Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “How’s he goin’ to feel about me if they chop off me breasts?”

  “They won’t,” Biddy stated, feeling sweat breaking out on her brow at the thought. “They won’t do anything like that.”

  “An’ you’ve that priest comin’ next week, that Father Daly,” Ruby rattled on. “You said he wanted you to go to that convent in Derbyshire again, for the –”

  “The retreat,” Biddy finished for her. “A retreat for women who are gettin’ married.” A nauseous feeling came up into Biddy’s throat.

  “How will you manage? How can you plan yer weddin’ and go to Derbyshire if you’re runnin’ this bloody place?”

  “I don’t want to go with him . . . it’ll be a good excuse.”

  “I don’t know what’s goin’ to happen next,” Ruby whispered. “I feel as though everythin’s fallin’ apart.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Two days later, a car drew up outside Tara’s house. She knew it was Frank before she opened the door. He followed her into the dark hallway and, without a word being spoken, followed her into the dining-room. Tara walked over to the bay window, and stood beside the piano with her back to him. Her red hair was drawn back from her face in an elegant knot, and her posture was straight and unyielding.

  “Tara,” he started, “will you listen to me while I explain?”

  “Please do,” she replied, her tone icy and clipped. “I’m sure I shall find it all very interesting.”

  And she did listen. For nearly a whole hour she listened as he poured out his heart and his life. She standing like a statue with her back to him, and Frank sitting on one of the dark wood chairs he had pulled out from under the dining-table.

  Tara listened to a story of an unhappy marriage to a local girl, which was forced upon them, when they were only seventeen. How even before the first child Lucy was born, he knew deep down that things would never work out. But he kept trying. Frank was hard-working and ambitious. Carmel, though outwardly a vivacious redhead, was at heart a homebody. A girl whose only ambition was to have a nice house in the same village as her brothers and sisters, so all her classmates could see how well she and Frank had done. Within five years they had the nice house, and another daughter, Sarah, on the way. By this time, Frank had started working in England. The big jobs and the big money were all to be had in England.

  The plan was that Carmel would join Frank in England, after Sarah was born. He had now gone into the contracting side of the building trade, and as his reputation grew, work came in fast and furious. He found them a lovely, four-bedroomed, detached house in Edgeley in Stockport, and then waited until Carmel was ready to join him.

  He was still waiting.

  He travelled backwards and forwards on the boat and then when he could afford it, he travelled by plane. Carmel came for a couple of holidays, and hated it. She was overwhelmed by the crowds, by the traffic – and by Stockport in general. It didn’t matter that the house was bigger and better than any house in the village in County Clare. Who was going to see it if it was over in England? By the time Declan was born, they both knew she would never move to England.

  Tara knew the rest of the story about the growth of Kennedy’s contracting business, so he didn’t elaborate any further on that. He explained how he and Carmel had spoken about their situation at length, and how they had agreed to live separate lives for ninety per cent of the year. For the sake of both their children, both their families – and the Catholic Church – they would act as a normal married couple when he came home. Given the difficulties about obtaining a divorce and the fact that neither of them were planning to re-marry, it was the easiest option.

  He then went on to painfully explain about his daughter’s Lucy’s illness. The tumour had been discovered shortly after he had met Tara. That was the reason for his unexpected return to Ireland last Christmas and the subsequent frequent visits. An operation had removed the tumour, but Lucy now suffered from severe epileptic seizures. The hospital expected her to gradually get better – but it was a long, painful process, and both wife and daughter needed all his support.

  Frank thrust his fingers through his dark hair, then looked up at Tara for the first time since he had started the story. She still had her ramrod straight back to him.

  “I want you to know, “ he said now, “that you’re the only woman I’ve ever truly loved in my life.”

  Very slowly she turned to face him. She was crying. She faced him quietly and with great dignity, but she was crying all the same.

  There was a huge, empty silence.

  Frank ran a nervous finger round the collar of his white shirt. Every inch of him ached to cross the room and pull her into his arms. But he knew he dare not. He squared his shoulders – awaiting what was to come.

  “It’s over, Frank,” she finally said. “It’s finished.”

  He stood up. “I’ll get a divorce – I promise you.”

  Tara shook her head. “No . . . it could never work. You have a wife and children.” She thought of adding ‘You obviously have a penchant for red-haired women’, but decided that the petty comment was beneath her and belittled the situation.

  Frank’s throat suddenly felt dry. He swallowed hard. “I should have told you when we first met . . . but I was afraid to . . . I was afraid I’d lose you.”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference when you told me. A married man is out of bounds.” She ran her hand over the cool ebony top of the piano. “We’ve had some good times, and I’m grateful for them – but you deceived me.” Tara’s green eyes narrowed until they were hard emerald slits. “You’ve deceived me in the most awful, despicable way . . . and I could never, ever, trust you again.”

  Then, her head held high, and arms folded across her chest, she marched past him to the door. “There’s nothing more to say, Frank.” She held it wide open for him to pass through. “Please go.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Ruby’s cancer was advanced in both breasts and had moved into her lymph nodes. As she lay in intensive care after undergoing a double radical mastectomy, her GP, Doctor Phillips shook his head in dismay. How could an intelligent, attractive woman ignore such obvious signs for months?

  When she had come to his surgery the first time a couple of weeks ago, one glance at her breasts and nipples – particularly the right one – had made his blood run cold. Ruby Sweeney had been apologising for wasting his time, saying she knew it was only a silly little infection, and if he would give her an antibiotic, she would be on her way. He had to insist on having a look at her. She had held on for dear life to first her blouse, and then her bra. But the look in her eyes, when he eventually examined her, told him that Ruby had known there was something seriously wrong for months.

  In the initial stages, fear – not the cancer – had been her biggest enemy.

  Doctor Phillips hoped that they had caught the cancer early enough. Ruby was still under fifty and had always been in good health. With treatment, and the right attitude, she might well make a good recovery.

  *  *  *

  “Are you sure I look okay?” Biddy said, twirling round in the three-quarter length white wedding dress, the Wednesday before her big day. She tugged on the satin material at the hips. “You don’t think it’s a bit loose on me or anythin’? We’ve three more days until the wedding – I still have time to get it taken in.”

  “You look perfect,” Tara told her for the third time in as many minutes. “You look absolutely beautiful. Are you happy with this?” She motioned to the satin bridesmaid’s dress she was wearing. It had three-quarter fitted sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and the dark green colouring contrasted very well with her hair.

  “I’m delighted with it,” Biddy said, “an’ I’m glad we got a bridesmaid dress we both like.” Biddy took her headdress out of the box. It was a half-moon, sparkly, ornate affair. “I’m havin’ my hair set in curls first thing on Saturday mornin’,” she explained. “The lady in
the bridal shop said the head-dress should just sit on top. It has a comb attached, but I can always stick a few hair clips in for safety.”

  “I’ll help you,” Tara offered. “We’ll make sure everything goes like clockwork.” She smiled and stifled a sigh of weariness. She had never felt so tired. It was only nine o’clock in the evening, but she had recently started going to bed very early, due to the busy schedule she had each day.

  Since she and Frank had parted, Tara had filled the void he left with teaching extra piano lessons in the evenings and Saturday mornings. It brought in more money, and it had given her the financial confidence to go to the building society and ask for a bigger mortgage to buy the house next door. She hoped to know in the next few weeks whether or not they would loan her the extra money.

  In the meantime, teaching and playing the piano took up every minute she wasn’t cooking, cleaning, working in the office, or working weekends in the Park Hotel. It was ironic that Frank had bought her the beautiful instrument, and now it had replaced him in her heart. The piano gave her peace, pleasure and escapism – and the piano would never hurt and betray her.

  Biddy sniffed, then went over to her dressingtable in search of a hanky. “I wish,” she said sadly, “that Ruby was here. It’s taken all the good out of the weddin’, her not being here. I wish she was out of hospital an’ everythin’ was back to normal.”

  “It will be . . . soon.”. Then, in an effort to distract Biddy’s mind from her depressing thoughts, Tara lifted her bridesmaid’s headdress and said: “How would you like me to wear my hair? Up or down?” She sat the green headdress on top of her flowing hair.

  “Either way,” Biddy replied. “You’re lucky. Your hair always looks lovely, however you wear it.”

  Things could not have gone worse for Biddy in the week leading up to her wedding. Poor Ruby was going to be in hospital for at least another fortnight. The operation had been very serious, and she had reacted badly to the anaesthetic. Now, when she was just beginning to come round, she had developed a bad chest infection. On no account, the hospital said, was she well enough to go home, far less attend a wedding. The only consolation was the suggestion that Biddy and Fred come to the hospital and have pictures taken with Ruby. The nurse said that with a lacy nightdress, a bit of lipstick and some powder, Ruby would look like her old self.

  Deep down, Biddy knew that her beloved friend and landlady would never be the same again.

  Although Biddy had written to Father Daly saying that she didn’t want him to come to Stockport to perform her wedding ceremony, he had ignored her. Instead, he had phoned the parish priest at Our Lady’s Church in Shaw Heath, and arranged the whole thing behind her back. It was only when she went down to the church to sort out the flowers and the organist, that the parish priest said how nice it was for her to have her own priest from home to conduct the wedding.

  Biddy had however, put Father Daly off the idea of coming over to Stockport last week, saying she had a very sick woman to visit each day, a boarding house to look after, and a wedding to arrange. He had written a nice letter back, saying he would wait until the week of the wedding, and call out with Biddy and Fred’s wedding present to Maple Terrace on the Thursday night. Perhaps, he thought, they might take a last run out to the convent in Derbyshire, before Biddy was a married woman. Her stomach had turned over at the thought, for she knew that the word convent actually implied hotel.

  Biddy had slept very little over the past few weeks. It had all started with worry over Ruby, and then it had gone on to anxiety over the wedding, and wondering if she was doing the right thing by marrying Fred. She still hadn’t told him anything about the baby or Dinny . . . or any of the other things. Biddy was sure Fred loved her, but what man would be prepared to overlook all that? Everything was going wrong, and her growing dread about Father Daly’s visit was now putting the tin hat on it.

  After another night tossing and turning, Biddy woke up early on Thursday morning. The black cloud of depression, which had been her constant companion lately, descended the minute she opened her eyes. And then she remembered. Last night she had made a decision which would settle things one way or the other with Father Daly. But first, she was going to cook breakfast for the lads, and then this afternoon she was going to visit Ruby.

  Biddy was standing outside the women’s surgical ward at five to three. Being a weekday, it was fairly quiet. Most visitors came for the evening visit between seven and eight. At dead on three o’clock, the ward doors were opened by a po-faced nurse in a white starched uniform, allowing the strong antiseptic hospital smell to waft out.

  Walking down the long ward, towards Ruby’s bed, Biddy felt her heartbeat quicken. She could see Ruby lying down in the bed. She quietly pulled out the wooden visitor’s chair, and then sat nervously by the side of the bed, casting anxious glances at the pale sleeping form, dwarfed by the metal-framed bed. Ruby had always been a petite slim woman, but the last few weeks had taken its toll. She was now so thin her tiny bones barely caused a ripple in the bed.

  Biddy’s gaze travelled round the ward, taking in the regimented beds and metal lockers, the tops of which were adorned with ‘Get well’ cards, and vases of assorted flowers. Faded, sickly green curtains, were drawn back tightly on rails at the head of each bed.

  Patients with visitors carried out conversations in low voices, conscious of disturbing their sleeping neighbours or being overheard. Every so often, a loud rasping breathing sounded across the ward, from a curtained-off bed. Apparently, another visitor had whispered to Biddy it was a young woman who had just recently been wheeled back from theatre.

  After a quarter of an hour of the depressing ward, Biddy heaved a sigh of relief as Ruby’s blue eyes flickered open.

  The landlady gave her friend a big smile.“Biddy . . . what’re you doin’ here?” she said, struggling to sit up. “Haven’t you got enough to do without runnin’ up to visit me in the middle of the day?”

  “How’re you feelin?” Biddy asked, her eyes roaming over the landlady’s face for any small signs of improvement.

  “Oh, I’m gettin’ there . . . I’m gettin’ there,” Ruby replied. “I’m like an old workhorse. I think they’ll have to shoot me first.”

  Biddy laughed nervously, and – ignoring her friend’s protests about wasting money – put a bunch of grapes and a bottle of Lucozade on top of her rusting locker. “Ruby . . . can I ask yer advice on somethin?”

  “Course you can, love.” Her brow deepened into a worried ‘v’. “What’s wrong? You’re not havin’ second thoughts about the wedding or owt?”

  Biddy shook her head. “No . . . it’s Father Daly.”

  “That nice Irish priest? Did he come over for the wedding then?”

  “He’s not nice, Ruby. . .” Biddy’s voice suddenly sounded choked. “He’s not nice at all. He’s a terrible man . . . an’ he should never have been a priest.” All of a sudden, the sickly perfume from Ruby’s white and yellow chrysanthemums, and the antiseptic hospital smell mingled together to make her feel dizzy and nauseous.

  Ruby sat straight up in bed, smoothed down the cream cover, and clasped her hands on her lap. It was still an effort to remember not to cross her arms over the painful area which used to be her bust. “I’m waitin’,” she said softly, understanding and compassion written all over her face.

  Biddy moved her chair so that it was angled away from the flowers, and took a deep breath. “The baby,” she started, her eyes downcast, “it wasn’t PJ Murphy’s . . .”

  Ruby clasped her hands together so tightly that the knuckles went white – but she stayed silent.

  “From the age of eleven,” Biddy went on, her breath coming in short, panting bursts, “this man . . . Dinny Martin, a lodger in the house I grew up in . . . he used to touch me.”

  Ruby reached as far behind her as pain would allow, and drew the curtain partway across to give them some privacy.

  A tear slid down Biddy’s burning cheek
. “I liked Dinny . . . I was as much to blame as he was. He used to give me sweets and little presents every time we . . .”

  There was a silence.

  “Did he – did he have proper sex with you?” Ruby asked quietly.

  Biddy nodded, and searched for a hanky in her coat pocket. “Not at first . . . it was when I was older,” she sniffed.

  “An’ this Dinny fella . . . is he the father of your baby?”

  Biddy’s eyes opened wide, and she suddenly looked like a cornered rabbit. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head vigorously. “Dinny’s not the father.”

  “Then,” Ruby asked, her mind a whirl of confusion, “if he’s not the father, an’ PJ what’s-his-name’s not the father . . . who is?” Then, as it suddenly dawned on her, Ruby’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “Don’t tell me . . .” she whispered.

  Biddy closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “If it had been Dinny or PJ I would never have had the child adopted. Sure, I was an orphan meself . . . I wouldn’t have done it to another human being . . . another poor little baby . . . if it hadn’t been for what happened . . .”

  “Look at me, Biddy,” Ruby said urgently. “Look at me . . . and get all this off yer chest. You’ll never know any peace until you tell somebody.”

  Biddy lifted her sad, tortured eyes and looked up into the face of the only mother she had ever known. “It’s Father Daly,” she whispered. “That terrible, evil man – is the child’s father.”

  *  *  *

  For the next half-an-hour, Biddy talked while the sick Ruby held her hand and listened. Not once did the older woman reveal any sign of shock or disgust at the emotional outpourings that she heard. Occasionally, she muttered ‘the bastard!’ and gripped Biddy’s hand tighter, and at one point she stopped her, and hissed: “For Christ’s sake, stop blaming yourself – you were only a bit of a kid. They were two grown men – an’ they should bleedin’ hang for what they done to you!”