Master of Falcon's Head Read online

  Tamar felt an awful tugging inside her suddenly at Emma’s casual comments. All of a sudden she was remembering Falcon’s Head again, and it seemed significant that she should be doing so after her feelings earlier in the evening at the gallery. To hide her emotional disorder, she exclaimed lightly:

  ‘What man was that, Emma?’

  Emma grimaced. ‘Only one, Miss Tamar. But he never came back from El Alamein.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Emma.’ Tamar was roused out of her black depression, and for a moment she was trying to imagine how Emma must have felt when the man she loved never returned. Was that why her devotion to her parents had never wavered? Had her emotional life died with this man?

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ Emma was saying now. ‘Too many years ago now for me to feel anything but a sense of nostalgia.’ Then her penetrating eyes met Tamar’s dark blue ones. ‘We all have our little sorrows, don’t we, Miss Tamar?’

  Tamar felt a surge of colour invade her cheeks. As always Emma was too perceptive.

  ‘Gosh!’ Tamar glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I must go and get my bath. If Mr. Hastings arrives before I’m ready, ask him to wait, will you?’

  She walked swiftly across to the bathroom, trying to shed her newly-aroused sensitivity. What was happening to her today? Why did it seem as though she had reached a crossroads? She was becoming fanciful. She was tired. She had told Ben she was tired, but he didn’t believe her. But she was. And she did need that break. A holiday!

  In a deep bath of scented water she lay back wearily and closed her eyes. Of course, Emma had no idea of her past, and yet, unwittingly, she had put her finger on the one thing that could disturb Tamar. Impatiently, she sat up and began to soap her arms thoroughly. She was being stupid and ineffective. Here she was, sitting in gloom, because she was remembering seven years ago when all this had first started. She ought to be remembering the past with agreeable pleasure at the knowledge that it was past. As it was she was behaving like some moonstruck teenager, allowing her emotions to rule her brain. She should be sitting here considering Ben’s proposal in a serious light, not contemplating the lonely splendour of Falcon’s Head, and the cold arrogance of its master.

  And yet, the more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that only in complete acceptance of the past could there be acceptance of the present. In spite of the bitterness she felt towards the past, it would always be there to torment her so long as she allowed it to do so.

  But what solution was there? How could she escape the bitterness? Unless…

  She shook her head violently. No, that was impossible!

  And yet the more she thought about it, the more it

  became imperative that she should satisfy herself once and for all that she had changed, completely. And the only way to do that was by going back, back to Falcon’s Wherry, back to the village in Southern Ireland where she had spent the first eighteen years of her life.

  She had been brought up by her grandparents. Her mother had died when she was born, and her father, a lazy, no-good Englishman, according to her grandfather, had not appeared again until much later. That he had returned for her at all had been a source of much amusement in the village. But then her grandparents were dead and there was nothing left for her in Falcon’s Wherry. Nothing at all, Tamar recalled bleakly, climbing out of the bath.

  As she dried herself she panicked a little. How could she go back? In what capacity? Falcon’s Wherry got few summer visitors. It was picturesque, but that was all. There was little there - apart from Falcon’s Head, of course.

  And as she thought of Falcon’s Head she knew what she must do. She must return as the artist she was, and paint Falcon’s Head again. Then she could destroy the old painting, and all the pain and heartache that went with it. That would be her holiday - a couple of months in Ireland.

  But how would Ben take to that? And what was she going to tell him when he asked for his answer? How could she expect him to understand why she was going to Ireland in the first place? Particularly, as she definitely wanted to go alone to disperse the ghosts that still threatened to haunt her.

  As she creamed her face later in her bedroom she wondered why she had any doubts about Ben, why she hesitated to take that initial step. If she was to go to Falcon’s Wherry how much easier it would be to go with Ben’s ring on her finger.

  But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t use him in that way. She would have to tell him that she needed this break, this trip into the past, and then she would give him her answer.

  As she had expected, Ben was violently opposed to her leaving England at all.

  ‘If you insist on taking a holiday, at least stay near enough for me to come visit you if you won’t let me come with you,’ he begged.

  ‘You don’t understand, Ben,’ she said awkwardly. ‘This place was my home.’

  ‘But you told me yourself that your parents are dead.’

  ‘So they are. You know my father died only six months after I arrived here.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Ben had known Trevor Sheridan. Wasn’t that how he had come to know his daughter?

  ‘Well then!’ Tamar sighed. ‘Ben, when I left Ireland I never expected - or wanted - to go back. But somehow it intrudes—’ She sought for words to explain. ‘It’s like - well, like something larger than life. I - I’ve got to go back - to restore it in my mind to its normal proportions. Try and understand me, Ben. I must go.’

  Ben looked brooding. ‘Was there a man?’ he asked huskily.

  Tamar’s face suffused with colour. She pushed back the heavy swathe of golden-coloured hair from her cheeks and said:

  ‘Not in the way you think.’

  ‘What other way is there?’

  Tamar swallowed hard. ‘I can’t tell you that. Let me go, then when I come back I’ll tell you the whole truth.’

  Ben grunted. ‘Do I have any choice?’

  ‘You could finish with me here and now. I wouldn’t blame you.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Not me, Tamar.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘All right, go to Ireland, to this horrible little village. But remember, if you don’t come back in six weeks, I’ll come for you.’

  Tamar nodded. ‘I can ring you, Ben. They do have phones.’

  Ben half-smiled. ‘You amaze me! All right, ring me when you know where you’re staying. Are there hotels in Falcon’s Wherry?’

  Tamar shook her head. ‘Not hotels. There’s one inn, I think it was called the Falcon’s Arms. I shall probably stay there to begin with. I may be able to hire a cottage later.’

  Ben grimaced. ‘The name Falcon figures pretty strongly in this place, doesn’t it?’ he remarked dryly.

  Tamar bent her head. ‘Yes. The Falcon family are the local - well, squires, I suppose you would call them.’

  ‘Hmn.’ Ben looked at her strangely. Her reactions to the name Falcon had not gone unnoticed. ‘Anyway, as you’re determined to go, at least allow me to see you off. Have you made any plans yet?’

  ‘No, not really. I thought - perhaps the end of this week.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Yes. The sooner I go, the sooner I shall be back.’

  ‘True enough. Will you fly?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll fly to Shannon. Falcon’s Wherry is on the west coast. I can arrange for a hired car to meet me at the airport. I intend to have my own transport.’

  ‘You could take my Mini, if you like,’ Ben offered.

  But Tamar shook her head. ‘No. I’ll be independent for a little while longer,’ she replied, smiling gently at him. ‘If - if I get lonely, I’ll ring you, and you can join me. Yes?’

  Ben squeezed her hand tightly. ‘Yes,’ he said, with feeling.

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 facade 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 door-posts, 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.

  ‘Ta
mar! 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.’