Читать книгу Master Of Falcon's Head - Anne Mather - Страница 7

TAMAR stayed overnight in Limerick. She had only visited the city once before and that was when she was on her way to England with her father, and it was such an attractive place that she longed to stay more than just one night. But it was no use putting off her eventual destination, and as the small Vauxhall she had hired was ready and waiting in the hotel car-park there was little point in delaying.

So the following morning she loaded her artist’s paraphernalia of easels, canvases, tubes of paint and brushes into the back of the car, along with the two cases she had brought as well, and set off.

It was a cool morning in late April, but already the hedges were burgeoning with colour, and the smell of damp grass and earth was in the air, mingling with the inescapable scent of the sea. She drove west from Limerick, sometimes following the line of the coast, and at others curving inland where the hedges were bright with fuchsias gallantly defying the icy blast of the Atlantic gales which often swept the coast at this time of the year. She had forgotten, or perhaps she had deliberately refused to acknowledge, the beauty of the island, and she felt a sense of nostalgia which overrode her natural inhibitions. Everything was so green, much greener than she remembered, while the rugged coastline was as harsh and dramatic as she could wish. Already her fingers itched to transfer some of that forbidding grandeur to canvas, and she realized that far from escaping from her profession, she was merely encouraging it. It was an artist’s paradise, and she ought to have realized it long ago.

Still, it had taken until now to gain the courage to return.

Falcon’s Wherry lay in a fold of the cliffs surrounded on three sides by water. The River Falcon lay to the north and east, while the surging waters of the Atlantic provided a natural barrier to the west. The valley of the Falcon was descended by a narrow winding road, from the head of which the white-painted cottages of the village could be clearly seen. So too could the stark, stone-built façade of Falcon’s Head. It stood on the cliff top, bleak and isolated, a symbol of power and arrogance in Tamar’s eyes, the family home of the Falcon family for generations. Local landowners, they had survived war and famine, always retaining their position whatever their circumstances. Indeed, Tamar could never imagine anyone defying them – least of all herself.

Dragging her eyes away from Falcon’s Head, she allowed the car to cruise gently down the curving descent, unwilling even now to admit to a certain nervousness. People were bound to recognize her, just as she was bound to recognize them. But apart from Father Donahue and one or two others, she had had few real friends. Her grandparents had not encouraged her to associate with the village boys and girls, and in consequence she had been rather a lonely child. Even so, there was bound to be speculation, particularly as any strangers in Falcon’s Wherry were an event, or at least they had been. Maybe things had changed here, too.

The main street of the village meandered alongside the river which had its estuary into the wild waters of the ocean beyond. Here at low tide there were mudflats and marsh land, and it was here that Tamar had first experienced the desire to paint. She had loved the flats at low tide, early in the evening when the sun was a dark red ball sinking in the west. Barefooted, she had searched for shells, and the eggs of seabirds, at one with the plaintive cries of the gulls, with the inquisitive roll of the sand crabs.

Tamar felt a reluctant smile curve her lips. There might be more to this visit than she had at first imagined.

Now she was driving between the cottages, many of which had women leaning curiously against their doorposts, wondering who was visiting Falcon’s Wherry and why. The children peered in at the car’s windows, showing little concern for their own safety, and Tamar was forced to drive at a snail’s pace.

There was the Wherry tavern, meeting place for all the men of the place, and where most of the village gossip had its inception. She saw the general stores and post office, the shop which sold practically everything one could ask for. And there was the slightly more imposing frontage of the Falcon’s Arms, its grey stone weathered with age and the harsh winter blast of the gales from across the Atlantic.

Tamar drove into the inn’s yard and halted by a row of flower tubs, colourful and appealing in the pale sunshine that was dispersing the clouds rapidly. She slid out, suddenly intensely conscious of the pale blue tweed slack suit she was wearing. While such attire might go unnoticed in Limerick, it could not fail to cause a stir in a place like Falcon’s Wherry, and she ought to have thought of that.

Still, what of it? she thought impatiently. She had no desire to fall victim to the petty conventions of the place again, and she was no longer the penniless teenager she had been when she left.

Hauling out her handbag, she slung it over her shoulder, and walked into the inn before anyone could approach her. As she entered the inn, she glanced round once, her expression softening as it lightened on the white walls of the church of St. Patrick opposite. She wondered if Father Donahue was still there.

Then, with a sigh, she walked purposefully along the inn passage to the taproom. Here shutters dimmed the light, and it struck cool after the mildness outside. A man was polishing the bar counter, and looked up in surprise when he saw her.

‘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.

‘Ross!’ exclaimed Father Donahue imploringly. ‘This is a house of God, a house of love, not hatred!’

Ross Falcon’s eyes turned in the priest’s direction. ‘Yes, Father, so it is. But this village is mine, is it not? Therefore I have the right to – to—’ his expression was harsh and tense, ‘—to inspect its visitors!’ There was contempt in every word he spoke. Then he straightened. ‘But as you say, this is God’s house, and I have no right to violate its sanctuary. Forgive me, Father!’ and without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.

After he had gone, there was a terrible, pregnant silence, and Tamar wished the floor would just open up and swallow her into its depths. She had imagined meeting Ross, she had imagined being coolly polite to him, treating him to a little of the hauteur he was so adept at meting out to others. But never in her wildest dreams had she supposed that he might react in the way he had. He hated her, he actually hated her! But why? What had she done to deserve such contempt? Surely she was the one who ought to have felt the hatred. Yet in his attitude, all her preconceived ideas of him had fallen away. As always, Ross Falcon was unpredictable, as unpredictable as his ancestors, Spaniards who had settled on the west coast years ago when their ship had foundered on the rocks that guarded the coastline.

Father Donahue walked wearily across the room and closed the door with deliberately slow movements. He was giving her time to collect her scattered senses, and she was grateful.

She fumbled in her handbag, found a cigarette, and lit it with trembling fingers. Then she inhaled deeply, and walking across to the fire held out her suddenly chilled hands to its warmth. She finished her chocolate in a gulp, and shivered.

Father Donahue leaned against the door and sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry, Tamar,’ he said, at last.

Tamar swung round. ‘You’re sorry?’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s not your fault. I ought never to have come here. Obviously things are much different from what I imagined.’

The priest came across to the fire and rubbed his hands together. ‘Maybe, maybe,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The Falcons were ever proud folk.’

Tamar shook her head. ‘He was so bitter!’ she murmured, almost to herself.

‘Yes.’ Father Donahue lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘Ross has much to be bitter about.’

‘Why?’ Tamar stared at him in surprise. ‘Why?’

Father Donahue shook his head. ‘You left here, Tamar. You went of your own accord. You dissociated yourself from our affairs here. Your reasons were your own, I suppose. Yet I can’t help but feel that in spite of your long association with this village, you’re merely here now in a transitory capacity, and it’s not up to me to reveal the personal circumstances of a man I respect and admire.’

Tamar’s cheeks burned. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said dully. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you.’ She compressed her lips, and then Mrs. Leary appeared to announce that lunch was ready.

The meal was served in the tiny dining alcove adjoining the parlour, and although the soup and trout and fresh fruit salad were delicious, Tamar could hardly force anything down. With gulps of water, she managed to swallow a little of the fish and a couple of mouthfuls of the fruit, but she felt her throat was constricted tightly, not allowing any relaxation.

When it was over and they rose from the table, she said:

‘I think perhaps it would be as well if I returned to Limerick tonight.’

Father Donahue shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, my dear child, please. Don’t leave on Ross’s account. I’m convinced he’ll apologize for his actions later—’

‘No!’ exclaimed Tamar swiftly. ‘I doubt that, Father,’ she amended, more calmly. ‘He – he obviously believes that I should not have come here, and quite honestly, I’m inclined to agree with him.’

‘Why did you come, Tamar?’ he asked suddenly. ‘You never did really tell me.’

She shrugged. ‘My reasons are slightly obscure,’ she murmured. ‘There’s a man in London, Ben Hastings, he wants to marry me.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes.’ Tamar bit her lip. ‘I – I never intended to marry anyone. I don’t love him. I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone any more.’

Father Donahue seized on her words. ‘Any more, Tamar?’

‘Yes. I guess I’m the frigid kind.’

Father Donahue half-smiled. ‘With that hair, I doubt it!’

Tamar smiled a little sadly herself. ‘Well, anyway, this place haunts me. I have a painting – do you remember it? – an oils, that I did of Falcon’s Head before I left. I guess I wanted to come here before I resigned myself to that other life.’ She sighed. ‘Can you understand that?’

Father Donahue frowned. ‘Are you sure it’s the place that haunts you, Tamar? Or is it Ross Falcon?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Father Donahue stifled an epithet. ‘God forgive me,’ he muttered, ‘of course you do!’ He smote his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Haven’t I just witnessed with my own eyes the reaction you had to him?’

Tamar’s hands were balled into fists. She liked the Father, he was the only man in Falcon’s Wherry with whom she could be completely herself, but even he should not know the depths of desolation she had once suffered over Ross Falcon.

‘You’re wrong, Father,’ she said tautly. ‘My reactions to Ross Falcon were the normal ones of anybody confronted with such arrogant hatred. I don’t know why Ross Falcon hates me, but if he does, then it’s as well that I go away. I have no desire to cause any trouble.’

Father Donahue looked impatient. ‘Tamar, there was trouble enough seven years ago. All right, go! Run away a second time, but don’t tell me that you’re indifferent towards Ross Falcon because I simply do not believe you.’ He stared angrily at her, roused out of his cool calmness. ‘You may hate him too, for all I know, but that was not indifference I sensed in this room!’

Tamar turned away. ‘You’re mistaken, Father.’

Father Donahue sounded sceptical. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, ‘if that’s so, why are you leaving? Your actions belie your words!’

Tamar twisted her hands together. Of course, Father Donahue was right. If she ran away a second time she would never come back, never discover the real truth of her feelings.

But did she want to know? Wasn’t she secretly afraid of what she might discover? And if she left, she would always be left with the picture of Falcon’s Head to haunt her. Was she such a weak person, hadn’t past experiences taught her anything? Where was the shell she had grown to protect her from just such situations? She was stupid and ineffective, and Father Donahue was right, she was leaving because she was afraid.

She swung round. ‘There’s nowhere for me to stay,’ she challenged.

‘That’s little excuse. You could stay here, at least temporarily.’ He glanced round. ‘I have room. And maybe we might be able to find you a house or a cottage to rent. There’s a place down near the beach, old Flynn’s cottage. He went to visit his sister in Cork in March, and he hasn’t returned.’

Tamar felt her nerves were stretched to fever pitch. Then she sighed, and hunched her shoulders.

‘All right,’ she said, a little tiredly. ‘I’ll stay.’

Father Donahue looked pleased. ‘Good. Now, shall we have a small glass of wine to celebrate?’