“I thought you weren’t a bit interested in lads . . . the way you’ve given the bum’s rush to all the young fellas in here. Now I know why! You’re more interested in the bigger fish.” She gave Biddy a knowing wink. “She’s certainly landed herself a big fish there – plenty of money, and good-lookin’ too!”
“To be honest,” Tara said, sitting down at the table, “he’s been driving me mad for weeks, calling in at the office every other day. The thing is, he’s one of our most important customers, and I don’t want to offend him to the point that he takes his business to another estate agents’.” She sighed deeply. “He found out where I lived, because he followed me back from work. I’ve only agreed to go out with him so that I can explain in a nice, reasonable way that I don’t want to get involved with him.”
“But, why?” Ruby was astounded. “What’s wrong with him?”
Both the landlady and Biddy stared at Tara, waiting for her answer. How could she tell them that she was frightened of him? That for all her outward sophistication and confidence, she was frightened of getting close to any man.
“I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with him,” Tara replied. “It’s me . . . I don’t really want to get involved with anybody at the moment.”
“Get away with you!” Ruby said, ushering her out of the kitchen. “Get yourself upstairs and get all dolled up. You’re nowt but a young girl, and you should be enjoyin’ yourself. You take things far too seriously. You should take a leaf out of Biddy’s book.”
Biddy shot Ruby a warning look. She didn’t want Tara to know all about Fred and the other things she confided in the landlady. Tara wouldn’t understand, and would only harp on at her about not trusting fellas, and how they were only interested in one thing. What did Tara know about lads? Apart from a childish interest in Gabriel Fitzgerald, sure she knew nothing about them at all!
* * *
Tara sat at the small dressingtable, combing out her long red hair. Then, she applied a light coat of foundation make-up, mascara and lipstick. She had taken her time choosing what to wear tonight, as she had never dined out in Manchester before. Eventually, she settled for an olive green straight skirt, with a matching button-up jacket with a darker green trim. After trying several different pairs, she settled on black suede court shoes with a matching bag. A pearl necklace and earrings finished the outfit off. Elegant, but not showy.
Biddy wore one of her newest dresses, a turquoise one with white polka dots with a new white clutch bag. Hardly a week went past that she didn’t buy something from her wages. Practically every penny went on clothes, make-up and jewellery. Cheap and cheerful, and always the height of fashion. As far as Biddy was concerned, the days of Lizzie Lawless and the dirty, hungry orphan were long gone.
Frank Kennedy appeared at Sweeney’s door on the dot of eight. He presented Tara with a bunch of colourful flowers, and then made a great fuss complimenting them both on their attractive outfits. Biddy was highly delighted at being driven into Manchester in his fancy black car, while Tara sat in the front trying to maintain a composed, unruffled manner. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed at how well Biddy and Frank hit it off immediately.
“Six months ago, back in Ireland,” Biddy rattled on, as if she’d known him all his life, “if anyone had told me that I would be driving into Manchester to a posh restaurant in such a posh car – I would have said they were mad!”
“Ah,” Frank replied, “but you’re not in Ireland now, Biddy. Over here in England, everything is possible. I had very little myself, when I came over here first.”
“And which part did you say you’re from?” Biddy asked, immediately feeling more comfortable with him.
The restaurant was lovely – flowing pink tablecloths with fresh flowers and candles. As they walked in, Biddy suddenly clammed up, overwhelmed by the grandeur. When the head waiter motioned them forward, she clutched her bag tightly in both hands, and meekly followed Frank Kennedy and Tara to their table.
Tara, knowing her so well, was aware of Biddy’s discomfort. She leaned across the table to her. “You’re well used to restaurants now, with working at the Grosvenor.”
“This is a good bit posher,” Biddy said, sinking lower down in her chair as the waiter approached their table.
“That doesn’t matter,” Tara assured her. “The people working here are the same as the ones working in the Grosvenor. They’re doing the exact same work as you and the other staff do.” She smiled encouragingly. “Tonight’s different for you. It gives you a chance to see things from the customer’s point of view. It’ll help you in your own work.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Biddy said, brightening up a morsel.
The waiter passed round wine lists, and then Frank asked of there was any particular wine the girls preferred. Seeing the look of panic on Biddy’s face, Tara leaned across to Frank: “You choose. I drink very little in any case.”
The meal was ordered, with Tara subtly guiding Biddy through the menu, and then all three sat sipping the German wine which Frank had chosen, whilst waiting to be served. After quickly gulping down her first glass of wine, Biddy became more relaxed, and was chatting animatedly when the waiter came with the first course. Frank had picked a fish starter, while the two girls settled for mushroom soup. All three had steak in a red wine sauce to follow, served with a variety of vegetables. Even though she had eaten a full meal back at Ruby’s, Biddy tucked into her meal with great relish, a second glass of wine having removed any lingering inhibitions.
Tara was still sipping her first glass, ever mindful of drinking too much, when she realised that she was actually enjoying herself. Frank Kennedy was very entertaining company, good at relating funny tales about when he first arrived in England, and about the different men he worked with on the building sites. For someone who was so well-spoken, and reportedly so wealthy, he had no airs and graces about himself.
After finishing her chocolate and cream dessert, Tara excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. When she came back, Biddy and Frank were in such a deep conversation that they were unaware of her approaching the table.
“The only lad Tara’s ever shown any interest in,” Biddy was saying, “is Gabriel Fitzgerald. The Fitzgeralds are a fierce wealthy crowd from Ballygrace – real Quality. Ballygrace is where me and Tara went to school. Tara was best friends with Madeleine, Gabriel’s sister. Of course,” she quickly added, “she was always best friends with me, too.”
“I thought my ears were burning when I was in the ladies’,” Tara said lightly, sliding into her seat. “I hope I haven’t missed anything interesting.”
Biddy took another gulp of her wine. “I was only tellin’ Frank about us at school – about you, me and Madeleine.”
“I was hoping Biddy might divulge a few secrets from your past,” Frank said, laughing, “something that would convince me you’re not completely perfect, but alas, it seems there are no skeletons lurking about.”
Before Tara could think of a reply, the waiter appeared at her elbow with a cup of tea for Biddy and two cups of coffee.
The combination of wine and relief at having survived an evening in such a posh restaurant made Biddy even more animated in the car on the way back home. With little persuasion from Frank – and none from Tara – she launched into singing a medley of old Irish songs and kept them entertained for the whole journey.
When they reached Sweeney’s, Biddy then insisted that Frank come in for a cup of tea. “We have a nice sitting-room,” she babbled on, “probably not as posh as yer own house, but it’s a hell of a lot nicer than the one I left behind in Ballygrace.”
“Frank’s been in the sitting-room, twice this evening already,” Tara said patiently, “and he has to be up early to go to Dublin in the morning.”
“My flight’s not until tomorrow evening,” Frank corrected her, getting out of the car. “So I’ll be happy to take you up on the tea, Biddy.” Tara glared at hi
m, but he just grinned back. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Miss Flynn!”
As they were mounting the steps, the front door suddenly flew open. “Thank God, you’re here!” Ruby exclaimed, ushering them all inside. “The priest is here – and he has some news for you. I’d just got in from the bingo. He’s ever so nice – I made him a cup of tea while we were waiting.”
The colour blanched from Biddy’s face. “Father Daly from Ireland? He’s not due over yet.”
“No, love,” Ruby said, shaking her blonde head. “It’s one of the priests from the local church in Shaw Heath,” Ruby stated. “He says he got a phone call from a priest in Ireland, to give you the news.”
Tara’s heart lurched, as she followed the petite landlady into the sitting-room where the priest was waiting.
“Ah, yes,” the priest said, standing up, “I recognise you girls now. I often see you at eleven o’clock Mass on a Sunday – particularly the taller one here. I’d recognise that red hair anywhere.”
Biddy bit her lip. Since coming to England, her attendance at Mass had lapsed. Often, she had to work at the Grosvenor on a Sunday morning, and the times she wasn’t working she was in bed recovering from a late Saturday night at the Erin ballroom. Anytime Tara asked her had she got to Mass, she simply said she went to another church near the hotel.
He gestured to everyone in the room to sit down. “Girls,” he said, sitting back down himself, “I got a call from your parish church in Ireland earlier this evening, asking if I would pass on some news to you both.” He took a little black notebook from his pocket, and checked one of the pages. “A Mr . . . Michael Flynn . . .”
Tara’s hand flew to her mouth. Oh no, not something wrong with her Uncle Mick!
“A message was sent on the behalf of a Mr Michael Flynn,” the priest went on.
Tara blessed herself, relieved that there was nothing wrong with Mick.
The priest paused for a moment. “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible tragedy in the village – and in the same family. A family that’s known to you both.”
Tara and Biddy darted anxious glances at each other.
“Apparently,” the priest said, “a William Fitzgerald and his daughter Madeleine were killed this afternoon coming from Dublin in a car.”
Madeleine and her father! Tara suddenly felt very strange. Her head spun the way it had the night she drunk the brandy. It was as though everything around her was not real – as if it was all made of cottonwool or candyfloss. Her head sunk into her hands and she closed her eyes – and the rest of the conversation seemed to be taking place miles away.
“What happened?” Biddy asked fearfully from under lowered brows.
“A massive tree crashed down on the car – they didn’t have a chance. They were both dead when a farmer came upon them a short time later. Apparently they had gale-force winds all over that part and there’s been a number of accidents.”
Tara felt strong arms come round her.
“Are you all right?” Frank Kennedy said in a low, concerned voice.
She opened her eyes, but immediately the dizzy feeling returned. Trying to fight it, she struggled to get to her feet – but the strong arms forced her back down into the chair again.
“I’ve got some brandy in the kitchen,” she heard Ruby saying. “That’ll help bring her round.”
Brandy . . . not brandy, Tara thought. Madeleine’s dead . . . and William Fitzgerald is dead. And it’s all my fault! He said he was sorry – he even cried – but I wouldn’t forgive him. I was stupid. I should never have been there on my own with him that night. I should have gone back to the cottage to Mick and Kitty. And poor Madeleine . . . I never got round to writing to her. I couldn’t let myself think about her, because she reminded me of what happened . . . All me, me, me! Selfish, selfish, selfish. Tara groaned aloud, and then the tears started to fall.
“You’re all right, Tara,” Biddy said soothingly, stroking her friend’s hair. “It’s one of them terrible things that just happen. Nobody can help it.” Biddy looked at the priest and then at Frank Kennedy. “Madeleine was Tara’s other best friend,” she explained, “and Mr Fitzgerald was her boss. She worked at his auctioneer’s office.” Then, carried away by the undivided attention of both men, Biddy embellished further. “Tara often stayed with them out in Ballygrace House . . . she was like one of the family.”
Ruby’s high heels could now be heard tapping their way along the tiled hallway and back into the sitting-room. “Here you are, ducks,” she said, thrusting a hot glass wrapped in a napkin into Tara’s hand. “Drink that up, and you’ll feel much better. I’ve put plenty of sugar in it.”
Tara gazed down into the glass, then, as the distinctive smell of brandy reached her nostrils, the floor came up towards her. She slumped forward in a dead faint.
* * *
“I feel so embarrassed,” Tara said, leaning against Frank Kennedy’s car. She felt much better now after a walk in the fresh air. “The brandy nearly scalded poor Ruby and it went all over her good carpet.”
Frank took her hand in his and was delighted when she didn’t pull it away. “You had a terrible shock tonight,” he said soothingly, “and everyone understands that. I’m just glad I came into the house with you, otherwise you wouldn’t have made it over for the funeral in time.”
Tara shivered at the mention of the word ‘funeral’. “Are you sure you can organise me a plane ticket for tomorrow?” she asked quietly.
“No problem.” His manner was reassuringly confident. “I only booked mine the other day and there were plenty of seats available on the flight. Anyway I know one of the girls in the booking office.” He reached a hand out and touched her hair gently. “I’ll ring the airport first thing in the morning, and if you ring me around ten o’clock, I’ll be able to tell you the arrangements.” He dug into in the breast pocket of his jacket, and took out a business card with his address and phone number on it.
“It’s really good of you,” Tara said, taking the card. “I don’t know what I would have done without you . . . I still feel as though I’m asleep, and that I’m going to wake up in the morning and find out it was all a bad dream.”
“If there was any way that I could make that happen,” Frank said, “believe me – I would.”
Tara had dreaded going to sleep, afraid of the nightmares that would come when she closed her eyes. She eventually fell asleep around two o’clock and when the bright sunshine woke her at eight o’clock she was surprised that she had slept so soundly and had not dreamt at all. Biddy had obviously crept out of bed earlier and gone down to start the breakfasts for the lads who were working the Saturday morning shift.
Tara sat upright in bed. Just before she had gone to sleep last night, she had decided that she would go into Stockport for a black outfit for the funeral. The black winter coat she had worn to her grandfather’s funeral was back in the cottage in Ballygrace, and anyway, it was much too heavy for this time of the year. She would have to get a lightweight jacket or suit. She had bought very little since arriving in England, she reasoned, and the suit would be useful for work. She wondered vaguely about whether she should wear a black hat, and then, with a pang of sadness, she remembered the black lace veil she had worn to her Granda’s funeral. It was still hanging in her little wardrobe, back at the cottage.
In a short time she was bathed and dressed, then she headed downstairs to the kitchen.
“How are you now?” Biddy asked sympathetically. “D’you feel better?”
Tara nodded, although her pale face and the dark circles around her eyes were a contradiction.
Biddy poured Tara a cup of coffee. “Could you manage a fry?” she asked. “I’ve got some bacon and sausages under the grill.”
“No . . . no,” Tara said, shaking her head. “Just toast will be fine, thanks.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to run into the shops in Stockport now for a few things.”
“What abo
ut Frank?” Biddy asked, putting two slices of toast under the grill. “Haven’t you to phone him this morning?”
“I’ll do it from Stockport.”
“Tara?” Biddy said hesitantly. “You’re not thick with me . . . about not going to the funeral?”
“No . . . no. I can understand your reasons for not going.”
Biddy hung her head. “I couldn’t face going back to Ballygrace . . . seeing Lizzie Lawless, and knowin’ that everybody’s talkin’ about me havin’ the baby.” She turned back to the grill to check the toast. “I don’t think I could ever face goin’ back to Ireland again. I want to forget that Ballygrace and Ireland ever existed.”
* * *
Frank Kennedy was true to his word. When Tara rang him, he told her that he had organised her plane ticket and said he would pick it up that afternoon on his way to the airport. “I’m afraid I have some business in Manchester later this morning,” he told her apologetically, “so I’ll have to meet you in the airport at four o’clock to check in. The flight goes out at five.”
“I’ll go back to the house and get packed now.”
“The funeral is on Monday, isn’t it?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yes –” Tara suddenly looked flustered. “What about coming back?”
“I’ve booked a flight back on Monday evening. That is what you said?” There was a small pause. “I can always change it.”
“No . . . Monday’s fine. I don’t want to stay any longer. And anyway, I have to get back for work. Mr Pickford was very good about letting me have time off for the funeral, and I don’t want to take advantage of him.”
* * *
When she arrived in the check-in department of Manchester Airport, Tara found a seat and looked around to see if Frank Kennedy had arrived yet. It was her first time in an airport, and as she watched the other passengers coming and going, she wished that this first flight over to Ireland had been for a happy occasion. She wished it had been a proper holiday – after a decent length in England. A holiday that would have allowed her to enjoy the hustle and bustle of the airport.
Tara Flynn Page 38
