Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [44]
“You won’t go back to America and leave me here all on my own.…”
“No plans to do that, but I think you should set up some kind of a system for yourself from the very start. Like going to your mother and father for lunch on a Sunday every week.”
“I don’t know … Every week?”
“Oh, at least, and in time you should offer to take Declan and Fiona’s baby one evening a week to give them a night off. They’ll do the same for you.”
“You definitely sound as if you’re going to jump ship and you’re just building me up some support to keep me going,” Noel said.
“Nonsense, Noel. But you have to learn to do it without me. You’ll be on your own soon.” Emily had no plans to go back to New York for a while, but she must be practical and get this show properly launched on the road.
Father Flynn found a gospel choir, which sang at the funeral Mass down at his church at the welcome center for immigrants. Twins called Maud and Simon, who seemed to be related to Muttie Scarlet, prepared a light lunch in the hall next door. There were no orations or speeches. Declan and Fiona sat next to Charles and Josie; Emily had the bag of baby essentials while Noel held Frankie wrapped in a warm blanket.
Father Flynn spoke simply and movingly about Stella’s short and troubled life. She had died, he said, leaving behind a very precious legacy. Everyone who had come to know and care for Stella would support Noel as he provided a home for their little daughter.…
Katie was there with Garry and Lisa. She had only recently found out that Lisa was on the same course as Noel and had begun at the same time. They knew each other, had had coffee together once or twice; Lisa knew the story. Katie had hoped that Lisa would learn something from Noel—like that it was totally possible to get up and leave the safety of the family home. Home was not a healthy place to be, Katie thought, but there was no talking to Lisa, beautiful and restless as she had always been. Katie noticed that Lisa, for once, was not being distant and withdrawn as she so often was. Instead she was being helpful, offering to pass plates of food or pour coffee. She was talking to Noel in terms of practicalities.
“I’ll help you whenever I can. If you have to miss any lectures I’ll give you the notes,” she offered.
“People are being very kind,” Noel said. “Kinder than I ever expected.”
“There’s something about a baby,” Lisa said.
“There is indeed. She’s so very small. I don’t know if I’ll be able … I mean, I’m pretty clumsy.”
“All new parents are clumsy,” Lisa reassured him.
“That’s the social worker over there. Moira,” he said with a nod in her direction.
“She’s got a very uptight little face,” Lisa said.
“It’s a very uptight job. She’s always coming across losers like me.”
“I don’t think you’re a loser—I think you’re bloody heroic,” Lisa said.
Moira Tierney had always wanted to be a social worker. When she was very young she had thought she might be a nun, but somehow that idea had changed over the years. Well, nuns had changed, for one thing. They didn’t live in big, quiet convents chanting hymns at dawn and dusk anymore. There were no bells ringing and cloisters with shadows. Nuns, more or less, were social workers these days, without any of the lovely ritual and ceremony.
Moira was from the west of Ireland, but now she lived alone in a small apartment. When she first came to Dublin, she went home to see her parents every month. They sighed a lot because she hadn’t married. They sighed over the fact that she was working among the poor and ruffians instead of bettering herself.
They sighed a great deal.
After her mother died, her visits became less frequent. Now she would go back just once or twice a year to the ramshackle farmhouse she had once called home.
She wished that her block of flats had a garden but the other residents had all voted for more car parking, so it was just yards of concrete outside. Still, democracy ruled, she thought, and made do with window boxes that were the envy of her neighbors. She liked her work, but it was rarely, if ever, straightforward.