Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “I’m sure you’ve been the making of him stayin’ on the straight an’ narrow,” Tessie whispered, as she saw Tara off on the doorstep. “He’s so proud of you, that he doesn’t want to let you down.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything to do with me at all,” Tara said hastily. “I think he can take the credit alone for that.” Then, she hurried off just in case Tessie happened to ask any probing questions regarding Shay’s accommodation, or worse still – how his landlady was treating him.

  Molly and Maggie had failed a lot since Tara had last seen them, both now very wrinkled and bent over. The little musty house was still a shrine of holy pictures and statues, and their main topic of conversation was still Joe and the seminary. It wouldn’t be long now, with the help of God and his Blessed Mother – the stooped old ladies told Tara – until Joe’s ordination. They said, with shining eyes, that they both hoped and prayed that she would make it over for her brother’s glorious occasion.

  “Nothing,” Tara assured them, “will make me miss Joe’s ordination.”

  After tea with Molly and Mary, Tara played a few of their favourite tunes on the old piano, and then she walked up to the shops in Tullamore for a breath of fresh air. She bought a tin of chocolate biscuits for the aunties and another one for Kitty. Then, she bought a nice Galway Lace tablecloth and napkins to take back to Ruby, and a lovely bedspread for Biddy’s bottom drawer.

  On her way back to the aunties’ house, on impulse, Tara turned down Church Street. She paused for a few moments on the opposite side of the street from Fitzgerald’s Auctioneers. Surprisingly, the office looked exactly the same as the last day she worked in it. Although perhaps, she thought, it might have had a fresh coat of paint.

  She crossed the street, and then gave a cautious glance through the window, wondering if Patricia McManus was still there. Then, as she caught sight of a heavy, dark-haired woman, she suddenly remembered that Patricia had planned to retire the autumn that Tara had left. Disappointed, she turned away. She had only gone a few steps, when she heard the office door open, and then a woman’s voice call out to her.

  “Can I help you?” It was the dark-haired woman Tara had seen through the window.

  “No . . . thank you,” Tara stammered, her face flushing. “I was just passing . . .”

  “You’re welcome to come in and have a look around,” the woman said. “We’ve some new brochures that have just arrived.”

  Tara decided it was easier to explain. “I used to work in the office,” she said, “and I wondered if Patricia . . . Patricia McManus was still there . . . and then I remembered she was probably retired.”

  The woman smiled and nodded. “Yes, I took over her position. I see her at Mass most Sundays. I could tell her you were asking for her. What name should I say?”

  “Tara – Tara Flynn.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows slightly and nodded. “Tara Flynn,” she repeated. “I’ll make sure I remember that.”

  Tara couldn’t tell if the name meant anything to the woman or not. “So Mrs Fitzgerald kept the business on after her husband died?”

  “Yes, she kept on all the businesses, although her son is in charge now. He has managers running all the offices.”

  “Really?” Tara was shocked to feel her pulse quickening at the mention of Gabriel. “I was very good friends with his sister, Madeleine. In fact, we worked together in this office for a time.” She paused. “Is – is Gabriel in Tullamore often?”

  “Occasionally,” the woman told her. “He was down a fortnight ago. He comes to check how business is going and to air the big house. It’s a pity to see such a lovely place all closed up, but of course he has no need of it.” She shrugged. “You’d think Gabriel would sell it, because he spends most of his time in Dublin or London these days.”

  “London?” Tara was taken aback.

  “Oh, yes,” the secretary confirmed. “He’s engaged to an English girl. I hear he’s to be married in the spring.”

  Tara turned away. He hadn’t even left a memento of Madeleine’s for her.

  *  *  *

  “You’re very quiet, Tara,” Frank said, as they drove out towards Dun Laoghaire on Monday afternoon. “Did everything go all right?”

  Tara pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “Sorry . . . I was just thinking. Yes – everything went fine.”

  “Did you do anything exciting?”

  “Not really. I visited relatives and went for long walks.” She smiled. “And I ate too much of Kitty’s lovely cooking.”

  “Did you give any more thought to buying the other semi?”

  “I’ve decided to have a word with Mr Benson in the building society this week,” she replied. “So far, his advice has been good.”

  “You should just go for it,” Frank told her. “You couldn’t get anything better than the house next door. It will let you keep an eye on everything. Whoever you decide on running it will be right under your nose, so there’s less likelihood of you being ripped off. And,” he pointed out, “you won’t have any neighbours causing you problems.” He gave an impatient little sigh. “You’re mad if you don’t move quickly, Tara. You’ll lose any advantage you have, because it’ll be snapped up fast.” Through a builder friend, Frank had found out that the other half of Tara’s red-brick semi was due to go on the market next week.

  The sun came out from behind a cloud and Tara put her sunglasses back over her eyes. She still wasn’t sure about this latest idea of Frank’s, and she wanted more time to think. “I’ll see what Mr Benson has to say.”

  “You can easily afford it,” Frank persisted. “You won’t have any trouble finding boarders and the rent will easily pay the increased mortgage. You were worried sick when you took out the first mortgage and you’ve had no problems there. In fact,” he pointed a finger, emphasising his words, “you’ll be able to pack up the weekend job, and teaching the piano.”

  “But I enjoy my teaching,” Tara said, “and the money from that and the hotel lets me save, instead of having every penny swallowed by the mortgage.”

  “Let’s change the subject,” Frank suggested. “See what Mr Benson has to say, if it makes you feel better.”

  They chatted lightly for a while, Frank about his parents who seemed to get frailer every time he went home, and Tara elaborating further on how she had passed her time. They both carefully avoided any more discussion about buying the house. She told him everything, apart from her visit to the office and her walk out to Ballygrace House on the Sunday afternoon. What was there to say? That there was something about the big old house which drew her back there, seemed to beckon her, as though a small part of herself still belonged there.

  Frank knew little about her involvement with the Fitzgeralds and there was no point digging over old ground now. Besides, even thinking about the sad-looking house, with its overgrown garden and shuttered windows brought a pain to the middle of her forehead. Talking about it would only make it worse.

  They arrived in plenty of time to check in, only to find that the boat was delayed. There was a queue of cars in front of them waiting to board.

  “I’ll have to stay with the car,” Frank said, craning his neck to calculate how many cars were in front of them, “but you can take the chance, if you want to stretch your legs.”

  Quite a few passengers had the same idea. Tara strolled by the sea wall, away from the noisy lorries and cars. She walked until Frank’s car was a black dot and the loudest noise she could hear came from the seagulls. After a short while, Tara found a newsagent’s shop, and she went in and bought newspapers, a magazine, two bottles of lemonade and some chocolate. Afraid she would have trouble finding the car if the queue started to move, she walked back at a quicker pace to the rows of vehicles.

  “Good girl,” Frank said, opening the newspaper she had bought for him. He gave her a flirtatious wink. “What would I do without you?”

  Tara laughed. “Exactly what you did before
you met me.”

  The wait to get on the ferry seemed interminable. Officials in dark uniforms and stiff hats with clipboards walked up and down the queue, apparently checking lists. When any of the passengers challenged them about the delay, there always seemed to be someone else further along who could furnish them with all the reasons.

  Tara had another short walk along the seafront, as her legs were starting to cramp from the constant sitting. Her mind flitted from memories of the week in Ballygrace to the semi-detached house she might buy in Stockport. Secretly, she had made up her mind to buy it, but, for a reason she wasn’t quite sure of – she wasn’t going to tell Frank just yet. It just seemed important to her that she made the decision entirely on her own. Although she was grateful to him for all his help, occasionally Tara found herself irritated at the way he took the credit for the success of her boarding house. He had said it so often that at times Tara almost forgot she had thought the idea up all by herself, long before she met Frank Kennedy.

  She turned back towards the queue again, her long red hair streaming out in the breeze behind her, and a hand holding down the billowing skirt of her cream linen dress. From a distance she could see Frank leaning up against the side of the car. He waved when he caught sight of her, a big grin breaking out over his handsome face.

  Tara waved back, suddenly feeling a surge of warmth towards him. She wondered now, as she got nearer to the car, how she could have been so awkward to him about the house business earlier on. There was not a woman in Stockport who would not be glad to step into her shoes, and walk out arm in arm with such a prosperous, attractive man. Maybe, she thought, I’d better meet him halfway, or he might start looking elsewhere.

  Then, just as she was only half a dozen cars away from him, a man suddenly came flying past, knocking Tara into the oily bumper of one of the cars.

  “Frank! Frank!” the man called. “Thank God you’re still here!”

  Tara had barely straightened herself up, and was about to check the damage to her cream dress, when a young boy around ten years old and a slightly older girl came running after the man.

  “Daddy!” the girl screamed hysterically. “Daddy! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  Tara turned her head, and saw the two children hurling themselves against Frank. She walked forward to join them – but the chalk-white appearance of Frank’s face stopped her dead in her tracks. She stood two cars away from the group and watched.

  “It’s Lucy,” she heard the man explain breathlessly. “She had a bad fit after you left . . . the worst one she’s ever had. I brought her and Carmel up to the hospital. There was no point taking her to Galway – they’d only have sent her by ambulance up to Dublin.”

  “Daddy! Daddy!” the boy screamed now, climbing up Frank’s legs. “You’ll have to come to the hospital. Lucy and Mammy need you! You can’t go to England now.”

  Tara observed the scene in front of her as though she were watching a film. And just like a film – this was not real. The boy and girl – with Frank’s dark hair and eyes – couldn’t be his children. The man – shorter and stockier than Frank, but with similar features – must be his brother. That’s it, Tara thought. It’s Frank’s brother, and they must be Frank’s nephew and niece.

  But why, she asked her dazed mind, was the boy up in his arms, and crying ‘Daddy’, over and over into his neck? And why was the girl hanging on to his hand, and pleading with him not to go to England?

  Very slowly, Frank’s head turned towards her. In the instant that their eyes met – she knew. She knew from the pit of her sinking stomach, that these children were Frank Kennedy’s and that the Carmel the man had referred to – was Frank Kennedy’s wife.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Tara stood in a remote corner of the ship’s deck, oblivious to the strong breeze that lifted and tossed her Titian hair. Her green eyes, concealed behind the sunglasses, stared out over the Irish sea. She took a deep shuddering breath. Nothing could wipe out the memory of what had happened back in Dun Laoghaire – when she discovered that their whole relationship was built on lies and deceit. When the man she had grown to love was revealed as a complete stranger in front of her very eyes.

  She kept replaying fragments of their short, terse conversation, over and over again. In the end, there had really been nothing to say. The family scenario which had unfolded before her told her everything she needed to know. If that had not been obvious enough for her, the shocked look on Frank’s brother’s face when he realised they were travelling together, removed any doubt.

  Tara had retrieved her things from Frank Kennedy’s car quietly and with no fuss. A scene was not appropriate, nor was it her style. From the stammered explanations he had attempted, Tara understood that Frank had a very sick daughter – some kind of brain tumour. The deterioration in the child was the only reason he kept returning to Ireland, he had quickly and tearfully explained. The marriage had been over years ago.

  Tara had smiled at the two children, and said she hoped their sister was better soon – and that she would say a prayer for her. She said she knew their daddy from work, and that he had kindly offered her a lift back home to Manchester. She lifted her heavy case and said she would go to the booking office and get a foot-passenger’s ticket to Holyhead.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Frank had stammered, his voice no longer sounding like his own.

  “Perfectly sure,” Tara replied, avoiding his gaze. “I think you have a lot more to worry about than me.” She paused, shifting the case from one hand to another. “If I were you, I should plan to spend a lot more time with them in Ireland.”

  “Tara . . . I’ll explain when I get back,” he had said in a low, pleading voice, as she turned away.

  “There’s no need,” Tara replied in an icy tone. “I have all the explanations I need. You would only be wasting your time.”

  She stared out over the greenish-grey water now, grateful for every watery mile the ship put between herself and Dun Laoghaire. Between herself and Frank Kennedy. She knew now that when Frank did eventually return to Stockport there would be a wider chasm between them than all the miles these waters filled. It would be a chasm so wide nothing would ever breach it.

  Tara suddenly spotted the first landmark of Holyhead. Today, she thought, removing her sunglasses, would be like the first day she and Biddy had arrived in England. It would once again be a new start. This time, she had a house behind her, she had several jobs which all brought in money – and she had her wonderful, grand piano. The only good thing left from their relationship.

  Tara knew she was capable of starting all over again. Her life would go on – without Frank Kennedy.

  Her life would go on without any man.

  *  *  *

  “The rotten bastard!” Ruby exclaimed. “A wife an’ a handicapped kid! I always knew there was more to him than meets the eye – didn’t I, Biddy? I always said he was too sweet to be wholesome.”

  Tara had got the taxi from Stockport train station to drop her off at Ruby’s. She wanted to get the business of Frank Kennedy over and done with, and telling Ruby and Biddy was the first step. Talking about it made it seem more real. It made her face up to what had to be done.

  “Oh, Tara, I’m really sorry for you,” Biddy said, her eyes filling up with tears. “I was expectin’ you to say you’d got engaged or somethin’ . . . but I never expected you to tell me that Frank was a married man.” She paused. “I can’t believe it – he doesn’t even look married.”

  “That’s men for you, love,” Ruby said, putting a cup of tea in front of Tara. “They never look like they’re supposed to. I’ve had that happen to me more than once.”

  There was silence for a moment – while everyone thought of Shay – but nobody actually said anything.

  “You’ll manage, love,” Ruby told her. “You’re like me – a survivor. You’ll manage without Frank Kennedy. The bastard! You’ll go on to big
ger and better things.” She took a sip of her tea. “At least you’re not walkin’ away empty-handed. Thank God you got the piano out of him first!”

  *  *  *

  Ruby was due to go into hospital two weeks before Biddy’s wedding. A biopsy on both breasts had showed up what the doctor described as ‘something sinister’. An operation was now necessary to show up the full extent of the problem.

  “I knew I should never have gone near the bloody doctor!” Ruby told Biddy the morning she was due in. She plunged the breakfast plates into the hot soapy water in the sink. “Once they get their hands on you – you’ve had it.” Her voice rose an octave higher, as she viciously attacked a scrambled-egg pot with a scouring pad. “Once they cut you open – you’re a goner! I should never have let them bloody near me.”

  Biddy’s face was deathly white. “You’ll be fine,” she said comfortingly, although inside she felt more hysterical than Ruby. She twisted a strand of her black hair nervously between her fingers. “Once you’ve had yer operation you’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll not be bloody fine!” Ruby snapped. “How will I be fine when I’m in hospital an’ you’re gettin’ married?”

  “You’ll be out in plenty of time,” Biddy reassured her. “The wedding’s not for two weeks.”

  “What about this place?” Ruby said, waving her hands around. “You shouldn’t be doin’ all this. You shouldn’t be usin’ up holidays from the hotel to run this place, while I’m in the bleedin’ hospital.”

  “I don’t mind,” Biddy said. “I like cookin’ for the lads.”

  Ruby dried her hands on a tea-towel, then came to sit at the table. “What about Shay?” she said, her voice suddenly quiet. “How’s he goin’ to take all this?” Her shoulders slumped.

  “Never mind Shay – it’s yerself that’s more important.”