Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “Oh, indeed I have,” Frank laughed. “Not two hours ago. She saw me off at Manchester Airport.”

  “Really?” Gabriel sounded surprised. “How is she?”

  “She’s grand. Tara’s well settled over in England now. She’s going to make a great businesswoman. She’s well-versed in the estate agency business in Manchester and she also has her own boarding house. It’s running so well that I’ll be advising her to expand soon – take on another property, and hire someone to run it for her.”

  “Really?” Gabriel said again, and immediately felt immature and stupid for repeating himself, under the gaze of this confident, older man.

  “You sound surprised,” Frank said lightly. “You obviously don’t know Tara too well.”

  Gabriel flushed red. “I shouldn’t be in the slightest surprised at anything Tara Flynn does. She’s always been a very capable girl.”

  “That’s for sure,” Frank agreed.

  “I wonder,” Gabriel ventured, setting his case down on the ground. He reached inside his pocket for a pen. “I wonder if you could give Tara a message for me?”

  “Certainly,” Frank said agreeably. He now set down his expensive briefcase.

  Gabriel wrote down several phone numbers. “If she’s over in Ireland, she’ll catch me at one of these numbers. We have Ballygrace House closed at the moment, but hopefully it will be open again soon – when my mother’s back to full health.” He handed Frank the piece of paper. “I have some things belonging to my sister, Madeleine . . . I know she would have liked Tara to have them. They were very close friends.”

  “So I believe,” Frank said, tucking the paper into the top pocket of his jacket. “Tara has told me everything about her life in Ballygrace before we met. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have much time to spare on nostalgic trips home. Her business and our social life take up all her time.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Tara and I are due to be engaged soon,” Frank suddenly announced.

  “Oh . . .” Gabriel flushed again. “I didn’t realise . . . Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Frank lifted his case, and turned towards the exit door. “I have a car to pick up now.” Then – without a word of farewell – he was gone.

  Gabriel stared after him for several minutes, his forehead creased in thought. Then, he lifted his case and turned towards the departures board. Bumping into Frank Kennedy had clarified a few things which had been clouding his mind for some time. Although he had not witnessed the crumpled paper with the phone numbers blowing around the car park area, instinctively he knew that he would not hear from Tara.

  It was suddenly crystal clear what had to be done. He was going over to London to see his mother – and to meet up with Olivia Freeman again. She was an old family friend, and they had known each other as children. Elisha and Olivia’s family thought they were an ideal couple. Anyone who knew them thought they were an ideal couple.

  Gabriel didn’t really know how he felt about Olivia. He didn’t know how he felt about any other woman – apart from Tara Flynn. He had been so slow to realise it. He had nearly been swayed by his parents and their view that she was not a suitable match for him. It had taken their parting for just a university term for him to realise how much Tara meant to him. He had thought them young, and with all their lives in front them. He thought he had all the time in the world to get his degree – and all the time in the world to decide about Tara Flynn.

  And then fate had stepped in. With the untimely, shocking deaths of his father and Madeleine, he suddenly realised that life was precious and fleeting. He had learned a hard lesson and – cruellest of all – he had learned it too late.

  The piercing ache he had felt in his heart when Frank Kennedy told him that he and Tara were to be married was almost worse than the pain he had felt at the double funeral. When he had spoken to her that day outside Ballygrace Church, he knew, beyond all doubt, that he loved Tara Flynn. He loved her with an intensity he had not realised he was capable of.

  But now, he had to face the fact that his love was too late. He had been beaten to it by the successful, mature Frank Kennedy. Worse still, he thought miserably, was the knowledge that he had probably been beaten by a better man.

  He forced his brain to digest the flight information his eyes had been staring at for five full minutes. Then he turned towards the Aer Lingus check-in desk. In a few hours he would be in London with his sick mother and baby brother.

  Later tonight he would see Olivia.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Summer – 1952

  Biddy had decided on an autumn wedding in late September. She had taken Ruby’s advice and not rushed into marriage too quickly. A year and half since the engagement, and Biddy now had a bulging bottom drawer. It was filled with towels and dishcloths, tablecloths and bedlinen, cutlery and a dinner service, a variety of cushion covers and ornaments. Deposits had been paid on a three-piece suite, a bedroom suite and a double bed at the Co-op in Stockport. Biddy had a credit book, and she and Fred would make weekly payments on the furniture.

  They had also been looking round at houses in the Shaw Heath and Edgeley area. Biddy stated quite firmly that she did not want to move far from Ruby’s, as she intended to keep on both her jobs after they were married. They were in no rush about the house, as Ruby said Fred was welcome to move into Biddy’s room after the wedding if they hadn’t found anything they really fancied.

  “It’s a big step, buyin’ a house,” Ruby had warned one morning, when all the men had gone to work. “You don’t want to rush into anythin’ until you’re a hundred per cent sure. That double room upstairs is there for you, as long as you need it.”

  Biddy glowed with gratitude. As far as she was concerned, she was happy to stay forever in Maple Terrace under the caring eye of Ruby, but she knew it would be unfair on Fred. She knew that a married couple should have a place of their own. And yet, the prospect of being away from the dainty Ruby filled her with dread. Two years of the landlady’s nurturing attention had only scratched the surface of Biddy’s deep need for a maternal figure in her life. Like a baby chick, enjoying the comfort and warmth of a mother hen, Biddy was reluctant to let go.

  Ruby suddenly looked serious. “Have you told Fred yet?”

  Biddy lowered her head. “I haven’t had the chance.”

  Ruby tutted. “You’re worryin’ yerself over nothing. Fred Roberts worships the bloody ground you walk on! He’s not goin’ to dump you, because of somethin’ that happened a few years ago. He’ll understand that you were only a young girl, an’ you didn’t know any better.” Ruby bit her lip. “He’s a good man, and he won’t want to lose you over that.”

  Biddy nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. “I know . . . but I just can’t seem to find the right time.” She looked at Ruby, one tear sliding down her cheek. “I think Fred thinks I’m a virgin. Because I wouldn’t let him go the whole way, he thought I was afraid of him hurtin’ me. He said not to worry, that I wouldn’t feel so nervous when we were married.”

  Ruby patted Biddy’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine whether you tell him or not. He probably wouldn’t know the bloody difference.”

  When she finished clearing up the breakfast things, Biddy made to go upstairs, to get her things ready for her afternoon shift in the hotel. She paused at the kitchen door. “Did you go to the doctor’s yet?” she asked Ruby.

  “Not yet,” the landlady replied casually, “I’ve been so bloody busy recently.”

  “Has it got any better?”

  Ruby frowned, and pressed a small, manicured hand on one of her breasts. “It’s hard to tell . . . though I think the lump feels a bit smaller than the last time I checked.”

  “What about yer . . .” Biddy blushed, “what about yer nipple?”

  Ruby took a deep breath. “It’s still leakin’. I think there might be a bit of an infection in it.” She smiled reassuringly at Biddy. “If it doesn’t clear up
soon, I’ll get myself off to the doctor’s.”

  “I think you should,” Biddy said, her forehead wrinkled with worry. “It sounds as though you might need an antibiotic.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  It had been almost two years since Tara had been back in Ballygrace and she found things very different. There was Mrs Kelly’s cottage for a start. It was the sorriest-looking sight that Tara had ever seen. The old thatched roof had collapsed in the centre, leaving a gaping hole where the rain had poured through, destroying the bits of furniture that were left in it.

  “Not one of her family bothered with it after she died,” Mick explained, as they stood outside the derelict cottage. “Seemin’ly, there was a disagreement over whether they would keep it as a holiday home, or whether they would sell it, and divide up the money. Ye know the way families are. In the wind-up, they did nothin’. Then, last winter, durin’ the bad storms, the roof fell in.” Mick gave a deep sigh. “We contacted the lawyers in Tullamore to let them know – but nobody came near. It’s been like that ever since.”

  Tara turned back towards Mick and Kitty’s cottage, her eyes blinded by tears. “She was so good to me when I was little . . . and I never even made it home to her funeral.”

  “Sure, none of us did, Tara,” Mick said sadly. “Her family were all queer hawks. They buried her up in Dublin, straight out of the hospital. They didn’t have the decency to put it in the paper. Nobody in Ballygrace knew for a week.”

  But whatever Mick and Kitty said, Tara did feel very bad about it. Mrs Kelly’s house was the only one she would have visited in Ballygrace, and it would have been nice to go across and spend an hour with her old neighbour, chatting about her granda, and all the things Tara had got up to when she was small. It felt very strange, to suddenly be confined to Mick and Kitty’s cottage, most days and nights.

  Mick took her out for a few jaunts in the new pony and trap. “It could be a car, the next time you’re home,” Mick said. “There’s a good few folk in Tullamore has them now. People you’d never have imagined would be interested in them. Mind you, there’s no one has a car as fine as Frank’s.”

  Frank was over in Ireland for a week, and on this occasion had brought his own car over on the boat. Tara had decided on the spur of the moment to accompany him as far as Offaly.

  “I’m sorry I can’t invite you down to Clare,” Frank had said apologetically, “but there’s only the one spare room, and my mother’s funny about having visitors.” He gave a deep sigh. “She’s been funny ever since my sister had the baby . . . I think it’s some sort of depression.”

  “It’s all right,” Tara told him. “There’s plenty of time for visiting –” She had been going to add: ‘when we get married’, but had stopped herself just in time.

  In all fairness, she had no one to blame but herself for the situation. When Frank heard that Biddy had got engaged, he had asked Tara then if she would have preferred an engagement ring to the piano.

  “Definitely not!” Tara had laughingly replied. “The piano’s a million times better than any ring.”

  “That’s fine,” Frank said in a relieved voice. “I’m glad we’re of the same mind. We know where we’re up to without bothering about engagements and weddings for a while.” He had patted her on the head. “It keeps things more interesting, if we have our own separate businesses and our own separate lives. I’ve seen too many marriages turn sour, when the novelty wears off.” Then, taking her in his arms, he said: “We’re not like Biddy and Fred . . . the novelty will never wear off for us.”

  After a few days in Ballygrace, Tara wished she had suggested to Frank that they meet in Galway for a day or even overnight. But it was too late, because she hadn’t thought of asking him for a phone number where he could be contacted. Instead, she contented herself with small forgotten pleasures like feeding the ducks and chickens, gathering gooseberries and strawberries, for Kitty to make into delicious pies and flans, and long walks along the country lanes she had known as a child.

  She preferred this to walking along the streets of Ballygrace, where she felt so exposed and self-conscious. Where she was under scrutiny from the top of her curly auburn head, to the tip of her expensive, Italian shoes. In each and every shop a silence fell when Tara and her aunt entered. Then, the shop assistant would either become all officious, or else they would be over-friendly, determined to glean every ounce of information that they could pass on later. Tara, after several years of privacy in England, found it very difficult.

  “Pay no heed,” Kitty advised, aware of her niece’s discomfort. “They do that to everyone who comes home on holiday. They mean no harm. By this time next week, they’ll be talking about somebody else. They have little to entertain themselves here.”

  When they called in at the bakery where Mick worked – and where Tara had helped at the weekends with the accounts – she suddenly remembered the other side of the people from Ballygrace. The owner of the bakery, who had been grateful for Tara’s help in sorting out his unruly accounts books, came round the side of the counter full of smiles and hugs.

  “Aren’t you the sight for sore eyes?” the elderly man said warmly. “Look at you, Tara Flynn! An’ the fine lady you’ve turned out to be. Yer poor oul’ granda would have been proud of you! What’s all this I’m hearin’ about you buyin’ a grand big house over in England? An’ how’s little Biddy doin’?”

  After that warm welcome, Tara suddenly relaxed, realising that many of the locals were delighted to see her home, and interested in how she had fared ‘across the water’. Sometimes, she scolded herself, she was inclined to look at things in a black and white way. People were only people, in Ireland or in England, after all.

  Quite a few asked after Biddy, and when Tara ascertained that the interest was genuine, she was happy to pass on the fact that Biddy was well and planning to get married. Only two women gossiping outside the Post Office had dared make any reference to Biddy’s baby. One, goaded by the other, had asked if Tara could settle an argument. Was it true that Biddy Hart had taken the child over to England with her – or had she in fact, had it adopted? On that particular occasion, Tara had delivered the coldest, most withering look she could muster, and without a word had turned on her heel.

  Father Daly dropped down to the house one evening, hearing that Tara was back home. Instinctively, she felt there was an ulterior motive to his visit. He started off jovial and interested in all her news, expressing his approval about the fact she was now, what he described as ‘a woman of means’. Then, he went on to ask for Biddy. “I believe she got herself engaged last year,” he said gravely.

  “She’s getting married in September,” Tara told him. “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No,” Father Daly replied, “she did not. Is he a suitable match for her? Is he a practising Catholic?”

  Tara said, yes, that in her opinion, Fred was an ideal match for Biddy. He was a kindly big man, who worshipped the ground Biddy walked on. As for him being a practising Catholic, Tara said as far as she knew, he was. She then went on to say how highly the management in the Grosvenor thought of Biddy, and how they were giving her a room free for the wedding reception, and a half-price wedding meal.

  The priest had listened, brow wrinkled and balding head to the side, and then asked Tara if there was some writing paper and an envelope in the house. He quickly scribbled a note, and then asked Tara if she would hand-deliver a letter to Biddy. Apparently, he had written to her several times in the past year without a reply. She must have got at least one of the letters. The post to England, presumably, couldn’t be that bad. The priest also told Tara that Lizzie Lawless hadn’t been too great lately and it would be nice if Biddy spared a minute to drop a ‘Get Well’ card to her old foster-mother.

  Tara took the letter from him, and bit her tongue about commenting on Lizzie Lawless.

  “So, the wedding is the first weekend in September,” the priest mused. “I must write that in my diary
.”

  As she saw the priest out to the door, Tara suddenly realised that he had only come for news of Biddy. Well, if Biddy wasn’t interested in replying to Father Daly’s letters over a year, she couldn’t fathom out why he would keep on writing to her.

  As though sensing her thoughts, he suddenly changed the conversation to Tara again. “There’s few would have expected you to have come up so far in the world,” he said condescendingly, “given your disadvantaged background.”

  Tara was incensed. “Whatever you might think about my family being poor,” she snapped, “I take exception to you describing my upbringing as ‘disadvantaged’!”

  “Tara . . .” the priest said in shock, “there was no harm intended . . .”

  “My grandfather taught me to read before I went to school,” she said, ignoring his protestations, “and I had more books given to me, and more time spent on me, than any child in Ballygrace. I would hardly call that disadvantaged, would you?”

  The priest lifted his hat from the hook on the door. “You’re obviously in need of your holiday,” he said. “Running a business in England must be very stressful indeed.”

  Mick dropped Tara over to Tullamore on the Friday, and she visited Tessie and the two old aunties. Tara was delighted to see her stepmother looking better than she had for years, in a fashionable skirt and jumper, and her hair newly set. Tessie told Tara how going to England had been the makings of Shay. Oh, he was a different man altogether, and as far as Tessie was concerned, she hoped the situation would continue until she had all the children off her hands. The two eldest were both in good factory jobs, and please God, Assumpta would follow them next year.

  Tara said, in all truthfulness, that both Shay and herself were so busy working, that their paths only crossed on rare occasions. She agreed with her stepmother that he had certainly improved himself, and was glad he had kept his word about looking after his family financially.