A dainty, blonde woman in a tight-fitting dress opened the door. She looked at him expectantly.
Shay stood tall inside his priestly son’s cast-off coat. “Sorry to be botherin’ you, ma’am,” he said, vaguely tugging his forelock. “But would you, by any chance, have a Miss Biddy Hart here?” Shay kept his eyes glued on the prettily made-up face, not daring to let them roam in the direction of her ample breasts.
Ruby Sweeney gave him a beaming smile. “You’ve come to the right place, but I’m afraid she’s not in at the minute. She’s gone shoppin’ down town with her boyfriend.”
Shay’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. This was the second blow he had been dealt in the last half an hour – and maybe he was about to have the second door shut in his face. He suddenly felt very weary from the long journey and the effects of all the beer he had drunk on the boat last night.
“Come in, love,” Ruby said warmly. “We can’t have you standin’ on the doorstep in all this snow. And anyway, Biddy won’t be that long. Not on an afternoon like this.” She held the door open wide, to allow Shay and his shabby holdall to pass through.
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am,” he said, taking off his cap to reveal his boyish, curly hair. “You see, it’s really me daughter I’m after. She would be a friend of Biddy . . . a Miss Tara Flynn be name.”
“Tara?” Ruby’s voice was high with surprise. “You’re Tara’s father?”
“I am,” he smiled, “for me sins. I’ve just travelled over on the boat from Ireland.”
“Fancy that! I bet it was bloody parky on a boat in this weather?”
“Indeed, it was, ma’am.”
“Tara boarded with me until she got her own place,” Ruby informed him now. “Hasn’t she done well, since comin’ over to England? She’s a very clever young lady, but I have to say – she doesn’t take her lovely red hair after you anyway! “ Ruby gave a tinkly little laugh. “Mind you,” she said admiringly, “you’ve got a fine head of dark hair yourself . . . Mr Flynn.”
Shay beamed, delighted with the unexpected compliment, and suddenly not feeling quite as tired after all. “Shay’s the name,” he said, holding his hand out.
“An’ mine’s Ruby.” The landlady smiled warmly as they shook hands. “Ruby Sweeney.”
Ruby guided him into the kitchen. “Sit down, love,” she said, pulling out a chair. “You look chilled to the bone. I’ll get you a nice cup of tea to warm you up.” Ruby turned to put the kettle on the gas ring. “I just took it off the boil when you rang the bell. I was about to make meself a brew.”
“A cup of tea would be grand, ma’am,” Shay said gratefully, taking in Ruby’s neat little bottom and her fine legs. “I’m sorry to be puttin’ you to any bother, but I’ve been traipsin’ up and down the town lookin’ for where Tara lived. Then – when I eventually found the right house – I was told she was at work.”
“Work?” Ruby was confused for a moment, since it was Saturday afternoon. “Oh, the hotel! She works Saturday afternoons in the reception.” She paused, hand on hip. “I suppose it was one of them snooty teachers or nurses that answered the door. Didn’t they even ask you in?”
“Well, you see . . . the way it happened,” Shay explained, “when they said Tara wasn’t there, I asked for a Biddy Hart – so they sent me here.”
Ruby poured the boiling water into the teapot, tutting all the while. “What a welcome for you! All the way from Ireland, an’ then being kept on a bleedin’ doorstep in the snow. You always imagine that them educated types would have more manners – but you would be surprised at some of them. Especially them dried-up, old spinstery teachers.” She turned back to him now, allowing the tea to brew. “Have you been in Stockport before?”
“It’s me first time in England,” Shay confessed, “never mind Stockport.”
“Aw . . .” Ruby said sympathetically, “you must be absolutely knackered, if you’ve been travellin’ all night.”
Shay looked up into the landlady’s eyes. It was a very long time since he’d had anybody fussing over him – especially anyone like this vivacious, blonde, busty woman. “I’m tired from traipsin’ around, all right,” he admitted, “but a cup of tea, and havin’ a lovely girleen like you to chat to, will soon knock the sleep out of me.”
“I’ll be happy to chat to you,” Ruby simpered, “as long as you’re happy to keep callin’ me a girleen!”
They both roared with laughter.
* * *
Tara was rooted to the spot in the hallway. “Did he give his name?”
“To be frank with you,” Mary Woods said, “I could hardly make out a word the man said. He’s Irish – that much I do know – although his accent is nothing like yours or Mr Kennedy’s. After that, I’m afraid he lost me.”
“But you said he asked for me by name?”
“I could just make out your name, and when I said you were out, he then asked for your friend, Biddy Hart.” Miss Woods looked most annoyed at this unwarranted interrogation. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more information,” she said haughtily, “but I could barely understand a word the man said.”
Tara’s heart sank. “What exactly did he look like?” she asked quietly, dreading the reply.
The teacher sighed in exasperation. “I’m really not very good on descriptions . . . I think he had darkish hair . . .” She paused for a few seconds, then called in to her colleague, who was busy marking schoolbooks in the dining room. “Vera? Did you manage get a good look at that Irish fellow who came to the door?”
“A dark-haired man with a cap,” Vera called back. “Average height . . . a working man I would say, by the look of him. Wearing a smart-looking top-coat, although it was a bit on the big side for him.”
Mary Woods shrugged and nodded. “That just about sums him up.”
“And you say you gave him the address of Sweeney’s lodging house?”
“Not exactly. He showed me a letter addressed to Miss Bridget Hart, of Maple Terrace in Shaw Heath. It was written in the finest handwriting, so it was easy to make out,” Miss Woods explained – as though she were talking to one of her slower pupils. “So I pointed him in the right direction.”
“I see,” Tara said, feeling rather faint at the thought of who her visitor might be. Her only hope was the top-coat. Shay had never possessed a decent winter coat. “I think perhaps I’ll take a walk down to Sweeney’s and find out who the person is.”
“I should imagine it’s some fellow looking for a bit of work in the garden or some such thing. Even though he was Irish, he didn’t strike me as the sort of man you or Mr Kennedy would be acquainted with.”
Tara turned towards the door. “Would you explain to the others that the evening meal might be a bit late? I’ll do my best to be back as quickly as possible.”
“Of course,” Miss Woods said, suddenly noticing that Tara had gone quite pale. Feeling guilty about her earlier, abrupt manner, she said: “Vera and I could peel the potatoes and vegetables for you, if it would be of any help.” She didn’t want any discord between them, because Tara Flynn was an excellent landlady, and the standard of her house was better than anywhere else in the area.
“Thank you.” Tara forced a smile. “That would be a great help.” She equally wanted no problems with her lodgers. They were a rare breed: quiet, teetotal, early-bedders who paid their rent on time.
She hurried off down the icy road as quickly and as safely as she could. Please God, she prayed as she went along – please don’t let the Irishman in the top-coat be my father!
* * *
Biddy recognised the voice and the unmistakable hearty laugh the minute she stepped in the door. “It’s Tara’s father!” she told Fred in an astonished voice. “What’s he doing here?”
She was even more astonished when she opened the kitchen door, and found Shay and Ruby cosied over glasses of hot whiskey, chatting and laughing as if they’d known each other for years.
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“Biddy!” Shay exclaimed, sweeping her into her arms. “Biddy, me oul’ pal!”
Biddy was so shocked that for a few seconds she was speechless. Never, had Tara’s father spoken to her in such a familiar manner – far less grabbed her into his arms!
“Fred . . .” she finally stuttered out, “this is Mr Flynn – Tara’s father.”
“Shay’s the name,” he said, grinning ferociously at Fred, and pumping the wrestler’s arm up and down. “All me friends, for their sins, call me Shay!”
“Pleased to meet you, Shay,” Fred said, his face turning its usual beetroot red.
Shay sat back down in the chair, and took another mouthful of his hot whiskey. It was the second glass since his tea and sausage rolls. He beamed round at the other three. If this was life in England – Shay Flynn couldn’t get enough of it! Drinking hot whiskies in the company of an attractive woman, and not having to put a foot outside the door for the use of a lavatory was luxury indeed.
If this was what his first afternoon over the water brought – he could only wait and wonder at the other delights which were sure to follow.
* * *
“Frank Kennedy guaranteed no such a thing! He did not guarantee you a job in England!” Tara told her father in an outraged voice. Although they were in the privacy of Ruby’s front room, she was finding it very hard to keep her tone low enough not to be heard. “You had no right,” she stated, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, “no right whatsoever – to just turn up here without a word.”
“Sure, I had no time, Tara,” her father argued, “and anyway – I was desperate. There’s Christmas comin’ up in a few weeks, and we haven’t so much as a ha’penny for Santy to come to the childer. And don’t forget, there’s a whole crowd of them at all ages to be fed and clothed – never mind Santy.” He shook his head sadly. “Those poor childer are not as lucky as you an’ Joe were. Sure, you were spoiled wi’ yer granda an’ yer Uncle Mick . . . and wasn’t that Joe treated like a prince wi’ the two oul’ aunties?”
Tara took a deep breath. There were a million truths she’d like to scream at her father – but she knew she could talk to doomsday, and he would not understand one word.
“Surely,” she said in a more patient tone, “you could have got work back in Tullamore? There’s always work going in the hotels and in the creamery over Christmas.”
Shay shook his head. “It’s changed days since you left,” he said mournfully, as though Tara had been gone for years. “They expect you to work for nothin’ over there. And anyway – it was Tessie who had the whole idea of England in her mind. It was her who made me come over.”
Tara folded her arms and raised her eyebrows in disbelief. She waited – scepticism written all over her face – to hear how her downtrodden stepmother had suddenly become a dictatorial tyrant.
“It was her,” Shay went on, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Sure, she’s never let up about England since the Fitzgeralds’ funeral. Since I happened to mention about Mr Kennedy offerin’ me a job, she’s been on about it, mornin’, noon and night.” He gave a quick, sideward glance to see how Tara was taking the story. “I never would have landed on you like this, if it hadn’t been for her. Sure, she only begged yer Uncle Mick to lend me the price of me ticket.”
“I don’t believe one word of it!” Tara suddenly rounded on him. “Tessie would never let you off to England on your own. She knows fine well you can’t be trusted to hand over money you’ve earned in Tullamore – far less depending on you to send money across the Irish sea!”
“Tara, Tara . . .” Shay’s voice was low and genuinely hurt. “What did I ever do that makes you talk to yer poor father in such a desperate way?” He shook his head. “Didn’t I always do me best by you? An’ me – left a young widower when yer poor mammy died. Sure, I was beside meself wi’ grief.” He paused. “It was the greatest sacrifice of me life, havin’ to give you an’ Joe up, but I had to do it. I had no choice, girl . . . I had to do it for yer own sakes.” He looked her straight in the eye, convinced of the truth in his own words. “When me an’ Tessie got married, sure we were desperate to have you to live with us, but you wouldn’t come. You made yersel’ sick every night until we brought you back to yer granda . . . God’s me judge, if I’m not tellin’ you the truth. Even then – at five years old – you were determined to get yer own way!”
Tara sank into an armchair, momentarily overwhelmed by the onslaught.
Quick to realise he had gained an advantage, Shay ploughed on mercilessly. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me . . . the way I was lookin’ forward to seein’ you. I was delighted at the thoughts of me an’ you – me eldest and me most favourite daughter – spendin’ a bit of time on our own . . .” His voice trailed off in a theatrical manner. “I thought we could make up for the time we missed when you were small – but bein’ the soft eedjit that I am, I never realised that you’d be that ashamed of yer poor oul’ father.” He shook his head sadly, then stuck the knife right in. “I wonder what yer poor dead mother, and yer poor oul’ granda would make of it all?”
To Tara’s immense relief, a knock suddenly sounded on the sitting-room door. The situation between herself and her father was too volatile for her to make any instant decisions.
“It’s only me,” Ruby said, sticking her peroxide head round the door. “I hope youse won’t mind me pokin’ my nose in . . . only I was goin’ to make a suggestion that might help youse out.”
“Not at all,” Shay said magnanimously. “Wouldn’t we be only too delighted to have yer opinion – a intelligent lady like yersel’.” He patted the settee for Ruby to sit down, as though he were in his own house. In the short time he had spent with the landlady, he knew that they were kindred spirits, and that any suggestions she might make could very well be to his own advantage.
“I was just thinkin’,” she said, eyeing Tara warily, “that maybe your father would be interested in lodgin’ here for the time being. No offence or anythin’ . . . but I don’t think those spinster teachers you have up there would be his cup of tea. I couldn’t imagine him feelin’ comfortable in a house with the likes of them.”
Shay shrugged his shoulders. “To be honest, they weren’t exactly to me tastes,” he said in all seriousness – then added hastily: “Although I’m not a person that likes to pass remarks on others.”
“Neither am I, love,” Ruby agreed, “but sometimes the truth has to be told. They’re not suitable people.”
Tara suddenly felt the most outrageous urge to roar out laughing. It was like finding something absurdly funny in the middle of a funeral wake. If only Miss Mary Woods and Miss Vera Marshall were present to hear themselves discussed, as being unworthy of sharing a house with that Irish fellow, as they had described him.
“But what about work?” Tara said instead of laughing. “I have no idea how Frank’s business is going at the minute . . . and whether he needs any more labourers. He might not remember even talking to you about work.”
“Well, we can soon find out,” Ruby replied officiously, “but if he thinks anything of you, I’m sure he won’t have forgotten about your father.” She turned to Shay. “And that’s another good thing about being in Maple Terrace – you would be livin’ here with workin’ men like yourself. If Frank Kennedy has nothing for you, I’m sure some of the other lads will know where there’s work goin’.”
Tara felt both relief and dread at the same time. The immediate sense of relief at not having Shay under her roof – and an even greater relief, of not having the hullabaloo she envisaged if she had dared to refuse him.
The dreading part came when she thought of him making himself so at home in Maple Terrace, just ten minutes’ walk away from her. The responsibility of it all, and the ramifications of a close friendship between himself and Ruby – was too desperate to even think about.
* * *
“He can’t be all that bad,” Frank consoled her,
as they drove out to Buxton for a piano recital that night. “I’ll give him a start on the building site out in Bolton, on Monday morning. The early rise and the long drive there and back will soon sort him out. The money’s good, but he’ll only be fit for bed when he comes home every evening. If he’s genuine about doing it for the family, then he’ll keep his head down and be too busy working to bother you.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “On the other hand, if he’s only come over here for a bit of a dodge over Christmas, I’d say he’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
Tara shook her head. “I’m still in a state of shock . . . my heart dropped like a stone when Mary Woods launched into the story about this strange Irishman in the fancy top-coat.”
Frank took his eyes off the road for a moment and they were twinkling mischievously. “You have to admit that there’s a funny side to it, Tara – when you think of the two teachers not knowing the dreadful Irishman they were talking about just happens to be your father!”
“Don’t!” Tara warned. “Just don’t!”
* * *
Biddy lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The letter which Shay had given her had been torn into a hundred tiny pieces and flushed down the lavatory. It was from Father Daly. The priest explained that he had tried to get a few days off over Christmas, to come over to the convent in Derbyshire again. Unfortunately, things had not worked out with a replacement priest and he would have to spend Christmas in Ballygrace. He did, however, plan to come over in February. That was definite. He reminded her of the nice time they had spent together on his last visit, and how very much he was looking forward to repeating it all. And perhaps – in the meantime – they could both be thinking of ways to make the visit even more interesting this time.
Tara Flynn Page 47
