Master Of Falcon's Head. Anne Mather

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