If you have built castles in the air,
your work need not be lost:

That is where they should be.

Now put the foundations under them.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU

Tara Flynn was first published by Poolbeg in Ireland in 2002 (you can see the original Irish cover below) and was published in 2003 in the UK and Commonwealth by Orion.

Tara Flynn is also available in audio-form and large print, and has recently been translated into Swedish.

You can buy Tara Flynn at Amazon

You can now read chapter one of Tara Flynn

Chapter One

1937

The draught from the open door scattered a flurry of snowflakes across the stone floor of the thatched cottage.

“You’ve left it till the last minute, as usual.” The old Irishman’s voice was low and full of reproach. He straightened his spine against the wooden rocking-chair, prepared for the usual conflict. “For God’s sake close the door behind you or we’ll lose the bit of heat we have.”

Shay Flynn carefully negotiated the step down into his father’s cottage. Too many times lately - due to the drink - he had missed it, and gone sprawling his full length across the floor. He closed the door and, with great concentration, made for a three-legged stool on the opposite side of the turf-fire from his father.

“I’ve come straight from Midnight Mass,” Shay said in a pious whisper. “I never wasted a minute.”

Old Noel gave a grunt of disbelief and closed the book he was reading. “Well,” he said, thumbing towards the small settle bed in the corner, “did you bring her anything?”

Shay stood up and fumbled deep in his overcoat pocket. “I got her a few apples and oranges ... that’s all I could find.” He placed them on the mantelpiece, beside the stocking that was pinned down by a heavy candlestick. “The shops were closing by the time I got into town ...”

Noel Flynn cleared his throat and spat in the fire. “Pity about the shop selling porter and whiskey. By the cut of you - you’d no trouble finding that.”

Shay bent his knees to sit back down on the stool; then he remembered. He straightened up again and dug into his other pocket. “Oh ... an’ Mrs Kelly gave me a few nuts and sugar sticks for her, too.” 

The old man looked over at the little bed again, checking the child was still asleep, then he got up and went into his bedroom. A few moments later he came back with a small package wrapped in brown paper. It was a child’s story book. “Here,” he said gruffly, “put that in the stocking for her. If that and the other things don’t fill it, you may dig deep in your pocket for any coppers the pub didn’t get.” He lifted his pipe from the mantelpiece. “I don’t suppose it will make any difference what you put in ... nothing but the doll will please her.”

Shay’s shoulders slumped. He pulled off his damp cap and twisted it between his hands. “Christ almighty ... how could I afford ten bob for a china doll? Where the hell does she think the money comes from?”

“It’s not where the money comes from that matters,” Noel replied, “but where it goes.”

Shay shook his curly dark head. “I have her brother to think of, too,” he whispered heatedly. “By the time I give the ould aunties somethin’ for him every week, and pay for the bite to eat here and everythin’... sure I’m left with nothing.”

“Your priorities are all wrong,” his father stated. “The child’s doll would have been paid for long ago if you’d left the porter alone.”

“Oh, feck off about the doll, will you?” Shay grabbed viciously at the stocking, wishing it was his father’s scrawny old neck. “She’ll get what I can afford to give her and it’ll have to do - whether it pleases her or not. This oul’ Christmas craic is nothin’ but a heap of shite!” 

Shay had come home tonight with more on his mind than Christmas. He’d come home with news that would benefit them all, but his father had spoiled things as usual - with his oul’ moanin’ and groanin’. Well, his father could feck off. He would keep his good news until he was sure it would be properly received.

“You have Tara spoiled,” Shay said bitterly. “She’s nothin’ but a little oul’ brat ... lookin’ for china dolls, when we’ve hardly a bit to ate in the house at times.” He sighed, suddenly weighed down by all the demands made on him. “An’ I’m going to have to go into Tullamore tomorrow, to give Joe a few coppers, as well.” He shook his head. “I can’t make meat of one and bones of the other.” It suited Shay to visit Tullamore for another, more important reason, but they could all wait until tomorrow to be told about that.

The slur in his voice and his coarse language made the old man cluck his tongue in annoyance. “Put the stuff in the stocking, will you - and get yourself off to bed. I don’t want the child disturbed at this hour of the night.”

There was a hostile silence between father and son. Shay fumbled about, dropping apples and oranges on the floor, while Noel struggled to hold his tongue and smoke his pipe at the same time. It was only the sleeping child that stopped him from venting his temper on his drunken, widowed son.

But neither of the warring men knew that Tara Flynn was not asleep.

She was lying on her little hay mattress, pretending. Pretending as usual, that she did not hear the adult conversations that went on in the room around her. Pretending that there was a Santy, when now she knew there was none. At five years of age - and as bright as a button - the flame-haired Tara Flynn was an expert at pretending.

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