Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “We’d better stand a minute,” Kitty whispered urgently to the others. “It would look bad if we walk into church before the family now.”

  All four stood silently as the cars came to a halt at the church gates only yards away from them. Tara turned back towards Frank’s car, giving the impression of having left something inside it.

  “Is there anything wrong?” he said, coming towards her. “Have you forgotten something?” He made to open the car door.

  “No . . .” she replied in a low voice, her body still turned towards the vehicle. “I just didn’t want to stand gawking when the Fitzgeralds are walking into church.”

  There was a small silence, then Frank said: “I think your friend has just seen you – the tall fellow with the blond hair.”

  Tara lifted her head abruptly, and there, striding across the road was Gabriel Fitzgerald, looking unfamiliar in a dark hat which covered most of his hair. She gasped aloud, wishing desperately that she could run away.

  He was closer now, taking off his hat. “Tara?” he said. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  Tara raised the front of the black veil, so that he could see her face. “Hello, Gabriel,” she said in a measured tone, her heart thumping. In the months since she had last seen him, he was taller and looked older – like a grown man. He was an older, sadder version of the boy she had known. “I’m so sorry about everything . . . about Madeleine and your father. It’s terrible . . . the worst news I’ve ever had.”

  “Did you come back home for the funerals?”

  Tara inclined her head. “Yes, of course. Wherever I was, I would have come back for Madeleine.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Gabriel nodded. “We wondered where you’d gone . . .” He looked back in the direction of the funeral party. “I’m afraid I have to go.” He took a step backwards, now looking straight into Tara’s eyes. Gazing at her . . . as if he had never seen her before. “Could I see you later on this evening – or maybe tomorrow? There are some things that Madeleine would have like you to have . . . and I’d like to talk to you myself.”

  For a timeless moment – a moment stolen from New Year’s Eve – Tara looked back into his eyes. Even in the midst of his misery and grief, she could not fail to recognise the message that was there for her. It was the same stark look of physical attraction that she saw in Frank Kennedy’s eyes daily. Gabriel Fitzgerald wanted to see her because he wanted to resume their prematurely ended relationship.

  Tara’s heart surged with all the old feelings for him – and she almost found herself saying ‘yes’ that she would meet him tonight or tomorrow morning. ‘Yes’, she would meet him any time he wanted.

  Then, the reality of the present, awful situation came flooding back. The reality of Madeleine and her father’s deaths. The reality of William Fitzgerald having raped her.

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel,” she whispered in a croaky voice, “but I . . . we . . . have to catch a plane early this evening . . . back to England.”

  Gabriel shifted his gaze to Frank.

  “This – this is a friend of mine from England,” Tara said. “Frank Kennedy.”

  Frank immediately stretched a hand out and shook Gabriel’s. “I’m very sorry for your troubles.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Thank you,” Gabriel finally replied in a clipped tone, his eyes narrowed as though he had a severe headache. “I must go now.” He put his hat back on.

  “Maybe . . .” Tara ventured, “you could leave the things at the cottage . . . with my uncle. If it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  Gabriel gave a vague smile and nodded. “Yes . . . yes, of course. I’m glad things are working out well for you in England, Tara.” He reached for her hand, and held it for a moment.

  Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he abruptly turned and vanished in the mist of tears that now filled Tara’s eyes. She closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath. When she opened them a few moments later, there was a determined figure marching purposefully towards her.

  “A fine thing when a father has to come lookin’ for his daughter!” Shay Flynn cried, loudly enough for anyone within yards of them to hear. He was all got up in his best black funeral suit, with a clean white shirt and a black tie, his curly black hair sleeked down in a tamer manner than usual. “A fine thing I say, because – by all accounts – she has no intentions of coming looking for me!” He threw a scathing glance in Frank Kennedy’s direction, letting him know that he had heard all about him too, and wasn’t in the least bit daunted or impressed.

  “Daddy –” Tara started to explain.

  “And you all got up like the Quality for the Fitzgeralds’ funeral!” Shay continued his diatribe, hands on hips. “And ye wouldn’t even give your own father the time of day! Disappearin’ off to England with hardly a word, and then you sneak back without lettin’ yer closest connections know! Yer poor mother – and yer granda,” he added as an afterthought, “would turn in their graves if they were alive today.” He blessed himself. “God rest their souls.”

  “But I only came down overnight,” Tara explained breathlessly, feeling she would collapse if another unexpected person crept up on her.

  “Oh, you were seen! You were found out!” Shay said, waving away her excuses. “You were seen at the church last night, and it was reported back to me in a pub later. Bad news travels fast in Ireland!”

  Tara’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the word ‘pub’. “I’m only over for the funeral and I’m leaving straight after it for the airport. I’m back at work first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh, flying is it now?” Shay said, his eyes looking her up and down. “Aeroplanes, begod! And you couldn’t look in on yer poor oul father in Tullamore? You couldn’t get yer boyfriend to bring you in to see me in his fancy car?”

  Tara sighed in exasperation, aware that they were giving great entertainment to all the mourners going into the church. “Frank’s just a friend. We’ve had no time – it wasn’t deliberate.” Her voice softened a little. “Surely you wouldn’t have expected me to miss Madeleine’s funeral?”

  “No! Indeed I wouldn’t,” Shay spluttered, his face red with indignation, “but I wonder if you’d be so quick to come back, if it was my funeral? Yer own poor father’s funeral?”

  “Come on now, Shay,” Mick intervened, pulling at his brother’s arm. “There’s no need for that kind of talk outside of the church.”

  Shay shrugged him off. “She’s no daughter of yours remember – only a niece,” he said churlishly. “And you’re not the one that’s been made little of. Parading herself around Ballygrace as if she was one of the Quality herself. She wouldn’t spare a thought for her poor oul’ father. Oh, no – no fear of that! An’ him havin’ a hard time of it, with no job an’ hardly a penny comin’ in to the house.”

  Tara drew herself up tall. “I’m going into the church right now,” she said determinedly. “If you come back to Mick’s after the funeral, we can have a chat then . . . and I’ll see what I can do.” She had every intention of leaving an envelope with money for him in the cottage in any case. She only hoped Tessie was about, and that she could put the money in her safekeeping rather than her father’s. She knew only too well that it would burn a hole in his pocket until he reached the nearest pub.

  Shay’s attitude suddenly changed and his high colouring began to fade. “I’m not lookin’ for anythin’ off ye – no begod, “ he countered, as though she had wounded his pride. “Well . . . nothin’ that I won’t pay ye back . . . when I’m on the pig’s back again.”

  The pig’s back? Tara thought as they walked across to the church. For an insane moment she had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She daren’t even glance at Frank Kennedy, for she knew he would have seen the ludicrous side to the situation too. When was her father ever on the pig’s back? Things never went well for Shay, because he never allowed them to.

  Any pig’s back he had ever sat on gave him a v
ery short ride indeed!

  Due to the delay, the group had to split up inside the church and squeeze into any vacant spaces in the pews. Tara and Frank found seats halfway up the church, while the others went nearer the back. Where Shay went, Tara had no idea, but she was glad he had melted somewhere into the congregation away from her.

  “I’m really sorry about my father,” Tara whispered to Frank when they were settled in the church. “I should have warned you about him . . .”

  Frank shrugged and smiled. “I’ve met his type before,” he whispered back. “Sure, I have a few like that in my own family. Are you all right? Did he bother you?”

  Tara rolled her eyes. “I’m well used to him.”

  Where normally one priest would have served the funeral Mass, there were six in attendance at this particular one, showing the high esteem the Fitzgeralds were held in. Tara’s thoughts flitted backwards and forwards during the ceremony, dredging up early memories of her and Madeleine starting school together, embarrassing memories of the first day she walked to Ballygrace House, happy memories of Madeleine’s birthday party . . . and then the awful memories of Madeleine’s decline into mental illness.

  However she looked at it, Tara could not understand what had gone wrong with her beautiful friend who seemed to have everything. All the advantages that Tara had lacked and sometimes envied. She came to the conclusion that money did not necessarily guarantee happiness. Look at all the money William and Elisha Fitzgerald had, and yet he had obviously not been happy in his marriage. If he had been happy, he would never have done the terrible thing that had made Tara move to England. The congregation rose to their feet, and without even knowing she was doing it, Tara followed suit automatically.

  At Communion time, she saw the blond head of Gabriel as he went to kneel at the altar rails. Her heart leapt once again at the sight of him.

  It was just as well that she didn’t have time to meet up with him. Whatever he had to say, nothing could ever come of their relationship now.

  In many ways the Fitzgeralds’ funeral was one of the most formal, dry-eyed affairs that Ballygrace had ever seen. None of the locals – apart from Tara Flynn and the servants – had ever got to know the family well. It was in fact surprising that the funeral was held in Ballygrace at all. Tullamore with its much bigger and more imposing church would have seemed the most obvious choice – but Elisha Fitzgerald had deliberately chosen the small local church, hoping that it would draw less attention to the sad funeral service. Her plan had not succeeded. Mourners had travelled from far and wide and the crowd now spilled out into the courtyard of the church. They stood in silence, although they could neither hear nor see any of the service.

  When the ceremony was over and the church doors opened, brilliant sunshine greeted the congregation. The coffins were carried out first and then the family and other mourners followed. The hearses were followed to the end of the village and then a large number of the people departed for home while the serious mourners carried on to the cemetery for the burial service.

  Tara had thought long and hard about going to the cemetery, and decided that she would not. It would involve all the business of cars coming back, and in order to be sure of a lift she would have to take Frank. Also, there was the question of whether she would be asked to join the funeral party back at Ballygrace House or wherever they were having the customary refreshments. Between all that and the awkwardness of seeing Gabriel again – Tara decided that it was best to finish her public mourning in the church.

  The Flynn contingency drove back to the cottage in Frank Kennedy’s car, Shay unusually compliant at the thought of the forthcoming boost to his finances.

  “Did you see that oul’ Scully one?” he said in an amused tone as they drove along. “She collapsed coming down the aisle, and had to be helped to her feet by the two hefty daughters. She was worse than Our Lord under the cross!” He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “I’d say she was more worried about the thoughts of losing her job an’ the money, than seeing off oul’ Fitzgerald an’ his daughter.”

  Tara pursed her lips tightly but said nothing. She had no wish to be a hypocrite defending Rosie Scully. She had indeed seen the housekeeper’s performance in the church.When the Fitzgeralds, their relations, and people of renowned respectability had gone down the aisle behind the coffins, the main group among the local women mourners had been the Scully family, headed by the housekeeper herself. Rosie’s gimlet eyes had peered through the gap in the black veil, scrutinising each and every pew, to see who had come to pay their condolences. And more importantly – to see who was missing.

  Her eyes had lit on the elegant Frank Kennedy – he being a black stranger – then darted to the sophisticated woman by his side. An overwhelming rage had risen inside her when she realised that the woman in the sombre finery, was none other than that brazen brat, Tara Flynn!

  Her watery eyes bulged with hate as they met the unflinching, brilliant green eyes. The green eyes that looked back defiantly, refusing to be intimidated by Rosie Scully – or anyone else like her – ever again. The housekeeper read the message in those eyes, saw the grand clothes and the distinguished man by her side. At that instant she realised that the battle between herself and Tara Flynn was over.

  They would never again meet on common territory.

  *  *  *

  It was only a matter of time now, Rosie had forecast that morning. Only a matter of time until she was put out to pasture. Like a worn-out oul’ heifer. There were no doubts about it. Elisha Fitzgerald would move to Dublin or London until after her child was born, and Ballygrace House would be closed up and maybe even auctioned off. There would be no more big houses to look after. Not by Rosie Scully. Her housekeeping days were over.

  Even before the deaths of William Fitzgerald and his daughter, Rosie had known her days were numbered. The last weekend that Gabriel had come home, he had caught her with her ear glued to the sitting-room door. She had been eavesdropping on a row between him and his parents, having been drawn like a magnet when she heard Tara Flynn’s name being bandied about in angry tones.

  Her fatal mistake had been getting down on one arthritic knee to see through the keyhole. When she heard Gabriel yelling that he intended asking the Flynn one to marry him, she had frozen on the spot. She was still rooted, unable to move, when the hot-headed young man had yanked the door open, and came flying out of the room. Rosie’s pretence at polishing the brass on the door – without the necessary polish and cloth – had cut no ice with Gabriel.

  “You,” he had yelled, “are a traitor in this house! Over the years you have been rude to guests and have spread malicious rumours about them. My mother should have got rid of you long ago!”

  Rosie had staggered to her feet. “Indeed an’ I haven’t done any such things!” she spluttered. “I’ve always thought the world of the family – every one of ye – and defended ye to everyone outside that would run ye down.”

  But Gabriel did not have the patience or the interest to listen to her excuses. He turned away and then ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Is there a problem?” William Fitzgerald called from inside the room.

  “No . . . no, sir,” she had called back in a shaky voice. “It was just a small accident . . . me and Mr Gabriel bumped into each other in the hall.” She put a hand on the jamb of the door to steady herself. “No harm done – I say. No harm done.”

  But harm had indeed been done, and Rosie Scully was both perpetrator and victim at the same time. She had caused the problem by her own devious nature, and she knew that the time was coming when she would have to suffer the consequences.

  The housekeeper made sure that she had kept to her own corner of the house until Gabriel had gone back to university. Things seemed to have settled down and she had almost put the incident to the back of her mind when she overheard her own name being discussed by William and Elisha. There had been no eavesdropping on this occasion, and
it was quite by accident that she heard the conversation on the upstairs landing, as she was slowly mounting the stairs.

  “I was informed by one of the girls in the office that Mrs Scully has been gossiping in Ballygrace about Gabriel and Tara Flynn,” William told his wife.

  “What sort of gossip?”

  “Apparently she’s been spreading it around that Tara had thrown herself at him, and had hoped to eventually trap him into marriage. The implication was that she planned to lure him into a relationship, which would result in a pregnancy and a shotgun wedding.”

  “Surely not?” Elisha gasped, groping her way to sit down upon one of the deep window-ledges on the landing. “Mrs Scully wouldn’t do such a thing – I’ve always found her to be loyal.”

  “Then you are very fortunate, my dear,” William replied, both hands gripping his jacket lapels. “I’m afraid I have caught her out gossiping on numerous occasions recently.” He took a deep breath. “She even made suggestions about the poor girl throwing herself at me when you were in London?”

  Elisha’s head sunk into her hands.

  “It would be laughable,” William said, stroking her hair, “if it weren’t so serious. Can you honestly imagine a young beautiful girl like Tara Flynn being the slightest bit interested in an old man like me?”

  “She’ll have to go,” Elisha said in a low voice. “We can’t allow this sordid nonsense to go on. She can’t be trusted any more . . . God only knows what she might say next. Our private lives are becoming common knowledge – fodder for the locals.”

  “Don’t upset yourself,” William soothed. “I’m sure no-one takes any notice of the old crone. It’s only people as low as herself who would pay any attention to her ludicrous gossip.”

  “Nevertheless – she’ll have to go,” Elisha repeated. “We’ll leave things as they are until after the baby’s born and then we’ll talk to her.”