Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Tara looked over her shoulder at the pale-faced Biddy and raised her eyebrows in disapproval. “If I ever come on a boat again,” she whispered indignantly, “I don’t care how much it costs – I’m coming first class!” The loud-mouthed Dubliner had nearly driven them mad on the journey from Dublin to Holyhead and try as they might to escape him, they always seemed to run into him again. They moved along the ramp, stopping and starting to let travellers change cases from one hand to another, or for parents to pick up tired children in their arms.

  “Are you all right?” Tara said, glancing back at Biddy. “Are you sure you can manage that case?”

  “I’m fine,” Biddy replied. “But I’ll be a lot better when we get off this boat.”

  Tara looked at her watch. “I hope the train has waited for us,” she said anxiously. “It would be terrible to miss it and be stuck in a strange place for hours.”

  “We’ve still to go through the Customs.” Biddy took the opportunity to move into a space in the crowd alongside her friend. “D’ye think they’ll say anything to us? D’ye think they might take us into one of the rooms?”

  “Not at all,” Tara said in a crisp voice, although in truth she wasn’t one bit sure of what might happen.

  The passengers walked in single file now as they came to Customs clearance. Tara glanced back anxiously every now and again, to check how Biddy was doing. It was just over two weeks since she’d given birth to a small, premature baby boy, and she was still bleeding heavily. The stern-faced Customs officers looked closely at each person as they passed by. They had already selected three people from the crowd to open their cases or bags but when Tara and Biddy came up to the desk they just nodded and told them to pass through.

  “It must have been our good clothes and hats,” Biddy said in a voice breathless with relief. “I’m glad you made me dress up for travellin’.”

  Tara slipped her free arm through Biddy’s and gave her a comforting squeeze. “We had nothing to hide, so it wouldn’t have mattered even if they had stopped us.” She heaved a sigh of relief when they were told that the train to Manchester had waited for the boat passengers. “We’ll be fine now,” she assured Biddy, as they boarded the train. “It’s only half-past two. It’ll still be daylight when we arrive in Stockport.”

  “Don’t we have to go to Manchester first?” Biddy enquired anxiously. “I’m sure that’s what Father Daly wrote down on the bit of paper.”

  “We take this train to Manchester, then we’ll have plenty of time to catch a connection from Manchester out to Stockport,” Tara told her.

  After looking in a number of carriages, they were lucky to find two vacant seats – side by side – in the very last one. There had been an almost empty carriage further along but when Tara slid the door open, she realised why. The drunken Dubliner was stretched out, taking up a full row of seats for himself and there were three other men seated opposite him, with open bottles of beer in their hands. Tara had quickly banged the door shut and motioned to Biddy to keep moving on.

  “It must be busy because it’s a Friday,” Biddy said. “I heard the trains from Dublin are fierce busy on a Friday, too.”

  A pleasant, elderly man from Galway very kindly lifted their cases up on the rack above their heads, then, when they sat down, proceeded to ask them both which part of Ireland they came from. Tara hesitated for a few seconds, then she said: “A small place near Tullamore.”

  Thankfully, the man didn’t know Tullamore as such, although he had neighbours who had connections in Mullingar, which wasn’t too far. He went on to regale them with details about the funeral he was travelling to in Ardwick, a district of Manchester. Normally, in a situation like that, Biddy would have been the one to do all the chatting, but since she wasn’t at all herself, Tara ended up listening and asking all the right questions.

  The train journey was quite pleasant and while Biddy and the man from Galway dozed, Tara looked out of the rain-dotted window at the scenery as they passed through the lovely countryside of Wales and then out into the more industrialised areas as they approached England.

  At least, she thought to herself, she was in a better situation than when she arrived in Dublin, last Tuesday afternoon. She had company with her in the shape of Biddy, and she had an address to go to. She sighed and looked out at the station they had just pulled into. It was a place called Chester, a place she had never heard of. Just like she had never heard of Stockport.

  The jolt of the train stopping woke Biddy. She looked round the carriage with bleary eyes, not sure for a moment where she was. “Are we in England yet?” she checked with Tara.

  “We are,” Tara said, patting her arm. “We’ve another bit to go yet before we reach Manchester, then we’ve to change trains for Stockport.”

  “I would never have managed this journey on my own,” Biddy whispered. “I keep thanking God for sending you up to Dublin when he did. When you walked in the door of the convent, I couldn’t believe it – it was like a miracle.”

  Tara smiled back. “It was an answer to my prayers too, Biddy,” she replied in a low voice. “And whatever happens, we’ll make it work.”

  “When Father Daly first gave me the name and address of Mrs Carey in Stockport, I told him I couldn’t go to England – then I thought about it. Where else would I go? I couldn’t go back to Ballygrace – not that Lizzie Lawless would have had me back anyway. I’d even thought of asking you if I could come and live with you and Mick, but then you wrote to me and told me about him getting married. That was some shock! I would never have imagined Mick getting married in a million years.”

  Tara nodded. “I’m glad for Mick. Kitty’s a nice woman, and he deserves it. But I have to admit, it was a big shock for me too.” And one of a number of shocks, Tara thought to herself. And if Biddy knew what had happened at Ballygrace House – the real reason she had left Ireland – she would have had the biggest shock of all.

  As if she had read Tara’s thoughts, Biddy suddenly said: “I can’t believe what’s happened to Madeleine.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Her family must be in a terrible state – her being in a mental hospital. You wouldn’t think anything bad like that would happen to the Fitzgeralds. The Quality don’t usually get things like that happenin’ to them.”

  Tara looked out of the window at the little splashes of rain that had just appeared on the glass. Oh Biddy, she thought to herself, if only you knew the things that happen to the Quality, you would never look up to them again. “I think Madeleine will have to spend a long time in hospital,” she said, “but I’m sure she’ll eventually get better.”

  Some time later the train pulled in at a drizzly Manchester, and a porter told them to hurry up as a train was leaving for Stockport in five minutes. The next train-ride was a short one, taking them out through the city overlooking the offices and houses as they went along. Thankfully, the rain had stopped by the time they arrived in Stockport. The girls alighted from the train with their cases, and then stood looking at each other, unsure as to what to do next.

  “If you wait here with the luggage,” Tara told her friend, “then I’ll go and ask at the ticket desk if they know whereabouts in Stockport Shaw Heath is.”

  The ticket clerk told them that they should get a taxi to Shaw Heath, because, although it wasn’t very far, it was all uphill, and would be heavy going if they were carrying luggage. He pointed to a taxi rank right outside the station and said they would be at the address in less than five minutes.

  The black Hackney cab turned up on to a busy road and both girls craned their necks as they drove along, trying to get a better view of Stockport town, the place that was now their new home.

  “Have you been to Stockport before, girls?” the small, stocky cab-driver asked in a strong North-West accent.

  “No,” Biddy replied, “we’ve just moved here.”

  “Very nice,” he said, “very nice.” He then proceeded to give them a guided tour of the area as they passed through. “We’r
e out of the main shopping area up here, and we’re heading out of the town. This building to the left of you is the library, and that building straight in front of you on the same side is the Town Hall.” He laughed. “It’s called the ‘Wedding Cake’ because the shape at the top looks like one.”

  “It does!” Biddy said excitedly, pointing at the huge structure. “Look at it, Tara. And it’s a lot bigger and fancier than any of the buildings in Ballygrace or Tullamore.”

  “Where’s that?” the cab driver enquired, turning the taxi into a street on the right. “Somewhere in Wales?”

  “It’s in Ireland,” Tara said in a clear, clipped tone.

  “You’ll be at home here then,” the man laughed. “There’s plenty of Paddies around these parts.” He turned down another road. “We’re going into Shaw Heath now. What street did you say it was?”

  “Maple Terrace,” Biddy said, her voice sounding breathless.

  Tara took her purse out of her handbag, and started to sort out the correct change for the taxi. It was difficult getting used to the different pennies and ha’pennies and shillings, sixpences and threepenny bits. Biddy hadn’t a clue and couldn’t tell one coin from another, so she had left it all up to Tara to sort out fares, money for tea and anything else.

  The taxi came to a stop outside a row of redbrick terraced houses on a cobbled street. “Here we are, girls – this is Maple Terrace,” the driver said, getting out to help them with their cases. “What number did you say, love?” he asked Biddy.

  “Number twenty,” Biddy said, trying not to giggle at being called ‘love’.

  The driver strode on, checking the numbers on the houses. He turned in one of the gateways, deposited the cases on the doorstep, and then rang the bell.

  The girls followed behind. Tara gave him the money, with a few coppers extra for a tip. “Thanks, love,” he said warmly, “and if you need a cab, you’ll find me most evenings down by the station.” He gave them an appraising glance. “I’m sure two fine-looking girls like yourselves will be out on the town in the evenings. I often go to the dance halls round Stockport and Manchester when I have the night off – so I might run into you at a dance some evening.”

  When the cab pulled away, the girls looked at each other. “The nuns in the convent kept warning me about the dance halls in England,” Biddy said to Tara. “They said they were nothing but dens of iniquity.”

  Before Biddy could elaborate any further, an elderly woman with coiled grey hair and a cross-over pinny opened the door.

  “Yes?” the woman said, her eyes flitting from one to the other and then settling on the suitcases. “Can I help you?”

  “Mrs Carey?” Tara asked, and when the woman confirmed with a nod, she continued. “I’m Tara Flynn, and this is Bid – Bridget Hart. Father Daly over in Ireland said you might have rooms here.”

  “One room,” Mrs Carey corrected in an accent which betrayed Irish origins, tempered with a heavier Manchester accent. “He only wrote about one girl. I haven’t the room for two.”

  Tara’s heart sank. She knew everything had gone too smoothly to be true.

  “We could share . . .” Biddy said, looking at Tara for support.

  Mrs Carey shook her head. “It’s the smallest room in the house, not enough room to swing a cat in it.” She pursed her lips together, and shook her head. “I’ve only the room for one. You’ll have to decide between you, which one has it. Father Daly had no right sending two of you, when he sent word to me that there was only one coming.”

  “We want to stay together. Would you know of anywhere else that might take two of us?’ Tara asked, trying to keep calm. “Are there any other lodgings about?”

  Mrs Carey crossed her arms high on her chest and put her head to the side. “Oh, there’s lodgings about all right but whether they’re decent lodgings is another matter –” She stopped abruptly, and turned her gaze on a tall elderly man who was walking up the street towards them. “You’d better lift those cases and come inside,” she said irritably, “before someone falls over them and blames me.”

  They followed her up two little steps, which were painted a blood-red colour to match the door and then down a dim hallway, lit only by a small red bulb situated under a picture of the Sacred Heart.

  “Drop your cases at the door, until I write a couple of addresses down for you,” she said sharply.

  The girls followed her until they found themselves in a steamy kitchen which smelled of stale cabbage, and had a large round table set for eight people. They stood silently, Biddy with her fingers crossed behind her back. She was desperately hoping that Tara wouldn’t blame her for the predicament they were in, because she had assured her that there would be room in this house for two lodgers.

  Mrs Carey took a pen and paper down from a shelf and wrote down the addresses. “If neither of you want the room,” she said, handing Tara the piece of paper, “then I’ll let you get on your way. It’s Friday and I have fish and chips to cook for the men coming in from work shortly.”

  Biddy’s mouth watered at the mention of the fish and chips. She hoped that they would soon be sitting down eating a meal themselves, for they’d only had a bar of chocolate in the train station in Manchester, since their sandwiches on the boat.

  “How far would these places be?” Tara asked anxiously, dreading the thought of traipsing around the strange cobbled streets in the dark.

  “Just a couple of streets away,” the landlady said. “You’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ll see you to the door, and I’ll point out the direction. You should be all right in one of those places. It’s not too busy a time of the year yet. It gets worse in the summer, when the younger ones leave school and are looking for a job and digs.”

  Out in the strange cobbled streets once again, Biddy said to Tara: “I’m glad we’re not stayin’ in that house. It had a funny smell – and I didn’t like her one bit.”

  “I didn’t care for her either, but at least it would have been a roof over our heads.” Tara consulted the piece of paper. “Right,” she said in a determined voice, “we have to cross this road now and turn left. It should lead us into Willow Terrace and we’re looking for number thirteen. And say a prayer,” she instructed Biddy, “that the rain doesn’t come back on. All we need is to get drowned as we’re walking along, and we’ll be nice-looking sights turning up at anybody’s door.”

  “They say number thirteen is fierce unlucky,” Biddy said glumly, picking up her case. “I hope this one is better than Mrs Carey’s.” Then, she suddenly smiled. “Did you notice that she had the electric lighting, Tara? There wasn’t a candle or an oul’ oil lamp anywhere. Won’t it be great to live in a house with the electric lighting?”

  “Don’t mind about the lighting, Biddy,” Tara said, as they walked along. “It’s finding a bed for the night that’s more important.”

  The next two houses they called at had no vacancies. A man who answered the door in the second house had scrutinised them closely and said: “Are you Irish?”

  “We are,” Tara replied, thinking he might have relatives over in Ireland. “We’re from the Midlands –”

  “In that case,” he said, stepping back inside, “you can keep on looking. I’ve had to get rid of two drunken Micks in the last month, and I vowed never to take in any of them in again! In my opinion, they’re nothing but ignorant, ill-educated, drunken louts! So I’ll say good day to you.” And with that, the door was banged firmly in their faces.

  “Well!” Tara said indignantly. “I don’t believe what I’ve just heard.”

  Biddy touched her arm. “Father Daly warned me this might happen. He said that some of the English can’t stand the Irish. He said we were to keep our heads down, and be careful of which Irish crowds we associated with.” She sucked in her breath, and said in a wavering voice: “I’m glad we didn’t get a room in that house – I told you number thirteen was unlucky.”

  Tara lifted her case up again, her heart as heavy as the luggage. “Where
,” she sighed, “do we go now?”

  They trudged back along the damp unfamiliar streets, being careful to pick their steps over the rough cobbles lest they should twist an ankle and add to their misfortunes.

  “How are you feeling?” Tara asked Biddy as they turned a corner and came upon a row of shops. “Do you feel you need to sit down yet?”

  “I’m all right for a bit longer. If we don’t get something soon, maybe we could go somewhere for a cup of tea.”

  “If you mind the cases for a few minutes,” Tara suggested as they came upon a newsagent’s shop, “I’ll run in here and buy a newspaper. You never know, they might have lodgings advertised in them. I’ll ask if they know where we can get a cup of tea while I’m in.”

  Tara seemed to be gone an awful long time. Biddy kept moving the cases in closer to the shop wall, afraid someone might trip over them. People seemed to be in a hurry, she thought, rushing in and out of the little row of shops. Several times she had to stop herself from saying ‘Hello’ to people, if they caught her eye. Tara had warned her not to make free with anyone, as the English liked to keep themselves to themselves. It would be no problem to Tara, Biddy thought, for she kept herself to herself all the time.

  “Good news,” Tara said, coming rushing out of the shop with yet another bit of paper. “The people in the shop are from Mayo and they’ve given me the address of a nice English woman who takes in lodgers.”

  Biddy joined her hands. “Thanks be to God!”

  “I didn’t notice going into the shop,” Tara said, pointing to the newsagent’s window, “but there are advertisements for lodgings stuck up here. And apparently the English woman came in yesterday and put a notice in saying she had two vacant rooms. They said she has a huge house, just along the street here. Seemingly she takes in a lot of Irish lads and the newsagent said she might be glad of the company of girls for a change.”

  Both girls left the cases for a moment and walked to the end of the row of shops, to look down the street.