by Anne Mather
‘Thank you, Mrs. Leary,’ she said now. ‘Good morning, Mr. Falcon. You want me?’
Ross waited until Mrs. Leary had closed the door on them, then he allowed his appraising gaze to travel over her slowly, bringing the annoying colour to her cheeks yet again. He was dressed in an immaculate dark grey suit, a white shirt contrasting sharply with the dark tan of his skin. Only his hair refused to remain in position, and lay over his forehead. It grew rather long on his neck, but it suited him, and Tamar linked her fingers together and faced him rather less confidently now that Mrs. Leary had gone.
‘I gather you’re ready,’ he remarked lazily, his tone less aggressive this morning, as though he had decided to disguise his real feelings.
‘Ready?’ Tamar was surprised. ‘For what?’
‘I told you yesterday. My mother expressed a wish to meet you. I trust you’re not going to disappoint her.’
Tamar turned away, looking out of the window. ‘I - well, I’d forgotten,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Now,’ he said ominously, and placed a hand on the door handle.
Tamar stiffened her shoulders. Then she turned to him. ‘I don’t think you have any authority over me, Mr. Falcon,’ she said. ‘If your mother wishes to see me, then I’ll arrange to visit her some time. I have my own car. I’m quite capable of transporting myself to Falcon’s Head and back again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do—’
‘You’re coming with me,’ he said, ignoring her words. ‘Do you have a coat? Something with a slightly longer skirt, perhaps. My mother is old-fashioned enough to imagine women should not expose their thighs to every man who cares to look!’
Tamar was astounded, and affronted. Her skirt was not that short.
‘How - how dare you?’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘How dare you!’
Ross was looking a little bored now. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m a busy man. Get your coat!’
‘And if I refuse?’
He shrugged. ‘You know me well enough not to do that,’ he replied coldly, and opening the door he walked out of the room.
Tamar heaved a sigh. Short of causing a scene she could hardly refuse, and after all, what was he asking? That she should visit with his mother. Not such an intimidating prospect, really. She was not the foolish schoolgirl she had been years ago. Bridget Falcon would not frighten her now, any more than she had frightened her grandfather.
She went into the hall. Ross was talking to Mrs. Leary, just as though everything was normal, thought Tamar impatiently. He was so arrogant; so sure of himself. How could she tell him that her most disturbing emotions concerned his wife, not his mother? She was remembering the last time she had seen Virginia, and it was a daunting prospect to think of facing her again after that.
But she was no defeatist, so she put on a cream mohair coat, lifted a tan handbag, and said: ‘I’m ready, Mr. Falcon,’ in a tight little voice.
The Aston Martin waited outside, and Lucy was in the back. Tamar smiled with real pleasure when she saw her, looking so clean and neat this morning in a green tweed suit, her curly hair combed into order, her face bright and shining. She was a beautiful child, in every way a Falcon, and Tamar felt a surge of compassed at her affliction. Lucy slid her arms round her father’s neck when he slid into the driving seat, hugging him for a moment, and Tamar had a fleeting glimpse of the Ross Falcon she had once known. When he smiled he drove some of the lines from his face, leaving it relaxed and attractive. He was infinitely more disturbing that way, and Tamar felt her heart pounding in her ears. This was crazy, she told herself furiously. She had come here to destroy memories of this man, not to provide herself with new ones of an equally tortuous nature.
She spoke to Lucy, showing the child that she liked her and that she was not forgotten. Then she said: ‘How old is Lucy?’
Ross glanced her way. ‘Six. Why?’
Six? Yes, of course, she would be six, thought Tamar dully. Stupid of her to ask.
‘Does she - I mean, have you tried to have her educated at all? To have her taught to speak - to read?’
‘No!’ Ross’s voice was hard.
‘Why? Don’t you want her to be normal?’
Ross swore angrily. ‘Mind your own blasted business,’ he said savagely.
Tamar was not affronted this time. She was growing used to his violent moods. She merely shrugged, and turned her gaze to the countryside they were passing through.
Outside Falcon’s Wherry, Ross turned the car on to the cliff road, that led steeply up to his family’s home. It was a better morning, and a pale sun was gradually dispersing the clouds. Tamar wondered why Bridget Falcon wanted to see her. This summons had all the ceremony of a royal command, and she couldn’t deny a faint feeling of apprehension now that they were nearing the big house.
Falcon’s Head was built of grey stone, bleak and forbidding of appearance, a little like its present owner, thought Tamar inconsequently. Ross halted the car on the gravelled forecourt. Here cultivated lawns and flower gardens spread towards the cliffs, where a narrow curving flight of steps led down to the beach below. At high tide, the lower steps were covered, and the sea lashed fiercely against the cliff face. Tamar knew all this from past experience. She had spent much time with Ross seven years ago, despite his mother’s disapproval.
Tamar got out of the car without waiting for Ross’s assistance, wrapping her coat about her, as the wind at this height was much stronger. Lucy jumped out after her, looking at her curiously, as though she wondered why Tamar had been summoned here, to her home.
Ross slammed his door and walked to the shallow steps that led up to the iron-studded front door. Then he looked back at Tamar, who stood by the car, still studying the house from a short distance.
‘Come on,’ he said briefly, and shrugging, Tamar walked across the gravel to join him.
Lucy followed her, keeping behind her, as though making sure she did not change her mind. Ross swung open the door, and they entered into a dark panelled hallway, with its only illumination coming from a round, leaded window over the front door. All the doors that led into this hall were closed blankly, and even the window half-way up the stairs shed little light on the gloom. But at least it was warm, and Tamar realized they must have had central heating installed since she was last here. A dark red carpet was underfoot, and this spread up the staircase that disappeared into the upper regions of the house.
She looked about her, hunching her shoulders a little, and Ross said perceptively: ‘Falcon’s Head is an old building. It has none of the modern refinements, like plate glass and wrought iron. You should have known that - Miss Sheridan!’
The way he said her name was in itself a mockery, and Tamar stared at him impatiently.
‘Why must you persist in treating me like some half-witted imbecile?’ she exclaimed. ‘As a matter of fact, I like it the way it is. I just think your style of decoration leaves much to be desired!’
‘Do you now?’ Another voice broke into the conversation, and Tamar became aware that a door to their right had opened, and a wheelchair had slid silently across the soft carpet.
She looked at Bridget Falcon, at first with embarrassed, apprehensive eyes, and then with a mixture of surprise and compassion. Bridget Falcon had been a big woman, strong and well built, but now she was a mere shadow of herself, almost shrunken in the wheelchair. Her hair, which Tamar remembered as being black, tinged with distinguished grey, was white now, and her face was lined and worn. Veined hands gripped the wooden propelling wheels of the chair, and she had only the voice to remind Tamar of the frightening intimidator of her youth.
‘I - I’m sorry, Mrs. Falcon,’ she said now, giving Ross an angry look. ‘You were not intended to hear my words. Nor were they particularly polite. I’m afraid your son’s manners leave a lot to be desired!’
Tamar heard Ross’s swiftly indrawn breath, but she did not look at him. She was intent on the woman in the chair. Lucy, almost forgotten un
til that moment, brushed past Tamar and went to rest her head against her grandmother’s shoulder, making soft crooning noises.
Bridget Falcon patted her granddaughter’s head tenderly, then looked at Tamar with piercing eyes, making the girl aware that if her body had wasted, her spirit certainly had not.
‘My son was never an easy man to understand, Tamar Sheridan,’ she said, with some pride. ‘As for the house, we are aware of its shortcomings, without the need of your advice.’
Tamar sighed. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Yes, so you have.’ Mrs. Falcon gently moved Lucy away from her. ‘Come, we’ll go into the study. I wish to talk with you.’
Ross moved forward impatiently. ‘Surely anything you have to say to Miss Sheridan can be said here and now,’ he muttered harshly. ‘Then I’ll drive her back to the presbytery before I leave for Cork.’
His mother gave him a studied glance. ‘Your presence is not required here, Ross,’ she said arrogantly. ‘Go to Cork, attend to your business. Tamar Sheridan shall stay and have lunch with me. I will send a message to Father Donahue. You may drive her back when you return this evening.’
Ross looked absolutely furious, and Tamar said: ‘Oh, but I—’ then halted uncertainly.
Bridget Falcon swung round her chair. ‘Come along, Tamar Sheridan, before my son can think of any reason why you shouldn’t spend a little time with me.’
Tamar heaved a helpless sigh. Even now, Ross’s mother had a sense of hauteur, of omnipotence, that was difficult to defy. Shrugging, she followed the wheelchair, aware of Ross’s displeasure, and the helpless, impotent look on his face.
Lucy seemed to accept that she was not invited, for she remained by her father, and when Tamar closed the study doors at Bridget Falcon’s instigation, she saw Ross look down at his daughter with something strange and vulnerable in his expression.
The study was one room Tamar knew quite well. It was here she and Ross had spent many hours, discussing his work, and her own aptitude for illustration. It was a room like a library, with many books on the shelves, and a desk standing squarely in the centre of the dark green carpet. The carpet was new, as were the velvet drapes at the windows, windows which overlooked the headland, giving a magnificent view of sea and sky, the grey rocks like sentinels, standing above the waves now at low tide.
‘Sit down,’ said Bridget Falcon imperiously, and Tamar obeyed, although she excused her obedience to herself on the grounds that that was what she had wanted to do. She drew out her cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply, while her hostess rang a bell, and when a white-aproned maid appeared, she ordered morning coffee for two.
‘Now,’ said Ross’s mother, sighing in satisfaction. ‘Now, we can talk!’
Tamar glanced towards the study door, as she heard a heavy slam, and the older woman smiled.
‘Don’t concern yourself, Tamar Sheridan. That was the front door. Ross has gone.’
Tamar pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘Actually, Mrs. Falcon, I was wondering what on earth you had to talk to me about.’
Bridget Falcon studied her thoughtfully. ‘Were you now? And didn’t it occur to you that it might be to do with Ross?’
Tamar shrugged. ‘Yes, it occurred to me. However, I don’t think your son’s affairs are any concern of mine.’
Mrs. Falcon looked momentarily taken aback. ‘Don’t be uppity with me, young woman,’ she exclaimed proudly. ‘I’ve known you since you were in your pram, and I’ll not have any impudence from you!’
Tamar flushed. ‘I was not being impudent, Mrs. Falcon. At least, not consciously. However, having already sampled an example of your son when roused, I have no wish to repeat the experience, just because he imagines I’ve been listening to private gossip from his mother!’
Mrs. Falcon stared at her, then laughed heartily. ‘Tamar Sheridan, I can see I’ve misjudged you. You’re not at all as I remembered you. You were such an insignificant mouse in those days, hardly able to speak your name, and now here you are, obviously no longer intimidated by authority. I’m glad.’
The maid returned with the coffee, and Mrs. Falcon took charge of serving it, the tray placed on the desk for her convenience. Tamar rose to accept a cup, but refused the offer of a biscuit. Just now, hunger was no part of her feelings. Whether Mrs. Falcon considered her more spirited or not was immaterial, as far as she could see, and she couldn’t imagine why the old lady had gone to the trouble of getting her here. Ross obviously did not approve, and maybe he thought his mother might be indiscreet. But about what? She, Tamar, already knew about Lucy, and what else was there? Unless - unless it was something to do with Virginia, Ross’s wife. So far she had not put in an appearance, and that seemed oddly out of character of the Virginia she had known.
Bridget Falcon drank her coffee slowly and methodically, never taking the cup far from her lips, and not standing it down until it was finished. Then she said: ‘So you’re curious to know why I got you here, are you, my girl?’
Tamar leant forward to place her own cup on the tray. ‘Mrs. Falcon, we have already spent twenty minutes without achieving any point in our relationship. If I’m curious, it’s merely because my experience of you has never led me to believe I was in any way welcomed at Falcon’s Head.’
Mrs. Falcon nodded agreeably. That’s true. I never wanted you here, Tamar Sheridan. Your father was a scoundrel and a waster, and only married your mother because he had to!’
Tamar rose to her feet furiously. ‘How dare you!’
‘Sit down, girl, sit down! You know it’s true.’
‘I know nothing of the kind. My father loved my mother. You know that’s true!’
‘I know that as soon as you were born, and poor Kathleen laid in her grave, he disappeared and wasn’t seen in Falcon’s Wherry again until he was sent for!’ countered the old woman implacably.
Tamar turned away. ‘If this is the point of our conversation, then I would prefer to leave now,’ she said coldly. ‘My parents’ lives are no business of yours, whatever their shortcomings. And I no longer have to stand here and be spoken to like some ignorant peasant!’
Bridget Falcon sighed. ‘Well, all right. Maybe I was a bit harsh, but your father caused me a mint of trouble, one way and another. Do you know that he inveigled money out of me to invest in this gallery of his that was going to make a fortune? But did I ever see the money again? Did I not!’
Tamar turned. ‘I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know my father owed you - anything.’
‘How could you? You weren’t even born then. It wasn’t until later you came along, and then ...’ She sighed reminiscently. ‘Still, that’s all in the past, and if I offended your family pride, I’m sorry. Now, will you sit down, and have done with this foolishness?
Tamar wanted to refuse, she wanted to tell this aristocratic old woman exactly what she thought of her, but overwhelming these selfish thoughts was the remembrance of Ross, and that enchanting yet pathetic child, and why Bridget Falcon should want to speak privately with her!
So she subsided weakly into her seat again, and said: ‘It’s not foolish to respect one’s father’s memory,’ in a tight voice.
Bridget Falcon let this pass without comment, then she said: ‘Now, I’ll get to the point: my granddaughter, Lucy.’
Tamar relaxed a little. She wanted to talk about Lucy, too.
‘Yes?’ she said expectantly.
‘What are your feelings towards the child?’
This was totally unexpected, and Tamar stared at her. ‘In what connection?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘She’s Ross’s child,’ said Mrs. Falcon dryly. ‘I used to believe you were — how shall I put it? — attracted to my son.’
Tamar bent her head. ‘So?’
‘So - does Lucy’s condition arouse sympathy, or merely apathy, inside you?’
Tamar looked up. ‘No one could feel apathetic towards - towards a child with such a terrible affliction!’ she exclaimed.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh, yes, they could. Particularly if the child was the result of a woman’s arrant selfishness!’
Now Tamar was out of her depth completely. ‘A - a woman’s arrant selfishness?’ she faltered. ‘Whose?’
‘Virginia’s,’ replied Mrs. Falcon bluntly. ‘God forgive me!’ She cast her eyes heavenward.
Tamar shook her head. ‘Mrs. Falcon, you’re confusing me. What has Virginia to do with Lucy’s - condition? And - and anyway, where is she?’
Bridget Falcon stared now. ‘You don’t know that Virginia is dead?’ she questioned brutally.
‘Dead!’ Tamar was staggered. ‘How - how—’
‘Obviously my son has told you nothing,’ said the old woman grimly. ‘Of course, he wouldn’t. He’s a proud devil. Far too proud, I’ve always maintained. If he hadn’t been so damned proud, he would have gone to Dublin and forced Virginia to come back here, long before her condition forced her to return!’ She shook her head almost sadly. ‘If!’ she repeated. ‘Such a little word, and such a huge responsibility.’
Tamar lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. Virginia dead! She still couldn’t take it in.
‘It was a sequence of events,’ went on Bridget Falcon. ‘When - when you left Falcon’s Wherry my son married Virginia.’
