“Good for her,” Tara said, taking a bite of her toast and marmalade.
“Ruby has a very glamorous life,” Biddy said, giving a dreamy smile.
* * *
It was a nice spring morning, and although Tara was preoccupied with more serious thoughts, she enjoyed the run out to Bramhall on the bus. The further out from Stockport she went, the bigger and more expensive the houses looked. The black and white Tudor-style timber buildings particularly caught her eye and she felt slightly guilty thinking how grand they looked compared to the plainer Georgian houses back in Ireland.
Ruby had told her to look out for Bramall Hall when she came near to the village. She spotted the ornate gatehouse easily but had to crane her neck to catch the tiniest glimpse of the building itself. It crossed her mind for a moment that if she were on her usual mode of transport – her bicycle – she could have dismounted and had a few minutes looking round, before resuming her journey. As the bus moved on past the park, Tara promised herself she would come out and visit the hall and the surrounding park on a nice sunny day.
She alighted from the bus in the middle of the small shopping area and then, after carefully checking the directions, she walked down to a corner to cross the road. Suddenly, a shiny black car came speeding round the corner, and swerved on to the opposite side of the road, to avoid hitting her. Startled, Tara stepped back on to the kerb, her heart thumping with fright. When she composed herself, she turned to look at the offending car.
The driver leaned across and rolled down the passenger window. “Sorry! I took the corner a bit quick – are you all right?” It was the handsome businessman who had stared at Tara in the Grosvenor Hotel, the day that Biddy was being interviewed. He looked at her now with bright, interested eyes.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she answered abruptly and started to walk on up the street. She heard the car engine start up again, and when she glanced behind, she found that he was following her slowly.
She kept her gaze straight ahead, grateful for the wide brim on the hat which shielded her face, and with her heart thudding she searched for an escape route. A few yards down the street she saw a narrow alleyway between two tall buildings and she took her chance and stepped into it. She walked along the alley, quickly and purposefully, dodging the puddles and broken glass which littered the pathway.
When she felt she was far enough away from the street she stood in a doorway and looked back, checking if the black car had gone. To her relief, there was no sign of it. She stood for a few moments longer until she was satisfied that he had indeed gone, then tiptoed her way back out into the street.
Thornley’s Estate Agents office was on a corner at the end of the main street in Bramhall Village. Since she was a few minutes early, Tara looked at the displays on the three big windows outside. A quick glance told her that the houses in the area were much pricier and more ‘upmarket’ than the ones she had seen for sale in the Stockport branch.
She checked her watch again, then taking a deep breath, she opened the door of the office and walked in. When she introduced herself at the desk, one of the girls showed her to another smaller office. “Mr Pickford will see you now,” the girl said in an accent similar to Ruby’s.
Half an hour later, Tara walked back out through the office with the balding, bespectacled manager behind her. “This, ladies,” Mr Pickford said in a officious tone, “is Miss Tara Flynn. She will be starting work here next Monday morning.”
The interview had gone perfectly, Tara recounted to Ruby and Biddy over a cup of tea back at her lodgings. Apparently, Suzie – one of the girls in the office – had been on a month’s trial and had not lived up to expectations. This, the manager had said in a bristling manner, was due to her casual manner with customers and her abysmal spelling. She would be leaving the following day, Mr Pickford had said, and Tara would take up the vacant position on Monday.
“You will, of course, have to fulfil a probationary period,” he added, then asked Tara her reference from her previous employer in Ireland and any certificates she had with her.
A hot flush swept over Tara’s face and neck as she handed him the envelope containing her excellent Leaving Cert results, the certificates she had gained from her night classes – and the reference which William Fitzgerald had left for her with the wages she was owed.
“These all seem in order,” Mr Pickford said, looking over his half-frame spectacles, “but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, as we discovered in the case of Suzie. We shall have to see how things work out.”
* * *
Thornley’s Estate Agents was a very different kettle of fish to Fitzgerald’s Auctioneering business, as Tara quickly found out. Mr Pickford prided himself on ‘running a tight ship’, where the customer was always treated with the utmost respect and no effort from the staff was ever too great.
“We are in one of the most prestigious districts of Stockport,” he told Tara the following Monday morning in front her new colleague, Jean. “We have competition in the way of another very well established business just along the road. We must do everything to ensure that Thornley’s have the edge over them. Remember,” he said, throwing an eye at Jean, “we’re not in the business of selling tins of baked beans here. We are asking clients to spend hundreds – and sometimes thousands – of pounds.”
The first week in her new job flew by, and Tara found that keeping busy was the best cure for the dark thoughts that often plagued her. She was up in the morning at seven o’clock and out of the house by eight o’clock. During the day she had little time to ponder over her old life, and by the time she came back to her lodgings at six o’clock in the evening, she was tired out.
On the Friday evening, she came home from work to be met in the hallway by Biddy, who was sporting a new, shorter hairstyle. “I’ve got the evenin’ off from the hotel,” she said excitedly, “and some of the Irish lads have asked us to go to the dancing, the Erin Ballroom, in Manchester.” Ignoring Tara’s stony face, she went on quickly, “The lads have only said that they’ll take us to and from the dance hall – they’re not tryin’ to chat us up or anythin’ . . .”
Ruby suddenly appeared out of the sitting-room, her arms folded defensively over her high bosom. “Get yourselves off out for the evening,” she said, looking directly at Tara. “It’ll do you good to loosen up a bit – two nice-lookin’ girls like yourselves. You’ve been here for a fortnight now, and apart from goin’ to work, church and down to the library – you haven’t stirred out of the house. It in’t natural to be stuck indoors all the time.”
There was a silence for a moment. “I’m not sure,” Tara said slowly. “I don’t know if I feel up to going out tonight.”
Biddy looked from Tara to Ruby – not quite sure which side to fall on. “Maybe when you’ve had somethin’ to eat . . . I’ve done you some lovely floury potatoes and parsley sauce to go with the fish tonight.”
“A proper loyal friend she is,” Ruby commented, patting Biddy on the back. “The lads were all content with the usual fish and chips and mushy peas. She cooked the potatoes specially for you.”
“Thanks, Biddy,” Tara said, deliberately ignoring the landlady. “Maybe I’ll feel brighter when I’ve had something to eat. We can talk about it later on. I’ll just drop my things off upstairs, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
There was another silence as she mounted the stairs and Tara could feel both sets of eyes boring into her back. Just as she was turning in her bedroom door, Sonny – the Irish lad from Dublin – called to her from the bathroom door.
“Are you goin’ to the Erin tonight with Biddy?” He stood smiling at the bathroom door, stripped to the waist with a razor in one hand, and a towel in the other. His face was lathered with shaving soap, and as he spoke, globules of the lathered soap dripped on to the floor.
“I’m not sure,” Tara said for the second time, opening her bedroom door. “I’ll see how I feel later.”
In the privacy of her bedroom, Tara dropped her coat and bag on a chair, then sank down on the side of the bed. The last thing she felt like tonight was going dancing. And, she thought, she had a number of very good reasons for feeling like this. For a start – she genuinely didn’t feel too grand. Her head was fuzzy and aching and she felt generally out of sorts. It was probably the fact she had worked flat out all week and was up earlier than usual in the mornings.
Tara suddenly dropped her head in her hands. Please God, she thought, please don’t let it be anything else! Don’t let me be in a worse predicament than Biddy was!
She felt little better after the special meal her friend had cooked for her – and felt guilty every time she looked at Biddy’s hopeful face.
“Come on, Tara,” Biddy coaxed, putting a dish of rice pudding in front of her. “Ruby’s right,” she said, using the landlady as a backup. “It’ll do you the world of good to get out and have a bit of a laugh.”
Tara looked up at her friend. “Aren’t you worried about going out, after what has happened to you?”
Biddy shrugged and stared at the floor. “It’s in the past – and I can’t keep payin’ for my mistakes forever.”
“But, Biddy,” Tara persisted, “the lads that have asked us to go to the dance . . . they’re no different from that PJ fellow from Tullamore. You could see no wrong in him, and just look where it landed you.”
Biddy shook her head and tears welled up in her eyes. “It wasn’t all his fault . . . his mother wouldn’t let him marry me.” She gave a loud sniff. “It’s not fair that you keep remindin’ me about what happened. I came over to England to start a new life. If I wanted to become a nun, I would have stayed in Ireland.”
“I’m only trying to help you,” Tara snapped, getting up from the table, “but if you’re determined to go your own way, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“What about yer rice puddin? Are you not goin’ to eat it?” Biddy said in a choked voice, then tears started to run down her cheeks and her shoulders drooped dejectedly.
“Oh, Biddy . . .” Tara’s tone suddenly softened. She went over and put her arms round her friend. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you – I’m just so worried about what might happen you – about what might happen us both. Everything is still very strange and new here.” She patted Biddy’s back as though she were a child. “And I was worried about you being sick – the way you were when we first came over.”
“Sure, I’m fine now, Tara. Everything’s back to normal. You’ve nothing to worry about. Nothing is going to happen to either of us.” Biddy wiped her tears away with a hanky and gave a faint smile. “Nothing could ever happen to you – and I promise I won’t do anything to let you down. I know I’m not the cleverest person in the world, but honest to God – I’ve really learned me lesson.” Tara sat back down at the table, struggling with the temptation to pour out her own awful story to Biddy – to let her know that something terrible had indeed already happened. But then, she thought, What good would it do? It was bad enough for Biddy having to deal with the loss of her little baby, without giving her more worry. And what would she think of Madeleine and Gabriel if she knew what their father had done?
It would be time enough if the worst thing happened. Then, every single plan she had made would crumble to dust. And all because of her naiveté and too much brandy.
She spooned a small amount of strawberry jam on her rice pudding, which she didn’t in the least feel like eating now. “Let me see how I am after a bath.”
“If you don’t feel up to going out, we can go the next time I’m off,” Biddy said, but there was a note of hope in her voice. “I was going to get me hair done anyway – it was in bad condition and I needed a few inches off it.”
Tara felt slightly better after her bath and, after thinking about it all again, she decided that perhaps it would do no great harm to go to the dance. She was in her dressing-gown and combing her long hair out when Biddy tapped at the bedroom door.
“How d’you feel now?” Biddy stuck her head round the door, her fingers crossed behind her back.
“I suppose a couple of hours out won’t kill me,” Tara replied, “but if the dance hall’s rough, or if any of those boys start bothering us, then I’m coming straight home.”
“Oh, they won’t bother us,” Biddy said in a rushed, excited tone. Unknown to her friend, she would go round all the lads who were still in the house – this very minute – and warn them to behave when they were anywhere near Tara. “Ruby said that the Erin’s the best-run dance hall about. She said they’re very strict about who they let in.” She made to close the door again, terrified that Tara might change her mind.
“Biddy . . . have you decided what you’re wearing?” Tara asked.
“I’ll have to wear me blue dress. It’s the only one that zips up,” Biddy said quietly. She’d tried the other two on before Tara came in and was shocked at how terrible she looked in them. “I’ve put on a bit of weight on me stomach since . . .”
“The blue dress always looks nice on you,” Tara reassured her. “I’ll only be another ten minutes, then you can get in to get ready.”
“We’ve plenty of time. I’ll just finish clearing up the kitchen.” Biddy closed the bedroom door and then made straight to warn Sonny and Danny to be on their best behaviour.She didn’t want anything spoiling their first night out, in case Tara refused to go dancing with her again. Several of the lads in the house had asked Biddy if she would partner them to the dance tonight but she had refused, saying that she would rather go with her friend.
“You’re not goin’ to the dance wi’ Tara Flynn?” Sonny had jeered over breakfast this morning. “Sure, she wouldn’t be able to dance. She walks with her nose in the air and her back’s so straight you’d think she had a brush stuck up her arse!”
“That’s not a bit funny,” Biddy admonished him. “You shouldn’t be jeerin’ her just because she’s more educated than us.” She gave him a poke in the arm. “All the lads we knew back home thought she was very good-looking.”
“Oh, she’s good-looking all right,” he had said grudgingly, “but sure, she’d hardly give you the time of day. She could be a bit friendlier, her being Irish and all, and livin’ in the same house as us.”
“She doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just different,” Biddy said defensively. “And anyway, she’s been more than good enough to me.”
Sonny slid an arm around Biddy’s waist. “Sure, wouldn’t I be good to you, if you would only give me the chance.”
Biddy giggled and pushed him away.
Ruby stood at the front door as the group of six lads – four Irish, the Geordie lad and his black friend, Lloyd – and Biddy and Tara all trooped out in their finery. She made a joke of carefully inspecting each one as they passed by with perfectly coiffed hair, and picked odd bits of fluff from jackets before letting them out the door. “Yer mothers would be proud of your shiny shoes and your smart suits. I dare anyone to say that Ruby Sweeney’s lodgers aren’t well turned out!” she said with vigour. “The nerve of some of them stuck-up landladies, who have the bloody cheek to turn their noses up at the Irish lads – calling them dirty Irish Paddies!”
Tara cringed inwardly at hearing the Irish described in such a way but hid it with a smile when Ruby patted her arm, and said: “You look lovely in that green dress and the matching hairband really shows off your red hair. Have a good time, ducks – I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself when you get there.”
The boys all went upstairs on the double-decker bus, because it allowed smoking, while the two girls went inside. When the conductor came downstairs to collect the fares, he told Biddy and Tara that their fares had already been paid by their friends.
“That was good of them,” Biddy said hastily, “but I’ll make sure that we don’t get landed with them for the night, just because they’ve paid our bus fares.”
It would have been the same story at the dance
hall, but Tara and Biddy insisted on getting into the queue before the boys, and determinedly handed over the money for their own tickets. When they got inside the hall, there was a good crowd already gathered, waiting for the band to strike up.
Tara was heartened that the Erin Ballroom was nicer than any she had been to in Ireland. There were proper seats and tables all round the hall, and there was a balcony above – altogether a very glamorous place. They handed their coats in at the cloakroom and then Biddy suggested that they should get a mineral from the bar.
“I don’t fancy fighting my way through that noisy crowd,” Tara said hesitantly.
“I’m well used to crowds with working in the Grosvenor,” Biddy laughed. “You go and find a table and I’ll get us a drink at the bar. What d’you want to drink? D’you fancy trying something like a sherry or a Babycham?”
“No – no!” Tara shook her head vigorously. Alcohol was the last thing she intended to have – the memory of the last time she drank was still too raw. “I’ll have a mineral . . . a lemonade or something.” She found a table to the side of the dance floor, which would let them move on and off the floor easily, without pushing through lots of other tables. Then, when she was seated comfortably, she allowed her gaze to wander round the dance hall – being careful not to catch the eye of any men who were staring at her.
On the whole, she was pleased to note how well-dressed both the males and females were. Considering the disparaging remarks that had been levelled over the years at the Irish, for their lack of hygiene and sophistication – there was little evidence to prove these remarks in the dance hall tonight.
Most of the people in the hall were definitely Irish, from the chatter at the tables around her, Tara mused. They must be in good jobs, which would allow them to dress so well and to pay for lodgings, and to probably send something back home to help their families out.
According to Ruby, some of the lads in the boarding house were earning very big money labouring on building sites, having been taken on by Irish building contractors. They needed no education for this work, which was just as well, for many of them had left school at twelve and thirteen. As long as they were prepared to put in the work when they first came over to England, then they could learn a trade as they went along. It was true that they had to work long hours for this. Some of the lads were out of the house for twelve and fourteen hours at a time – and they grabbed the chance of work on Saturdays when they were paid at time and a half.
Tara Flynn Page 34
