Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [156]
“I’m so pleased, Linda.” Clara spoke gently.
“So you and Frank had better polish up your babysitting skills,” Linda said with unnaturally bright eyes.
Moira left the clinic in high good humor. For once it appeared her talents had been recognized. It was one of those rare occasions when people actually seemed pleased with the social worker.
She had warned Linda about delays and bureaucracy and said the most important thing was to be quietly persistent, keeping even-tempered no matter what the provocation. Linda had been delighted with her, and moreover, Linda’s mother had given words of high praise.
This was a personal first.
Her steps took her past Chestnut Court, and she looked from habit at Noel and Lisa’s flat. Noel would be at work, but maybe Lisa was there packing her belongings. She was heading off to London soon. Anyway, no point in going in there and talking to Lisa and being accused of spying or policing the situation. She didn’t want to lose the good feeling that had come from the clinic, so she passed by.
Emily got a phone call at lunchtime. It was Noel. His voice was unsteady. She thought he sounded drunk.
“Everything all right, Noel?” she asked anxiously, her heart lurching. He should have been there to pick up Frankie. What could have happened?
“Yes. Everything’s fine.” He spoke like a robot. “I’m at the zoo, actually.”
“The zoo?” Emily was stunned. The zoo was miles away, on the other side of the city. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. If Noel was there, then he was safe; but then he was wandering around looking at lions and aviaries and elephants rather than picking up his daughter.
“Yes. I haven’t been here for ages. They’ve lots of new things.”
“Yes, Noel, I’m sure they do.”
“So I was wondering could you possibly keep Frankie for a while longer?”
“Of course,” Emily agreed, worried. Was he drunk? His voice sounded stressed. What could have brought all this on? “And are you at the zoo on your own?”
“Yes, for the moment.”
Noel had been over and over it in his mind. For a year he had been living a lie. Frankie was not his child. God knew whose child she was. He loved her like his own—of course he did. But he had thought she was his own child and had no one else to look after her. His name was on the birth certificate; he had loved her and looked after her and fed her and changed her. He had protected her, given her a life surrounded by people who loved her; he had made her his. Did he regret all this? She was a year old, her mother was dead—what sort of start in life would it be if he washed his hands of her now?
Could he bring up another man’s child as his own? He didn’t think so. She was someone else’s child; someone else had fathered her and walked away, got away with it. Should he find out who it was? Would it be a wild-goose chase?
And what sort of man would he be if he ran away now? Could he abandon her when she needed him every bit as much as when she was that tiny, helpless baby he had brought home from the hospital? He pictured the flat that was their home: Frankie’s toys on the floor, her clothes warming on the radiators, her photographs on the mantelpiece. Her favorite food in the kitchen, the baby lotions in the bathroom; he knew where she was every minute of the day. He remembered the horror of the night she’d been missing. Everyone had been out looking for her—so many people had been concerned for her safety. She was with Emily and Hat now, and when they went to the thrift shop, they’d take her with them. His own parents knew her as their grandchild. She knew everyone in the neighborhood; they were all part of her life, as she was part of theirs. Was he going to end all that?
But could he bring up another man’s child?
He needed a drink. Just the one, so he could see his way clearly.
When Moira