Master Of Falcon's Head

‘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?’

CHAPTER THREE (#u83f069d7-ebfa-53d2-9258-a1e0811c7ac2)

TAMAR’S room in Father Donahue’s presbytery was small and unpretentious, with woven rugs on the polished floor, and an iron bedstead that was softer than it looked. There was an old-fashioned washstand with jug and bowl, and a chest of drawers bigger than any Tamar had ever seen. The wardrobe, too, was huge, but at least she was able to hang out the more crushable of her dresses.

During the afternoon, while Father Donahue went about his duties, Tamar stayed indoors, and it was not until the early evening, when she thought everyone would be at their evening meal, that she ventured out again. Dressed in a light coat over a woollen dress, she walked down to the quayside, shivering a little in the chill wind that had arisen. The stars were very bright in an almost cloudless sky, and a pale moon was rising.

Tamar walked slowly, her arms wrapped about her, holding her coat in place, her hair, which had been smooth when she left the house, tangled into disorder by the wind. And yet, for all her anxieties of the day, her re-establishment in the place of her birth, and the violent scene with Ross Falcon, she felt more relaxed than she had done for some time. There was peace in the solitude, and a sense of well-being in the shrill cries of the birds. Isolated Falcon’s Wherry might be, but it possessed something London in all its tawdry splendour could never possess – for her at least – the feeling of belonging.

The track where the jetty petered out led steeply up the cliffs to Falcon’s Head, but below the impressive façade of that fortified dwelling, there was a cottage, deserted now, falling gradually victim to the encroaching weeds and vegetation that possessed its walls and prodded into every nook and cranny. This had been her grandfather’s cottage, owned, as were all the cottages in the village, by the Falcon estate, but now neglected and left to the fierce onslaught of the elements.

Tamar did not go right up to the cottage. Her shoes were hardly suitable for the rough track, and besides, it aroused too many memories in her. She wondered why it had been left to nature, and not re-tenanted. Obviously, from its appearance, it had never been used since her grandfather died and she left.

She turned back, stumbling a little in her haste, always conscious of the lights from the house on the headland. She wondered if Ross was there now, and if so, what he was doing. Virginia would be there, of course, and their child, whatever it had turned out to be. She must ask Father Donahue about the child. Surely that did not constitute curiosity? Father Donahue was loath to discuss the Falcons with her, and while she knew she could have the gossip in O’Connor’s hotel, or the Wherry tavern, she had no desire to hear about the Falcons from anyone else.

As she walked back along the quay, she wondered about Ross’s mother, too. She must be quite old now, in her seventies at least – old Bridget Falcon, the most arrogant Falcon of them all. Her eyes softened as she thought of the way her grandfather had always stood up to Bridget Falcon. He had not been afraid of her, as most of the villagers had been.

She turned back into the curving street that led towards Father Donahue’s house, and almost jumped out of her skin when a voice said: ‘Hello, Tamar,’ close to her ear. In the gloom she had not seen anyone nearby, but now she could make out a man’s silhouette. As she stared at him, she felt a wave of apprehension assail her, and then suddenly she recognized him.