His eyes were now drawn from Tara’s hair to her shoulders, and then – like magnets he had no control over – to her generous breasts. He was amazed that he had missed this particular asset of hers and, as he stared, he deduced that she had either kept them well wrapped up, or they had developed since the last time they had met.
As his eyes lingered longingly, Gabriel wondered if Tara had a boyfriend. He suddenly wondered if she had a rich boyfriend, who had bought her nice clothes and gifts. Surely, there must be someone for her to dress up like this? Someone who worked with her in the distillery perhaps? Or maybe someone she had met in Dublin.
“Have you decided yet?” she suddenly asked, looking up at him.
Gabriel snapped the menu shut, feeling guilty, as though she had read his thoughts. “I’ll have the steak and roast potatoes,” he answered, then he laughed lightly. “It’s still early in the term, so I can afford to eat reasonably. It’s a different matter when my allowance is nearly gone.”
“I’ll just have a sandwich and a coffee,” Tara said decisively. “I had a big breakfast not too long ago.”
A frown crossed his lightly tanned face. “You’re not just saying that, because I made the joke about my allowance, are you?”
“No . . . no!” Tara insisted. “Honestly, I’m not a bit hungry. A sandwich will do me fine until I get home this evening.”
When the waitress came to take their order, Tara turned her attention to asking about the sandwich fillings, Gabriel’s eyes were drawn to scrutinise her strong-featured but beautiful face. As she looked up at the waitress, he noticed the smooth texture of her skin, and the little tilt at the end of her nose. Then he noticed that when she smiled, her eyes – a startling green, framed with thick lashes – lit up her whole face.
He could not help but notice her easy confidence in the surroundings, her excellent vocabulary and her clear diction. It all added up to a confusion in Gabriel’s head. How could a girl from such an ordinary – even lowly – background, know all these things? How could she afford the expensive clothes she was wearing? Who had encouraged the confidence which allowed her to move about the city as she moved about the small towns in Offaly? Once again – it all pointed to a rich boyfriend.
To Gabriel, Tara seemed no different to the girls he had come across at university. She spoke as well, and she certainly dressed better than a lot of them. How he mused – and perhaps more importantly – why, had she come to be like this?
As they sat back in their high wooden chairs, Gabriel Fitzgerald decided that he would make it his business to find out the answers to some of his questions, if the opportunity arose. He would ask Tara herself, if it came up in the conversation. If not – he would carefully ask around in Tullamore.
It would satisfy not only his own curiosity but his mother’s, who had been on the phone ranting and raving, about Madeleine having asked such a person to her birthday party. Madeleine, it seemed, was the only person prepared to take Tara at face value. And given her disturbed frame of mind at the minute, she was perhaps not the best person to trust in these judgements.
* * *
Later that evening, on the train going back to Tullamore, Tara stared out into the dim light, going over every little detail of the time she and Gabriel had spent together. She could still picture him in his dark overcoat, and the pale blue v-neck sweater he had worn underneath. She could feel his hands on her shoulders, when he had helped her to slip off her coat.
She hugged the coat tightly to her now, imagining she could feel his arms folding around her, and she shivered in the same delicious way as when he had actually touched her. Tara thought back in amazement that she had been able to eat anything at all, because the minute she had bumped into him in Grafton Street she felt she would never need food again. She had somehow managed to drink two cups of coffee and pick at a ham sandwich, while Gabriel had eaten his meal. And the biggest miracle of all – she had talked to him – quite naturally, about everything under the sun.
Gabriel had asked her all about her music and her nightclasses, and then about her brother Joe. She had even talked to him about her granda’s failing health, and how she did her best to look after him. It was strange how comfortable she had felt talking to Gabriel. She even felt confident enough to tell him all about her ambitions at work, and how determined she was to improve her skills in bookkeeping and shorthand. She was surprised at how interested he seemed in everything about her. He had asked her lots of questions about her work and about the other little bits and pieces she did at weekends. Later, she showed him the cameo brooch she had bought Madeleine and he had liked it so much that he said he might look in the same shop for a gift for Madeleine himself.
Gabriel had talked a little bit about himself, but he seemed more curious about her. He had even asked if she had any special boyfriend, and when she had told him that she didn’t have the time, he looked surprised. He said he was pleased that she was coming to Madeleine’s party, and wasn’t it strange – after not seeing each other for ages – that they should be meeting twice in as many weeks.
After her second cup of coffee, Tara checked the time and then, very unwillingly, said she had to go. It was the last thing she wanted, but she knew she had little over an hour to complete her shopping, before making her way back for the train home. She resisted Gabriel’s offer of another drink, because she did not want to give the impression that she was desperate for his company.
Instinctively, she did not want him to be the first to leave, and so she had parted with him outside the restaurant in a friendly and polite manner, and gone about her business.
Tara found great difficulty concentrating for the rest of the afternoon – and was sure that she wouldn’t be able to find anything suitable for the party in the short time she had left. Then, as she walked towards the last ladies store in Grafton Street, a dummy stood in the doorway wearing the perfect outfit. A fine crepe wool dress and jacket in a deep burgundy, which she knew would pick up the darker tones of her hair. On closer examination, the dress had a low but modest neckline, short sleeves and a toning satin band on the bustline which twisted into a neat little bow.
When she tried the outfit on, it looked as if it had been designed with her and the special party in mind. The dress, which came just below her knee, looked perfect either on its own or with the matching short jacket with the ‘Peter Pan’ collar and satin burgundy buttons. If the house was warm or there was any dancing, the dress on its own would be cool enough for comfort. And for when she first arrived, or if they were all sitting around listening to music, then the jacket would be sophisticated but warm. All in all, it was an attractive outfit, which would let her blend in with the other guests and hopefully catch Gabriel Fitzgerald’s eye.
The lady who served her brought the other two girls out from the back to see how well the costume looked on Tara. “Of course, she has the height and the posture to carry it off,” the saleslady had commented to her colleagues. She then produced a satin clutch bag in the same colour, and told her that a shoe shop just off O’Connell Street had satin shoes in all colours at a reasonable price.
Tara had taken a deep breath when the lady had rung up the suit and bag on the till. She fleetingly thought of her father’s reaction, if he had known the money she was about to hand over. Enough to keep him in beer for months. Then she remembered his drunken antics of late and quickly put him out of her mind as she rushed all the way down Grafton Street and across O’Connell Bridge to get her shoes.
When the train pulled in at the station in Tullamore, Tara stepped out on to the platform and then headed for her bicycle at the end of the building. She carefully tied her costume on to the carrier at the back of her bike, and then she put Madeleine’s gift, her shoes and bag, and sweets for her granda, in the basket at the front. Then, almost bursting with happiness, she set off to cycle home to Ballygrace.
Chapter Nine
On Friday – the night before Madeleine’s party �
�� Shay Flynn made his weekly drunken visit to Ballygrace. The original reason for the regular visit was to give a few shillings to help towards Tara’s keep, but since Tara was now working, she insisted on paying for her own keep.
This ostensibly left Shay with the extra money for the rest of his family, but more often than not – the local publican was the main beneficiary. After receiving his wages, Shay would visit one or two pubs in Tullamore, then cycle out to the cottage to look in on his father and daughter. Later, he would accompany Mick to the pub in Ballygrace for a last few drinks. At the end of the night – usually the worse for wear – he would call back at the cottage and have some supper. On his way out, he would collect a bag of spuds, eggs and milk, and then take them home with the remains of his wages, as a softener to his long-suffering wife.
Around eleven o’clock, just after her granda had gone to bed, the latch on the front door lifted. Mick came in first, his face red and beaming after the few pints, with Shay trailing behind in a badly inebriated fashion. Without saying a word, Mick made straight for the back door to answer the call of nature, brought on by the cold porter. Shay made his unsteady way across the stone floor to his father’s vacant rocking chair by the fireplace.
Tara, keeping to the opposite side from him, lifted the kettle from the fire and poured the boiling water into the teapot. She had earlier put two spoons of tea leaves in it, so that she didn’t waste a second in making her father’s drink, to let him get off on his road home. Depending on his mood, he could make a cup of tea last an hour but tonight Tara was in no humour to listen to the nonsense he came out with when inebriated.
“I hear there’s a right posh ‘do’ going on at yer oul’ pals, the Fitzgeralds, tomorrow night. No doubt it’s for all the big nobs,” Shay said scathingly. He shifted forward in the rocking chair to warm his hands at the flames. “One of the cooks in the hotel was tellin’ Tessie all about it. Some friend of hers that takes to do with catering has been taken on to make up the buffet. There’s to be bottles of champagne, along with wine and various minerals. An’ seemingly the food list is as long as yer arm. And ,” he elaborated, his arms waving in the air, “you wouldn’t know where to start pronouncin’ the names of half the dishes! Foreign stuff and everythin! You wouldn’t mind . . . but that young Madeleine one . . .” He laughed heartily. “She’s not the full shillin’! I heard that she started giving out to everybody in the cemetery last week – talkin’ a load of rubbish. Made a holy show of herself – and had to be led out of the place like a lamb.”
Tara banged the teapot down on the hearth. She turned to her father – cheeks flushed red with anger. “I don’t think it’s very holy of you,” she said, “to be jeering at someone who’s not in the whole of her health.”
Shay raised one dark eyebrow, with the careless disinterest of one who was used to being corrected. “Oh, d’you not think so?” he replied slowly. “Sure, I’m only speakin’ the truth . . . repeatin’ what the whole town is sayin’.”
“There are some things that don’t need saying, whether it’s the truth or not.” Tara was not letting him off the hook. Her father was far too smart at the jeering. “And in any case, that was last year. She’s been seeing a doctor up in Dublin and she’s fine now.”
“It’s to be hoped that she’s fine,” Shay said, lifting his cap off, and scratching at the black curls underneath. “It’ll be a fine state of affairs if she throws one of her mad turns at the posh party!” He went into gales of laughter at the thought of it. “All the Quality there . . . stuffin’ their faces and drinkin’ the champagne . . . an’ yer wan comin’ floatin’ down the stairs like a banshee let loose!”
“Aren’t you the fine one to be talking about anybody!” Tara was on her feet, hands on hips, facing him. “You come here every week after drinking your fill in the pub, spending money you should be giving to your wife and children – and then you have the nerve to talk about a girl who’s never done you any harm.” A defiant smile spread over her face. “For your information, I happen to be invited to Madeleine Fitzgerald’s birthday party! And furthermore, I’m going to stay the night in her house!”
Shay’s mouth opened but nothing came out. His silence did not matter, for his expression said it all. Then, just as he gathered himself together, another voice sounded.
“Go home this minute, Shay Flynn!” Old Noel called in a thin, faraway voice from inside his bedroom. “You’re nothing but a disturber of the peace! Go home – you drunken amadán!”
Mick came in the back door and on hearing the commotion asked: “What’s goin’ on? I could hear youse all bawlin’ and shoutin’ out the back. It’s loud enough to waken the dead.”
Shay ignored his brother and his father. “You – are – a spoilt – little – oul’ – brat – Tara – Flynn!” His head nodding to emphasise each word. He thumbed in the direction of his father’s bedroom. “An’ that oul’ eedjit in there is to blame for lettin’ you away with it. By rights, I should have kept you in Tullamore to help Tessie mind yer young brothers and sisters. I would soon have put manners on you! You would have none of these uppity ideas if I’d reared you.”
“Let it be, Shay, for God’s sake!” implored the good-natured Mick. He lifted the sack of spuds and stuff from the kitchen table. “You’d better head off home. Tessie will be wondering where you’ve got to.”
Shay wheeled round in the chair to face his brother. “Don’t you be startin’ now! I’ve enough listening to me own daughter cheekin’ me back. Me own flesh and blood – and d’you hear the way she’s talking to me? Isn’t that the fine daughter for any man – turning on her father like that?”
“And aren’t you the good example, to be talking?” Tara retorted. “Why d’you think I wouldn’t live with you when I was a child? By the time I was five I’d heard enough of your drunken ramblings to know where I was better off.” She pointed to the door. “Your father and your brother have both shown you the door – and now I’m showing it to you! Go home and leave us all in peace.”
Shay got to his feet and put his cap back on his head. “I’ll not stay where I’m not welcome. I wouldn’t take a cup of tea off ye now, if ye feckin’ well paid me!” He shambled across the floor to take the sack from Mick. “It’s a sorry day when yer own flesh and blood thinks it’s too damn good for you . . . when they prefer black strangers just because they’ve got money.” He gave a snort of derision in his daughter’s direction. “The Fitzgeralds won’t want the likes of you there . . . they’re only tolerating you because of the mad daughter. You’d be better off stayin’ at home – or going to the dance in the town hall in Daingean, and mixin’ with yer own kind. But no doubt an ordinary fella like meself wouldn’t be good enough for you!”
Tara straightened up to her full height. “That’s the truest words you’ve spoken tonight” she said venomously. “The way you behave when you have drink taken makes you good for nobody! Sure, everybody thinks Tessie’s a saint to put up with you.”
The mention of his wife’s name was like a thorn suddenly searing into Shay’s flesh. The last thing he needed reminding of was Tessie. Tessie, who had warned him not to come home tonight if he went on to the pub in Ballygrace. Tessie, who told him she was throwing him out if he didn’t pull himself together soon.
Shay felt behind him for the latch on the door, then – determined to have the last word – he turned back to the poker-faced Tara. “D’you know what they call people like you?” he said in a low vicious voice.
“I’m not interested in your opinion,” Tara said coolly, and strode across the kitchen to lift two mugs off the old pine dresser for herself and Mick.
“There’s an oul’ sayin’ that comes to mind when I look at you,” Shay stated gravely, as though passing a death sentence, “and when I listen to yer fancy accent, ‘Put a beggar on horseback and she’ll ride him to hell!’” He shook his fist dramatically. “Mark my words, Tara Flynn – for hell is where yer big ideas are goin’ to take you!�
�
Shay’s cutting words pierced his daughter’s heart as surely as an arrow would have done. Unwittingly, he had echoed the very words that Rosie Scully had used, when she had shown Tara the door, on her last visit to Ballygrace House.
Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared at the bedroom door. All eyes turned to look at the frail old man, dressed in woollen vest and long johns – one arm supporting him on the frame of the door. He took a moment to get his breath back after the exertion of climbing out of his high bed and walking across the room.
“Shay,” Noel Flynn wheezed, “for Jaysus’ sake – will you go home? Haven’t you done enough harm for one night?” He gave his son a long piercing look. “You’ve said things you should never have said to that girl . . . you’ve excelled yerself, man.” Then Noel swayed on his feet and his breathing changed to short, rapid bursts.
A cold shiver washed over Tara, when she noticed the old man’s lips starting to tinge with blue. She pressed the back of one hand against her own lips – to stop herself from crying out her hidden fears and worries about her granda .
There was silence for a few moments – save for the slow ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece – as all eyes were fixed on the swaying figure.
Eventually, his breathing eased and he mustered enough energy to continue. “Go home, Shay,” he rasped. “I’m not able for this carry-on any more.”
Shay Flynn wisely stepped out into the night, banging the door behind him.
* * *
The sound of light rain on her bedroom window woke Tara around seven o’clock the following morning. The morning of the party. In place of the excitement that had filled her mind for weeks, she was only aware of a dull headache and swollen eyes from all the crying she had done last night.
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