The buffet reception after the ceremony was held in the great hall of the seminary. Father Joe now an ordained priest, looked serene and calm as he moved around, chatting with members of his family, the Bishop and priests, and the young men with whom he had spent his years of training.
When they had finished eating, Tara, dressed in her new velvet suit and hat, watched as Joe guided his old aunties, to have a photograph taken with him and the Bishop. This last, unexpected gesture, was the icing on the cake.
“Well,” Shay announced, as they travelled back down on the evening train to Tullamore, “at least we all passed oursel’s. We mightn’t be gentry, and we mightn’t be a lot of things – but nobody can point a finger and say we let Joe Flynn down. As far as I’m concerned, we conducted oursel’s wi’ the greatest of eloquence.”
“Father Joe,” Molly corrected him, still snivelling into a hanky. “Father Joseph Flynn. From now on, we must remember to give him his proper title.”
The celebrations at the seminary in Dublin were only the start. Each day, visitors called both into the aunties’ house in Tullamore and Mick and Kitty’s cottage, offering their congratulations and handing in cards and small presents. Much the same sort of ritual as would be accorded for a wedding – except there was no bride. It went on right through until the following Saturday, with Mick proudly ferrying Tara and Kitty to and from Tullamore in his new Ford car.
“Not in the same league as yer friend, Frank’s, car,” Mick had commented, “but it’s one of the first in Ballygrace. Not bad for the likes of us.”
“It’s wonderful,” Tara said, smoothing the leather upholstery, but she said nothing about Frank. They had accepted her letter of explanation shortly after they parted. She had played things down, and kept it simple. Her aunt and uncle would only be horrified to know how he had deceived her. Like the business with William Fitzgerald – some things were better left unsaid.
At twelve o’clock on the Sunday – a glorious autumn day, fitting for the occasion – Joe said his first Mass in his home parish. This, as far as the family was concerned, was the really big occasion. This was when people of any importance in the town would be there to witness the Flynn’s finest moment. Never again would they just be an ordinary family in the town. Father Joseph Flynn had lifted them onto a different plane.
Tears flowed from friends and family alike as this dark-haired young man, whom they had all watched grow up, now stood on the altar, a priest of God. Invitations had been issued to another buffet in the church hall, where the town celebrated their latest offering to the secular life. After this, the family all congregated back in the old aunties’ for more tea, sandwiches and sweetcakes, and a modest sherry or whisky for those who indulged. Tara and Joe’s piano-playing kept everyone in high spirits, as they played request after request of the old Irish favourites.
This special day was the aunties’ ‘swansong’, as their entertaining days were nearing a close. Both of them were riddled with arthritis and suffered from failing eyesight. There were now cobwebs in corners of the fusty sitting-room, which would never have escaped them before, and cake crumbs and turf dust on the carpets – too small to be detected by their dim eyes.
Mick had driven Tessie and Tara out to Tullamore on Saturday afternoon, on the pretext of bringing extra delph and glasses, and they had given the whole house what the local women would call ‘a good going over’. Carpets were brushed, cups were scoured clean of brown tea-stains, and smears polished off glasses. A few hours’ work, and Molly and Maggie’s house was like a new pin, as befitted the home-place of a newly ordained priest.
Later that night, the Flynn family, the parish priest and close friends were out in force again, dining in style in a hotel in Tullamore. Although the two old women had saved for years towards the celebratory receptions and meal, Tara and Shay had insisted on paying a third of the cost each. Shay still had little money to spare, but nowadays had a lot more pride. He had never done much for Joe over the years, and he was determined to do this one thing properly.
Although he mightn’t be ‘Quality’, Shay had remarked more than once, Father Joseph Flynn had not been made little of.
* * *
Tara woke out of a disturbing dream around six o’clock on Monday morning. She looked dazedly around her old bedroom for a few moments, and then she remembered. She had been dreaming about Joe’s ordination. It was hardly surprising, since the whole week in Ireland had been devoted to the religious ceremony. But in her dream all the celebrations had taken place in Ballygrace House.
She lay for a while, trying to go back to sleep. When that was impossible, she then tried to divert her thoughts on to other things, but however hard she tried, fragments of the dream kept floating back into her mind. Eventually, she decided to get up and make a cup of coffee. The kettle was just coming to the boil on the shiny, modern white cooker, when Kitty came tiptoeing out of her bedroom. “I thought I heard you,” she whispered, going over to get the tea-caddy and another mug from the shelf. “I’ve been wide awake for a while, too.”
They both sat down at the kitchen table, with their drinks and a slice of brown soda bread.
“Are you all right?” Kitty asked. “You don’t seem so bright this morning.”
“Actually,” Tara confessed, “I had a silly dream . . . one of those dreams that you can’t get out of your head.”
“What was it about?”
“Ballygrace House . . . and Madeleine.” Tara halted, unwilling to bring any more of the dream back to life.
Kitty pulled her dressing-gown tighter around her chest. “I often get dreams like that,” she said thoughtfully, “about the past.” Her face suddenly brightened up. “You still haven’t looked at the box that the Fitzgerald lad left for you. Will I get it now?”
Tara paused for a moment. “I suppose I might as well get it over with.”
Kitty put her hand on the brown-paper-wrapped parcel in seconds. She had kept it in the bottom part of the dresser, so that it could be retrieved easily the next time Tara had come home. “I wonder how long it will take for Ballygrace House to sell?” Kitty commented, as she put the small square parcel on the table. “It’s a fine big house, to be sure – but how many people would have the money to buy it around these parts?”
Tara opened the package carefully, aware that Gabriel Fitzgerald’s hands had wrapped it and then tied the string into a small tight bow. She caught her breath, even before she saw the contents of the beautiful jewellery box she had just uncovered. It made the little wooden box, that Biddy had once given Tara for her birthday, look plain and tawdry by comparison.
Madeleine’s jewellery box was heavy silver, the top inlaid with a delicate mother-of-pearl design, based on the Book of Kells. The box alone was a treasured gift, and yet Tara could feel by the weight that it contained several items.
She unwrapped the tissue paper. For several moments she stared down at the cameo brooch she had given her friend for her eighteenth birthday. Then she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the cry of sorrow. Sorrow for the beautiful, blonde girl, who was no more.
With her aunt’s comforting hand on her shoulder, Tara gathered herself together, and opened three more tissue-wrapped packages.
“They’re beautiful,” Kitty gasped, as Tara held up the cameo earrings, “and a perfect match for the brooch.”
“Gabriel bought them for Madeleine,” Tara said quietly. Then, she opened the last two packages, as a mesmerised Kitty looked on. The long thin box contained a double string of pearls, flanked by tear-drop pearl earrings. The small square box held Madeleine’s expensive gold watch, with the ruby and diamond face, that Elisha and William Fitzgerald had presented to their sad and disturbed daughter on her eighteenth birthday.
Tara stared down at the small display of jewellery on her granda’s old pine kitchen table, almost bleached white with Kitty’s hard scrubbing. Then slowly – very slowly – her folded arms le
ant on the table, and her glorious mane of russet hair came to rest on top. Then, with Kitty’s arms around her, she wept and wept – for all the things that were gone.
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t want Mick to bring you into Tullamore in the car?” Kitty asked anxiously later that morning, as Tara dusted down her old bicycle.
“Not at all. It’s a lovely day, and it will do me good to get a bit of exercise.” She smiled warmly at her aunt. “Sure, all I’ve done is eat and drink the whole week.”
Tara had forgotten how lovely it felt to have the breeze rustle on her face and neck as she cycled slowly along. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning and she was in no hurry on the last day of her holiday. Occasionally she dismounted from the bike, to stop and stare at cows and horses, or a familiar field or cottage which she remembered from long ago.
She waved to farmers passing on tractors, the odd car, and several asses and carts. Her cream lambswool twinset and Donegal tweed trousers set off the brown cameo brooch perfectly. A simple piece of cream lace held back her untameable curls, revealing the cameo earrings.
She had originally planned to pick up a few things from the shops for Biddy and Kate, but on arrival in Tullamore, she found herself leaning the bike on the wall outside Fitzgerald’s Auctioneers. The main board mounted in the middle of the window showed an imposing view of Ballygrace House, surrounded by several interior shots. Printed cards accompanied the photographs, giving the dimensions and descriptions of each room and drawing attention to particular outstanding points.
Later, Tara described it to herself as a sort of madness. She could find no other excuse for her sudden, impulsive behaviour. Without a moment’s hesitation, she walked into William Fitzgerald’s office where she had once worked, and asked the strange girl behind the desk for a brochure of Ballygrace House.
“Are you seriously interested in it?” the girl asked, handing her the details.
Tara looked at the asking price on the back page and took a deep breath. “I might be.” Ballygrace House was worth more than the two houses she owned in Stockport put together. But not a huge amount more. She had forgotten the considerable price difference between Britain and Ireland. If really pushed – thanks to Frank Kennedy’s tutoring – Tara knew she could find a way of affording the house.
Of course, she had no intentions of doing so.
“I could have someone there to show you round the house.” The girl looked at her diary. “Three o’clock? Mr Costelloe is on his way out from Edenderry around then. I can ring him, and ask him to meet you out at the house.”
Tara’s head started to reel at the thought.
Could she step over the threshold of that beautiful, but disturbing place again? Would the ghosts of Ballygrace House be there . . . waiting for her? The tragic Madeleine . . . William Fitzgerald . . . or the dreadful Rosie Scully?
It would be her last chance, ever, to find out. Her last chance to lay those ghosts, once and for all. Tara looked down at Madeleine’s watch. She could have her shopping quickly done, and be back out in Kitty’s for two o’clock. “I’ll be outside Ballygrace House,” she said firmly, “at three o’clock.”
The girl opened the appointments diary. “Your name, madam?”
“Flynn – Miss Tara Flynn.”
* * *
After a quick lunch, Tara asked Mick if he would take her for a short drive. He beamed and said he would be only too delighted to drive her anywhere she liked. He had planned on driving the three of them over to Tullamore that evening, for Tara say goodbye to her father and his family, and the old aunties. And tomorrow, he was due to drive to Dublin for the first time, to drop Tara off at the airport.
Slowly but surely, Mick was expanding his repertoire of routes around the country.
“It’s not far,” Tara told him, “but cycling would ruin my outfit.”
“Where exactly,” Mick enquired, “would you be thinking of going?” He had a rag in his hand, to give the car another quick polish.
Tara turned towards her bedroom door. “Ballygrace House,” she said in a firm voice. “I’m going to have a last look at it, before it’s sold.”
At her request, Mick left her off about a hundred yards from the driveway, around ten to three. “Four o’clock should give me plenty of time,” she told him. “If you don’t mind coming back then.”
“Whatever you say, me girl,” he smiled warmly, “whatever you say.”
* * *
It had been more madness that had made Tara change into her brown velvet Harrods outfit, her hair tucked under the low-brimmed hat. She saw the incredulous look on Kitty’s face as she came out of the bedroom, wearing an ensemble that cost a fortune – and her only going to look at an old house.
But Tara was wearing the outfit as a soldier would wear a suit of armour. She would meet all those old ghosts as the equal she now was. All the clothes she had brought with her spoke of quality and money. Even the casual trousers she had changed out of would have been perfectly suitable for a meeting with an auctioneer. Years of experience in the estate agents’ in England left her with no doubts as to how she presented to others. She came across exactly as she was – an educated, cultured young woman of considerable means.
Tara walked up the driveway of Ballygrace House, determined to see the place fresh, with her practised estate agent’s eye. The grass verges were overgrown on both sides, and moss and weeds now covered the path. The ivy on the stone walls was struggling valiantly with the climbing .
As Tara rounded the bend and the front of the house came into view, it was apparent to her that no gardener’s hands had touched the place for a long time. The rhododendrons were overgrown and now fought for space with indeterminable bushes. As she grew nearer, Tara was shocked to see the same neglect evident on the house itself. The grand, imposing building was now weather-beaten, its wooden door and window-ledges scorched and cracked. The painted steps which Mrs Scully had brushed and scrubbed daily were now down to the bare stone, and edged with moss.
All life and love had long departed from Ballygrace House.
The noise of an engine coming up the drive, heralded the prompt arrival of John Costelloe. Tara pulled the brim of her hat further down on her brow, in an effort to shield her eyes. Whatever her private feelings about the house, she would make sure that he only saw her as a prospective buyer.
John Costelloe struck her as handsome in an obvious way. Dark wavy hair and perfect white teeth. A similar type to Frank Kennedy. Instinctively, Tara was on her guard, but he was courteous and businesslike. After introducing himself, he opened the heavy front door of Ballygrace House – and started to show her around the house.
“If you have no objections,” she said, “I would like a few minutes to look around on my own.”
For a moment he looked flustered, not used to dealing with such an assertive woman. It was normally men who dealt in property matters. “No . . . that would be perfectly fine. I’ll just wander around outside in the garden.” He paused. “I’ll be in and out, if you want to check any details.”
Immediately, Tara noticed that the bulk of the furniture was gone – presumably, shipped over to Elisha Fitzgerald’s house in England. Some of it, perhaps, to Gabriel and his wife’s home. The remaining furniture was covered in dust-sheets, including the grand piano. Surely, she thought, Elisha or Gabriel would want the piano? Surely, they would not leave such a beautiful instrument?
Tara threw the white cover back and lifted the piano lid. She pressed a few keys. The tone was duller than she remembered. It obviously needed tuning, and was perhaps a bit damp. She pulled the stool out and sat down.
John Costelloe suddenly halted in his tracks, as he descended the front steps. For a moment he thought he was imagining things – then he realised that the beautiful music was coming from inside Ballygrace House. He moved down another step, then leaned across the wall to cautiously look in through the drawin
g-room window. There, seated at the piano, was the elegant woman in the brown velvet coat and hat. Her whole body swayed in time as she played a beautiful, haunting melody. When the piece ended, she paused for a brief moment, then she started on another. This one he recognised immediately – ‘Moonlight Sonata’.
John stood mesmerised until she had finished. Then, she startled him further, when she slowly leaned forward on the stool, and pressed her hands and head onto the dark wood. She remained like that for a few moments, then she abruptly rose, closed the lid, and pulled the dust-sheet down over the piano.
Later, as they walked through Rosie Scully’s kitchen, Tara checked as to whether the brochure price was negotiable or not. That all depended, the auctioneer said, on Mr Gabriel Fitzgerald. Did she realise, he wondered, that Mr Fitzgerald was also the owner of the auctioneer’s business, and John Costelloe’s boss? He spent little time in Ireland these days, and even less in Tullamore. The best kind of boss to have, the young man joked.
Tara nodded and gave a faint smile, but said nothing. She walked across to the window, and looked out into the overgrown wilderness, that once had been a vegetable garden.
Eventually, after she had checked both upstairs and downstairs, the garden and the outhouses, Tara steeled herself and started to ascend the staircase once again. There was one room upstairs that she had not been in. As she got nearer to the landing, her feet grew heavier – but she kept going.
This room was the main reason she had come to Ballygrace House today.
Tara hovered uncertainly outside the room for several minutes – unaware that John Costelloe was watching her every move from downstairs. Her palm was sweating, and her arm shook visibly as she reached for the door handle. Then she turned it, and stepped inside.
Tara held her breath for a few moments – then she gave the greatest sigh of relief. The bedroom was completely empty. Gone were the green curtains – daylight streamed in through the dusty window. And gone was the green satin bedding, the carpets, and all the furniture.
Tara Flynn Page 56
