Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  She turned to Biddy, and said in a low voice: “You know that older, handsome man who’s on the stage with the pianist?”

  Biddy sat up straight – a startled look on her face. She had just succumbed to the overwhelming urge to drop off to sleep, lulled by the funereal music. “Who?” she whispered. “The oul’ fella with the grey hair?”

  “He’s her husband . . . and he’s an Italian millionaire.”

  “Go away with you!” Biddy replied, straining her neck to look up at the stage. “He’s ancient . . . he looks older than yer Uncle Mick.” And, Biddy thought to herself, he looks so old he makes Dinny Martin look like a young fella. “I don’t know how she can get into bed with him. I don’t care if he is a millionaire – I’d sooner have a nice, ordinary young lad any day of the week.”

  *  *  *

  Biddy was the first to find work, and not just one job – but two. The following Monday morning while she and Tara were having breakfast, Ruby had told her of work that was going in one of the big hotels in the town. “A fine big place it is too, and they’ve just built a big extension on to it,” Ruby said. “Twenty bedrooms, so I believe, and they’re looking for more chambermaids and waitresses, and kitchen staff and the like.”

  “A hotel?” Biddy said nervously. “D’you think they’d give me a job in a fancy hotel? With me bein’ a stranger here – and no one to speak up for me?”

  “Course they would, love!” Ruby said, patting her hand. “I’ll speak up for you – I’ll tell them you can turn your hand to anything. I’ve never had a lodger like you before – in and out washing dishes for me, and yesterday you had the potatoes and vegetables peeled for the whole house in under an hour. You’re a little gem – any hotel would be glad to have you.”

  Biddy blushed. “I enjoy helping and anyway I’ve been doin’ it all me life. Sure, I was no better than a slave in Lizzie Lawless’s house, and I never got so much as a word of thanks. A clout around the head was all you would get out of her.”

  “She sounds a right evil old witch!” Ruby commented with narrowed eyes. She found all Biddy’s stories about Ireland fascinating, in the same way that Biddy loved hearing hers. “I don’t know how you stuck it so long.”

  Tara pushed her chair back from the table. “I’m going upstairs to get my coat on,” she told Biddy. “Then we’d better get down into Stockport, or we’ll have wasted the whole morning.”

  Ruby pulled a face behind Tara’s back. “You’d better go, ducks, or you’ll be in trouble. I’ll write down the address of that hotel for you, and you can call in. Oh, and if you don’t mind me sayin’, love,” she added, “I would speak slowly if I were you – sometimes your accent’s a bit hard to catch when you talk quick, like.”

  “Thanks,” Biddy said, not in the least bit offended. “I’ll try and remember that.”

  Once again – at Tara’s insistence – the two girls donned their smartest coats and hats over light summer dresses.

  “How are you feeling?” Tara asked as they walked along the main road.

  “I’m grand now, thanks,” Biddy replied. “The bleeding’s eased off.”

  “Do you ever . . .” Tara hesitated, “do you ever think of the baby?”

  “Now and again . . . but I find it hard to remember, as if it was all a dream. It’s like it happened to someone else. I can’t imagine myself as the mother of a baby boy.”

  “You know you can always talk to me about it,” Tara offered. “That’s if you want to.”

  “Thanks,” Biddy said quietly, then she pointed across the road at a big white building. “I think that’s the hotel Ruby told me about.” She read from the bit of paper. The Grosvenor Hotel. Ask at the reception desk for Mr Timpson.

  The reception area was dark and forbidding, with wood panelling, old beams, and ornate paintings hanging on the walls. When Biddy nervously, and slowly, explained her business to the young lady behind the desk, the receptionist contacted Mr Timpson on the phone.

  “Straight up the stairs,” she pointed to Biddy, “and it’s the second door on the left. Mr Timpson says he’ll see you right now.”

  Biddy gave Tara a rather anguished look as she ascended the staircase, as though she were making her way up to an executioner.

  Tara sat on a sofa in the reception area while she waited for her friend, taking in all the architectural and decorative details around her. She stood up at one point, to examine a heavy old painting in a gilt frame, when a door swung open behind her and two smartly-dressed businessmen – an elderly white-haired man and a tall, good-looking, younger man came through it. She turned away, focusing her attention on the painting.

  “It’s perfect,” the elderly man stated, “and it blends in so well with the main building that you would be hard-pressed to tell that there’s a hundred and fifty years of a difference.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied with the work,” the younger man said in a rich, deep voice. “They’re a good bunch of lads – I’ve used them for a number of contracts recently.”

  Tara’s ears suddenly pricked up, for the second voice she heard had a definite Irish lilt to it. The accent was certainly smoothed at the edges – probably by many years spent in England – but it was Irish nevertheless.

  She gave a quick glance over her shoulder, and was mortified to see the younger man staring straight at her. She turned away quickly, her cheeks flaming, and kept her back firmly to them until she heard them go out of the door.

  A short while later, a more buoyant Biddy descended the stairs than the one who had gone up. “I’ve got it!” she said, waving a sheet of paper in the air. “I start tomorrow.”

  Tara gave a big smile of relief. Thank God one of them had a job already. Even better that it was Biddy, for she had very little money with her. If she hadn’t found work, Tara would have had to pay both their rents, when it next came round.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” she told Tara as they walked towards the town centre. “I’ll be working shifts – sometimes until the early hours of the morning, because they do meals and dinner-dances at the weekends. An’ Mr Timpson says that he’ll give me a trial behind the bar, because they could do with a pretty barmaid to bring the men in.” Biddy giggled with delight. “Imagine anyone callin’ me pretty!”

  “But you are pretty,” Tara told her. “When you do your hair nice, and have good clothes on, you look lovely.” Tara’s words were sincere, for Biddy had indeed improved greatly over the years.

  “D’you think so?” Biddy’s voice was unsure. “Lizzie always used to say I was an ugly little brat.”

  Tara put her arm round Biddy’s shoulder and pulled her playfully towards her. “Do you honestly think I’d have a best friend who was ugly?”

  Biddy looked up fondly at her – delighted to hear herself described as Tara’s best friend – and then they both roared with laughter.

  Tara had no luck at all with the four estate agents that she tried in Stockport. “I’m sorry we’ve nothing here but we have a new office just opened in Bramhall,” one of the secretaries told her. “It might be worth your while giving them a ring.”

  They had an early lunch in a cafe of soup and bread, and then they had a look around the shops again before going home. Back in their lodgings, Ruby met them on the stairs carrying a load of blankets and sheets. Biddy quickly told her all about her job in the Grosvenor Hotel.

  “Clever girl!” the landlady said. “An’ I’ve got good news, too. You hadn’t left five minutes this morning, when I had two lads turn up at the door lookin’ for lodgings.” She nodded to the pile of bedclothes in her arms. “I’m just going to make up their beds – they’re in the room opposite you two. A nice Geordie lad – from Newcastle, you know. The other one’s a fine handsome black lad from somewhere out Bolton way. He says a lot of the landladies wouldn’t let him put a foot over the door on account of him bein’ black – in’t it shockin’? I’ve had quite a few blackies lodgin’ here, and I’ve found
nowt wrong with any of ‘em.” She winked at the two girls. “He’s a fit-lookin’ lad and you know the reputation they have with women. I’d watch yourselves, if I were you two. He’s just about your age. Just make sure he doesn’t turn into the wrong room after he’s had a few drinks, or you could be up all night.” She gave a great roar of raucous laughter.

  Unable to help herself, Biddy gave a bit of a titter, then covered her mouth with her hand quickly when Tara gave her a stony look.

  “How about you, ducks?” Ruby asked Tara. “Any luck?”

  Tara took her hat off and shook her head, sending her coppery curls flying. “No . . . nothing,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve been given a number to ring in a place called Bramhall. I thought I might try them later this afternoon.”

  “Oooh, Bramhall!” Ruby said, tipping the point of her nose with her forefinger. “It’s very posh out there. That’s where all the big nobs live.”

  “Is it far from Stockport?”

  “No, love, it’s only a couple of miles away – about twenty minutes on the bus.”

  Later on that afternoon, Tara went out to the nearest telephone box with a handful of coins. The number rang and rang but was not answered. She checked her watch – it was quarter to two. Maybe, she thought, they were on a lunch break, and decided to take a walk down to the newsagents to pick up a magazine. It was still too early in the day for the evening newspaper, which Ruby had said was the best paper for job adverts. She would walk out and buy that later on in the day.

  When she tried the phone number again, this time it was quickly answered. Tara briefly explained her business, telling the girl on the other end that she had been advised to ring by the Stockport office.

  “I’m afraid the manager is out at the moment . . . do you have a phone number he can contact you at?” And when Tara replied that she didn’t have a phone number, the girl then asked her to call back in an hour or so.

  Tara’s heart sank as she put the phone back in the cradle. She knew it was silly getting so frustrated, since she had only been in England a matter of days. But now she had this great plan in her mind, she was desperate to get things started – and securing a job was the very first task on her list.

  Biddy met her at the door when she returned, drying her hands on a kitchen towel, and her face red with excitement. “You’re never going to believe this,” she told Tara. “Ruby’s asked me if I’d like to help her out with the housework and cookin’, and she says she’ll pay me for it!”

  “But I thought you were going to work at the hotel?”

  “I’m going to do both jobs,” Biddy said proudly. “I’ll be working shifts in the hotel – mostly late ones, so I can help out here with the breakfasts and preparin’ the evening meals. Up until a few weeks ago, Ruby had an older woman coming in every day, but she had a stroke, so Ruby’s had to manage on her own since. She was looking for somebody and she says I’m the quickest worker she’s ever seen in a kitchen!”

  “That’s grand,” Tara told her warmly. “I’m delighted for you. You’ve done a lot better than me.” She took off her coat and hung it on the hall-stand. “I’ve had no luck at all. I’ve to ring that place again in an hour – but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Oh, you’ll be fine,” Biddy said. “You’ll get something shortly. With all your qualifications and everythin’, sure, they’ll be queuing up for you.” She turned towards the kitchen. “I’m helpin’ Ruby with the vegetables for the dinner and then I’m going to bake a few apple tarts for after it. You should see the price she’s payin’ in the baker’s for them! I said I could make her three for the price of one.”

  “Good for you.” Tara smiled at her friend. “I’m going up to the bedroom to write a few letters, until it’s time to make that phone call again.” She had promised to write to Joe and Mick and Kitty, and to her old neighbour Mrs Kelly, but up until now had put it off.

  Biddy rushed off back into the kitchen, delighted with herself about securing two jobs in the one day, and secretly proud of the fact that for once she had succeeded where Tara had failed. She said as much in passing to Ruby, and the landlady had laughed and said: “You know the old saying, ducks – every dog has its day!”

  Tara was no more successful in contacting the manager of the estate agent’s the second time round. Apparently, the secretary told Tara, Mr Pickford had only been in the office briefly, and had to rush out somewhere else. He did however, leave a message to say that if she would like to call out to the office at ten o’clock on Thursday morning, he would see her then.

  She was so disappointed that she couldn’t face going straight back to her digs and instead walked towards the shops on Shaw Heath. She posted her letters and then walked towards the Catholic Church. Both she and Biddy had gone to eleven o’clock Mass at Our Lady’s on Sunday morning and she had been entranced by the beautiful big church.

  She quietly opened the main door, and went inside. The church was cool and surprisingly bright, with the afternoon sunshine pouring in through the multi-coloured stained-glass windows. She walked up the aisle, genuflected at the main altar, and went to a small side altar which had a stand for candles in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. She picked up a box of matches from the stand, then lit two of the little round candles. She took her purse out of her handbag and found a sixpence and pushed it in the coin slot in the tin box on the stand. Then, she knelt down in front of the candles, bent her head and started to pray – praying harder than she had ever done before.

  *  *  *

  Since Biddy was busy working, Tara spent the next few days getting to know the area on her own. She made her way down to the library in Stockport – bigger than any library she had ever seen – and filled a card in to become a member. Then, another afternoon, she decided to catch a bus out to Manchester, to see if there was any work there. Although she would have preferred the company, she was glad that Biddy was now fully occupied with work, because she would have no time on her hands in the evening, to think about going out and about.

  Manchester was a fascinating city, although Tara thought it was definitely not as friendly as Dublin. She enjoyed walking round the big department stores and took her time looking at the fashions and trying out samples of the various perfumes. She was tempted once or twice to buy something, but she stopped herself. Every time she felt the urge to spend money, instead she pictured a huge house with a grand piano – and she felt strong enough to resist.

  Again she had no luck with finding work in any of the estate agents’, but she gathered leaflets and brochures of property for sale, to browse through at home later. As she looked through a display of houses for sale in the Didsbury area, it crossed her mind how much more organised the English estate agents were compared to the ones she knew in Ireland. Even the ones selling the smaller houses had printed sheets with a photograph of the house, while the bigger houses had fancy brochures giving more details. Presumably, she thought, the auctioneers in Dublin were more up-to-date with their businesses than the smaller ones like Fitzgerald’s. If she could turn the clock back, she could have given William Fitzgerald some advice for a change – instead of all the advice he had constantly bombarded her with.

  A hot flush came over her neck and face and her heart started its now-familiar pounding. This always happened when her mind wandered back to William Fitzgerald and then to that terrible night in Ballygrace House. Quickly, she turned on her heel, out of the office, and back into the fresh air where she could breathe deeply.

  As the days went by, Tara got to know more of the other people who she was sharing lodgings with in Ruby Sweeney’s house. Surprisingly, the men and even the younger lads were all very pleasant and mannerly. Any time she and Biddy walked in on them playing cards in the kitchen, or carrying on in the hallways upstairs, they always apologised for any coarse language the girls might have overheard.

  After a few days, she noticed that they didn’t apologise in the same way to Biddy, if they thoug
ht Tara was out of earshot. They were much more relaxed in Biddy’s company, and teased her and told her corny jokes, and the other night had asked her to join in a game of cards.

  Biddy had looked at Tara and then said: “I haven’t time now, lads . . . maybe later.”

  Although the men had been obvious in their admiration of Tara when they first met her, they soon realised that she had no interest in them and her cool demeanour was her way of keeping them at arm’s length.

  On the Thursday morning, Tara lay in bed until she heard the last of the men leaving for work and then around half-past seven she got up, went into the bathroom and ran a hot bath.

  Afterwards, back in the bedroom, she roughly dried her long hair with a towel, combed it out, and then quickly got dressed. She decided on the camel swagger coat and black hat over a light dress. She always felt confident in that outfit, and if it was too hot she could carry the coat and hat. This morning Tara needed every little boost she could muster up. If she didn’t find suitable office work soon, then she would have to take any job she was offered.

  Downstairs later, she and Biddy joked together as Biddy served up her breakfast. “I didn’t even hear you getting up this morning,” Tara said, taking a sip of the coffee that the landlady had bought in especially for her. She was the first lodger to ever ask for coffee, Ruby said. All the others were perfectly happy with tea.

  “I was up at six o’clock,” Biddy said proudly. “Six of the lads are working up in Carlisle and they had to be on the road early. I’ll have a longer lie-in tomorrow – Ruby says she’ll do breakfast, because she wants me to cook tea for the men coming in from work in the evening.” She leaned across the kitchen table and whispered to Tara: “I think she has a new boyfriend, because she says she’s going into Manchester shoppin’ in the afternoon, and staying on to have a meal and then go to a show in the Palace Theatre.”