Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “I’m sorry!” Biddy said, bursting through the cottage door. “I know it’s dark and late – but I had to come tonight. Lizzie and the priest are takin’ me to some place tomorrow, and God knows when I’ll ever see you again!” Biddy’s eyes were almost jumping out of her head. “I could end up like Nora Quinn – and never be heard tell of again.”

  “What are you talking about, Biddy?” Tara asked, almost dizzy with confusion. She ushered her friend into the warm room. Biddy’s coat and hair were cold and damp. Tara started to help her out of the coat, and was even more confused when her friend struggled to keep it wrapped round her. “I’ll dry it out by the fire,” Tara told her. “You’ll catch pneumonia if you go back out in that damp coat.”

  “Maybe that would be the best thing for me,” Biddy stated. “Maybe if I died it would solve everythin’.” She sat down in the rocking-chair and huddled over the fire, still hugging the coat tightly to her.

  Tara went over to the kitchen table where the celebratory bottle of sherry was standing. She filled a glass to the brim and handed one to her friend. “Drink that up,” she ordered. “It will do you good.”

  Biddy sat sipping the drink and staring into the fire, while Tara got the kettle boiling again and waited until her friend was ready to talk.

  “If I tell you something,” Biddy started, a sob already in her voice, “will you promise me two things?”

  Tara nodded solemnly.

  “Will you promise to still be my friend – and will you promise to tell no one?”

  “I promise,” Tara said sincerely.

  Biddy took a deep breath. “I’m expectin’ a baby in the summer,” she said in a leaden voice, “. . . and they’re takin’ me up to Dublin tomorrow. To a place for fallen women.”

  Tara’s hands flew to cover her shocked face. “A baby? I don’t believe it! You can’t have . . . you haven’t been with anyone . . . have you?” Surely her friend wasn’t the sort of girl to have let a boy touch her before she was married? Surely the rumours about Biddy were only rumours . . . and that deep down she was like herself, saving her virginity for the special person that would become her husband?

  Biddy’s lowered eyes told the truth.

  After a few moments, Tara found her voice again and whispered. “Maybe it’s all a mistake?”

  Biddy shook her head, a stricken expression on her face. “I found out before Christmas . . . the day yer granda was buried. I didn’t want to tell you about it when ye had yer own troubles.”

  A tiny sword pricked Tara’s heart at the mention of her beloved granda and caused a pain under her ribs. Oh, how she wished he were back here, to protect and advise her against all these terrible things were happening to her.

  “Who,” Tara said hesitantly, “is the father?”

  Biddy looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes, and then started on the story she had rehearsed as she walked down to Flynn’s. “It’s that boy from Tullamore . . . that PJ Murphy.”

  “Him?” There was silence for a moment. “Does he know? Is he going to take responsibility for you?”

  The tears came gushing out of Biddy now, and she rocked herself back and forward in the chair for pathetic comfort. “He’s gone!” she wailed, accepting a clean hanky of Mick’s which Tara had taken from the clothes pulley. “And his oul’ mammy came out to see Lizzie, and then the priest was brought in. She said that she would strangle PJ before she’d let him be tied in marriage to the likes of me. And . . .” she paused to dab her eyes, then blow her nose loudly on Mick’s hanky, “and both Lizzie and the priest said that Mrs Murphy was right, that a boy from a decent family couldn’t be saddled with me. Then Lizzie said that I had been tellin’ all different stories about the father. That I’d been accusin’ innocent people. She said to PJ’s mother that you could fling a stone and it could land at any one of a dozen boys I’d been with.”

  Tara gasped in horror at the insinuation. “What happened then?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  “Mrs Murphy said that she was sendin’ PJ away to Galway or Cork . . . or some far-flung place, to help his uncle out on the farm. She said she hoped I was happy now that I had deprived a good God-fearing mother of her favourite son . . . and that she would never forgive me to her dyin’ day.” She stopped to dab her eyes again. “She was terrible to me . . . and Lizzie agreed with every word, and then the priest said that he was going to solve the problem for everybody. He said that he was goin’ to take me to this place in Dublin in the mornin’ – where I would be a torment to nobody. He said that after a while, when PJ had learned his lesson about interferin’ with bad girls like me, that his mother would forgive him and let him come home.”

  There was a silence, then Tara asked the question that had been on her lips since Biddy came in. “Why, Biddy –” she asked, “why did you let PJ Murphy touch you? Didn’t you know it was wrong? Did you not know this might happen?”

  Biddy dropped her gaze to the floor. How could she tell Tara that she found it very easy to let the young, attractive PJ touch her, after all the things she’d done with Dinny and . . . other things she couldn’t bear thinking about.

  “I never gave a thought to havin’ a child,” she explained, “then, when I found out . . . I thought it would be grand to get married and have a baby. I’ve never had anybody belongin’ to me before . . .” She broke off, and dissolved into a greater flood of tears than before. “I’m ruined . . . ruined!” she wailed. “Me whole life’s ruined!” Biddy suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Tara’s hand. “An’ I haven’t a friend in the world apart from you, Tara. Nobody will bother with me when word of this gets out. Promise me, please promise me, that you’ll still be my best friend?”

  Tara felt her throat closing over, for she suddenly realised that she was now losing her best friend, too. She would have no one to talk properly to any more. Even if her granda was still alive, she didn’t even know if she could have told him something so awful as this anyway. She couldn’t tell anyone about this . . . not just yet.

  Why, she asked herself angrily, could she not have a mother like every other young person? A mother was the only one who could have advised her on how to help the sad, fallen girl who stood weeping in front of her. A silly young girl who had given her precious virginity away to an even sillier young boy.

  Suddenly, Tara knew what she should do. She would follow the instructions she heard often at Mass – she would listen to her own conscience. She took a deep breath, and then putting her arms around Biddy, said: “Whatever happens now or in the future, Biddy, I’ll always be your friend.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Spring came early in Ballygrace. On St. Patrick’s Day, when she was in the back garden feeding the poultry, Tara noticed some daffodils peeping through the grass at the bottom of the apple tree in the garden. A feeling of hope came into her heart as she looked at the tight yellow buds.

  She turned back towards the cottage, checking items on the washing line as she passed. She stopped to take down the lighter things, underwear and blouses which were still slightly damp, but perfect for ironing. The heavier things, the dresses and sweaters would need another hour or two in the breeze. They would be pressed and packed in her case, by the time William Fitzgerald came to pick her up at seven o’clock that evening.

  Madeleine had been up and down since Christmas, coming into work when she was well enough, and staying at home with her mother when she was not. By the end of February, Madeleine was on the best medication that had been tried so far, and making great progress – and Elisha was at the end of her tether. A bad bout of flu, which had swept Tullamore and the surrounding area, had left her weak and nervous.

  “You need a break,” William had said at breakfast the previous Monday morning, as he sat opposite his pale and edgy wife. “You need to get away.”

  “How can I possibly get away?” Elisha asked in a tone as dull as her grey complexion. “Who would look after Madeleine?”

  “I would – with some help, obvi
ously. She’s much better now and she’s occupied from Monday until Friday in the office.”

  “What about the rest of the time? There are the evenings and the weekends, which are the most difficult times for her. How would you cope?”

  He reached across the table and stroked her hand. “Leave that to me,” he said reassuringly. “I think a break over in London in your delightful sister’s company would do you the world of good.” He smiled fondly at her. “I’ve already spoken to Frances, and she would love to have you – in fact, she insists that you come.”

  Elisha’s expression softened at the mention of her younger sister’s name. Frances was indeed elegant, delightful company, and she lived close to the city centre – and all the big department stores in Oxford Street and Bond Street where Elisha loved to shop. “I must admit that the thought of seeing Frances appeals to me,” she said in a brighter voice, “and the shops will have their spring stock in. I need a new outfit for Hillary Duffy’s wedding in May. If I buy it in London, it’s unlikely that anyone will be wearing the same outfit.”

  “That’s the situation settled then,” William said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and rising from the table. “I’ll call in at the travel agent’s at some point this morning, and book your flight.”

  “Are you sure?” Elisha asked again, all sorts of problems running through her mind.

  “I’m certain.” He gave a broad smile. “We can’t have you attending Hillary Duffy’s wedding in an ordinary old outfit from Dublin, can we?”

  *  *  *

  The following Saturday, after Elisha’s departure, William asked Madeleine if she would like a friend to stay while her mother was in London. “I’m just concerned about you being on your own too much,” he had pointed out. “I often have commitments in the evening and at the weekend. I would hate you to get depressed again – and I thought perhaps that if you had company, you might feel better.”

  Madeleine shrugged. “I feel fine at the moment,” she said, “but it would be nice to have Tara over now and again. She always cheers me up. She might be glad of a change herself, because her uncle got married last week, and I think she feels in the way with his new bride.” She gave a peculiar little giggle. “I can’t imagine a couple in their fifties getting married.” Then, just as quickly, she became serious again and said: “It would also give us a chance to go over the accounts system at the office, because I’m still struggling with that.”

  “That’s it settled,” William said with delight. “We’ll drive over to Ballygrace tonight, and you can put the idea to her.”

  The plan to bring Tara Flynn closer to him had worked perfectly. He had taken his time, in order not to arouse suspicion from his wife or his daughter. Hopefully, his patience would soon be rewarded.

  *  *  *

  The guest bedroom in Ballygrace House was exactly as Tara remembered. And, it was an answer to a prayer. She had not hesitated – even for a second – when Madeleine came bounding through the cottage door, and had pleaded with her to come to Ballygrace House ‘even for a little while’.

  It had been very embarrassing for Tara on the night of Mick and Kitty’s wedding, when all three of them had come back to the cottage. Tara thought they might have had a night away in a hotel in Dublin, or even a bed and breakfast in Tullamore, but they had laughed and said they were a bit old for a honeymoon. The walls were good and thick, but Tara had gone to sleep with the blankets over her head, just in case any alarming noises penetrated through to her own bedroom. She had gone to sleep every night since in a similar manner, and although she had not actually heard anything, her imagination had worked overtime, preventing her sleeping properly – and leaving her exhausted in the mornings. A break away was exactly what she needed. It was probably what Mick and Kitty needed too, because she knew they were both embarrassed facing her in the mornings.

  Tara hung her freshly ironed clothes up in the wardrobe in the guest room in Ballygrace House. She had never used it before, because she had only ever stayed overnight, and had no need of it. She examined the wardrobe interior, fascinated by all the different compartments behind the three mirrored doors. The middle part was the same as a normal wardrobe with a rail, but the other two parts with shelves and drawers were more interesting. She took her time putting her hats in the top part, and then carefully hung her scarves on the special narrow rail with clips to stop them sliding off. Her sweaters went on the open shelves, and her shoes on the bottom shelves. Her underwear, stockings and night-dresses she put in the matching dressingtable drawers, and her dressing-gown on the fancy brass hook on the back of the bedroom door.

  As she breathed in the fragrance of the dried lavender mingled with the smell of furniture polish, Tara felt such a surge of relief to be in this room. This beautiful, elegant room. She went over and stood in front of the glowing fire in the white marble fireplace, then she stretched on tip-toes to look at herself in the mirror above. It was over four months since the first time she had come to Ballygrace House – and four months since her granda had died. Such a lot had happened in that time.

  It was amazing, she mused, as she threw herself down on top of the green satin quilt, how comfortable she now felt in this house. How the things which had intimidated her so much, no longer bothered her. Before, she would have worried about creasing the bed coverings, or have been hesitant about putting toiletries out on the dressingtable – as though someone would scold her for making herself at home in a place she had no right to be. Someone like Mrs Scully. But those days were gone – and gone for ever as far as Tara was concerned.

  Although she had only been working for William Fitzgerald for a few months, she knew she had already earned his respect as a good employee. He was delighted that Tara had picked up every skill that Patricia McManus had shown her, and had even introduced several new ideas, which the older secretary had praised her for.

  Tara had become more acquainted with land evaluation, and had accompanied her boss in his car to places like Mullingar, Athlone, Portlaoise and Birr. On a few occasions they had stopped off for lunch and chatted over the morning’s business.

  Each time she went out with William Fitzgerald, Tara found that she was more comfortable and confident in his company. Apart from using the opportunity to learn more about the business, Tara discovered that he was an easy person to talk to. He confided to her all his worries about Madeleine, and about the effect it had had on his wife. He talked about his plans for the business, and told her how he had started from scratch in Tullamore fourteen years ago, and was now one of the biggest businessmen in the Midlands.

  “Hard work and persistence is the key to prosperity. Keep at it, and never give up,” he told her, time and time again. “Anyone can do well, if they stick to that philosophy.”

  Tara listened, and took in everything that he told her. William Fitzgerald was an interesting and attractive older man. Although sometimes – she had to admit to herself – she wished she were riding in the car and dining in the fancy restaurants with his son. But that was highly unlikely because Gabriel was living in Dublin, and was not due home again until Easter. By that time, Elisha Fitzgerald would be home, and Tara would be back in the cottage with Mick and Kitty – and seriously pondering her future.

  Mrs Scully had met her at the door on that first Sunday evening, and had taken her coat and hat and scarf from her – in a most civil manner. It was just as well, because Tara had decided to tackle the situation once and for all, if she had not been accorded the same respect as any other guest. Whether it would mean confronting Mrs Scully herself, or complaining to Madeleine’s father, was immaterial. She would deal with the situation as it arose.

  As if she had sensed Tara’s attitude, the housekeeper had told William Fitzgerald that the fire was now blazing in Tara’s bedroom, just as he had instructed. “And if there’s anything you need, Miss,” she had said in a courteous, albeit unsmiling manner, “you only have to ask meself or young Ella.”

  The situation at
the cottage with Mick and Kitty couldn’t continue. They were bending over backwards to be kind and accommodating to her – but she didn’t belong there any more. It was as though a door had closed on her life, and there was another door waiting to be opened. It was up to her to pick the time and the place.

  She supposed that Tullamore was the obvious choice to move to – for the time being at least. It would mean that she could walk to work every day, and she would be close to town for her evening classes and her music lessons. She would wait until Madeleine’s mother came home from London, because she could always use Ballygrace House as a bolthole to escape from her real – very unpredictable – life.

  *  *  *

  The first two weeks at Ballygrace House passed by quickly. Every morning Madeleine’s father drove her and Tara into the office in Tullamore. He normally waited long enough to check the post and make a few phone calls, and then he would go off to check any interesting land or property which was due to come on the market. Twice in the third week, he had asked Tara to accompany him for the purpose of taking notes and, he explained, to monitor how Madeleine coped in the office without Tara’s guidance.

  Apparently the first day, a Tuesday, that Madeleine was left on her own with Patricia, she had coped very well. She had worked through the list of instructions which Tara had left on filing and on re-doing the window display. The second day, the following Friday, things had not gone quite so well.

  William had taken Tara off to a stud farm in Kildare.“We’re meeting people from Dublin at the farm,” he explained as they drove along the winding roads in the late morning sunshine. “I’m hoping they’ll put in a good bid for it.”

  “What would you like me to do?” Tara asked.

  William gave her a broad smile, the white tips of his teeth showing beneath his meticulously groomed moustache. “I’d like you to enjoy the run out to this lovely place.” He reached across and patted Tara’s hand. “Then, I’d like you to use your dazzling looks to good effect with the clients.”