What road? Biddy wanted to ask, as she cowered in the corner beside the sacks of potatoes and flour. Her body was sore from the beating and her mind reeling from the things Lizzie had said about her mother. She was eighteen years old and had been living with Lizzie since she was four. In all those years, Biddy had never been able to get a word out of her about her background. All she knew was that her mother was dead and that nobody knew anything about her father.
“Who else would have been good enough to take in the daughter of a whore, who committed suicide? Only a saint!” She held the stick above Biddy’s head. “Who’s the father? Who’s the one that interfered with you?”
“I don’t know,” wailed Biddy. “It was a dark night . . . and there was a few of them. I couldn’t see their faces. They pulled me into the bushes.” Biddy had practised this answer when they were sitting in the doctor’s surgery.
“What?” Lizzie said, her mouth hanging open in shock. “You don’t mean to tell me there was more than one?”
“I was frightened to tell you,” Biddy sniffed, hardly able to believe that her story seemed plausible to Lizzie. “Because I didn’t know what they were doin’ . . . I didn’t know if it could make me have a baby.”
Lizzie gave her another clout. “Don’t tell me you’re such an innocent that you didn’t understand . . . you’re trying the same tack as that Nora Quinn! She made out she didn’t know she was expectin’ until she was six months gone – and that she didn’t know how she got that way. But she knew all right. I’ve since heard that she landed in a home for unmarried mothers in Dublin. She knows all right now, when she’s down on her hands and knees scrubbin’ floors in the convent every day, instead of the comfortable job she had lookin’ after the priest.” Lizzie slowly straightened up, as though all the anger and fight had seeped out of her. She threw the stick on top of the sacks. “You’re sure you don’t know who the boys were?”
Biddy shook her head – so relieved that the beating was over, she was unable to speak.
“We’ll have to tell Father Daly . . . to see what he can arrange. He was the one that sorted out the place for that Nora.” Lizzie’s face was pinched and tight, and her voice weary. “He was good to her, even though the little bitch wouldn’t tell about the father. It’s a nice how-d’ye-do, having to tell him I’ve another one in the same position. The only savin’ grace about it is that we can say you were tampered with against yer will. He might look upon it in a kinder light. There’s women in this place would kill for a job cleanin’ for the priest. The pair of ye were privileged – and look how ye’ve repaid him!”
Biddy struggled to her feet. “D’you want me to tell him?” she ventured.
“No, I feckin’ well don’t!” Lizzie responded. “You impudent brat! Won’t that look nice – you walkin’ into the priest’s house – as brazen as brass – tellin’ him all yer dirty business!”
Biddy hung her head, causing locks of hair to fall down over her eyes as a shield against her foster-mother’s searing gaze.
Lizzie stomped over to coat-pegs at the side of the range. “I’ll go and see him this very minute, before that ‘know-all’ Mrs McCarthy appears to make his supper. I’ll be needin’ to say a prayer to the Holy Spirit, on my way up to the priest’s house.” Lizzie shoved her arms into her coat sleeves. “I’ll be prayin’ for guidance as to how to explain this situation.” She pulled a crumpled headscarf out of the coat pocket and tied it tightly under her wrinkled chin. “I hope I get my reward for all this in heaven – because I’m certainly not gettin’ anythin’ for it on earth!”
Lizzie made for the door then, her hand on the latch, she turned back to the craven Biddy. “Not a word to that Dinny when he comes in – or anybody else. If you open yer mouth,” she warned, “I’ll feckin’ well murder you.” She banged the door behind her, almost taking it off the hinges.
The minute Lizzie was gone out of the cottage, Biddy shifted from her hidey-hole corner to put the kettle on the fire. She examined the sore bits on her arms and legs where the stick had landed and reckoned she’d have a good few bruises in the morning. She’d feel better after a strong cup of tea and a couple of aspirins.
When the kettle had boiled, she sat up on Lizzie’s settle bed with her tea and a slice of soda bread and jam and smiled to herself. She thought about how she would tell Dinny the news about the baby. She wondered what he would say. She bit into the bread. He might suggest that they should run away together and get married.
She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest – a position she liked when she was thinking of something nice. If they got married quick, she could wear the light-coloured suit that Tara had given her, before it got too small, and she was sure that Tara would let her borrow a hat.
Dinny couldn’t use the excuse that she was too young now. If she was old enough to have a baby – then she was old enough to get married. A baby! she thought, hugging her knees tighter and rocking from side to side on Lizzie’s bed. Biddy had wanted a baby for as long as she could remember. Something of her own. Somebody who was a blood relation – for she didn’t have a blood relation in the whole wide world.
Biddy looked up at the clock. Dinny would be in from work shortly. She hoped he came in before Lizzie came back from seeing the priest. She smiled, wondering if he would bring her any presents this evening. She combed her hair and washed her face, then peeled some potatoes – to sweeten Lizzie’s temper – and put the kettle on the fire. She would make a pot of tea for Dinny the minute he came in, and they would sit chatting over a cup each. Then, she got out the sweeping brush and gave the kitchen floor a good going over, and straightened up the chairs around the table.
The scrunch of gravel outside heralded Dinny Martin’s arrival. Biddy quickly put the steaming kettle back over the fire to bring it back to the boil, and ran out to meet him.
“Jaysus!” Dinny exclaimed irritably. “You nearly feckin’ well knocked me and the bike over.” He stood the bike up against the side of the cottage and, ignoring the slighted Biddy, walked into the cottage, with her trailing behind. “Well?” he grunted. “What was all the commotion about – and where’s Herself?”
Biddy tucked her hair behind her ears, to show off a pair of earrings Dinny had bought her a few weeks before. “She’s up in the priest’s house.” Then, before he got any of his funny ideas, she quickly added: “She could be back any minute.” She poured the water in the teapot on top of the leaves.
Dinny hung his jacket and cap on the hook behind the door and then came over to the fire. After coughing to clear his throat, he spat in the flames, narrowly missing the kettle. “What’s up?” he demanded. “I know by the head on you, that there’s somethin’ going on.”
“I have some news that concerns you,” she said. “I was at Doctor Devine’s this afternoon.”
“What news would that be?” he asked warily.
Biddy stirred the tea leaves round in the pot with a long spoon, then left it to brew for a few minutes.
“What news?” Dinny repeated, taking a half-smoked cigarette from his pocket. He struck a match on the stone fireplace.
“I’m havin’ a baby,” she said in a low voice. “It’s due in May.”
There was a long silence, while Dinny took a deep drag on his cigarette. “And have you,” he said, “ informed the lucky father yet?” He casually removed a stray piece of tobacco from his tongue.
Biddy looked up at him. “Amn’t I informin’ him now?” she demanded, hands on hips.
Dinny gave her a sidelong grin – a sneering grin which froze her heart. “From what I hear,” he said, going over to the table for the sugar and a teaspoon, “there could be any amount of fathers. From what I hear . . .there’s been a more than me pokin’ the fire – a lot more.”
“That’s a load of feckin’ lies!” Biddy protested. “You know fine well you’re the only man I’ve been with.”
“Oh?” he said, pouring his own tea out into the mug. “And what about the fine y
oung fella’ I saw you with in Tullamore, not too long ago? A young fella by the name of PJ Murphy.”
Biddy’s face coloured. How did Dinny know about PJ? It was months ago and she’d forgotten all about it. Dinny never chatted with any of the young ones in Ballygrace, and she’d made sure she only met PJ in Daingean or Tullamore. The last time she was to meet him, he hadn’t turned up. “Sure, he only took me to the pictures twice . . . he’s only a young lad . . . he wouldn’t know what to do.”
Dinny roared out laughing. “He knew what he was doin’ all right, when he had you up against the church wall. And you knew what you were doin’, when I saw you leadin’ him by the hand, round the back of the church.”
Biddy swallowed hard. “It was harmless,” she insisted. “I’ve never let anyone touch me but you.”
“So you say.” He gulped at his tea.
“Dinny?” Biddy looked up at him, with big tears in her eyes. “I promise you – there was nobody else. I only went out with that lad because some of the girls were teasin’ me about you. They were blackguardin’ you . . . jeering at me livin’ in the same house and everything. I got mad wi’ them. They were sayin’ that maybe we got up to things when Lizzie was out. I thought if I went out with PJ that they would stop goin’ on about me and you.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve always been careful never to let anybody know about us . . . but it’ll be hard to keep this quiet for long. I’m over three months gone, and it’ll be startin’ to show soon.”
He looked directly at her now, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It’s not mine! We always did it standin’ up – and I always pulled out in time.”
“Not always!” she retorted – panic starting to set in. Dinny was her only hope now. “Remember the night you were drunk . . . and we went into the hayshed?”
The lodger’s face was stony. He reached a hand out and grabbed Biddy on the fleshy part of her thigh. “Don’t try to hang this one on me . . . nobody will believe you. I have it out all over Ballygrace and Daingean about you, since I saw you wi’ the young lad. You’re known far and wide as an easy little hoor. Nobody will believe a word out of yer mouth.” He tightened his grip. “If you point the finger at me – you’ll be sorry.”
“But, Dinny . . .” her voice faltered. “I thought we would get married . . . you always said when I was old enough.”
“Married?” he said sneeringly. “You must be feckin’ well jokin’!” He drained his mug, and threw the end of his cigarette in the fire. “There’s a widow-woman out near Tyrellspass, who’s been offerin’ me a room these last few years. Her house is cleaner than this oul’ kip – and she makes a decent bite to ate.” He sniffed in a derisory manner. “I’ll be takin her up on it, so.”
He said nothing about the fact that the widow-woman also had two young daughters, aged thirteen and fifteen. A fact of more interest to Dinny, than the clean house and good food their mother would provide. The daughters would hold his attention for a few years before they grew too old and too clever for him – just as Biddy Hart had done.
* * *
Lizzie appeared back a short time later. “Get yerself up to the priest’s house this minute,” she said to Biddy, when Dinny was out of earshot. “He says he’ll hear yer confession before Mrs McCarthy comes to make his supper.”
“I don’t want to go to Father Daly,” Biddy dared to say. “I don’t want to go back to work in the chapel house either.”
Lizzie’s face was a picture. She pointed to the door. “Get yourself out this minute, you ungrateful little brat! You should be on yer knees thankin’ God for the goodness of Father Daly. You should be grateful that he’s willin’ to even recognise you, after what’s happened.” She lowered her voice. “If word about you expectin’ a bastard gets around Ballygrace, then you’re on yer own! The only chance we have is if the priest can get it adopted.”
* * *
“This is indeed a sorry situation,” Father Daly said, letting Biddy in through the back door. The heavy-jowled, balding priest locked it behind her, so that they would not be interrupted. “You poor child,” he said, patting her shoulder. “It’s always the innocent ones who are caught out . . .”
At that very moment, Dinny Martin was cycling to Tyrellspass, his meagre belongings tied on the back of his bike, and ten shillings poorer after paying Lizzie what he owed in rent. “You’re a big-hearted woman,” he had said to Lizzie as he went out of the door. “But I don’t think I could stay on under the circumstances. That Biddy isn’t right in the head. Askin’ me to marry her – an’ me ould enough to be her father!”
Dinny had made sure he got in first with the story, so’s that no one would be likely to believe Biddy. “She’s so desperate to give a name to her bastard, that she’d point the finger at any man. You wouldn’t have to throw a stone very far to find several fathers for her child – but I’m not takin’ the rap for that!” Dinny shook his head. “It wouldn’t be safe for me to be livin’ under the same roof as the likes of her . . . she could accuse me of anything. I’m goin’ while I still have me good name.”
“The little scut!” Lizzie had snivelled. “I don’t blame you one bit, Dinny Martin, and I’ll not allow anybody else to blame you either. You’ve been a good lodger to me, you always kept yerself to yerself – and now I’ve lost you on account of that lying little wretch!”
An’ even worse, she said to herself – I’ve lost the good money you were payin’ me!
Chapter
1937
Chapter Thirteen
December, 1950
The week before Christmas, Olive the receptionist came through to the accounts department looking for Tara. “There’s a man asking for you at reception,” she said. “He’s very well spoken and smartly dressed – so we’d better not keep him waiting.”
Tara felt a wave of relief that it wasn’t her father again. However, as she followed Olive through to reception, she felt vaguely anxious as to who else it could be. If it was one of the bosses from Dublin, at least she was well dressed too, in her dark green tartan suit and green velvet hairband.
Whoever it was, nothing could be worse than when her father arrived last Monday morning, still drunk from the night before. He was morbid – weeping about his dead father – and looking for money. Thankfully, Olive had discreetly called Tara out, without anyone else noticing. After Tara had propelled him out of the building and round the corner, Shay was full of apologies. He tearfully explained how he had been short-paid the previous week, and they had little or no food in the house.
“I’ll call round to the house at one o’clock and sort out the situation with Tessie,” Tara said. Then – wagging a finger in her father’s face – she had warned him: “But don’t you ever come into my work again.”
After a quick discussion with her stepmother at lunchtime, Tara left ten shillings on the kitchen table. “I’ll help you and the children any time, Tessie,” she said sympathetically, “as long as it’s not going on drink.”
“I’m nearly out of me mind,” Tessie confided. “He hasn’t put in a full week’s work since his father died. He keeps blamin’ it on himself. That row they had just before he died – and of course he’s drinking all the more to try to forget. He’ll be lucky if he has a job to go back to tomorrow.”
William Fitzgerald was the last person Tara expected to see in reception. He stood up when he saw her and held a hand out. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Tara,” he said, although the smile on his face looked more delighted than apologetic.
“Is it Madeleine?” she whispered.
“No – no,” he said, still smiling. “It’s not about Madeleine. It’s more of a personal nature. I wondered . . .” He reached inside his navy cashmere coat for his fob watch. “I wondered if you were due to have lunch soon?”
Tara looked at her wristwatch. It was ten minutes to one. “My lunchbreak is at one o’clock.”
Just then, Mrs Reilly, the office manageress, came into reception carrying a sheaf of p
apers. “Oh, Mr Fitzgerald!” she said in high excited voice, coming over to them. “How are you?”
William stretched a hand out. “I’m very well indeed,” he said, smiling at her in such a way that her face went quite pink. “I hope you don’t mind me disturbing your staff – but I had a message to deliver to Miss Flynn.”
“Tara?” Mrs. Reilly shifted her spectacles further up her nose, and then looked at Tara.
“Yes,” William said, still smiling, “she’s a close friend of my daughter, Madeleine.”
Tara’s brow deepened in a puzzled frown. Only seconds before he had told her that his visit had nothing to do with Madeleine.
“Oh . . .” Mrs Reilly said, shuffling her papers. She hadn’t realised that Tara Flynn had friends in such high places.
“I believe,” William said, “that she’s due to go for lunch in a few minutes. I wondered if I might wait here for her?”
“Wait? Oh, no – she can go now. Sure, it’s nearly one o’clock anyway.” She looked at Tara. “Go on, Tara – don’t keep Mr Fitzgerald waiting. He’s a very busy man.”
Tara rushed through to the cloakroom, for her coat and clutch bag. She paused for a moment to glance at her reflection in the mirror, then she quickly patted a little face powder on, and a light coat of lipstick.
“There’s a small restaurant not too far out of town,” William Fitzgerald told her in the car. “I thought you might like it. I often bring Madeleine there for lunch.”
Tara thought of the sandwiches wrapped in brown paper that she had left behind in the office. “I don’t usually go out at lunchtime,” she announced, suddenly feeling bowled over by the suddenness of the situation.
Tara Flynn Page 18
