Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [52]
“I’m never going to say anything to them again,” Lisa said.
“Never is a long time. Now let’s get these potatoes into the microwave.”
Lisa sat down weakly and watched Emily moving expertly around this little place, which she had made completely her home, and suddenly it was easy to talk, to explain the shock of seeing her father with a prostitute last night, the realization that Anton did not see her as the center of his life, the fact that she had no money, nowhere to live, no career to speak of. Lisa spoke on in measured tones. She did not allow herself to get upset. There was something about Emily that made confiding easy—she nodded and murmured agreement. She asked the right questions and avoided the awkward ones. Lisa had never been able to talk like this before. Eventually she came to a full stop.
“I’m so sorry, Emily. I’ve been going on about myself all afternoon. You must have plans of your own.”
“I’ve telephoned Noel. He’ll be here around five. I’ll take Frankie back to Chestnut Court and Dingo can spring into action then.”
Lisa looked at her blankly.
“What action exactly, Emily? I’m a bit confused here. Are you suggesting that I live with Charles and Josie, because I honestly don’t think …”
“No, no, no. I’m going to live here again for a little bit, then who knows what will happen?” Emily looked as if it should have been obvious to anyone that this was going to happen.
“Yes, well … but, Emily, all my things are outside in Dingo’s car. Where am I going to live?”
“I thought you could go to live with Noel in Chestnut Court,” Emily said. “It would sort out everything.…”
Chapter Six
Moira Tierney was good at her job. She had a reputation for following up the smallest detail. With its faultless filing system, her office was a model for young social workers. Nobody ever heard Moira moan and groan about her caseload or the lack of backup services. It was a job and she did it.
Social work was never going to be nine-to-five; Moira expected to be called by problem families after working hours. In fact, this was often when she was most needed. She was never away from her cell phone, and her colleagues had become used to Moira getting up and leaving in the middle of a meeting because there was an emergency call. She was easy about it. It went with the territory.
Moira spent days and nights picking up the pieces for people where love had gone wrong: where marriages had broken down, where children were abandoned, where domestic violence was too regular. These had once been people filled with romance and hope, but Moira had not known them then. They wouldn’t have been in her casebook. It didn’t make her deliberately cynical about love and marriage; it was more a matter of time and opportunity.
At the end of a day Moira had little energy left to go to a nightclub. Anyway, even if she had she might well have had to take a call while on the dance floor—a call meaning that she would have to go deal with somebody else’s problems.
Yes, of course she would like to meet somebody. Who wouldn’t?
She wasn’t a beauty—a little squarish, with curly brown hair—but she wasn’t ugly either. Much plainer women than Moira had found boyfriends, lovers, husbands. There must be someone out there, someone relaxed and calm and undemanding. Someone much more peaceful than those she had left behind her at home.
When Moira visited Liscuan, she took the Saturday train across the country and the bus to the end of their road. She spent most of her time there cleaning up the house and trying to find out what benefits her father could claim. She came back the following day.
Nothing ever changed; in all the years since she had left to study in Dublin, things had been like this. Nothing altered.
People didn’t much like coming to the house anymore, and her father took to going to Mrs. Kennedy’s house, where she would give him a meal in return for his cutting logs for her. Apparently Mr. Kennedy had gone to England looking for a job. He may or may not have found one, but he had