Tara Flynn

by Geraldine O'Neill

  By the time Biddy had told the whole story, it was coming to the end of visiting time. She dabbed her eyes and made to move.

  “You just stay where you are, love,” Ruby told her when the bell sounded. “It’s another ten minutes before they throw you out.” She patted Biddy’s hand firmly. “You’ve talked for the last half-an-hour, and now it’s my turn.” She gave Biddy a wink. “We’re going to sort that old pervert priest good an’ proper. We’ll sort him out that well, that he’ll never want to show his face outside Ireland again. An’ I guarantee you – he’ll be heading back on the first boat from Holyhead in the morning.”

  “How?” Biddy asked, her eyes wide . “What can we do? No one will believe my word against a priest’s.”

  Ruby pulled her in closer to the bed. “Listen to me carefully,” she said, her blue eyes narrow with determination, “an’ you must promise me to do exactly what I tell you.”

  Chapter Forty

  Father Daly arrived at seven o’clock on the dot on the Thursday evening. His purplish face, bloated from years of red wine and brandy, beamed with pleasure when Biddy opened the front door. He carried a box wrapped in wedding paper, which he said was a little piece of Ireland to remind Biddy of her heritage, and the fine workmanship of her fellow countrymen. It was a heavy vase made of Waterford Crystal. Biddy thanked him quietly, left him chatting to some of the lads in the kitchen, and then went upstairs to get her coat.

  When she appeared downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in a belted blue woollen dress with a high collar and long sleeves, he apologised to the lads for having to rush off. “A poor old nun from County Offaly,” he said piously, blessing himself. “She’s unlikely to last the week out, and it would ease her passage out of this world if she saw some faces from her home parish.”

  His pious tune changed when he and Biddy were alone. “Where,” he asked, as they went towards the front door, “is your overnight bag?”

  “I have everything I need,” Biddy told him firmly.

  “Surely,” he whispered, fingering the sleeve of her light wool dress, “you have a more fetching outfit than that. Something that does justice to your trim figure?”

  “My dress is fine,” Biddy snapped.

  The unholy priest sighed, but decided not to pursue the subject any further.

  *  *  *

  Father Daly did all the talking as they drove out of Stockport. “I believe there’s a nice little hotel in Macclesfield,” he said casually, taking off his dog-collar. “I thought we might have a meal, and then we can relax afterwards with a drink.”

  “I think I could do with a drink before the meal,” Biddy said, checking the time on her watch. “I could do with somethin’ to relax me.”

  A smile appeared on the priest’s bloated face. He slid a hand over to her knee, then his fingers pressed firmly on her flesh. “You can have as many drinks as you like, Bridget,” he told her in a throaty voice. “As many drinks as you like to loosen you up. We don’t want anything to spoil this special last night together.”

  *  *  *

  “We’ll have a bottle of Beaujolais,” Father Daly beamed to the waiter, “and a well-done steak each, with all the trimmings.”

  He had changed his shirt in the double bedroom he had booked for them, and was wearing an ordinary striped tie. To all intents and purposes, he and Biddy looked like father and daughter. The priest was aware of this, and the idea that people might assume they were related made their rendezvous in the hotel all the more exciting to him. He looked round the restaurant, a smile of appreciation on his lips.

  The waiter appeared back at the table and poured two glasses of wine. The priest took a mouthful from one and then nodded his approval.

  “These are the important things in life, Bridget,” he said in a low, contemplative voice. “Pleasant surroundings, candlelight, good food and wine, music and – most important of all – stimulating company.” He gave a little laugh. “And you, my dear Bridget, are the most stimulating company I have ever enjoyed.”

  Biddy took several gulps of her wine, checked her watch again, and then she said she needed to go to the ladies’. Once outside the restaurant, she asked a porter where the pay-phone was. He pointed her down a long narrow corridor.

  Before she lifted the receiver, Biddy took a piece of paper from her handbag, and checked the telephone number and the hotel bedroom number that she had written on it. She knew she must not make any mistakes. Ruby had told her exactly what had to be done, and so far, Biddy had followed her instructions to the letter. And so far – everything had worked out exactly as Ruby said it would.

  Biddy crossed the fingers of one hand and dialled the number with the other.

  *  *  *

  “It is the thoughts of your company,” Father Daly said, when Biddy returned, “that has kept me going. Those thoughts have kept my spirits up during the lonely months in that cold, damp house in Ballygrace.” He leaned forward, beads of sweat standing out on his fleshy brow. “I often think back to our first little encounters in my kitchen pantry. Do you remember?”

  Biddy lifted her folded napkin, and smoothed it out on the table in front of her.

  “You,” the priest continued, in the same sickly tone, “who I thought to be a sweet innocent teenage girl. Then I discovered you were not such an innocent.” He held his wine glass by the stem, and moved it round in a circular motion. “Not such an innocent at all . . . my dear Bridget. Oh, how you loved to talk about it . . .” He shifted about in his chair now, and then moved a hand down to adjust the front of his trousers.

  Biddy’s eyes flashed with anger. “I was upset . . . after what had happened with Dinny. You’re a priest – I thought I was telling you my Confession.”

  “Confessions,” he said with a smile, “are for the Confessional Box. You and I were in the kitchen pantry when you willingly demonstrated what you and Dinny Martin had been getting up to.”

  “You asked me to show you,” she hissed. “I thought you were going to speak to Dinny . . . tell him to leave me alone. I thought you would tell him that what he was doin’ to me all those years was a sin. I was only a child when he started . . . I never knew what it was he was doin’ to me. “

  Father Daly glanced up and saw the waiter coming towards their table. “Let us forget all about the past and enjoy our evening together, Bridget. Our time is running out.”

  No, Father Daly, Biddy thought, it’s not our time that’s running out – it’s your time.

  *  *  *

  Biddy dragged the meal out as long as she possibly could. She chewed every bite of her steak very slowly and deliberately. She then took her time equally slowly, choosing and eating a dessert.

  “It’s nice to see a young girl with a healthy appetite,” Father Daly said, signalling for another bottle of wine. His eyes darted from Biddy’s face to her modest bust. “And I’m delighted to see how well you’ve filled out since coming to England. You’re obviously looking after yourself well.” He paused for a moment. “This Fred fellow you’re marrying, does he treat you well?”

  “Yes,” Biddy replied honestly, “he treats me better than anybody has in me whole life.”

  “I hope,” the priest said, frowning deeply, “that he won’t cause us any problems in the future.” He reached a podgy hand across the table, and tilted Biddy’s chin to make her look at him. “You know I still intend to visit you? I’ll be back to England once or twice a year, and I’ll always come to see you. Let us never forget that we have a common bond, Bridget. God gave us the gift of a child. It wasn’t something we asked for . . . nor was it something we wanted. But God in his wisdom gave us that child, so it must have been for a reason.”

  He halted as the waiter returned with the wine and then continued when they were alone again. “I keep regular checks on our son.” he informed Biddy. “Being a priest I’m entitled to do that. He’s being brought up with a professional couple in Dublin – the father
is one of the top solicitors in the city who often acts on behalf of the church.”

  Biddy’s eyes widened in shock. “Do they know anything about me?”

  Father Daly took a sip of his wine. “They know you’re a poor orphan girl who got herself into trouble with a married man.” He leered at Biddy now, his eyes beginning to show the effects of the wine. “It’s true – technically, I am married to the church.” He leaned across the table. “I may be a priest of God,” he whispered thickly, “but I was created a man first – and I have a man’s needs.”

  Biddy shrunk back in her seat and checked her watch again.

  After dessert, they both ordered a cup of coffee. “Have whatever you like,” Father Daly said. “The church is paying the bill.”

  Biddy sipped at her coffee, while her free hand fiddled with her clip-on pearl earring. The earring suddenly clattered on to the table, and then bounced down on to the floor.

  Biddy put her cup into the saucer, then tried to look under the table. “Oh, Father,” she said apologetically, “I think me earring’s rolled under yer chair. Could you reach it for me?”

  “A pleasure for a fine young lady, Bridget.” Father Daly pushed his chair out from the table and bent down.

  Quick as a flash, Biddy took two small tablets from her dress pocket, and dropped them into the priest’s coffee. She lifted a teaspoon, and stirred the hot liquid, to help the tablets dissolve rapidly. Then, as the priest triumphantly exclaimed “Got it!”, Biddy sat back in the chair and tried hard not to smile.

  Whatever happened later on in the evening, she would have the pleasure of knowing that Father Daly would not have a comfortable night. Judging by the excellent past performance of the laxative tablets on Lizzie Lawless and Sally Taylor, she could expect a reaction fairly soon.

  Oh, the hours of secret laughter Biddy had enjoyed when she thought of Lizzie Lawless being confined to bed for days on end, due to a mysterious ‘weakness of the bowels’. Biddy had laughed even louder when she thought of the brassy blonde Sally, who had threatened her own position with the lads in the lodging house. The memory of Sally scuttling cross-legged and red-faced to the bathroom every five minutes, and then her hasty exit from Stockport, had been a tonic in itself.

  Now, it was Father Daly’s turn to suffer the physical indignity of the cramps and sweats, and the mad dashes to make it to the lavatory before an embarrassing accident occurred. At times of trouble – when she had no verbal or physical recourse – Biddy had found the laxatives to be a basic but utterly effective line of defence.

  *  *  *

  After coffee and a few more drinks in the bar, Biddy said she would like to go up to the bedroom.

  Father Daly’s eyes lit with delight. “Of course,” he said with a smile, “we can order more drinks with room service, if we require it.” He finished his brandy off with a flourish.

  As soon as they arrived at the bedroom door, Biddy excused herself and made for the bathroom a few doors down the corridor, leaving the priest to go into the bedroom on his own. She perched on the side of the claw-footed, enamel bath and waited. She hugged herself, rocking back and forth. Every few moments, she stopped and checked the time, wondering and worrying whether Ruby’s plan would work.

  Then suddenly, Biddy’s heart leapt into her mouth as she heard the thud of several sets of footsteps coming up the wooden stairs. She hoped and prayed they were the footsteps she had been waiting for all night. Quietly and cautiously, she opened the bathroom door just a fraction. Just wide enough for her to check as to whom the footsteps belonged.

  Then – like a bird that had just been released from captivity – Biddy’s heart soared. She flew out of the bathroom door along the corridor to where Tara, Shay and Fred were standing, outside Father Daly’s bedroom door. Fred came forward to greet her with outstretched arms.

  “Thank God!” Biddy cried, running forward and burying her face in Fred’s great chest.

  Hearing the noise, Father Daly opened the door, his tie discarded and his shirt open halfway down his well-fed stomach. He stood bewildered and speechless, his eyes and mind working hard against the combination of wine and brandy, trying to make sense of the scene before him.

  Tara moved first. “I think,” she said, in a cold, uncompromising tone, “that you might prefer us to speak in the privacy of the room.” Then, without waiting for an invitation, she brushed in past the priest, closely followed by her father, Biddy and Fred.

  Father Daly – realising something was seriously afoot – automatically slid straight into his superior clerical role. “Well, now,” he said, striding purposely across the bedroom. He stood, hands behind his back, against the window. “To what do I owe the honour of this unwarranted convoy?” His voice dripped sarcasm and disdain.

  Tara cut right across him. “What exactly is your business with Biddy?” she said, advancing towards the window.

  The priest cleared his throat and straightened his back. “I am not in the habit of being spoken to in such a manner, young lady, and I most certainly will not be interrogated by the likes of you.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to be interrogated by the Gardai back in Ireland?” Tara said now, her face a picture of disgust at the thought of all the things he had done to poor Biddy. “Or maybe the Bishop would like to hear all about a priest who has interfered with a young girl?”

  “I deny everything that you’ve accused me of,” the priest said in a superior, bumptious manner. “Where are all the witnesses to these dreadful accusations?”

  Shay stepped forward. “Maybe,” he said, eyeing the priest dangerously, “it’s not words that are needed here. It’s not as if we’re in holy Ireland now. Maybe, begod,” he turned to look at Fred, “we need to take a firmer hand.”

  The burly Fred suddenly moved across the room to face Father Daly. His big hand shot out, and pinned the rotund priest against the wooden cross of the window. “I don’t like what I’ve been hearing about you – about the things you’ve been doing to Biddy.”

  Father Daly’s blood pressure escalated. “This is preposterous!” he said, attempting to struggle out of Fred’s grip. “Take your hands off me – I’m a man of the cloth!”

  “A man of the cloth, me arse!” Shay spat. “You have no white collar on now, and in my opinion, you should never have been let wear one! You’re a disgrace to the church and all it stands for! Tamperin’ with a poor young girl like Biddy, when she came askin’ for yer guidance an’ help.”

  Fred suddenly snapped. His free arm moulded itself into a battering ram with a huge fist. It moved with lightning speed to connect with Father Daly’s jaw, while the other giant hand held him fast – as a cat’s paw would hold a mouse.

  Realising there was no point in even attempting retaliation or escape, the priest opted for submission. His shoulders slumped and his head lolled to the side, blood dribbling from his fleshy mouth. “You’ll have to answer for this,” he warned through red-coloured spittle. “I deny any accusations laid against me, and I’m prepared to do that in a court of law.”

  Tara pushed between Fred and the priest. “You,” she said, thrusting an accusing finger in the priest’s bloody face, “will most certainly answer for this. You will answer in the highest court – when you go to meet your Maker!” She paused. “Your guilt and sins are written all over your face. Even as a child I knew you were not what a priest should be. And if I sensed that awfulness about you, there must be others who felt the same.” Tara’s voice quivered, and her shoulders heaved with revulsion. “You are a reptile of the lowest order. Make no mistake, one way or another, you’ll pay for this. Tomorrow, I intend to write to the Bishop in Carlow and the parish priest in Tullamore, informing them of the terrible things you’ve done. Whether they choose to believe it or not, it will make them keep a watchful eye on you.”

  Father Daly’s face turned pale. To add to all this horrendous business, he now had an unusual nagging pain, low down in his stomach. “They won’
t believe a word from the likes of you. You, who were the talk of Ballygrace and Tullamore, cavorting around the place in a car with a married man – namely William Fitzgerald.”

  Biddy’s hands flew to cover her face. She couldn’t believe that the priest would say such a thing to her friend.

  Tara flinched inwardly, but showed no signs of it. “Unlike you,” she said, her head held high, “I have a clear conscience. I did nothing wrong with William Fitzgerald or any man while I was in Ireland.”

  The priest calmly took out a white handkerchief, and used it to blot up the blood pouring from his cut mouth. “Everyone knows that’s why you ran off to England. It’s you who should be seeking absolution for your sins – not me.”

  “Stop it!” Biddy suddenly screamed, tears streaming down her face. She pointed a finger at the priest. “You know exactly why I came to England . . . and you know that Tara only came to keep me company. She has never done anything wrong.” Her voice was broken, tortured now. “You are the most evil person I’ve ever known . . . and you’ve tried to ruin my life, and God knows how many other young girls’ lives.”

  The priest continued dabbing at his mouth, as though she had never spoken.

  “It’s all right, Biddy,” Tara said quietly, going over to put her arm around Biddy. “He’ll get what he deserves. When the Bishop receives the letter, he won’t be practising as a priest for much longer. I’m sure we’ll hear he’s retired quite shortly – although it’s swinging from the end of a rope he should be.”

  A violent tension hung in the air around the room. Tiny beads of perspiration appeared on the Father Daly’s forehead, due to the effort of clenching his buttocks together, to prevent the most humiliating accident that could ever befall a priest.

  “Biddy?” Fred motioned his fiancée to come to his side. “It’s up to you now. Just say the word and I’ll do him good and proper! I’d like to break his bloody neck. I don’t care if they lock me up and throw away the key. I’ll make sure he’ll never lay another hand on you – or any innocent young girl again!”