Madeleine poured out two small glasses of fresh orange juice and handed one to Tara. Then, they both sat down at the huge mahogany table with their plates. A radio was on in the background, and any silences were filled with the hum of low music or the chatty voice of the radio presenter.
Tara was grateful to see young Ella bustling around this morning and not Mrs. Scully. The girl had said: ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ to Tara as she stretched past her with a rack of freshly made toast, and had smiled pleasantly when she removed her breakfast plate. Tara smiled back at the girl, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable about being served by her. Ella reminded her of Biddy and some of the girls she had gone to school with, and she would hate to be served by any of them. She turned back to the conversation at the table, and pushed the thoughts aside.
Tara was pleased when Gabriel, after pouring coffee for himself, had turned to her and said: ‘You prefer coffee if I remember, don’t you, Tara?” And she was so delighted he had remembered that she said, ‘yes’ – even though she had planned on having tea, to see if it tasted the same as they had at home.
“Tell me about the work you’re doing in the distillery, Tara,” Madeleine’s father suddenly said, giving her a warm smile.
Tara felt her cheeks and neck going red, as the whole family gave her rapt attention. After a stuttering start, she began to relax a little when she realised that she was successfully answering every question William Fitzgerald asked her.
“What about reception work?” he quizzed now. “Do you have much experience dealing with the public?”
“Oh, yes,” Tara replied. “I work the telephone switchboard and I cover at the reception desk when the usual girl is on her lunch-break. I covered for her full-time when she was off work sick a few weeks ago.”
“Do you think there’s much opportunity for promotion?”
“Well,” Tara ventured, “Mr O’Hara, my boss, has said that I should be eligible for promotion and a pay rise, if I pass my exams at night classes after Christmas.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” William commented. “You’re obviously a career-minded young woman. But tell me now,” he said thoughtfully, “if you had the chance of promotion with another company, how would you feel?”
Tara looked blank. “I can’t imagine that happening. I’m still very young and I have a lot to learn yet.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I’m only too delighted with the position I have, and besides, there’s not too many offices in Tullamore that I could move to.”
The conversation was suddenly interrupted as the front doorbell rang.
Elisha looked at her watch. “That’s strange,” she said. “We don’t usually have callers at this time on a Sunday morning.”
* * *
The heavy foot of Mrs Scully – slower than usual from her late night and a drop too much sherry – passed by the dining-room, on her way to answer the door.
The scruffily dressed man on the doorstep caught her unawares for a moment. “Yes?” she said sharply, knowing she recognised him, but not sure from where. She was just about to tell him that he had no right coming to the front door when she suddenly recognised him. Her face lit up and a glint came into her tired eyes.
The man removed his greasy working cap, and stood clutching it to his breast with both hands. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am,” he said respectfully, “but could you tell me if a Miss Tara Flynn is in the house at the minute? To the best of me knowledge, she was supposed to have stayed the night here.”
“Tara Flynn?” Mrs Scully repeated, taking in his unshaven face and the working clothes that looked as if he had slept the night in them. “And if she is here,” she said in a brusque manner, “who should I say is looking for her?”
“Shay Flynn, ma’am,” he said, wringing the cap between his hands now. “I’m her father. I wouldn’t be botherin’ youse all now . . . but I’ve got to bring her home because –”
“If you would just step inside,” Mrs Scully said, her voice suddenly sweet. “I’ll go and check whether yer daughter is here.”
Like a condemned man who was ordered to move forward to the firing line, Shay Flynn reluctantly stepped inside the front door of Ballygrace House.
Rosie Scully almost danced with delight along the hallway to the dining-room, all tiredness miraculously gone. So gleeful was she, she had to stop at the door for a moment to compose herself before going in to deliver the message.
God had indeed answered her prayer from last night – the quickest answer to a prayer she had ever received in her life.
She gave a little cough, and knocked on the dining-room door before walking in. “Excuse me for interruptin’ you all now,” she announced, “but there’s a man at the front door, and he’s lookin’ to have a word with Miss Madeleine’s guest.”
Elisha turned to Tara. “Had you arranged for someone to collect you?”
Tara’s stomach suddenly tightened. “No,” she replied quickly, gripping the handle of her newly-filled coffee cup, “I have my bicycle . . . I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
Mrs Scully puffed up her chest. “Well,” she said in a loud voice, “there’s a man at the door, claimin’ to be yer father.”
“My father?” Tara repeated in a high stupefied voice.
We’re not so smart now, Mrs Scully thought triumphantly to herself. But just hang on, there’s more to come, ye uppity little brat. She turned to her employer. “Shall I show him in?” she said, giving a big smile.
“Yes – yes. Of course,” Elisha said, “show him in,”
“No!” Tara protested, getting to her feet. As she fumbled to put the cup back into the saucer, dark splashes of coffee spilled onto the snowy lace tablecloth. Tara’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. “I’m so sorry!” she gasped.
“Don’t worry, Tara,” Elisha said quickly, “Ella will get that out with bleach.”
“I’m sorry . . .” she repeated, pushing her chair back, “I’ll just go and speak to my father at the door.”
But it was too late, for Rosie Scully was tapping her way down the hallway, hellbent on bringing Tara Flynn’s father into the dining-room. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see the Fitzgeralds’ faces when they beheld the sight she would present before them. A sight which would tell them once and for all that Tara Flynn was not the sort they should be welcoming into their home.
“If it’s all the same wi’ you, ma’am,” Shay said, backing off, “I’d sooner have a word with her outside – in private.” He knew before he came up the rhododendron-lined driveway that he was trespassing on the territory of the Quality – but he wasn’t going to make a complete eedjit of himself by walking in on their breakfast.
“Come in!” Mrs Scully hissed. “The Missus sent me to bring you in.” She wasn’t going to have this curly-headed amadán ruin her finest moment.
“What is it?” Tara came rushing down the hallway. Having made a fool of herself by spilling the coffee, she couldn’t bear to have anything further happen.
“I’m sorry for comin’, Tara. I knew ye wouldn’t want me to – but I was made to come for you.”
Tara stopped in her tracks when she saw Shay’s ashen face and trembling hands. She had a horrible feeling that something even worse than spilling the coffee, or having her father appear at the Fitzgeralds’ house looking like a tinker, was about to happen.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, oblivious to the smug Mrs Scully standing at her elbow, and the figures coming out of the dining-room behind her. She took a few steps nearer her father. “What’s wrong?” she asked again.
Shay wrung his cap unmercifully, acutely aware that all eyes were on him. “It’s . . . it’s yer granda.”
There was a silence.
“He’s had another bad turn?” Tara asked in a calm voice – too calm to be normal. “We need to get him into hospital this time. I’ll get my things –”
“No – no!” Shay blurted out. He grabbed clumsily at his daughter’s hand. “Yer granda,” h
e said in a deep, sorrowful voice, “died at seven o’clock this morning.”
Somewhere, at the back of Tara’s mind, her father’s words registered, and she knew she should say something – do something. But her body would not react. It was paralysed, rooted to the spot.
She felt someone put an arm through hers. “Come on, Tara,” Madeleine said in a gentle voice. “I’ll help you to get your things.”
Shay turned towards the door. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he said quietly, and before anyone could argue he had opened the door and made his way down the stairs.
When Tara lifted her spinning head, Mrs Scully looked her straight in the eye, with a look of pure triumph on her face.
Then the housekeeper – satisfied that the little Ballygrace brat had been seen in her true colours – said in a cheery voice: “I’ll make a fresh pot of tea, and ye can have it once the visitors have gone.”
William Fitzgerald gave the old woman a withering look. “I don’t think anyone requires tea, Mrs Scully. You can go ahead now, and clear up the dining-room.”
Nothing, not even a sharp reprimand from the Master, could dampen Rosie Scully’s jubilation. “Whatever you like, sir,” she said, and scuttled off down the hallway, glad to be on her own – so that she could smile as broadly as she wanted.
Fifteen minutes later, Tara found herself seated in the back seat of the Fitzgeralds’ car. William had sent Shay on ahead, saying he would bring Tara in the car, as she wasn’t in a fit state to cycle.
Shay was perplexed. Weren’t things bad enough with him having to go up to Ballygrace House, without them having to drive Tara home in the fancy car? And – even worse – maybe they would be looking for the price of the petrol when they arrived at the house. “Sure, I could put her up on the bar of me own bike,” he said to William Fitzgerald,. “She’d be as right as rain by the time we get back.”
“No,” William said in a firm voice. “You go on ahead – we’ll follow you shortly.” He closed the door, which told Shay the conversation was over.
Shay threw his leg over the bike and muttered to himself: “Mick can answer the door when they arrive, for I haven’t the price of a feckin’ drink this mornin’ – never mind a gallon of petrol.”
Madeleine had packed Tara’s things, while Elisha instructed Mrs Scully to bring Tara a hot brandy. After she had drunk as much as she could politely bear of the strong sweet drink, they set off in the car. William and Gabriel in the front, and the two girls in the back.
For once in her life, Tara had taken a step socially upwards without being aware of it. She had never sat in a private car before. She got in and out of the car, without giving it the slightest thought.
Her thoughts today – and for some time to come – were very firmly focused: on how she would cope without her beloved granda.
Chapter Twelve
The funeral the following Tuesday was big by local standards. The whole village of Ballygrace turned out, along with mourners who had travelled from farther afield, and three priests – not counting their own. Tara spoke to Madeleine and Elisha Fitzgerald, when they came to the front pew to offer their sympathies to her and the rest of the family. When Tara looked up at them, she noticed that Madeleine’s eyes looked heavy and when she spoke she was like someone who was half asleep.
Elisha had kept a tight grip on Madeleine’s arm and, having offered a few words of sympathy to Tara and her family, she guided her daughter to a corner at the back of the church. Life had been absolute hell with Madeleine since all the drama on Sunday morning. After dropping Tara out at the cottage, she had ranted and raved about how the old God was a vengeful God – always punishing people. She announced that a new, kind God was coming down to earth, to recruit people in the fight against evil, and that she was only waiting for a signal to join them.
An emergency appointment was arranged with the doctor. He prescribed medication to ‘calm Madeleine down’ until she saw the specialist in Dublin the following week. The medication certainly had calmed her, and had given them all a good night’s sleep, but Elisha was on edge all the time, not knowing what to expect next.
Having to attend a funeral mass was the last thing they needed – given Madeleine’s obsession with religion at the moment – but it was something that could not be avoided.
Biddy was in the church, too. She was sitting with Lizzie Lawless in the little side aisle, to the right of the coffin. Tara noticed that Biddy looked very thin and white, and had dark rings round her eyes. Both her friends looked terrible. In the midst of her grief, Tara wondered what on earth could be wrong, for them both to look so unwell.
Unlike her own family, nothing terrible had just happened to them.
Tara hadn’t realised that her granda was so well known out of the village. It made her feel very sad when people came up to her and said that they’d known him years ago, and what a fine man he was. It made her realise that there were parts of her granda’s life she knew nothing about – that she would never know about now. Worse still were the ones who came up to her and told her how they’d not only known her granda – but they’d also known Tara’s mother when she was a young girl. The tears she tried to control had got the better of her when she met those people. Concentrating on everyone else at the funeral had not worked.
Her father had smartened himself up for the occasion and, with a tidy haircut and a dark suit, he showed signs of the handsome young man he once had been. Under the gimlet eye of Tessie, Shay had behaved with proper decorum and had not besmirched his father’s memory by drinking too much at the funeral.
Tara could hardly bear to look at him.
The woeful row he had caused the night before her granda died was still too fresh in her mind. Mick had tried to explain that her granda had a bad heart condition and that, given his age and everything, it was bound to have happened at some time. There was no good in blaming Shay. Sure, hadn’t they argued nearly every week of their lives? Even the local doctor had spoken to her at the wake, echoing Mick’s words.
But Tara had her own thoughts – and she still blamed her father.
Joe had come down from the seminary in Dublin and attended the funeral with his weeping old grand-aunties, who linked arms with him on either side. Their moods swung constantly throughout the ceremony – alternatively delighted with the attention they got because of their holy nephew and distraught at having lost their only living brother.
In a moment of distraction during the funeral Mass, Tara found herself staring along the pew at Joe and wondering what he was thinking. At times, his face was like a statue, showing no emotion whatsoever. At other times, he had a serene little smile pinned on his face. The sort of understanding smile, Tara reckoned, that priests must find useful when listening to the woes and wants of their parishioners. Nodding and smiling, without actually saying anything, could serve many a situation. It could be interpreted any way the person liked. Tara wondered if they were taught how to smile like that in the seminary, because the priest who had driven Joe down for the funeral had the same little smile on his face.
As they walked out of the church behind the coffin, it suddenly struck Tara that she had no idea what Joe was thinking of during the funeral, because she didn’t know her brother at all. She had seen him every Christmas, Easter and summer holiday, and they had talked about things like music and reading, but Joe had never once volunteered any information about his life in the seminary. Any questions that Tara had asked had been given the briefest of answers – accompanied by the little smile.
Even today at the funeral he had offered his hand in sympathy to her as though he was practising for all the funeral masses he would say in the future. And she had responded with the same reverence she had given the parish priest. Not the way a sister would respond to a brother. He had shown no emotion about his grandfather’s death – just a sorrowful nod of the head and the same little smile. When Tara thought of it, Joe never really knew her granda either.
* * *
Two or three weeks after he died, Tara was given a rise at work. Absolutely delighted with herself, she pedalled home from work as quick as her legs could go. She put the bike in the turf shed, then ran in the back door as usual to tell her granda all about it. Except that her granda wasn’t there. Scalding tears ran in rivers down her cheeks.
Her granda would never be there again.
* * *
On the day Noel Flynn was buried, Biddy Hart discovered that she was pregnant. Unfortunately, the discovery took place in the presence of Lizzie Lawless, who had dragged her straight to the doctor’s surgery after the funeral. Nothing terrible had happened to her in the doctor’s, for Doctor Devine was a pleasant, understanding man who had told her she was not the first girl it had happened to – and she would not be the last. “Wouldn’t you agree?” he had said to Lizzie and Lizzie had said “Indeed,” through clenched teeth.
Biddy was relieved that Lizzie had taken the shocking news so calmly – but her relief was short-lived. It was an entirely different matter when they got back home. Biddy found herself being thumped about the four walls of the kitchen by Lizzie’s fists, and as a finale was beaten on the arms and legs with a stick which Lizzie used for herding the cow.
“That’s all the thanks I get for giving you a decent Catholic home!” she raged. “I wish I’d never set eyes on the pair of ye. You and that Nora Quinn. You especially – like mother like daughter! And weren’t you given to me by the nuns, so’s that you’d have a chance in life, and not end up goin’ down the same road as yer mother?”
Tara Flynn Page 17
