Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “I’m sure a few pounds’ pay-off will take the sting out of it for her, although it won’t replace all the perks she has helped herself to from the larder and the sherry stock.”

  “We’ve been too soft with her for too long,” Elisha said, getting up on her feet again. Sitting on a hard surface had started nagging cramps in her back.

  Very slowly, and very carefully, Rosie Scully had retreated back down the stairs and into the kitchen – her head a complete whirl after what she had just heard. They were going to get rid of her after the baby came! That was only a matter of a couple of months – weeks even. And she only trying her best to uphold the family name. Not once had she said anything wrong about Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald – in fact she loved bragging about them and all the nice things in Ballygrace House. Sweet Jesus! It was the only thing she’d ever had to brag about in her life. Oh, she might have said the odd thing about Gabriel and Madeleine, how they were spoiled with their ponies and everything, but criticising them was only another way of bragging. Of highlighting the difference between the Quality and the ordinary folks.

  She had looked around the warm, cosy kitchen. The home from home, that would be no more. The same went for the thick slices of the best pork and beef, the butter and the eggs, and the comforting glass of sherry that gave her miserable life a small glow. Everything would be gone but not forgotten. With that final thought, Mrs Rosie Scully had lain her head down on her heavy, work-scarred arms and wept.

  Later, when the Fitzgeralds had come back down the stairs and acted as if everything was normal, the housekeeper had felt a little ray of hope. Maybe – just maybe – if she kept things ticking over nice and quietly, they might change their minds. They might forget all about the ups and downs. Oh, and she would keep her mouth shut – good and tight. As if she had a zip sewn over it. There was no need for any more talk. Tara Flynn would be put out of her mind forever. With the new baby due soon – and Rosie Scully an old hand at making up bottles and changing nappies – happier times could be round the corner.

  *  *  *

  It was the sound of all those lost dreams ringing in her ears, coupled with the sight of Tara Flynn, that had brought Rosie Scully to her knees in Ballygrace church. Down she went like a sack of spuds, the black veil slithering over her face and chest, as she sprawled out on the cold church floor.

  There was a commotion for a few moments, as arms flew from all quarters to heave her back to her feet. She was guided into the nearest pew, her heavy coat loosened, and told to lean back and take deep breaths. By the time she had straightened up again, and was once again wearing her shawl in a dignified manner, Tara Flynn and her distinguished escort had already filed out of the church.

  *  *  *

  Tara felt guilty as she watched her father and Frank chatting back at the house. She had run Shay down to the lowest, and yet here he was, being as charming and personable as anyone could expect. To give Frank his due, he had made a great effort with everyone he had been introduced to. Again and again, Tara had to remind herself that she had only got to know this man recently. This handsome, wealthy, intelligent man who she had utterly depended on through this terrible weekend.

  “So ye reckon there’s always work across the water?” Tara heard her father say now. “An’ would ye say that even an oul’ fella like meself would find it easy to get work . . . well-paid work?”

  “The kind of work that’s available would be very hard work,” Frank said seriously, “heavy labouring. It wouldn’t suit an idle man.”

  “Begod no,” Shay agreed, his curly black head bobbing up and down. “And what manner of foreman would want to take on an idle man? Only an eedjit!”

  “Exactly,” said Frank, turning to accept a cup of tea from Kitty.

  Shay took a cup from her as well, unusually profuse in his thanks.

  “How are Tessie and the children?” Tara asked the question in all sincerity, but also as a diversion from the disconcerting conversation she had just overheard. The thought of her father ever coming over to England brought a strangling feeling to her throat.

  “Oh, they’re grand,” Shay said affably, “not a bother on them. Tessie will be sorry she missed you.” He looked Tara in the eye. “She thinks very highly of you, you know.”

  There was an accusation in his voice which Tara did not miss. “And I think very highly of Tessie too,” she replied curtly. You could only think highly of a person who put up with her father, day in, day out. “Tell her I’m sorry I missed her this time. I’ll see her and the children next time I’m over.” She leaned closer to her father, so no one else would hear. “Make sure she treats herself and the children out of the money – make her buy a nice dress or something for the summer.”

  “Begod, I will,” Shay beamed, patting the breast pocket of his jacket, where the money was safely tucked. The thought of it suddenly struck a chord. He waited until Tara was distracted then he looked over at Mick, trying to catch his attention. When he did, he made the gesture of drinking a pint to him, an indication that they might slip off to the pub. It was the done thing among the locals to give the deceased a liquid send off, and particularly necessary on such an auspicious occasion. It wasn’t every day that Ballygrace saw a double funeral – never mind the fact that the departed were Quality. Mick lowered his brow, shook his head, and mouthed ‘later’ back at him.

  Shay swallowed his disappointment along with one of Kitty’s sultana scones, and pondered on his discussion with Frank.

  *  *  *

  Tara found it very strange parting with Frank Kennedy. He got a taxi from Manchester Airport to drop her off at Sweeney’s, and then said he must head back to his own place to sort out some paperwork.

  “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?” She asked him through the taxi window, She was surprised at how easy it was to say that to him now. Only last week she had been thinking of every way to avoid him.

  “Thanks, but – no,” he replied. “I’ll be in touch with you in the next day or two, when I’ve had time to talk over your situation with the building society.”

  “That’s good of you,” she said quietly. “And Frank . . . thanks again for everything this weekend. I would have found it very difficult without you.”

  He stretched his hand out of the window and pulled her closer to him. “It was my pleasure.”

  His dark brown eyes looked deep into hers, and she could feel his warm breath on her face. Before she could stop herself, Tara leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. In a moment, his arm came tightly round her neck, holding her very close to him. She had really meant it as a quick gesture of thanks, but somehow, it had turned into something else.

  As Frank’s lips pressed hard against hers, Tara felt a shiver of pleasure run through her body. How long it would have lasted, she didn’t know, but the taxi driver brought it to a quick end when he coughed loudly.

  “I’d better let you go,” Tara said, moving reluctantly away from the taxi window.

  “I hope,” Frank replied in a low voice, “that you won’t let me go. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  She lifted her bags from the kerb, and then stepped back as the taxi pulled away. She could still see Frank’s arm waving from the end of the road. And she was still quivering from his kiss.

  *  *  *

  Biddy was on a late shift at the hotel, and since Tara was too exhausted from travelling to wait up for her, it was the Tuesday evening after work before they had a chance to catch up on each other’s news.

  “I went to Mass this morning down at Our Lady’s Church,” Biddy told Tara. “I know it wasn’t the same as being at the funeral, but I felt as though I was taking a little part in it.” She lowered her head. “I lit a candle for Madeleine and her father – and I lit one for you as well. To make sure you didn’t have a crash in the plane.”

  “That was nice of you, Biddy. The plane was absolutely fine.” Her face softened. “I said a prayer for you in Bally
grace Church, too.”

  “Did you?” Biddy looked delighted. “How was everybody? Yer Uncle Mick and his wife?”

  “They were fine,” Tara told her. “But it was very sad looking at the two coffins . . . it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Did you see Gabriel?”

  “Yes, he spoke to me just before the funeral.” A silence fell between them, then Tara said: “How was the weekend here?”

  Biddy brightened up a bit – but not too much, in case she might appear disrespectful to the dead. “There was this girl here . . . Ruby’s niece. She was planning on moving in, but she changed her mind and left this morning.” And she then proceeded to relate the saga of Sally and Sunday night at the Erin Ballroom.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “You can start house-hunting now,” Frank Kennedy told Tara as they came out of the building society the following week. “And considering you’re a single young woman – I reckon they’ve been very fair with you.”

  Tara was grinning from ear to ear. “I’m delighted! But I’m sure they wouldn’t have agreed to a mortgage without you vouching for me.”

  “The fact you got an excellent reference from the estate agents, and had a good bit saved up really clinched it,” he told her. “Hard cash always talks, and the more money you have, the more you can borrow.”

  For a moment Tara was reminded of William Fitzgerald and the advice he was always giving her. She quickly brushed the thoughts aside. “I’m going to start looking at houses straight away,” she told him enthusiastically.

  “I’m glad you didn’t put all your money down as a deposit,” Frank said. “It means that if you run into any difficulties with people paying rent you’ll always have something to bail you out.”

  “I have plans to make sure I never run out of money,” she told him earnestly. “I’m going to look for an evening or weekend job – anything at all. I would prefer if I could get work bookkeeping, but I’m quite happy to try my hand at something different, so long as it pays.”

  “If you’re working evenings and weekends,” Frank said with a frown on his handsome face, “when will I get to see you?”

  “We’ll see each other – don’t worry,” she reassured him. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  *  *  *

  Three weeks later, Tara had laid the foundations for her new life. With Frank’s help, she found a large Edwardian semi about a mile from Ruby Sweeney’s. It was closer to her office in Bramhall and only five minutes walk away from the Park Hotel where she would work as receptionist two evenings a week and Saturday and Sunday mornings. Frank had also helped her to find the job.

  The house was situated on the corner of a tree-lined avenue, with lawns to the front, side and the rear. It was a beautiful redbrick semi-detached house with three bedrooms, and on the first viewing, Tara fell in love with it. There were details like the mosaic-tiled hallway with the sweeping staircase, the marble fireplaces, the intricately patterned, stained-glass windows, and the servants’ bells in the kitchen, which made her think of Ballygrace House. Although different in many ways, the English house had a similar feeling of grandeur – and it made Tara worry about how she could even think of affording such a place. Although the building itself was solid enough, it needed quite a bit of work done both inside and out in the garden, which was completely overgrown.

  “I wouldn’t have advised you to look at it if I felt you couldn’t afford it,” Frank stated, as they were being shown round the house for the second time that week. “I know it needs a bit of work, but I can get that done for you at cost price. I know electricians and plumbers who are quick and cheap,” Frank smiled now. “Well, quickish and cheapish, for workmen!”

  They both laughed. This was just another of the things which made Tara warm to Frank Kennedy. His down-to-earth manner and good sense of humour made her feel happy to be around him – more and more of the time

  They paused on the staircase to study the beamed hallway and the beautifully carved, dark wood panelling on the walls. Frank ran his hand over the grained wood. “All the original features are still in the house. Nowadays,” he pointed out, “a lot of people think that’s old-fashioned and are busy ripping them out. If you leave them as they are, I’m sure they will be a selling point for the house in the future.”

  Tara looked doubtful. “I’m still not sure I can afford it. I’d really only thought of buying a little two-up, two-down. Using one bedroom myself and renting out the other.”

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Frank threw open a bedroom door, revealing a large, airy room with an ornately decorated ceiling and more of the beautiful stained-glass windows. “You could fit three single beds into this room. That’s three weeks’ rent.” They moved on to an equally large bedroom next door. “That’s another two weeks’ rent,” he commented. “You’ll find that the rent easily covers your mortgage, without having to put any of your wages into it at all.”

  “What about furniture?” Tara suddenly thought.

  “Second-hand,” Frank replied. “There’s loads of places around Stockport selling second-hand stuff. And the more you buy from the one place, the cheaper you’ll get it. You only need basic stuff for boarders. Think about Ruby Sweeney’s. It’s clean and tidy, but the furniture is basic and cheap.”

  They went into the bedroom which faced out to the front. Tara walked over to the large bay window and looked down into the garden. Frank pointed out a school across the road, saying that it would be quiet in the evenings and weekends, and during the summer holidays. The boundary fence of the school had flowering cherry trees, and large beech trees lined the pathway outside. She looked, imagining how the garden with the sad-looking apple tree and the overgrown flower borders would look after a good week’s work.

  Suddenly, all her fears melted away and Tara decided that this was the house she really wanted. Frank was right. There was no point in buying a smaller house outright, which would involve no great effort or sacrifice. Money not committed would just disappear, he had warned her. “I’ve made all my money from chancing my arm,” Frank admitted. “You have to think big – that’s the way all good businessmen work.” He grinned at her. “When you find how easy it is to make money from renting, I guarantee you’ll be looking for a second house in the not too distant future.”

  *  *  *

  Tara was shocked and disappointed when Biddy said she did not want to move into the house with her. “But I thought we had always planned on that,” she said in a hurt voice.

  “That was in the beginning,” Biddy said apologetically. “That was before I had started work in the hotel and at Ruby’s. Livin’ here suits me fine. I like Ruby and it’s handy for work and everythin’ else.”

  “But we’ve only been over in England a short time,” Tara argued. “I thought we’d stick together for the first few years.” She lowered her head. “Is it because of me, Biddy? Is it because you think I’m too serious . . . that I’m not as easy-going as Ruby and the lads?”

  Biddy shook her head. “No – no, of course it’s not! It’s not anything that . . . I just don’t want to move. It’s the first place I’ve ever felt happy in in me whole life, and I don’t want to leave it. I like helpin’ Ruby, and I know it’s stupid . . . but I have a funny feelin’ in me bones that if I move from here, things will start to go all wrong again.” She put her hand on Tara’s shoulder. “Don’t be bad friends with me over it, Tara – please!”

  “We won’t fall out over it,” Tara conceded, although she had no understanding of Biddy’s fears. “We’re adults now, and I’ve got to make decisions that suit me, and you’ve got to make decisions that suit you.”

  Biddy wasn’t being awkward when she told Tara she was afraid to move. She felt safer with Ruby than she’d ever felt in her whole life, and she wasn’t ready to give that up just yet. Lately, there seemed to be reminders about her old life around every corner. A little foxy-faced Iris
hman man had come into the hotel bar the other day, and after chatting for a few minutes, had asked Biddy where she came from. When she told him, he laughed aloud, saying he was from Edenderry in Offaly. He said he had been a postman for two years in Ballygrace, before moving over to Stockport.

  “It’s a fierce small world,” he told her, “and none of us would want to be hiding secrets from anybody, for you never know who you might meet. Oh, we’d all be quickly found out.” Biddy had failed to halt his searching questions. Within minutes, he had pinned down that she was one of Lizzie Lawless’s orphans. There was no way of hiding it. He had asked straight out who her connections were, and exactly what house she had been brought up in.

  He said that he was back and forward to his elderly parents in Edenderry fairly often and that he could look in on Lizzie, if Biddy liked, and give the old woman her best wishes. Thankfully, Fred had appeared with the man’s drink just at the right time and it had given her the chance to escape to the kitchen. She had stayed in there helping to wash up until the man had gone.

  Biddy knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the next time he was in Offaly he would run about with more legs than a hen to make enquiries about her. And the people he met would not be slow to relate the story about her bastard baby, and about poor Dinny Martin who got the blame of being the father.

  Just the thought of it made Biddy shudder and feel sick.

  What if the foxy-faced man came back into the hotel, and told the story to Fred? All the work she had put into her fresh start in Stockport would have been for nothing.

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  The visit from Father Daly tomorrow didn’t bear thinking about either – the visit he had cancelled a few weeks ago, and then suddenly wrote the other day to say he had managed at long last to organise. Nothing, he had written, would prevent his visit this time.