Anne Mather - Master Of Falcon's Head

‘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.’