancy food, to make up for the blow she had been dealt by Elisha Fitzgerald and that fecking little hoor! A few glasses of sherry would help to douse the worst of it tonight – but make no mistake – that young brat would pay for what she had done this night.
Be it long – or be it short – Tara Flynn would rue the day she crossed Rosie Scully!
* * *
Elisha looked into the glowing fire and thought to herself how strange it was that this particular cloud had a silver lining. How strange that on a night when she had been so tense and worried about Madeleine, that she should now feel relaxed sitting in front of the fire, listening to music with William. It had started off as merely a diversion, something to take her mind off what might happen in the room across the corridor, but had turned into something different.
William looked relaxed himself, sitting with his glass of whiskey in o
ne hand, and the other hand thrown carelessly across the back of the sofa, tapping his fingers in time to the classical music. It was a very long time since Elisha had seen him look like that – looking as though he was enjoying being in her company. But more importantly, he had actually listened to all the worries she had poured out about Madeleine.
“If you like,” William suddenly said, sitting up in his chair, “I could ring the specialist myself on Monday. I’ll ask his opinion on whether Madeleine should continue at school, or come and work for me in the auctioneer’s office instead.”
Elisha’s heart soared. “Would you?” she said in a whisper. “I would be really grateful.”
William swallowed the last mouthful from his glass. “Yes,” he said decisively, “I feel that some sort of action is required here. Perhaps studying is placing too much of a strain on her mind . . . a change of environment might do her good.” He leaned across to Elisha’s chair, and patted the back of her hand. “It may do you some good, too – seeing her every evening and weekends at home, as opposed to worrying about what she’s getting up to at school.”
Elisha wondered how she would feel having Madeleine around more often. Especially if her behaviour was so unpredictable. Before she had time to ponder it, the sitting-room door flew open.
“Mother!” Madeleine said rushing in. “D’you mind if we come in here to use the piano? Vincent has been learning to play jazz – and if we can persuade Tara – she’s wonderful on the piano, too!” She gave a childish giggle and flounced up the skirt of her dress. “She might play us some nice hymns – did you know she often plays the organ at Mass in Ballygrace?”
Elisha smiled. “Very nice. I’ve no objection to anyone playing the piano – have you, William?”
Tara Flynn Page 15
