Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [57]
“That social worker is a real pain in the arse,” Declan said that evening.
“I suppose she’s just doing her job,” Fiona said.
“Yeah, but we all do our jobs without getting people’s backs up,” he grumbled.
“Mostly,” Fiona said.
“What did she expect me to say? That Noel was a screaming alcoholic and the child should be taken away? The poor fellow is killing himself trying to make a life for Frankie.”
“They’re pretty black-and-white, social workers,” Fiona said.
“Then they should join the world and be gray like the rest of us,” Declan said.
“I love you, Declan Carroll!” Fiona said.
“And I you. I bet nobody loves Miss Prissy Moira, though.”
“Declan! That’s so unlike you. Maybe she has a steaming sex life that we know nothing about.”
Moira had sent her colleague Dolores in to buy the knitted suit. Dolores was a foot smaller than Moira and two feet wider. Emily knew exactly what had happened.
“Wear it in happiness,” she said to Dolores.
“Oh … um … thank you,” said Dolores, who would never have got a job in the Secret Service.
Moira wore the heather-colored suit for her first day at the heart clinic. Clara Casey admired it at once.
“I love nice clothes. They are my little weakness. That’s a great outfit.”
“I’m not very interested in clothes myself.” Moira wanted to establish her credentials as a hands-on worker. “I’ve seen too many people get distracted by them over the years.”
“Quite.” Clara was crisp in response and yet again Moira felt that she had somehow let herself down. That she had turned away the warmth of this heart specialist by a glib, smart remark. She wished, as she wished so many times, that she had paused to think before she spoke.
Was it too late to rescue things?
“Dr. Casey, I am anxious to do a good job here. Can you outline to me what you hope I will report to you?”
“Well, I am sure that you won’t hand my own words back to me, Ms. Tierney. You don’t seem that sort of person.”
“Please call me Moira.”
“Later, maybe. At the moment Ms. Tierney is fine. I have listed the areas where you can investigate. I do urge, however, some sensitivity when talking to both staff and patients. People are often tense when they are confronted with heart problems. We are heavily into the reassurance business and we emphasize the positive.”
Not since she was a student had Moira received such an obvious ticking-off. She would love to be able to rewind the meeting to the moment where she had come in; at the point when Clara had admired her outfit, she would thank her enthusiastically—even show her the satin lining. Someday she would learn, but would it be too late?
The head of the team had not said she must stay away from her caseload. Moira went home by way of Chestnut Court. She rang Noel’s doorbell. He let her in immediately.
They looked like a normal family. Lisa was giving the baby a bottle and Noel was making spaghetti Bolognese.
“I thought you were going to work somewhere else for two weeks?” Lisa said.
“I never take my eye off the ball,” Moira said. She looked at Lisa, who was now holding the infant closely and supporting the baby’s head as she had been taught to do. She was rocking to and fro and the baby slept peacefully. The girl had obviously bonded with this child. Moira could find nothing to criticize; on the contrary, there was something very safe and solid about it all. Anyone looking in might think they were a normal family instead of what they were: unpredictable.
“Must be dull for you here, Lisa,” she said. “And I thought you had a relationship.”
“He’s away at the moment. Anton went to a trade fair,” Lisa said cheerfully.
“Bit lonely for you, I imagine.” Moira couldn’t resist it.
“Not at all. It’s a great chance for Noel and myself to catch up on our studies. Do you want a bowl of spaghetti, by the way?”
“No, thank you. It’s very nice of you, but I have to get on.”
“Plenty of it …,” Lisa said.
“No … thanks again.” And she left.
Moira was going back to her own flat. Why had she not sat down and eaten a