Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [20]
Molly thought that a thrift shop would be perfect. She and Emily toured the place and decided to put shelves here and clothes rails there. They would have a secondhand book section and Emily said she could grow a few plants from seed and sell them too. Together they made a list of people to approach, those who might give a few hours every week to working in the charity shop.
Molly knew a man who had the unlikely name of Dingo. He was a decent soul and would help them with his van, collecting things or stacking them. Emily had met several women who said they would be happy to help, but were a little anxious in case they wouldn’t be able to manage the till properly. Emily said she would check what permits they might need and if they had to apply for a change of premises; she promised she would deliver a fully planted window box to the Laundromat the following week to celebrate the whole deal. Molly said her husband Paddy’s friend had a lot of Associates in the pub who could do the refurbishments.
They decided to call the place St. Jarlath’s Thrift Shop, and Molly said it would be great to be partly in charge because if a nice jacket came in she could get first crack at it. Emily left with the air of someone who had completed a difficult and complicated assignment.
She stopped at a fishmonger and bought some smoked cod. Charles and Josie had not been great fish lovers or salad eaters when she arrived but, little by little, she was changing their ways. It was a pity that she couldn’t do anything to direct Noel, but the boy had built a shield about himself that even she couldn’t penetrate.
“Is there anything I can get you, Stella?” Father Flynn had brought her the usual pack of cigarettes.
“Not much, Brian, but thanks all the same.” She looked very down, not her usual gutsy self.
He hesitated asking any more. The future was bleak for her. What helpful words could he find?
“Any visitors?” he asked.
Stella’s eyes were dull. “No visitors to speak of,” she said, and as he looked at her with sympathy and with the realization he had no comfort to give, he saw for the first time a tear in her eye.
“I’m no good with words, Stella,” he began.
“You’re fine with words, Brian, and with getting me fags and a hairdresser—for all the bloody use it was.”
“Your hair looks very nice,” he said hopelessly.
“Not nice enough to make that no-hoper believe me.”
“Believe you about what, exactly?” Brian was confused.
“That he was the father of my child. He said he couldn’t remember having sex with me. That was nice, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, God, Stella, I’m so sorry.” There was real compassion in his face.
“It was probably my own fault. I told him all wrong. He’s a bit drinky, as I was indeed myself, and he couldn’t face it. He ran out of here. Ran, I tell you.”
“Maybe he’ll come back when he sees sense.”
“He won’t—he literally doesn’t remember. He’s not making it up.” She sounded resigned, defeated.
“Could you get a DNA test to prove he’s the father?”
“No. I thought about it, but if he doesn’t remember being there at her conception, there’s no point in asking him to be a father to her. No, she’ll have to take her chances like the rest of us.”
“Would it help if I had a word with him?” Brian Flynn felt that he should offer anyway.
“No, Brian, thanks, but no. If he ran when I told him, he would go into orbit if I sent a priest after him.” For a moment, there was a flash of the old Stella.
After supper that night in St. Jarlath’s Crescent Emily was busy explaining her day’s negotiations with Molly Carroll. Charles and Josie were drinking in every word.
Charles had news too. There would be a good-bye celebration for him in a few weeks’ time at the hotel—finger food, wine and beer, and a presentation. And would you believe who wanted to come to it, but Mrs. Monty—who was really Lady something. The woman who wore a fur coat, a big hat and pearls and nothing else: the hotel manager