Master Of Falcon's Head

‘Yes, miss?’ he said, peering curiously at her. ‘Can I help you?’

Tamar advanced into the room, looking at him just as curiously. ‘Hello, Mr. O’Connor. It is Tim O’Connor, isn’t it?’

‘That’s me!’ The man frowned, and straightened. ‘Do I know—!’ He smote his hand on the bar. ‘God’s blood, is it Tamar Sheridan?’

Tamar relaxed a little. The initial sortie had been made without too much difficulty.

‘Yes, Mr. O’Connor, that’s my name. It’s a great pleasure to know you remember me.’

Tim O’Connor, a man in his late forties with greying dark hair, scratched his head disarmingly. ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, would I not be remembering our Kathleen’s daughter,’ he said, shaking his head now. ‘Sure and didn’t Kathleen and myself go to school together!’ He sighed. ‘You’re a lot like her, Tamar.’

Tamar smiled, and came across to perch on a bar stool. She knew her mother and Tim were not related, but they had been sweethearts, so she had been told, before her father had arrived and swept the pretty Kathleen off her feet. There was much more she had been told, but she had put most of it down to her grandfather’s dislike of all the English, and her father had never got along with his in-laws.

‘Tell me,’ said Tim, unable to contain his curiosity, ‘what are you doing here in Falcon’s Wherry? I heard tell you were painting – for a living!’ He sounded flabbergasted.

Tamar smiled, and lit a cigarette. ‘Well, so I am. At least, I’m on holiday at the moment. I just – wanted to come back, to see the old place.’ She glanced round. ‘Nothing seems to change here.’ She laughed a little.

Tim’s face had darkened. ‘Oh, there’s been changes,’ he said, his voice less jovial now. ‘My Betsy died last year.’

‘Bet – your wife?’ Tamar was horrified.

‘Yes, that’s right. Heart attack it was – sudden. One minute she was here, the next—’ He sighed. ‘Still, you’ll not be interested in my troubles,’ and when she would have protested, he went on: ‘Nothing ever stays the same, Tamar. Don’t you know that?’

Tamar bent her head. ‘I suppose I do.’ Then she looked up. ‘How about accommodation? Do you still let rooms if any summer visitors come?’

Tim shook his head. ‘No, not us. Not these two years now. Wasn’t the need for it, and then after—’ He shrugged. ‘You be wanting accommodation, Tamar?’

Tamar nodded. ‘I did. I do. That is, maybe there’s somewhere else—’ She frowned. She didn’t want to have to return to Limerick tonight, not now that she had actually broken the ice and come here. She doubted whether she would have the courage to drive down that village street a second time.

Tim was frowning now, too. ‘I don’t know what to suggest, Tamar. Ah; but here’s a friend of yours. Sure and he must have heard you were here.’

Tamar felt the colour drain out of her cheeks, and she swung round on her stool, only to say: ‘Father Donahue!’ with some relief, when she saw the priest standing in the doorway to the taproom.

‘Tamar! Is it really you?’ he exclaimed, his lined face beaming. ‘O’Rourke from the tavern, he said it was, but I couldn’t believe it. Tamar Sheridan, by all the saints!’

Tamar slid off her stool, allowing the Father to lead her across the room and flick open the shutters wide to let in more light. Then she said:

‘Oh, Father, it is good to see you. How are you?’

Father Donahue shook his head. ‘Sure, I’m fine. It’s yourself I’m thinking about. My, you’re thin, Tamar. What have you been doing with yourself? Are they all like beanstalks back in England?’

‘Now that’s not very complimentary,’ exclaimed Tim, behind them. ‘I think the lass looks fine.’

Tamar cast him a smile, and Father Donahue shook his head again. ‘Ah, well, it’s good to have you back. What is this? A holiday? Or are you back to stay?’

‘A holiday,’ said Tamar, feeling a faint sense of guilt. Since leaving Falcon’s Wherry she had written exactly half a dozen times to Father Donahue, while he had corresponded much more frequently, only giving up in later years when she did not reply. But how could she have explained to him why she wanted to sever all ties with the place of her birth?

The priest nodded now, and said: ‘Well, Tamar, are you going to come across to the house and have a glass of morning chocolate with me? Sure I know it’s late, and almost lunch time, but Mrs. Leary will need some time to prepare an extra place.’

‘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.