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.
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
