Tara Flynn
Page 31
The landlady had looked in on the girls again on her way out to the bingo. “There’s two hot-water bottles hanging on the back of the pantry door. You can fill them before you go to bed.” Then, looking at Biddy sympathetically, she said: “It might help to ease the cramps in yer stomach, love – it usually helps me. There’s a few magazines and a radio in the sitting-room, so you can make yourselves at home for the evening. I’ll chat to you in the morning about the extra for the electric fire in your room and about the hot water for baths.” She smiled at Biddy again. “I hope you’re feelin’ better in the morning, ducks. You don’t look quite so peaky now.”
Biddy nodded, her face glowing with this unaccustomed motherly attention.
Then, as a parting gesture Ruby added: “Ignore any noise later on. It’ll only be the lads comin’ back from the dancing with a few pints in them. They have their own front-door key, so they shouldn’t disturb you too much. Ta-ra now – see you in the morning.”
After they had cleared their dishes, the girls went upstairs to unpack and sort their clothes into the wardrobe and dressingtable drawers. Later on, they came back down to the sitting-room and sat listening to the radio. Tara sat by the coal fire reading a book she had bought in Dublin, while Biddy flicked through fashion magazines and fiddled about with the radio, tuning it into all the strange British stations until she found a music one she liked.
Around ten o’clock, Biddy offered to make them tea, and a while later she brought two mugs of tea and the packet of tea biscuits back into the sitting-room. They listened to another radio show of popular music and then after that, they filled the rubbery hot-water bottles, and went upstairs.
“I’ll have to find a chemist first thing in the morning,” Biddy said, biting her lip nervously, when she came out of the bathroom. “I’ve nearly run out of sanitary towels. I’m using twice the usual amount because I’m bleeding so heavily.”
“We might have to find a doctor if you’re no better during the week,” Tara said looking concerned. “I’m sure you should have some kind of check-up after a few weeks.”
Biddy shook her head, her eyes large with fear. “No . . . I don’t want anybody findin’ out about the baby. I’m sure I’ll be grand after a few more days.”
Biddy fell asleep in minutes, lulled by the comfort of the flannelette sheets and the heavy blankets, while Tara’s racing mind would not let her find the peace she needed to drop into sleep.
She looked out of the bedroom window now, seeing nothing beyond the pane of glass a few feet away. She shivered and pulled the colourful crocheted shawl which had earlier adorned an armchair round her shoulders. What if Biddy was really ill? What if Ruby found out that she had fainted not because of her monthly periods but because she had just given birth to an illegitimate baby? And even if Biddy was okay, and they weren’t thrown out of their lodgings, what if they didn’t find work?
What if . . .?
Tara’s mind ran on and on – refusing to be still. After a few more minutes, she eventually dragged her stiff, cold limbs out of the armchair and across the floor to the tallboy in the corner of the room. She reached for her handbag and unzipped the small pocket inside it. She took out a pair of white glass rosary beads that Nelly Kelly, her old neighbour, had given her on the day she left Ballygrace. She kept these for everyday use in her handbag, while another pair were safely buried in a drawer in the dressing-table. Those were special ones which she would not risk using. They were the old brown wooden beads which had been held in her granda’s hands – every single day of his life.
Clutching the glass beads tightly, she crept back into her side of the unfamiliar bed and curled up in the same way she used to do as child. She lay rigid, making sure that not one inch of her body touched her friend’s. Apart from the nightmare night with William Fitzgerald, Tara had never shared a bed with anyone since she was a child.
She felt for the cross on the end of the string of beads, and pressed it to her lips, then she started. “The Joyful Mysteries,” she mouthed soundlessly, lest she should waken Biddy. “The first Joyful Mystery – the Annunciation. Please God and Our Blessed Lady – don’t let me be pregnant after what William Fitzgerald did to me! Our Father who art in heaven . . .”
By the time she reached the Glorious Mysteries, Tara had dropped into a deep sleep, clutching the beads tightly to her chest.
* * *
Biddy was much better the following morning. “It was me own fault,” she said to Tara. “I should have known not to go so long without eating. I feel much better after the fish and chips and a good night’s sleep. It’s the best sleep I’ve had for months.”
“Good,” Tara said, giving her a relieved smile. “We’ll have our breakfast, and then we’ll go out and find a chemist for you. Thank God it’s not raining like yesterday.”
Biddy sniffed the air. “There’s a grand smell of cooking coming from downstairs. What time is it?”
Tara checked her watch. “Ten o’clock! We’ve slept it out.”
Biddy threw back the bedclothes. “I’ll run to the bathroom first, and I’ll be dressed in ten minutes.”
“There’s hot water in the bathroom,” Tara informed her, “so take your time and have a good wash.” Biddy’s hygiene had improved over the years but she was still inclined to only wash when she felt she really needed it. Tara felt she had to keep a close eye on Biddy’s ablutions, given their close sleeping arrangements. “I’m going to enquire about having a bath tonight. Won’t it be grand to just run the hot water into the bath from a tap? No more carting pans of water into a tin bath!”
“D’you know, Tara?” Biddy said, gathering the dressing-gown that the nuns had given her round her shoulders. “Now that we’re livin’ in this lovely place, with the electric lights and everythin’ – I feel as if I’ve died and gone to heaven!”
Tara lay on her own side of the bed for a few more minutes, thinking about what Biddy had said. In many ways she was right. The place was lovely and Ruby Sweeney seemed a nice woman. But there was something about the place that bothered Tara. Perhaps it was all the trouble with William Fitzgerald which made her very wary of people who seemed too nice too soon. Or perhaps it was the thought of all the other lodgers in the house being men – and the way Biddy was reacting to it all. She seemed too excited and only too willing to be drawn into a new life they both knew nothing about.
Listening to Ruby Sweeney talking about divorce and ‘living over the brush’ with men had appeared to whet Biddy’s appetite. And Tara was sure that it was only a matter of time until she spilled all the business about the baby to the landlady, or someone else who would offer a sympathetic ear.
Maybe, Tara thought, she should have been more sympathetic herself to Biddy about all she had gone through having the baby early, and then having it wrenched away for adoption. She felt a bit guilty about that, but every time the subject of how Biddy became pregnant in the first place was approached, Biddy clammed up and the conversation fizzled out.
Tara was at a loss how to help or console her friend over losing her baby but the one thing she was definite about was that Biddy must not get herself into that situation again. But it was not going to be an easy task, for Tara noticed that even the mere mention of boys and dance halls brought a glint into Biddy’s eye. God knows what she would be like when she eventually got the chance to go into the dance halls around Stockport and Manchester. Last night it was the only topic of conversation that she was interested in when she was chatting with Ruby and the lads.
Tara sighed and sat up in bed. Coming over to England had given both her and Biddy a clean slate, and it was imperative that they did not blot this one. There was no one here who knew anything about William Fitzgerald and the gossip that had swept Ballygrace about her relationship with him – thanks to Mrs Scully.
But there was no Rosie Scully in Stockport, and – Tara vowed – there would never be a man like William Fitzgerald in her life again.
* * *
After breakfast, the two girls sat at the table drinking tea, and listening to more of Ruby’s outrageous stories about her husband. Two young men in their late teens appeared at the kitchen door – a tall one with dark hair and a smaller one with bright red hair.
“Sorry we’re a bit late for breakfast, Ruby,” the tall one said in a thick Dublin accent, “but we missed the late bus back from Manchester last night and we’d to walk a few miles before we picked up a taxi.”
“Oh, you poor lambs!” Ruby exclaimed. “Your feet must be killin’ you.” She put the huge frying pan back on a ring on the gas cooker. “Sit yourselves down, and have a cup of tea with the girls – they’re Irish too – so you’ll have plenty to talk about. I won’t be two ticks gettin’ your sausages and bacon going. We can’t have two growin’ lads going out on an empty stomach.” She put six large sausages, two black pudding slices, tomatoes, and four rashers of bacon in the sizzling fat. She then went to the larder and got four eggs to fry with bread.
The lads in Sweeney’s boarding house paid her well every Friday night, and Ruby reckoned that as long as she kept them well fed she would never be short of lodgers .
“Whereabouts are yez from then, girls?” the taller of the two boys asked, his eyes darting from one to the other with great interest.
Tara sighed inwardly as Biddy introduced them both and then started to regale the boys with all the details about Ballygrace and Tullamore. The boys took turns in asking questions, but were quick to focus their attention on Biddy when they realised that Tara was not so forthcoming. A tape recording, Tara thought cynically, with all their personal details might save them going over and over the same story, to every Irish person they came across.
“And where are ye from yerselves, boys?” Biddy asked, her eyes shining, and her Irish accent thicker to keep up with the boys’ heavy Dublin accents.
“I’m Sonny – I’m from the Liberties, and Danny’s from Kildare.”
“Kildare?” she said, putting her head to the side in a dreamy fashion, “that’s where the Curragh Racecourse is, isn’t it?”
Tara’s throat tightened at the mention of Kildare, remembering the day she had spent there with her old boss. “Come on, Bridget,” she said, standing up. “We’ve got business to do in Stockport, and it looks as if it might rain later.”
“I’m just having another half-cup of tea,” Biddy replied casually, reaching for the teapot. “I’ll catch you upstairs in a few minutes.”
“Your friend Tara,” Ruby commented to Biddy when Tara went out, “likes to keep herself to herself. You’re very different to be friends. She’s a bit of a lady, isn’t she? More on the posh side?”
Biddy thought for a moment, not realising the slight which had just been paid – inadvertently – to herself. “Yes,” she said with a nod, “I suppose she is a bit posh – but she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”
* * *
“I knew we shouldn’t have worn these hats today,” Biddy complained, hanging on to the brim of a brown feather-trimmed one that Tara had lent her. “It’s far too windy and not one other girl we’ve passed has been wearing one. I don’t think hats can be fashionable in Stockport this year.”
“It’s worth it, for appearances’ sake,” Tara sighed, “in case we see any work advertised. We can just walk in, knowing that we’re well-dressed.”
“I don’t know many cleaners or people who work in bakeries who wear hats,” Biddy grumbled, “‘cos they’re the only jobs I’m qualified for.”
“Stop moaning, Biddy,” Tara said sharply. “We’ve more to be worrying about than whether hats are fashionable in Stockport.”
“It’s okay for you, going for fancy jobs in offices,” Biddy retorted, “but I feel like an oul’ granny in this hat.”
Then, a gust of wind suddenly whipped the green felt hat from Tara’s head and sent it spinning into the middle of the road. “Jesus! I’ll have to catch it,” she shouted, running out after it. “It’s my best hat and the only one that matches this coat!”
A double-decker bus coming down the road towards them sounded its horn loudly, and then screeched to a halt. “It’s lucky you’re good-looking, or I might have run over it!” the bus driver called. Then, he and the passengers at the front of the bus, looked on with amusement while a thoroughly embarrassed Tara retrieved her hat from the middle of the road.
She gave a wave of thanks and came running back towards Biddy. “I’ve never felt so shown-up in all my life!” she gasped, her face bright red. Then, when she saw Biddy’s heaving shoulders and her face crumpled with suppressed laughter she started to titter in spite of herself.
Both girls broke out roaring and laughing, so hard that Biddy had to hang on to a high wall for support. “Oh, Tara – you should have seen yer face when the wind lifted the hat clean off yer head – it was a picture!”
“What’s that they say?” Tara giggled. “Pride comes before a fall!” She gripped the hat firmly in her hand and then, in a suitably contrite manner said: “I think we should just carry the hats today – until we get some decent hatpins. Unless, of course,” she added, “we’re actually going in somewhere that requires one.”
“Halle – bloody – luia!” Biddy yelled, taking the hat from her head and twirling it around on her finger.
* * *
It took the girls nearly half an hour to walk down into the town centre. They stopped along the way to look at the Town Hall again. Tara was delighted when she saw a poster advertising a piano recital on in the Town Hall that evening. The top of the bill was a young Scottish girl, whom Tara’s old piano teacher had heard play in Dublin and had described as a ‘magnificent classical pianist’.
“I’d love to go to that tonight,” Tara said, pointing up at the poster. “If I pay for your ticket, Biddy, will you come with me? I’d hate to walk into a big place like that on my own.”
“Us – go out – tonight?” A smile spread on Biddy’s face. Although she wasn’t in the least bit interested in piano recitals, it was a chance to get out and about in this exciting town at night. You never knew who you might meet in a new place. “Grand!” she said enthusiastically. “I’d love to go, too.”
They passed an estate agent’s on the way down to the shops but, being Saturday, they had closed for the half-day. Tara examined the board with pictures and details of the houses for sale, while Biddy walked a few shops further down to look in at a ladies’ fashionwear shop. The first window in the estate agent’s dealt mainly in the small ‘two-up, two-down’ terraced houses in the immediate vicinity, while the window displayed the bigger, detached, and more prestigious houses which were described as being in ‘the desirable residential areas’. The prices for the bigger houses took Tara’s breath away, for they were much higher than those in Ireland – those within her auctioneering experience in the Midlands. Dublin, no doubt, was a lot dearer than down in the country.
But the prices of the smaller houses were not too bad, and even the three-bedroom terraces were not unreasonably priced – given the fact they had the luxury of bathrooms and running hot water. There were some houses, depending on condition, which were advertised for four and five hundred pounds. Tara suddenly thought of the money she had locked in her suitcase back in the bedroom. There was over three hundred pounds – in fact it was nearer three hundred and fifty pounds. It was all the money she had withdraw
n from her bank account in Tullamore – the money she had been left by her granda, plus the money she had saved herself. It dawned on her that if she worked hard and saved every penny for a few more years, then she could afford to buy a house for herself.
As she stared in a mesmerised fashion into estate agent’s window, an incredulous idea came into Tara’s mind. If she got a good job in an office, with a good salary, then she should be in a position to apply to the bank for a mortgage, which meant – she could afford to buy a house now!
She knew all about mortgages. William Fitzgerald had explained them in great detail to her, over their lunches together, saying that in order to accumulate money you had to be willing to take a risk. He also told her that property was the best investment that anybody with spare money could make. “Take a tip from a gambler,” he had once said, looking into her green eyes. “Good land and property are the horses to back – as long as you have the patience.”
The money to pay the mortgage would come not just from her salary, but the money from renting out spare bedrooms to girls like herself and Biddy. She would keep enough to buy a piano, and would then make more money from that giving piano lessons at the weekend and in the evenings. Tara pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, feeling almost giddy with the real possibility of this monumental idea. Was she going mad? she asked herself. Who would give a girl of eighteen a mortgage? It was highly unlikely. And yet, a little voice at the back of her mind told her to pursue the idea – for there was sure to be a way round it.
“Tara,” Biddy suddenly called, emerging out of a shop doorway, “come and look at this dress – I think it would really suit you.”