by Anne Mather
‘Why, that’s very kind of you,’ began Tamar, pressing her lips together. She glanced at Tim O’Connor. ‘I - I will see you before I leave, Mr. O’Connor.’
‘Sure, you won’t be leaving us yet awhile,’ exclaimed Tim O’Connor sharply. ‘We’ll get you fixed up, one way or another.’
Tamar smiled. ‘Well, we’ll see. Thank you.’
She went outside with Father Donahue, and across the narrow thoroughfare that led down to the small quay where the fishing boats were moored. The salty tang was stronger here, and seabirds wheeled overhead. Tamar glanced up and sighed.
‘I’d forgotten how beautiful it was,’ she said softly, and Father Donahue nodded.
‘There’s beauty in all things, if we look for it,’ he said.
The small priest’s dwelling which adjoined the church was little more than a cottage itself, except that it sported a bathroom and electric light, which not all the cottages possessed. A huge fire burned in the hearth in the living room, and Tamar received a warm welcome from Mrs. Leary, the priest’s housekeeper. Then, over cups of steaming chocolate, Father Donahue obtained by subtle questioning an outline of Tamar’s life in England, and the success she had attained.
‘Tell me,’ said Father Donahue suddenly, ‘why have you come back, Tamar? Seriously.’ He bit his lip. ‘I don’t want to pry you understand, but there were circumstances - after you’d left - that had I been able to see you, to speak with you, I would have discussed with you.’
Tamar rose to her feet and walked to the window to look out on the harbour, with the cliff and Falcon’s Head towering above it. Her eyes were drawn upwards, but she averted her gaze.
‘Circumstances, Father,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light. ‘What circumstances?’
‘Ross Falcon,’ said Father Donahue bluntly.
Tamar stiffened, but she did not turn.
‘What about Ross Falcon?’ she murmured, almost inaudibly.
Father Donahue rose to his feet. ‘You knew him?’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’ she temporized.
‘Ross Falcon is the head of the family, Tamar. Everyone knew that. Everyone knew him as a just man, a man who knew his position in society, what was expected of him. I meant, you knew him - personally, didn’t you?’
Tamar swung round, and as she did so the door to the parlour opened without ceremony, and a man stood on the threshold - tall, and lean, with hard unyielding features, dark-skinned, dark-eyed and dark-haired, as Emma had once described, dressed in dark trousers and a dark car coat, his hair persisting in lying across his forehead despite many attempts to rake it back. His eyes swung round the room to come to rest on Tamar, and then he swore savagely.
‘By God! Kinraven was right!’
Tamar felt the blood draining out of her cheeks. Ross Falcon, of all people. Older than she remembered; of course, he must be nearly forty now, but just as powerful and dynamic and arrogant.
Father Donahue looked disturbed. ‘Ross, what are you doing here?’
Ross Falcon looked derisive. ‘You’re joking, of course. I had to see for myself that it was Tamar Sheridan, and not some filthy hoax.’
Father Donahue wrung his hands together. ‘Well, now you’ve seen her, aren’t you going to say hello?’
Tamar shrank back against the stark hatred in the black eyes that were turned in her direction.
‘What should I say, Father?’ he muttered harshly. ‘You think I should welcome her back? You think perhaps I might be glad to see her?’
Tamar felt frozen. This was worse than anything she had ever imagined.
‘Ross!’ exclaimed Father Donahue imploringly. ‘This is a house of God, a house of love, not hatred!’
Ross Falcon’s eyes turned in the priest’s direction. ‘Yes, Father, so it is. But this village is mine, is it not? Therefore I have the right to - to—’ his expression was harsh and tense, ‘—to inspect its visitors!’ There was contempt in every word he spoke. Then he straightened. ‘But as you say, this is God’s house, and I have no right to violate its sanctuary. Forgive me, Father!’ and without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.
After he had gone, there was a terrible, pregnant silence, and Tamar wished the floor would just open up and swallow her into its depths. She had imagined meeting Ross, she had imagined being coolly polite to him, treating him to a little of the hauteur he was so adept at meting out to others. But never in her wildest dreams had she supposed that he might react in the way he had. He hated her, he actually hated her! But why? What had she done to deserve such contempt? Surely she was the one who ought to have felt the hatred. Yet in his attitude, all her preconceived ideas of him had fallen away. As always, Ross Falcon was unpredictable, as unpredictable as his ancestors, Spaniards who had settled on the west coast years ago when their ship had foundered on the rocks that guarded the coastline.
Father Donahue walked wearily across the room and closed the door with deliberately slow movements. He was giving her time to collect her scattered senses, and she was grateful.
She fumbled in her handbag, found a cigarette, and lit it with trembling fingers. Then she inhaled deeply, and walking across to the fire held out her suddenly chilled hands to its warmth. She finished her chocolate in a gulp, and shivered.
Father Donahue leaned against the door and sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry, Tamar,’ he said, at last.
Tamar swung round. ‘You’re sorry?’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s not your fault. I ought never to have come here. Obviously things are much different from what I imagined.’
The priest came across to the fire and rubbed his hands together. ‘Maybe, maybe,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘The Falcons were ever proud folk.’
Tamar shook her head. ‘He was so bitter!’ she murmured, almost to herself.
‘Yes.’ Father Donahue lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘Ross has much to be bitter about.’
‘Why?’ Tamar stared at him in surprise. ‘Why?’
Father Donahue shook his head. ‘You left here, Tamar. You went of your own accord. You dissociated yourself from our affairs here. Your reasons were your own, I suppose. Yet I can’t help but feel that in spite of your long association with this village, you’re merely here now in a transitory capacity, and it’s not up to me to reveal the personal circumstances of a man I respect and admire.’
Tamar’s cheeks burned. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said dully. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you.’ She compressed her lips, and then Mrs. Leary appeared to announce that lunch was ready.
The meal was served in the tiny dining alcove adjoining the parlour, and although the soup and trout and fresh fruit salad were delicious, Tamar could hardly force anything down. With gulps of water, she managed to swallow a little of the fish and a couple of mouthfuls of the fruit, but she felt her throat was constricted tightly, not allowing any relaxation.
When it was over and they rose from the table, she said:
‘I think perhaps it would be as well if I returned to Limerick tonight.’
Father Donahue shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, my dear child, please. Don’t leave on Ross’s account. I’m convinced he’ll apologize for his actions later—’
‘No!’ exclaimed Tamar swiftly. ‘I doubt that, Father,’ she amended, more calmly. ‘He - he obviously believes that I should not have come here, and quite honestly, I’m inclined to agree with him.’
‘Why did you come, Tamar?’ he asked suddenly. ‘You never did really tell me.’
She shrugged. ‘My reasons are slightly obscure,’ she murmured. ‘There’s a man in London, Ben Hastings, he wants to marry me.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’ Tamar bit her lip. ‘I - I never intended to marry anyone. I don’t love him. I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone any more.’
Father Donahue seized on her words. ‘Any more, Tamar?’
‘Yes. I guess I’m the frigid kind.’
Father Donahue half-smiled. ‘With that hair, I
doubt it!’
Tamar smiled a little sadly herself. ‘Well, anyway, this place haunts me. I have a painting - do you remember it? - an oils, that I did of Falcon’s Head before I left. I guess I wanted to come here before I resigned myself to that other life.’ She sighed. ‘Can you understand that?’
Father Donahue frowned. ‘Are you sure it’s the place that haunts you, Tamar? Or is it Ross Falcon?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Father Donahue stifled an epithet. ‘God forgive me,’ he muttered, ‘of course you do!’ He smote his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Haven’t I just witnessed with my own eyes the reaction you had to him?’
Tamar’s hands were balled into fists. She liked the Father, he was the only man in Falcon’s Wherry with whom she could be completely herself, but even he should not know the depths of desolation she had once suffered over Ross Falcon.
‘You’re wrong, Father,’ she said tautly. ‘My reactions to Ross Falcon were the normal ones of anybody confronted with such arrogant hatred. I don’t know why Ross Falcon hates me, but if he does, then it’s as well that I go away. I have no desire to cause any trouble.’
Father Donahue looked impatient. “Tamar, there was trouble enough seven years ago. All right, go! Run away a second time, but don’t tell me that you’re indifferent towards Ross Falcon because I simply do not believe you.’ He stared angrily at her, roused out of his cool calmness. ‘You may hate him too, for all I know, but that was not indifference I sensed in this room!’
Tamar turned away. ‘You’re mistaken, Father.’
Father Donahue sounded sceptical. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, ‘if that’s so, why are you leaving? Your actions belie your words!’
Tamar twisted her hands together. Of course, Father Donahue was right. If she ran away a second time she would never come back, never discover the real truth of her feelings.
But did she want to know? Wasn’t she secretly afraid of what she might discover? And if she left, she would always be left with the picture of Falcon’s Head to haunt her. Was she such a weak person, hadn’t past experiences taught her anything? Where was the shell she had grown to protect her from just such situations? She was stupid and ineffective, and Father Donahue was right, she was leaving because she was afraid.
She swung round. ‘There’s nowhere for me to stay,’ she challenged.
‘That’s little excuse. You could stay here, at least temporarily.’ He glanced round. ‘I have room. And maybe we might be able to find you a house or a cottage to rent. There’s a place down near the beach, old Flynn’s cottage. He went to visit his sister in Cork in March, and he hasn’t returned.’
Tamar felt her nerves were stretched to fever pitch. Then she sighed, and hunched her shoulders.
‘All right,’ she said, a little tiredly. ‘I’ll stay.’
Father Donahue looked pleased. ‘Good. Now, shall we have a small glass of wine to celebrate?’
CHAPTER THREE
Tamar’s room in Father Donahue’s presbytery was small and unpretentious, with woven rugs on the polished floor, and an iron bedstead that was softer than it looked. There was an old-fashioned washstand with jug and bowl, and a chest of drawers bigger than any Tamar had ever seen. The wardrobe, too, was huge, but at least she was able to hang out the more crushable of her dresses.
During the afternoon, while Father Donahue went about his duties, Tamar stayed indoors, and it was not until the early evening, when she thought everyone would be at their evening meal, that she ventured out again. Dressed in a light coat over a woollen dress, she walked down to the quayside, shivering a little in the chill wind that had arisen. The stars were very bright in an almost cloudless sky, and a pale moon was rising.
Tamar walked slowly, her arms wrapped about her, holding her coat in place, her hair, which had been smooth when she left the house, tangled into disorder by the wind. And yet, for all her anxieties of the day, her re-establishment in the place of her birth, and the violent scene with Ross Falcon, she felt more relaxed than she had done for some time. There was peace in the solitude, and a sense of well-being in the shrill cries of the birds. Isolated Falcon’s Wherry might be, but it possessed something London in all its tawdry splendour could never possess - for her at least - the feeling of belonging.
The track where the jetty petered out led steeply up the cliffs to Falcon’s Head, but below the impressive facade of that fortified dwelling, there was a cottage, deserted now, falling gradually victim to the encroaching weeds and vegetation that possessed its walls and prodded into every nook and cranny. This had been her grandfather’s cottage, owned, as were all the cottages in the village, by the Falcon estate, but now neglected and left to the fierce onslaught of the elements.
Tamar did not go right up to the cottage. Her shoes were hardly suitable for the rough track, and besides, it aroused too many memories in her. She wondered why it had been left to nature, and not re-tenanted. Obviously, from its appearance, it had never been used since her grandfather died and she left.
She turned back, stumbling a little in her haste, always conscious of the lights from the house on the headland. She wondered if Ross was there now, and if so, what he was doing. Virginia would be there, of course, and their child, whatever it had turned out to be. She must ask Father Donahue about the child. Surely that did not constitute curiosity? Father Donahue was loath to discuss the Falcons with her, and while she knew she could have the gossip in O’Connor’s hotel, or the Wherry tavern, she had no desire to hear about the Falcons from anyone else.
As she walked back along the quay, she wondered about Ross’s mother, too. She must be quite old now, in her seventies at least - old Bridget Falcon, the most arrogant Falcon of them all. Her eyes softened as she thought of the way her grandfather had always stood up to Bridget Falcon. He had not been afraid of her, as most of the villagers had been.
She turned back into the curving street that led towards Father Donahue’s house, and almost jumped out of her skin when a voice said: ‘Hello, Tamar,’ close to her ear. In the gloom she had not seen anyone nearby, but now she could make out a man’s silhouette. As she stared at him, she felt a wave of apprehension assail her, and then suddenly she recognized him.
‘Steven!’ she exclaimed, in astonishment. ‘It is Steven, isn’t it?’
The young man grinned, his teeth showing up in the gloom. ‘In person. And you’re the village sensation, I hear.’
Tamar laughed a little, her nervousness evaporating in relief. At first she had thought it was Ross, but now she realized this man was younger, slighter, less aggressive — Steven Falcon, Ross’s younger brother.
‘Hardly that,’ she cried, shaking her head. ‘But why are you here? Is this a coincidence?’
‘No, of course not. I came looking for you. Ross told me you were here.’ He said this last rather dryly, and Tamar realized he was aware of his brother’s attitude.
Tamar ran a tongue over her dry lips. ‘Yes, I saw
Ross earlier. He came to Father Donahue’s. I’m staying there for the moment.’
They began to walk up the street towards the presbytery, and Steven said: ‘Why have you come back? Not to stay, I’ll warrant.’
Tamar shook her head. ‘I needed a holiday, so I thought of Falcon’s Wherry.’
‘Hell!’ Steven sounded incredulous. ‘As if the famous Miss Tamar Sheridan couldn’t find some more exciting place than Falcon’s Wherry to spend a holiday!’ he exclaimed.
Tamar shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I come back?’ she questioned lightly. ‘It was my home.’
‘Oh, yes. It was - with the accent on the was. Honestly, we were absolutely astounded. We never thought - at least - anyway, tell me about yourself. How have you been? I believe your father died soon after you arrived in England.’
‘That’s right, he did.’ Tamar bit her lip. ‘Well, I guess I was lucky. Father had connections. He was quite an artist himself, in his way.’ She sighed. ‘When he could fo
rce himself to do any, that is. He introduced me to Ben Hastings. Ben is the son of Allen Hastings, you may have heard of him.’ Steven nodded. ‘Ben isn’t exactly a patron of the arts or anything like that, but he does have money, and he can recognize talent - at least so I believe,’ she amended modestly. ‘At any rate, he introduced me to all the right people, and I got a job in commercial art - doing book jackets, illustrations, that sort of thing, and training for my real career in my spare time. Ben’s been marvellous!’ Her voice was warm as she spoke, and Steven raised his eyebrows.
‘So he has,’ he remarked lazily. ‘I hear you’ve had an exhibition.’
Tamar stared at him. ‘Why, that’s right,’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you know?’
‘We aren’t exactly uncivilized here,’ returned Steven coolly, and Tamar flushed.
‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, it’s just that—’
‘I know, I know. But anyway, we heard.’
Tamar nodded slowly. ‘It’s been quite an exciting time for me, but exhausting. Between Ben, and Joseph Bernstein, the owner of the gallery, I seem to have lost my own identity in that of my work. Can you understand that?’
Steven grimaced. ‘Perhaps.’
They reached the gates leading to the church and the presbytery.
‘Will you come in?’ asked Tamar, glancing towards the house.
