Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  To compensate for the outlay of this major luxury, Tara reckoned that she could manage quite well on the good-quality clothes she had accumulated over the last few years, without buying any more for a while. She would work hard in her new job in the auctioneering business, and she would study so that she would pass her exams in the summer, which would allow her to dispense with her evening classes. She would also continue with her little poultry business and the weekend bookkeeping in the shops in Ballygrace.

  Although those little jobs didn’t earn a lot of money, Tara saved everything she got from them. She also intended to save even more this year from her new auctioneering position because her promotion meant that she would be earning a bit more, and her outgoings would be less.

  Her Uncle Mick had been adamant in his refusal to take any money off Tara for her keep, saying that she wasn’t a lodger in the cottage. He also said that the time could come when Tara might be thinking of moving to Dublin – or even emigrating to England. Big jobs – the sort he knew that Tara was studying and working hard for – were not easy to come by in places like Tullamore. If she wanted to move, then she would need plenty of money behind her.

  Mick Flynn’s words had greatly disconcerted his niece, causing her to ponder over why he had thought she might want to move away from Ballygrace. She was sure that she had never given anyone that impression, far less Mick, who had never interfered or shown the remotest interest in her future before. Her granda had been the one to whom she had confided all her hopes and dreams for the future. Maybe, she told herself, Mick was only trying to fill her granda’s shoes in his own ham-fisted way. Whatever good intentions her bachelor uncle had in mind, Tara had no intentions of moving to Dublin or England – or anywhere else for that matter. Ballygrace was the only place that held her interest – because Ballygrace was where Gabriel Fitzgerald lived, and the only place where she was likely to see him.

  Tara enjoyed New Year’s Day lunch and the light conversation which took place during and after it. Unlike St Stephen’s Day – when several other people had joined the Fitzgeralds – Tara was their only guest. She was most careful to give each member of the family her undivided attention, as she was determined not to give Gabriel the impression that she had come solely to see him.

  Back at the cottage that evening, Tara wondered if she had given Gabriel less attention than the others – but knew it was no bad thing. Instinctively she knew that if a man was worth having, then he was the one who would have to do all the running in the courtship. As she had witnessed with Biddy and PJ Murphy – if a girl made herself too available, he often lost interest.

  The day had been a great success in many areas. Tara had automatically reached for the correct cutlery and glasses without having to plan every move in advance, and had also managed her way around the extensive cheeseboard at the end of the meal, without choosing anything which was truly awful.

  She used the opportunity to ask William Fitzgerald lots of questions about the office work, and was confident enough to laugh when Gabriel lightly mocked her for taking notes down about her allotted tasks.

  “I wouldn’t encourage him by working during your own time,” Gabriel said, passing Tara a glass of red wine. “He’ll have you staying behind working overtime every evening, if you show too much willingness. My father can be a ruthless taskmaster.”

  William had thrown his head back and laughed aloud along with his wife and the young people. He had every intention of keeping the delectable flame-haired Tara Flynn behind in his office every night if he got the chance – and her scribbled list would certainly not include the activities he had in mind for her.

  After the first day working in Fitzgerald’s auctioneering business, Tara knew she was going to love her new job. She found Patricia McManus, the older secretary, to be pleasant and helpful. Bridie, the pregnant girl she was replacing, was equally pleasant, and full of chat about her forthcoming baby. After the first morning, Tara had very quickly picked up how to operate the telephone system. It was actually easier than the complicated system used in the distillery, and she had also acquainted herself with both the filing and the bookkeeping systems.

  The area Tara found more interesting was the property side of the business. She found herself captivated by the sheaves of paper giving descriptions of property for sale in Kildare and the surrounding districts. The Offaly end of the business seemed to deal mainly in land sales. Tara had never concerned herself with house prices before, and found it fascinating to compare the prices of houses and businesses. She found herself staring open-mouthed as she examined a particularly fancy brochure which gave details and photographs of a large Georgian building, similar in size to Ballygrace House. The price took her breath away. She closely scrutinised the details about each room and then she got a sheet of headed notepaper and copied down all the financial details, so that she could work out the full cost of buying such a grand house when she got home later. It struck her immediately that the inheritance from her granda would have to be multiplied many times to afford such a place.

  *  *  *

  With the long dark January evenings, and her time taken up with studying and music, Tara saw very little of Biddy. On one particular occasion when they met outside the church after Mass, Biddy was muffled up in a heavy coat and scarf, and didn’t look herself at all. She gave Tara a little wooden jewellery box for her eighteenth birthday, which had been two days before. Tara was delighted and thanked her friend for both the gift and for remembering her birthday.

  “Did you get any other presents?” Biddy enquired.

  Tara shook her head. “My father would never think of anything like that – he’s not like Madeleine’s father. And Mick’s run off his feet with the bakery and the outside work.” She sighed and looked down at the jewellery box. “It was always my granda who remembered my birthday.”

  “I haven’t been well,” Biddy told her in a sorrowful voice, “and Lizzie won’t let me outside the door. That’s why I never got up with yer present before. She even had the priest goin’ on at me.”

  “Well, at least she’s looking after you,” Tara consoled. “Did you ever see that Murphy fellow again . . . the one at the New Year’s Dance?”

  Biddy kicked at an icy puddle with one of her thick scuffed boots. “He was supposed to meet me last week, but he never turned up. I sent a message on Friday, to a girl who works in the factory with his brother, to meet me yesterday evenin’ – but he didn’t turn up again. An’ when I got home, Lizzie half-killed me for bein’ out. She laid about me wi’ the brush.”

  “But you know what she’s like about you going out – surely you knew what you were letting yourself in for?”

  Biddy sighed. “She’d been up wi’ the diarrhoea all night again – so I thought she’d be asleep and not miss me. Anyway, it would have been worth the beating if PJ had bothered to turn up.”

  “But he didn’t – and you had to pay the price for it. When will you learn that he’s just not worth it?” Tara shook her head and tutted, angry at Biddy for making so little of herself. “It’s for the best. You’ll meet somebody better than him.” She put her arm round her forlorn friend. “The way the boys run after you, you’ll have no trouble meeting someone else.”

  Biddy gave her a long, strange look, then she asked: “What about Gabriel Fitzgerald? Are you still doing a line with him?”

  Tara cringed inwardly at the idea of describing her friendship with Gabriel as ‘doing a line’ – the local description for courting. “He’s gone back to university in Dublin,” she said casually, as though she didn’t mind. “I probably won’t see him again until Easter.”

  “You should get yourself up to Dublin some weekend and see him,” Biddy advised, a livelier look now in her eyes. She always seemed to brighten up when the subject came round to boys and courting. “What if he meets someone else at the university? There’s plenty of girls in Dublin, you know.”

  Tara shrugged and clapped her gloved hands together to w
arm them up. “If he does, he does. I’ve no intentions of running up to Dublin after him.” Why, oh why, she asked herself, was Biddy bombarding her with all these questions? Questions that she had not allowed herself to dwell on. Each word felt like a stick being poked into an open wound.

  “Maybe you working for his father now would put him in an awkward situation,” Biddy went on. “It can be fierce awkward when you’re workin’ for people you fancy.”

  “Maybe,” Tara mused. Then, attempting to get Biddy off the subject said: “Madeleine is helping out in the office now.”

  “Madeleine?” Biddy said with wide eyes. “Sure, I thought she was still sick in the head. I heard tell just the other day that she was in and out of an asylum in Dublin.”

  “If that’s what the people in Ballygrace are saying,” Tara snapped, “then the people in Ballygrace should mind their own business. They don’t know anything about Madeleine Fitzgerald, because if they did, then they would know that she’s fit and well at the minute.”

  “Oh . . . that’s grand,” Biddy replied, momentarily lost for words. She knew full well that Tara was directing some of her anger in her own direction. “I’m glad poor Madeleine’s feelin’ better – I always liked her. They’re nothing but a pack of feckin’ sneers in Ballygrace.” Then, seeing Tara’s disapproving look she blushed and said: “Excusin’ the language – but they’ve even told some terrible lies about me in this place. The people of Ballygrace haven’t a good word for anybody. Sure, they’ve even found fault with yourself – you, who’s never done anythin’ worth talking about.”

  Tara did not rise to her friend’s bait. She had always kept herself to herself in the village and listening to gossip only infuriated her. It brought up such a rage it almost frightened her and made her feel like challenging the person who had instigated the talk. But that only led to rows. And rows in public – as her granda always said – made women no better than fishwives. Tara Flynn had never met a fishwife but, from the way her granda had spat out the word, she never wanted to be described as one.

  Back at the cottage after Mass, as she revived the dying turf fire, Tara could not stop herself going over the conversation she had with Biddy. It had certainly touched a raw nerve. By throwing herself into work in the auctioneering office these last few weeks, she had attempted to block all thoughts of Gabriel Fitzgerald out of her mind. He had explained his situation quite plainly to her, the day before he went back to Dublin. He had come into the office in Tullamore – when he knew his father was elsewhere – and hung around until it was Tara’s lunch break. They had then gone to a tearoom together and had chatted seriously about their friendship for the first time.

  “I really enjoy being with you, Tara,” he had said looking deep into her eyes. “Much more than I enjoy being with any other girl. But –” he paused, and swallowed hard as though there was a huge lump in his throat, “I’m . . . I’m afraid I’m not in a position to promise anything. My parents have spoken to me recently – impressed upon me how I have to concentrate at university, because my grades in the exams at Christmas were very poor. They think it was because of Madeleine . . . all the recent upset. But really, I know it’s because I’ve been thinking too much about you.” He lowered his eyes. “I’ve several years studying ahead of me . . . After that – who knows what will happen?”

  This was not what Tara had expected to hear. Foolishly, she had let her imagination run riot when Gabriel had asked to see her at lunchtime. It had run so far, that she had found herself imagining that he would confess to being in love with her. He would then ask her if she would be patient until he had finished his studies. And of course – she would be patient. She would gladly have waited. Only now, there was no guarantee that there would something worth waiting for. He was more or less telling her that she should not wait.

  Another girl in her position might have been devastated – but Tara Flynn was not just another girl. Any feelings she had, would be buried deep inside. She would carry on as though nothing had happened. She would not let him know how hurt she was. She was not like Biddy Hart. She did not, and would not, wear her heart on her sleeve.

  “I have plans too,” Tara replied in an even tone. “And I wouldn’t be in a position to promise anything either.” She had then looked him straight in the eye and even managed a smile which looked entirely sincere. “I hope I didn’t give you the impression that I was expecting anything from you, Gabriel, because that was not my intention. You surely must consider me a foolish, inexperienced girl altogether, to think that a few kisses at a New Year’s dance could turn my head.”

  Gabriel flushed deeply. “I consider you no such thing . . . I obviously haven’t explained myself very well.”

  “I think you’ve explained yourself perfectly well.” Tara looked at her watch, and then bent down to retrieve her handbag from the side of her chair. “I must get back. Patricia and Madeleine are due their lunch-break in ten minutes.”

  Gabriel leaned across the table, and covered her hand with his. “We can still see each other – can’t we? When I’m on holiday, that kind of thing. I don’t want the feelings between us to change . . . it’s just that it’s the wrong time.”

  Tara drank the last mouthful of her coffee, then – as though she was hardly aware of it – slid her hand away from Gabriel’s. She tucked her hair under her hat, then lifted her coat and scarf. “We’ll see what happens,” she said agreeably, and then swept out of the tearoom. She would not let him see how crushed his words had left her. And never again would she let her imagination run away with her feelings where a man was concerned.

  *  *  *

  Since then, Tara had kept herself busy in mind and body. She had put Gabriel to the back of her mind, and not allowed herself to dwell on the situation. She didn’t have the time to spend brooding over it. Perhaps it was for the best, for all her other responsibilities seemed to fade into the background when Gabriel Fitzgerald was around. If she was not disciplined with herself, thoughts of him disrupted her studies, her piano playing and her work at both the office and home. It was in her own interests now to forget him.

  She moved to put the pot of potatoes she had peeled before Mass, on the blazing fire, then she put the smaller pot containing chopped carrots, turnip and parsnips on beside it. The piece of beef for her and Mick had already been cooked the previous night and only needed warming up, when the vegetables were almost cooked.

  By the time the meal was ready, Tara wondered where Mick had got to, for he had not come in from eleven o’clock Mass yet and it was quarter to one. Since her granda had died, they were fairly easy-going about Sunday lunchtimes, but today was different. She had wanted to get the meal over fairly early, because she had business in Tullamore. She ate her own, and left Mick’s meal in a covered dish, over a pan of boiling water to keep it hot.

  A short while later, he came bustling through the door, red-faced and apologetic. “I’m sorry now, me girl, keepin’ you back from yer bite,” he said, taking off his best coat and cap, “but I got chattin’ after Mass.”

  “It’s okay,” she told him, getting a cloth to remove the steaming pot from the fire. “I’ve had mine.” She set the hot plate with Mick’s meal out on the scrubbed pine kitchen table.

  Mick washed his hands then poured himself a tumbler of milk from the pitcher on the deep window-sill. Then in his slow, methodical way rolled his shirt-sleeves up to his elbow before sitting to eat.

  “I’m going into Tullamore on the bike,” Tara said, pulling on her heavy tweed coat. “I’m going in to look at a piano –”

  “A piano?” Mick said, an alarmed look on his face.

  “A second-hand one – remember? I mentioned it to you the other week.”

  “And where were you thinkin’ of putting it?” He said, gesturing round the kitchen. “Sure, there’s hardly room to swing a cat in here.”

  Tara pinned a large brooch to her thick scarf, and then pushed her hair up under her beret. “We’ll just have to move
things round a bit,” she said, pulling on her gloves. She gave her uncle a beaming smile. “I promise I won’t play it too loud – and I’ll learn a few tunes that you can sing along to.”

  Mick’s mouth opened and shut like a fish – with not a word coming out. He was at best a man of few words, and whatever he wanted to say on this occasion would not take shape on his tongue. Eventually, as Tara lifted the latch on the door, he managed to stutter out: “Don’t be too hasty – take your time in case they diddle you out of yer money.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tara reassured him. “I’ve been pricing pianos for weeks and I know exactly how much I’m going to pay for one.”

  Tara was hardly out the door five minutes when Mick Flynn had his coat and cap on and was cycling in the opposite direction. He had been waiting for the right time to give Tara the news and it had never come. Tonight he would tell her and she would have to make up her mind what to do after it.

  *  *  *

  After viewing the piano and tentatively agreeing on a price, Tara called in on her grand-aunts before cycling back out to Ballygrace. The welcome she received from Molly at the door, was more than she expected.

  “Come in, Tara,” the bent-over little woman said, ushering her into the dark hallway. “And it’s welcome you are, my girl – welcome!”

  Tara felt a little pang of sympathy as she followed the elderly woman down the hall and into the kitchen. It seemed only like yesterday when the two aunties were walking in their sprightly way with straight spines and steady feet. All of a sudden, they both seemed to have aged and grown doddery on their feet. She supposed it wasn’t that surprising, since they were both in their seventies.