Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [27]
Noel was swept along in the whirl of activity of it all.
The thrift shop was up and running; he and his father had painted it to Emily and Josie’s satisfaction and already people had begun to donate items to be sold. Some of these would be useful for Noel’s new flat, but Emily was adamant: a fair price must be paid for them. The money was for St. Jarlath, not to build a comfortable lifestyle for Noel.
He had little time alone with Stella. There were so many practicalities to be sorted out. Did Stella want the child to be brought up as a Catholic?
Stella shrugged. The child could abandon it once she was old enough. Possibly to please Josie and Charles, there should be a baptism and First Holy Communion and all, but nothing too “Holy Joe.”
Were there any relations on Stella’s side whom she might want to involve?
“None whatsoever.” She was clipped and firm.
“Or anyone at all from the various foster homes from the past?”
“No, Noel, don’t go there!”
“Right. It’s just that when you’re gone, I’ll have no one to ask.”
Her face softened. “I know. Sorry for snapping at you. I’ll write her a letter telling her a bit about myself and about you and how good you’ve been.”
“Where will you leave the letter?” Noel asked.
“With you, of course!”
“I mean, if you wanted to leave it in a bank or something …,” Noel offered.
“Do I look to you like someone who has a bank account, Noel? Please …”
“I wish you weren’t going to leave, Stella,” he said, covering her thin hand with his.
“Thanks, Noel. I don’t want to go either,” she said. And they sat there like that until Father Flynn came in for a visit. He took in the scene and the hand-holding, but made no comment.
“I was just passing,” he said foolishly.
“Well, I was on my way anyway, Father.” Noel stood up to leave.
“Maybe you could stay a minute, Noel. I wanted Stella to tell me what, if anything, she wanted for her funeral.”
The question didn’t faze Stella at all.
“Listen, Brian, ask Noel’s family what they want. I won’t be here. Let them have whatever is easiest.”
“A hymn or two?” Brian Flynn asked.
“Sure, why not. I’d like a happy clappy one. You know, like a gospel choir, if possible.”
“No problem,” Father Flynn said. “And burial or cremation or body to science?”
“Don’t think my body would tell anyone anything they didn’t know already.” Stella considered it. “I mean, if you smoke four packs a day, you get cancer of the lung. If you drink as much as I did, then you get cirrhosis of the liver. There isn’t a part of me sound enough for a transplant, but what the hell … it could be an awful warning.” Her eyes were very bright.
Brian Flynn swallowed.
“We don’t talk about this sort of thing much, Stella, but do you want a Requiem Mass?”
“That’s the one with all the bells and whistles, isn’t it?”
“It gives a lot of people comfort,” Father Flynn said diplomatically.
“Bring it on then, Brian,” she said good-humoredly.
Chapter Four
Lisa Kelly had been very bright at school; she had been good at everything. Her English teacher encouraged her to do a degree in English literature and aim for a post in the university. Her sports teacher said that with her height—by the age of fourteen she was already nearly six feet tall—she was a natural and she could play tennis or hockey, or both, for Ireland. But when it came to it, Lisa decided to go for art. Specifically for graphic art.
She graduated from that, first in her year, and was instantly offered a position in one of the big design firms in Dublin. It was at that point that she should have left the family home.
Her younger