Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

“Thank you, Tara,” Mr Pickford said politely, when she put the mug on his desk. He motioned to her to sit down on the chair opposite him. “I have a meeting in Manchester later this morning, which means I won’t be here when a very important client calls in. I’d like you to deal with him, as opposed to Jean.” He took a delicate sip of his tea, and then surveyed Tara over his little spectacles. “This client – Mr Frank Kennedy.” Mr Pickford gave a rare smile. “He’s a fellow countryman of yours, I’m led to believe. He started off buying old properties and renovating them – then selling them off as flats. But recently, he has moved into the building business, estates of thirty and forty modern houses. Apparently he can’t build them quick enough, and some are selling before the foundations are laid.” He pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “ We’ve sold a number of his properties through the Stockport and Manchester offices, and now he’s given our branch his new estate to handle, since it’s nearer to Bramhall than the other offices.”

  “What would you like me to do?” Tara asked.

  Mr Pickford took a large file from a drawer in his desk. “He’s calling in to check some sample brochures that we’ve had designed.” He opened the file, and laid a selection of the brochures in front of Tara. “I’d like you to go over these with him, and have him choose the most appropriate one.”

  The rest of the morning – which the girls presumed would be more relaxed due to Mr Pickford’s absence – was one of their busiest. The phones rang incessantly, and customers seemed to appear one after the other.

  “Will you be all right on your own?” Jean asked Tara at twelve o’clock. “I wouldn’t have planned to meet my friend for lunch, if I’d known that Mr Pickford was going to be out.” She picked her umbrella out of the stand. “I have my lunch in the office most days and the one day I decide to go out, it’s pouring down.” She hesitated at the door. “I feel bad leaving you on your own.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Tara reassured her. “Things seem to be slowing down a bit now.”

  After Jean had gone, Tara sorted out some filing, and then started on a pile of letters which were waiting by the typewriter on a small desk at the back of the office. Since starting work in Thornley’s Estate Agents, Tara had picked up many new skills which were necessary for a modern expanding business. The telephone system was much more up-to-date than the one she had used in Tullamore, and everything from the filing cabinets to the typewriter was new to her. But the biggest differences were the sort of clients who were selling property and the customers who were buying. Back in Ireland, Fitzgerald’s Auctioneers had mainly dealt with farmers and people who could afford the larger properties. Few ordinary people like her own family had ever frequented business premises. Here, in Bramhall, she was meeting all kinds of people, from working-class newly married couples who were buying their first house, to wealthy landlords who were looking for large properties to split up and rent out as flats.

  Apart from her genuine interest in the business, according to Mr Pickford, Tara’s courteous, yet confident manner with the customers was her greatest strength. Whether people were buying small two-up, two-down houses, or seeking an extensive property with tennis courts and swimming pool, Tara gave them all the same respectful attention.

  She lifted her head now from the typewriter, as the office door opened with the resulting tinkling bell. She stood up and quickly moved towards the front desk, a welcoming smile on her face.

  “I’m Frank Kennedy,” the tall, dark-haired man said, “Mr Pickford told me that the brochures would be ready today.”

  Tara was suddenly rooted to the spot. It was the handsome Irishman who had nearly run her down – the one from the Grosvenor Hotel and the dance hall. She quickly composed herself. “I’ll – I’ll get them for you now,” she said briskly, turning towards Mr Pickford’s office.

  “Hang on there a minute, he said as the back of her curly red head disappeared from view. “That’s surely an Irish accent, is it not?”

  “It is,” Tara called back. She lifted the file containing the brochures from her boss’s desk, and then stood for a few moments taking several deep breaths, before returning to the main office.

  “Here you are,” she said, deliberately looking at his dark rain-splashed overcoat, as opposed to his face. She slid the file across the counter to him.

  He caught her wrist lightly and, instinctively, Tara looked up into his face. She knew he was handsome, even from a distance, but she was surprised to find that close up he was even more attractive. The thick black hair, barely tamed by some preparation, set off startlingly blue eyes and even white teeth.

  “I didn’t know you worked in here. How come I’ve never seen you when I’ve been in before?”

  She pulled her hand away, trying to remind herself that he was a very important customer – in fact the most important customer on the office books. “I haven’t been here long – just a few weeks.”

  “I saw you in the Grosvenor Hotel recently, and along the main street here in Bramhall. If I remember, you almost stepped out in front of me.” He viewed her with narrowed eyes. “I wondered who you were – but it never crossed my mind you might be an Irish girl.”

  “Well, now you know,” she said curtly. “And if I recall correctly, it was you who came flying round the corner in your car.”

  He threw his head back, and laughed out loud. Then, he suddenly stopped, and stared unashamedly into her eyes.

  Tara felt herself shrinking from his gaze. There was something about this smooth, polished man that reminded her of William Fitzgerald, although he was much younger. She turned back towards her desk, willing Jean to come back early. “I’ll leave you to concentrate on the brochures.”

  “Time enough for that,” he said, casually leaning on the counter, his folded arms on the unopened file. “What’s your name, and which part of Ireland are you from?”

  Tara put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter, and again reminded herself that this was a very influential client. To be obviously rude to him – and perhaps be reported to Mr Pickford – would not help her career at all.“My name’s Tara Flynn,” she replied, “and I’m from County Offaly.”

  “Indeed,” he said in an amused tone. “The King’s County itself!”

  Tara bent over her machine and started to type.

  “I’m a Clare man, myself,” he volunteered, his eyes watching her every move. “I’ve been over in England for these past twelve years.” He paused. “How long did you say you’ve been over here?”

  “I didn’t say. I’ve been here just a month,” she replied. “Now, if you would be good enough to excuse me, I have some work to do.”

  “You won’t have had much time to look around,” he mused. “There are some nice places to see, art galleries, museums and theatres and the like. Then there’s Bramall Hall, Lyme Park – and there are some lovely restaurants. Sure, it would be a whole new world for you, coming from the bogs of Offaly. Maybe I could show you round?”

  Tara looked up at him now. He really was the most insufferable man, so easy and sure of himself. “There’s more to Offaly than the bogs,” she informed him in a curt manner. “And I’m perfectly capable of finding my way around Stockport or any other place.”

  A broad, amused smile spread on his face. “I’m sure you are – you seem perfectly capable all round.”

  The door bell tinkled again, and a couple who had been in earlier that morning came in. Tara fought back a huge sigh of relief and jumped up from her desk to attend to them.

  “We’d like to make an appointment to view two of the three-bedroom houses we discussed this morning,” the woman said, sliding across the printed details she had been given earlier on.

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” Frank Kennedy said in a most charming way, “but there are some modern, three-bedroom houses coming on the market in the next week.” He passed a brochure across the counter to the woman. “They have the most up-to-date kitchens and bathrooms in them.” />
  “Oh!” the woman said, holding the brochure out to her husband. “They look really lovely – maybe we could view them as well.”

  After they had left, Frank Kennedy winked at Tara and said: “A good businessman never misses an opportunity.”

  In spite of herself, Tara smiled at his cheek.

  Capitalising on the slight thaw in her manner, he asked: “Would you like to come to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  “No,” Tara replied, without even considering his offer. “I’m very busy in the evenings.”

  “How about an afternoon out then?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking him directly in the eye, “but I’m much too busy at the moment.”

  The main door opened again, and Tara was delighted when she saw both Mr Pickford and Jean shaking the rain off their umbrellas.

  “Ah! Mr Kennedy!” Mr Pickford looked delighted. He put his wet umbrella back in the stand. “Has Tara been looking after you?”

  Frank Kennedy threw a glance in Tara’s direction. “She has indeed – I have all the brochures here.”

  “Excellent.” Mr Pickford motioned his worthy client towards his office door. “If you would be so kind, Tara,” he said over his shoulder, “perhaps you might bring us in two cups of tea and some biscuits.”

  “Isn’t he just gorgeous?” Jean whispered dreamily, when the door closed behind the two men. “I’ve heard people saying he’s nearly a millionaire! Kennedy’s have all the main building contracts in Manchester and Stockport. It was his builders who did the big extension to the Grosvenor Hotel.”

  Ah, Tara thought, so that’s why he was in the hotel, the morning that Biddy had her interview.

  “He’s just bought up another row of houses in Wilmslow,” Jean said knowledgeably. “He does them up, then either sells them or rents them out.” She tucked her bobbed blonde hair behind her ears. “Everything he touches turns to money. And,” she said, rolling her eyes meaningfully, “he’s single. Funnily enough, I heard he only lives in a little flat himself, somewhere out in Stockport. He’s just broken up with a girl here in Bramhall. Her family have a huge house with stables and a tennis court and everything. From what I hear, he’s very generous, but he never stays with the same girl for long.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not my type at all,” Tara called from the little kitchen. She poured the steaming water from the kettle into the teapot. “He’s just a bit too obvious. If you threw a penny, you would hit ten of his kind.”

  “I wouldn’t mind meeting even one of his kind,” Jean laughed. “He’s definitely the most handsome man that’s ever walked in this office door.”

  *  *  *

  Biddy sat pondering over her letter, during her afternoon break in the empty bar of the Grosvenor Hotel. Father Daly intended to come over to Stockport some time in May. There was a convent in Buxton – about an hour’s drive away – and he would be staying there. He said he would definitely meet up with her, and would do his best to find out any news about the baby. Biddy screwed the letter up into a ball, and threw it into the rubbish bin. She wanted to forget all about Ballygrace, and she wanted to forget all about the baby. It was hard to imagine it had ever happened, and yet it was only a month ago.

  But Biddy had learned from it. She would never let that happen to her again – not until she got married. She had learned that there were ways to prevent having a baby. Ways nobody had ever talked about in Ireland. And she would never let an older man near her again either. Just the thought of it all now made her feel sick with shame.

  “A drink, Biddy?” Fred, the burly part-time barman said, putting a glass of lager down on the table in front of her. “When the cat’s away,” he said, going back to the bar to pull himself a pint, “the staff will play.” Fred only worked part-time in the bar, as he was a semi-professional wrestler during his hours off.

  Biddy glanced anxiously at the door, terrified she might be caught drinking during her working hours. “Did Mr Timpson say when he would be back?”

  “This evening sometime,” Fred said, tilting the glass to get a good head on his beer. “If he comes in early, just grab your glass and make for the sink. I’ll tell him you were helping me to clear up.” He filled his glass, and then came to sit down at the table beside Biddy. “Are you all right, love?” he asked her in a concerned tone. “You’ve been very quiet all day.” Then, his face turned bright red, as it often did when he talked to a girl.

  “I’m grand,” she replied, giving him a weak smile. “I’m just a bit tired.”

  “No bloody wonder.” He took a long drink from his glass. “You’ve been working here since seven this morning, and when you finish here at four o’clock, you’re back working in the boarding house.” He shook a warning finger at her. “You want to take it a bit easier – you’re too hard on yourself.”

  Biddy took a sip of her lager, and leaned closer to Fred until their bare arms were touching. “It’s nice to know that somebody cares about me.”

  “I bloody well do care about you,” he told her, his colour deepening at the confession. “You’re only a slip of a girl, and you need lookin’ after. I only wish I could look after you a bit more . . . but with me wrestlin’ and everythin’, I’m not around as much as I would like.”

  Biddy drew a finger along the dark hairs on his forearm. “It’s nice havin’ a big strong man lookin’ after me.”

  Fred put his glass down on the table, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If you like, we could go to the pictures on Thursday night. It’s the only night I’m off at the minute, what with me trainin’ and everything.” Then, he reached over and kissed Biddy full on the mouth.

  A lovely warm feeling came over her as she kissed him back. Maybe Fred would be the right sort of man for her. He was only a little bit older than her, in his late twenties. And although his brown hair was thinning a bit, he was the strong, manly sort who would look after her well. Fred would make sure that nobody took advantage of her.

  The only problem was the boys in the boarding house, because Biddy liked a few of them there, too.

  If she agreed to start going steady with Fred, it would mean she couldn’t go dancing with them any more. She pulled away from him now, and took a drink of her lager. She could always keep things with her and Fred secret. He needn’t know about her going dancing with Sonny and the others, when he was travelling away with his wrestling. And, Biddy thought, since the Grosvenor was too posh for the lads at Ruby’s, they weren’t likely to meet up with him in there. She would play it safe, not settle for anyone too soon. She looked up into Fred’s face and gave him a big smile. “The pictures on Thursday night would be grand.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Please, William,” Elisha Fitzgerald said, “go and see Gabriel first. Even if it’s only for an hour . . . look in at the university and see how he is. It’s not far from the hospital, and you can drive down and pick up Madeleine after you’ve seen him. Perhaps he might come home next weekend, if he knows that Madeleine is being allowed home visits again. I know he sees her regularly in the hospital, but it would be so much nicer to have them both in the house again.”

  It was ironic to be bringing an unplanned third child into the world, when she had just lost the other two children she so desperately wanted to keep. She winced and rubbed her hand along her lower back, to ease the deep ache which was there day and night. This pregnancy had been far more troublesome than her previous two. But what else could she expect? She was now a woman in her forties, as opposed to one in the bloom of her youth. She hardly dared look in a mirror these days. She dreaded the dark circles she would see under her eyes from lack of sleep, which only emphasised the lines around them.

  William sighed. “I’ll call in . . . if that’s what you want. But there’s no guarantee that he’ll see me. He’s refused all telephone calls since he last came home.” William had felt the onslaught of age in recent months, mainly due to disturbed sleep. But hi
s insomnia was not a result of physical discomfort – rather a discomfiture of the mind. He only seemed to fall into sleep, to awake in a cold sweat – with a picture of a stricken Tara Flynn etched in his brain.

  When he looked back over the last six months, it was as though he were looking down a long black tunnel, viewing the actions of another man. A ridiculous, middle-aged, lust-filled man. How could he have been so stupid and blind as to imagine that a girl like Tara Flynn would have any interest in him? How could he have been so stupid?

  A horrendous claustrophobia washed over him. “I’ll just have a walk out in the garden for a few minutes, to clear my head,” he said abruptly, making for the door.

  “Shall I ask Mrs Scully to bring you some aspirin?” Elisha called after him, but whether he heard her or not, he did not reply.

  William walked down the path at the side of the house, and then out into the garden. He stopped dead once he was out of sight. He stood for a few minutes and breathed deeply of the rhododendrons and the azaleas – but he gained no pleasure from the sight of them, nor from their faint damp scent. Nothing gave him pleasure any more.

  He walked further down the garden, and then out towards the paddock where the ponies had grazed. On her last weekend home from the hospital, Madeleine had refused to go anywhere near the family pets, saying the ponies were beasts of the devil. When he and Elisha had tried to talk to her, she had rushed upstairs and locked herself in the bedroom.

  Hours later, when William had burst the bedroom door in, they found her lying on the bed, semi-conscious, after repeatedly slashing at her wrists and arms with a tiny blade she used for sharpening her pencils.

  The following day, after Madeleine had returned to the hospital, the faithful ponies that had carried her and Gabriel round the fields of Ballygrace House, were sold to a riding school.

  William kicked out aimlessly at a stone as he walked around the field, the wind whipping his jacket from the back and lifting wisps of his well-groomed hair. However hard he tried to divert his thoughts from the terrible thing he had done to Tara Flynn, it always came back to haunt him. And lies had now become so ingrained in the pattern of his everyday life that he was starting to believe them himself.