“What’s wrong, Tara?” Frank said again, this time sounding really worried. “Have I suddenly got the plague or something? Even with all the crowd in Ruby’s you managed to sit closer to me than this.”
Tara swallowed hard. “It’s just that we’re not usually on our own . . . and I feel a bit overwhelmed.”
There was silence for a few moments, then Frank got to his feet and came over and crouched down by her chair. “It’s okay, Tara,” he said in a comforting tone. “Everything’s okay. If you feel I’m rushing you, then I’ll back off.”
A wave of relief washed over her. “I’m sorry,” she replied in a tiny voice. “I’m just not ready for anything – for anything – physical. It’s something I never planned on before . . .” How could she say ‘before marriage’ to this older, sophisticated man? “I’ve never been in a relationship like this before.”
“That’s okay,” Frank said soothingly, his finger tracing a pattern on the back of her hand. “We’ve all the time in the world.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the mouth. “You’re very special to me – and I can wait as long as you want me to. You’re worth waiting for, Tara Flynn.”
* * *
The lodgers moved in the following day as planned. Tara felt a wave of pride when she heard the admiring comments about the newly painted bedrooms, the furniture and the nice bedspreads. This is only the start, she said to herself. The first rung on the ladder to becoming a fully independent woman. Just as long as the rents come in regularly, and the mortgage and bills are paid – everything will work out fine.
Getting into a routine the first week was much harder than Tara had anticipated. It meant rising at six-thirty to get herself sorted out for work, calling her boarders, and then rushing downstairs to the kitchen to start cooking breakfast for everyone. She ruefully thought how easy she had had it in Ruby Sweeney’s boarding house, with Biddy serving breakfast most mornings, and having a hot meal put down to her by Ruby or Biddy every evening.
Coming in after a hard day’s work in the office was worse still, knowing that there were potatoes and vegetables to be peeled, and meat to be cooked for the hungry boarders. And then there was the shopping in between which Tara had quickly worked out, would have to be done during her lunch-hours. If she waited until after work to do it, it just slowed the whole evening up.
By Friday evening of the first week, Tara realised that turning dreams into reality came with a price – hard work and exhaustion early in the evening. It did not however, deter her in any way. When the boarders came in from work and handed her their rent money, she felt a glow of satisfaction, which made everything worthwhile.
That first Friday evening – after the evening meal was over and everything cleared up – Tara sat at the kitchen table and wrote out a new timetable, shopping list and menus for the following week. She could now see that there were ways that she could save time, like setting the breakfast table the night before, and asking the girls to sign a weekly sheet for cooked breakfasts or toast or cereal. Also, a neighbour she bumped into, had offered to do the weekly washing of towels and bed linen for a very fair price.
“You’re surely not changin’ all the beds every single week?” Biddy had gasped when she heard. “Ruby does it every fortnight.”
“But she deals mainly with working lads,” Tara reminded her, “and most of them would happily go months without clean sheets. I have nurses and teachers, and they expect different standards. Don’t forget we changed our own bed at Ruby’s every week, and even Ruby did her own.”
Biddy shrugged. “I’m just thinkin’ of the extra work for you. It can’t be easy for you on your own, and havin’ to do a full-time job yersel’.”
“I’m managing,” Tara said confidently, “and it will be worth it in the end.” She comforted herself with the thought that if everything went to plan until Christmas, then she could think of taking on someone like Biddy to share the cooking and cleaning chores. But for the time being, she was more than willing to keep things running on her own.
Tara was also happy with the way things were turning out with Frank. The more she saw of him, the more relaxed and confident she felt in his company. She had warned him that she wouldn’t have much time on her hands for socialising for the first few weeks, and he had understood completely.
“You’re preaching to the converted,” he had told her when he popped into the office on Friday afternoon. “I had to do the same thing myself when I came over to England first. It was a case of working and sleeping for the first two years, and it wasn’t easy. The other lads were out drinking and dancing from Friday evening until Sunday night, while I was still slogging it out. But that dedication,” he pointed out, “is what makes the difference.”
“You don’t mind not going out this weekend?” she had said. “I feel exhausted, and I still have a lot of things to sort out.”
Frank shook his head. “It’s not a problem. In fact, since I have the time on my hands, I think I might head over to Ireland for a few days, or even the week.”
Tara raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Again?”
“I could do with visiting my mother and father. I didn’t get down to Clare when I was over with you, and they write every week asking when I’m coming home.” He shrugged. “I mightn’t make it back for Christmas, so I’ll go now while things are quiet. All the contract work seems to be going well. The teams I have at the moment can be trusted to work away on their own.” He stroked her hand discreetly, lest Mr Pickford should be watching. “And since you’re not available, I’ll only be at a loose end. I’ll call in at the travel agents shortly, and I’ll take the first flight I can get.”
Tara felt a pang of disappointment. Not going out with him was one thing, but knowing he was across the sea from her was another. “You’ll let me know as soon as you get back?” she said anxiously. “I should be more organised by next weekend, and I’ll be ready for a night out then . . . besides, I’ll miss you.”
“Good girl,” he said giving her a wink. “I’ll ring you at the office as soon as I get back.”
“You’ve made a good contact there,” Mr Pickford commented as the door closed. “Frank Kennedy has an excellent business head on his shoulders. I’m sure his speaking to the building society on your behalf was instrumental on the mortgage going through so easily.”
“I think it certainly helped,” Tara agreed.
“Having said that,” Mr Pickford peered over the top of his spectacles, “I’m sure he can see the same ambitious qualities in yourself. Like attracts like. I’m sure you’ll do very well in your boarding business.”
Tara gave her boss a warm smile and turned back to her typewriter.
The second week of running her small boarding house went more smoothly. All the little changes had made a big improvement to her routine. When Friday came round again in the office, she found herself reaching for the phone in the hope it was Frank back in Stockport. By five o’clock, she had resigned herself to the fact that he was still in Ireland.
It was Tuesday of the following week when he eventually called from County Clare. “I’m really sorry,” he said at the other end of a crackly line, “but there’s a few problems I need to sort out – and a bit of business. I hope to be back at the end of the week.”
The end of the second week came and went, without another word from Frank. By that time, Tara was feeling tired and edgy, and unable to concentrate on anything.
Perhaps, she found herself thinking, he has decided to move his business over to Ireland. He obviously had contacts in Dublin and further down the country. Surely, she reasoned, he would have told her of any such plans. Or would he? Had he reacted badly to her rebuff the last night they were together in the house? Was it possible that he had decided she wasn’t worth waiting for any longer? He had pointed out that he was a mature grown man, and although they had never discussed it, Tara knew that he must have had physical relations with some of the women he had courted b
efore meeting her.
It was definitely a case of not missing the water until the well ran dry. Until he had gone, Tara never realised just how big a part in her life that Frank Kennedy played: all the business with buying the house, organising the jobs that needed doing, and a million and one things that she needed just to talk over with him.
And of course, it didn’t end just there. Tara found she actually missed his hugs and kisses, and his soothing words of encouragement. Over the two weeks she had spent on her own, she had gone over the situation between them, and had come to the conclusion that there was no comparison between her relationship with Frank, and what had happened with William Fitzgerald. She realised that Frank was not capable of hurting her in that way – he was too genuine for that.
* * *
“I’m off this evening,” Biddy said when she called round on Sunday afternoon. “Some of the lads are going to try a new dance hall in Stockport – why don’t you come with us?”
Tara put down her sewing needle. She was busy hemming a pair of curtains for the bathroom. “I can’t,” she sighed. “I don’t know whether I’m coming backwards or forwards, I have so many things to do.” Today already, she had left the cooked breakfast in the oven for the boarders, worked the ten until two shift in the hotel reception, cooked lunch, and still had evening Mass to attend.
“You haven’t been out with us for ages,” Biddy said in a wounded tone. “Surely you can manage one night when Frank’s not here?”
Tara paused. She had been so caught up in the new house, that she had not had much time for Biddy lately. However different paths their lives might take, Biddy was very important to her. She had to make the time. “Okay,” she said, forcing a bright smile on her tired face, “maybe a night out would do me good.”
It might take my mind off Frank too, she thought.
Even before they stepped inside the dance hall, Tara had her doubts about this new place. The queue outside had taken ages to move, and there had been a lot of pushing and shoving from some fellows who were obviously the worse from drink.
When Lloyd was shunted into Biddy by one of the drunks, he turned on them saying: “Where’s your manners? That’s a young girl you nearly sent flying into the wall!”
“Listen to the darkie!” one of the drunks jeered. “Talking as if he owned the place. I’ll bet he’s just swung out of a tree in the jungle.”
“Mind your mouth!” Sonny warned him.
“Dirty bleedin’ Irish . . . they’re as bad as the fuckin’ blacks!” another lout called from the queue. “You should all get back to yer own countries, and leave us in peace.”
At that point the doors opened, the crowd surged forward, and the argument was swallowed up. Tara heaved a sigh of relief when they were safely inside and she saw the trouble-makers heading off to a lounge in another part of the building.
“The music’s grand, isn’t it?” Biddy said excitedly, when they took to the dance floor. “It’s a change from that oul’ Irish music in the Erin, isn’t it?”
As usual, they were not short of partners, as the fellows from Ruby’s boarding house danced with them one after the other. Although they were not exactly her type, over the months Tara had got to know them better. She found that they were all decent young fellows, and they were also very good dancers. She was pleased when the tall, graceful Lloyd danced her, as it gave her a chance to say she felt awful about the abuse he had taken from the drunks earlier on.
“It don’t matter,” he said, smiling at her in his shy way. “I’m used to all that shit . . . I get it on the building sites regularly.” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry about the language . . . I shouldn’t have said that to a lady like you.”
Tara laughed. “I’ve heard a lot worse in Ireland, but I’m grateful for the compliment.” She relaxed in his arms, chatting and enjoying herself as he guided her round the beautifully polished floor. When the music finished, they stood chatting for a few moments, then the band struck up a Glenn Miller number. Lloyd asked if she wanted to stay up for another dance.
Before Tara had a chance to reply, two rough hands grabbed her by the shoulder and swung her round. “You dancin?” one of the drunken louts from the queue asked, his gaze disorientated and his mouth slack from the effects of the alcohol.
Tara froze. Her immediate reaction was to walk off the dance floor, but something held her back. She looked at Biddy. Sonny – having been elbowed out of the way – had left the floor, and Biddy was now dancing with the fellow’s equally drunk companion. It was the rule in most of the dance halls that you did not refuse to dance with a man, and although she felt repulsed by her partner, she realised she had little option. She gave a shrug of apology to Lloyd, knowing that he would be the target of the drunk’s anger if she refused him.
Reluctantly, she moved into his outstretched arms. As soon as they moved together, Tara felt as though she were tangling with an octopus with no sense of direction, as he roughly propelled her round the floor.
“What’s a nice girl like you,” he slurred in a Manchester accent, “doin’ with a dirty black nigger?”
Tara stiffened up. “He’s a very nice lad, and he’s neither dirty nor a nigger,” she replied frostily. “For your information he happens to be West Indian, and I’ll dance with whoever I like.”
He grinned, impressed by her spirit. “You’re another Paddy, then? You don’t look nowt like a Paddy.” He leered drunkenly at her. “You’re the best-lookin’ Paddy I’ve ever seen!”
Tara turned her face away from him, feeling revulsion at his beery breath and the smell of sweat emanating from his armpits. The cheek of him! Criticising Lloyd – a boy who was meticulous in his hygiene and dress. He was the most fashion-conscious of all Ruby’s male boarders, often accompanying Biddy on her shopping trips to buy the latest style of shoes, shirts or ties.
They circled precariously round the floor, Tara deliberately looking over his shoulder at the other dancers, the bar or the floor. Looking anywhere except at her partner. When the dance eventually ended, Tara pulled away from him.
“We’ll stay up for another one,” he told her, gripping her by the arm.
“No thanks,” Tara said firmly, pulling away. “I’m sitting the next one out.”
He put his other hand round her waist, ignoring her refusal. “You’ve been up with the fuckin’ darkie for more than one dance,” he snapped, “an’ if a darkie’s good enough to dance with, then I’m not goin’ to be refused.”
“Let me go!” she hissed, pushing him so hard that he staggered backwards into the other dancers. Someone pushed him away and he staggered again – as though doing some elaborate sidestep dance – and eventually landed on his backside in the middle of the floor.
“Fuckin’ Irish bitch!” he yelled, his voice echoing loudly round the dance hall.
In seconds, two burly men with white shirts and red dicky-bows appeared on the scene. Taking an arm each, they yanked the drunk off the floor and propelled him towards the main door, as he kicked and cursed in protest. They were followed by his three loud-mouthed friends, one of whom stopped to call back to Tara: “All the Irish and darkies in this place are dead!”
The manager of the dance hall, outraged that such an incident should happen on their opening night, insisted on calling two taxi cabs to ensure that Tara and the others got home safely.
“That’s the first and last time in that place,” Biddy moaned as she got out of the taxi at Ruby’s. “We’ll stick to the Erin Ballroom, or the other Irish places in future. At least we’re mixin’ with our own kind there.”
Tara bade them all goodnight, and then the taxi took her off to the peace and safety of her own house – and to her thoughts of Frank Kennedy.
* * *
On Tuesday evening after the office had closed, Tara was walking along to her bus stop when a familiar black car pulled up. “Frank!” she called delightedly, running round to the passenger side of
the car. She opened the door and jumped in. “What happened? I thought you would have come back sooner.”
“Did you miss me?” he asked, hugging her tightly.
“Indeed I did!” she replied without hesitation. “You wouldn’t believe how much I missed you.”
“Well now,” he said, leaning back in his seat to look at her, “I’m delighted I went away, if that’s the effect it had on you.” His brown eyes twinkled. “Maybe I should go away more often?”
“Don’t you dare!” Tara said. “I had a terrible weekend without you.”
Frank started up the car. “What was so terrible about it?” They pulled off in the direction of Tara’s house.
“I went with Biddy and the others to a new dance hall in Stockport,” she told him, “and there was nearly a fight. This drunken fellow was really annoying me up on the dance floor.”
Frank looked alarmed. “Did he hurt you?”
“Not at all,” Tara reassured him. “The staff made short work of him. But we had to come home in taxis, in case they were waiting for us outside.” She hesitated. “They were really horrible to us because we were Irish, and they were worse to poor Lloyd.”
“Lloyd?”
“The nice black fellow in Ruby’s.”
“His colour no doubt,” Frank said, shaking his head. “It’s the first thing eedjits like that go for. No one got hurt though?”
“No . . . no.” Tara hesitated for a moment. “Was there a problem in Ireland? With you being so long.”
Frank negotiated the bend past Bramhall Hall, then started up the hill towards Davenport. “There was a bit of a to-do in the family, and my mother and father took it badly. I couldn’t leave them until things were looking a bit better.”
“What happened?” Tara asked curiously. Then, colouring up with embarrassment, she said: “Unless it’s personal, of course.”
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