When they were standing at the bus stop, Tara had heard Sonny say they’d better not drink too much beer tonight, on account of having to get up for work again at six o’clock in the morning. Saturday night, they would be back in the dance hall again, or perhaps at the cinema or a pub somewhere. From what Tara could see of the Irish in England so far, it was definitely a case of working hard and playing hard.
For herself, she would quite happily forego the playing part, and tomorrow night when Biddy was working in the hotel, she would be content to sit in her bedroom reading and making plans for her future.
Within seconds of the band striking up, the dance floor was filling with couples. Tara had just leaned forward to comment on the fact when she felt a hand tapping her on the shoulder.
“Will we have a dance?” Lloyd, the young black fellow from the boarding house asked, while his friend Jimmy took to the floor with Biddy.
They were excellent dancers, and Tara found herself and Lloyd circling the floor with great ease. After a few rounds of the floor in silence he asked: “Is this your first time here?” and when Tara confirmed it was, he said: “Mine, too. They seem friendly enough and the band’s good. D’you go to many dances?”
Tara smiled back at him. “No, not really. This is the first dance hall I’ve been to since I’ve come to England, and it’s a nice place.” They chatted easily for the rest of the dance and another one, and then Lloyd escorted Tara back to her seat where they changed partners, and she danced with Jimmy while Lloyd danced with Biddy.
Until the band took a break, the girls were never off the floor and while Tara was flattered by the attention, Biddy was positively giddy with excitement. “This has been the best night of me life so far,” she said, her eyes darting round the groups of boys. “They’re all real gentlemen, aren’t they?”
“Most of them seem very nice,” Tara agreed, “and they’re all good dancers.” Although she had come to the dance under duress, it had not been as bad as she had expected. All the boys she had danced with had been pleasant and polite, although some had been slightly the worse for drink – and they were always the ones Biddy seemed to have the best laugh with.
Sometimes Tara wished she could throw herself into mixing more – enjoying things the way Biddy did – but her serious nature prevented it. And anyway, she reasoned, they liked different things. She had got as much enjoyment from the piano recital the other week as Biddy got from the smoky atmosphere of the dance hall.
As she glanced round the hall, Tara suddenly realised that not one of the boys she saw – in their shiny shoes and smart suits – held any attraction for her. All these boys who had Biddy in a state of elation if they so much as spoke to her, seemed so young and gauche to her. If she was brutally honest with herself , she found them boring.
Whilst being pleasant enough, their conversation was all the same. The well-settled ones usually started off asking where she came from, then chatted about where they came from, the great jobs and digs they had, and the great money they were making in England. Alternatively, some of them would ask her what she thought of England and before she got a chance to reply, they would say how homesick they were for Ireland, and would be out of this feckin’ hole of a country as soon as they’d made enough money to set themselves up properly at home.
Once again – as she did when she was in Ballygrace – Tara found herself pondering over the fact that she was so different from Biddy and all the other girls in the dance hall. Why she wasn’t satisfied with the things they wanted out of life?
She had felt happy when she was younger with her granda, and then later in Ballygrace House with Madeleine and Gabriel. It all seemed such a long time ago. And after the awful catastrophe that she had been stupid enough to let happen, those happy times were gone forever.
“I think I’ll come here every weekend I’m free, from now on,” Biddy said, picking at a handful of peanuts. “Some of the girls from the hotel come here, and we could all meet up when we have the same nights off.” She looked round the hall again. “I think it’s a very glamorous place altogether. Better than any of the dumps in Ireland.”
“Ah, Biddy,” Tara said, giving her a knowing smile, “you were pleased enough with the dance halls over home, this time six months ago. You’re not going to go all English on us, after only a few weeks in the place, are you? You’re not going to be one of those Irish who haven’t a good word for the place they came from?”
Biddy grinned back. “Sure, I’m only enjoying meself and tryin’ to fit in, Tara. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doin’?”
“It is indeed,” Tara laughed. “Sure, I’m only codding you.” Then, she glanced at her watch, wishing it was the end of the dance, and not just the break.
A few minutes before the band was due back on, the girls fought their way through the crowds – ignoring wolf-whistles and offers to buy them a drink – and made for the ladies’ toilets. Tara looked around her at all the girls laughing and chatting, and titivating themselves in front of the mirror, and she thought back to the New Year’s Eve dance in Tullamore.
A terrible ache spread through her body as she remembered how she had danced with Gabriel Fitzgerald, and the many times he had kissed her on the way home. The ache turned into a short but sharp pain, low down in the pit of her stomach, and she was grateful when one of the toilet cubicles became vacant, and she could lock herself away from view of the other girls.
A few minutes passed, and then she came back out of the cubicle – a different Tara Flynn. This girl was light-headed with relief and glowing with delight. The dull ache had manifested into a small, but recognisable stain on her white knickers. A small bloodstain that put an end to all the weeks of worry, terrified that her dreadful coupling with William Fitzgerald would result in a pregnancy.
With shaking hands, she had applied the sanitary towel and belt she had carried every day in her bag since she had come over to England. Her period, which she usually dreaded, was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time.
“Are you all right?” Biddy asked, as she waited while Tara washed her hands.
“I’m more than all right,” she told an astonished Biddy. “I’m so all right, that I feel I could dance all the way from here to Timbuktu!”
Tomorrow morning, straight after breakfast, she would walk down to the church and light a candle in gratitude for her prayers being answered.
Around twelve o’clock, the girls left the dance hall with a large group heading for the late-night bus back to Stockport. Biddy had been true to her word, and though she had got into a huddle in a corner a few times chatting to lads or girls, she had stuck close to Tara for most of the evening. As they turned on to the main road, a large black car slowed down to take the corner and Tara was startled when she recognised the driver.
It was the same man who had followed her along the street in Bramhall a few weeks ago. The man from the Grosvenor Hotel. The car went on for a short distance and then drew up outside the Erin Ballroom. Tara gripped Biddy by the coat sleeve, pulling her to a halt, while the rest of the crowd moved on.
“What’s wrong?” Biddy asked.
“Hang on,” Tara said quietly, guiding them into the shadow of a doorway. “I just want to watch that car for a minute.”
“Who is it?”
“I’m not sure who he is but I’ve seen him a few times recently. I’m just wondering what he’s doing at the dance hall at this hour of the night, when the place is closing up.”
They both watched as the tall handsome man in a dark overcoat stepped out of the car. Sidestepping the groups who were still coming out of the building, he went up the front steps and walked purposefully into the hall.
“He’s very good-looking, whoever he is,” Biddy commented. “How d’you know him . . . have you spoken to him?”
“Not really,” Tara said evasively, moving back into the street again. “I was just curious when I recognised the car again –”
She grabbed Biddy’s arm again. “We’d better hurry or we’ll miss the bus home.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“What exactly has happened in this house, since I was last home?” Gabriel Fitzgerald demanded of his father and mother. The tray with the tea and scones which Mrs Scully had prepared for his arrival lay untouched on a side table. “The last time I phoned – when Mother was in England – I was told that Madeleine was improving, and that she was being cared for at home and work by Tara Flynn.”
“That was the case –” William Fitzgerald started to reply.
“And now,” Gabriel went on, extremely agitated, “I find that Madeleine’s in a mental institution and Tara has disappeared off to England.” He looked from one parent to the other. “It doesn’t add up. Tara has always been a good friend to her . . . she understood her condition. I just can’t imagine her walking away from her family and good job – without leaving an address or anything.”
“Gabriel,” Elisha sighed, holding the back of her hand to her forehead, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept that we don’t have the answers to your questions. In fact,” her voice grew weaker, “I asked your father the same questions myself, when I returned from London.”
William drew himself up to his full height. “I don’t understand the fuss that’s being made about this very ordinary young girl.” He cleared his throat. “We have far more important matters to deal with at present. The fact of the matter is, Tara Flynn was publicly embarrassed by Madeleine’s behaviour on a number of occasions, and no young girl likes to be put in such a compromising position. Secondly, everyone knows that she and Mrs Scully had some sort of ridiculous feud running between them. After one of their disagreements, Miss Flynn more or less asked me to choose between them – which I found highly presumptuous of her! Needless to say, Mrs Scully is still with us.” William regarded Gabriel closely, hoping that the explanations he was offering would settle the Tara Flynn situation once and for all. “Thirdly,” he continued in a determined tone, “I hear she was offered a job in England, which proved too exciting an opportunity for her to miss. I believe she travelled with a young lady who had just given birth to an illegitimate baby which was subsequently taken off her for adoption.”
Elisha nodded her head. “I always thought she was a girl with extraordinary ambitions, given her rather basic beginnings. I would imagine that Ballygrace and Tullamore were not big enough for her.”
Gabriel walked across the room to the window and stood with his hands folded behind his back, trying to make sense of his father’s explanations.
“Your mother is correct.” William smiled gratefully at his wife. “The girl was neither fish nor fowl. She didn’t fit in with her own kind, and she was struggling hard to fit into the class above her station. And as everyone knows – it isn’t easily done.”
“I disagree!” Gabriel wheeled round angrily on his father. “This class thing is nonsense. You above all people should know that – you moved up the social ladder yourself.”
There was a stunned silence in the room, for this was the first time Gabriel had ever challenged his father on anything of this nature.
William’s face drained of all colour. “Exactly what,” he said in an icy tone, “are you implying?”
“I am implying nothing.” Gabriel’s voice was equally cool and not in the least repentant. “I am stating that if it is all right for one person to step out of their class, then it should be all right for others to do the same. Tara Flynn is an intelligent, decent girl, and no one with an eye in their head could ever describe her as lowly!”
Elisha rushed across the room and put her arm through her son’s. He had taken the news of her pregnancy surprisingly well – which she had dreaded telling him. But the great relief she felt was now being threatened by this current issue. “Gabriel – Gabriel – I really don’t know why we are arguing about the girl. We really have enough worries with poor Madeleine and with . . .” She lowered her head, unable to find the delicate words to describe her pregnancy.
Gabriel moved his free hand to cover his mother’s. “The fact is,” he said, looking from one to the other, “I came home from Dublin this weekend with the intention of asking Tara Flynn to become engaged to me – and to marry me when I’ve finished my studies.” Before they could utter a word, he added determinedly: “No matter what happens, I fully intend to find her!”
* * *
Rosie Scully’s ear was glued to the keyhole of the sitting-room door. She had come to ask if they wanted more tea, and to check what time they wanted dinner served tonight. Instead, she had heard raised, angry voices, and constant referrals to that conniving little bitch – Tara Flynn. Now her head was reeling from the last thing she had heard Gabriel shout at his parents – that he was going to find Tara Flynn, and then he was going to marry her!
“Over my dead body,” Rosie whispered, “will Master Gabriel bring that foxy-haired little whore back to Ireland!”
Chapter Twenty-three
The following Monday morning Tara stopped to check through the pile of post at the front door on her way out to work. Her face brightened when she saw there were two letters bearing her name, and one addressed to Bridget Hart. All three had Irish postmarks. She lifted her own and Biddy’s, and left the rest on the table at the door. She ran back into the kitchen where Biddy was clearing up after breakfast.
“A letter for you, Biddy,” she said, sliding it across the big table, “and believe it or not – two for me! The first I’ve had since coming to England.” She examined the postmarks on the envelopes. “The one with the Dublin postmark must be from Joe . . . and the other one,” she pondered, “I think – is from Kitty and Mick.” She put both letters in her handbag. “I’ll keep them to read on the bus.” Then, catching the sombre look on Biddy’s face, she asked: “What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing ,” Biddy said, stuffing the letter into her apron pocket. “I think it’s just another letter from Father Daly.” She carried on clearing the table.
“Have you written back to tell him you’ve settled down in Stockport?” Tara said, biting into a triangle of toast that had been left in the toast rack. “Have you told him that you’ve got yourself two jobs?”
Biddy shook her head, and carried a stack of breakfast plates over to the sink.
“You should write to him,” Tara advised. “I think it’s very good of him keeping in touch . . . there aren’t many priests who would have been so helpful to you, Biddy. I know the lodgings he suggested didn’t work out, but if it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be over here in good jobs.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, God – I’ll have to run or I’ll miss my bus!”
Joe had no great news in his letter. It was all about the exams he was sitting, and how he was more or less recovered from his glandular fever. He’d had a relapse since she had last seen him in Dublin, but it was not as bad as before. He said he was still worrying about studying and that he found it hard concentrating at times. He was delighted to hear that Tara was settling in over in England, and had done very well landing a good job so quickly. He finished off by asking her to pray for him – for a special intention.
Tara folded his letter and put it back in the envelope. She looked out of the bus window, thinking it was strange that a student priest should ask her to pray for him. It really should, she thought, be the other way round.
The other letter was signed from her Uncle Mick and Kitty, although it had actually been written by Kitty. It said more or less the same thing as Joe, about being pleased she had found a job and was settling in. Kitty quickly went on to say that Mick had been to a solicitor to make a will – and that the cottage would be Tara’s when he died. In the event of Mick dying first, it would be hers immediately, as Kitty would vacate the cottage to go and live with a widowed sister in Tullamore. The letter closed saying they both missed her and hoped she might come back for a holiday in the summer.
Tara sighed deeply. Poor
Mick and Kitty. They still felt guilty about her leaving first the cottage, and then leaving Ballygrace. How could she explain to them that, while she had felt in the way, the final decision to leave had been forced on her by circumstances they could never imagine?
Mr Pickford was already in the office and bustling around when Tara arrived at twenty to nine. “Nice and sharp, as usual, Tara,” he commented, as he passed her by with an armful of files. “We have a busy, busy day ahead of us. I’ll let you get settled, and then I’ll go over a few things with you.”
Tara hung up her hat and coat and then went into the small kitchen. The kettle was already boiling on the electric stove, so she put a spoonful of coffee in a mug and mixed it with a drop of milk. She then made a pot of tea with the remainder of the boiling water, and left it on the top of the stove. Jean was always a little behind the others in the morning, and was often too late to start the process of making tea before the office opened. So, without making an issue of it, Tara made sure she had a pot of tea ready for her colleague coming in.
She also discovered that their starchy boss appreciated the gesture too, and had recently taken to having the kettle boiled for her arrival. All in all, Tara felt it was worth the trouble, as it seemed to start everyone off in a more pleasant mood – giving a homely start to a formal day.
Tara Flynn Page 35
