Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [59]
“I don’t think so, Moira. No point in troubling him, really, or adding to his worries.”
“I like playing things by the book,” Moira said primly.
“There are books and books,” Hilary said enigmatically.
“If I am to write a report, I’ll need to know his side of things as well.”
“Leave him until you’ve nearly finished,” Hilary advised.
And as she so often did these days, Moira felt she wasn’t handling things as well as she might have. It was as if Hilary and the clinic were drawing away from her. She had meant to be there as their savior but somehow playing it by the book had meant that she had stepped outside her brief and that they were all withdrawing their support and enthusiasm.
The story of her life.
Moira worked on diligently.
She saw that there was a case for having a social worker attend one day a week. She looked through her notes. There was Kitty Reilly, possibly in the early stages of dementia, conducting long conversations with saints. There was Judy, who definitely needed home help but had no idea where to turn to find it. There was Lar Kelly, who gave the appearance of being an extroverted, cheerful man but who was obviously as lonely as anything, which was why he kept dropping into the clinic “just to be sure,” as he put it.
A social worker would be able to point Kitty Reilly in the direction of care a few days a week, find an aide for Judy and arrange for Lar to go to a social center for lunch and entertainment.
It was time to approach the great Frank Ennis.
She made an appointment to see him on her last day in the clinic. He was courteous and gracious—not at all the monster she had been told about.
“Ms. Tierney!” he said, with every sign of pleasure at meeting her.
“Moira,” she corrected him.
“No, no, Clara says you are a ‘Ms.’ person for sure.”
“Really? And did she say anything else about me?” Moira was incensed that Clara had somehow got in ahead of her.
“Yes. She said you were probably extremely good at your job, that you were high in practicality and doing things by the book and low in sentimentality. All the hallmarks of a good social worker, it would appear.”
It didn’t sound that way to Moira. It sounded as if Clara had said she was a hard-faced workaholic. Still, on with the job.
“Why do you think they shouldn’t have the part-time services of a social worker?” she asked.
“Because Clara thinks the hospital is made of money and that there are unlimited funds that should be at her disposal.”
“I thought you and she were good friends …,” Moira said.
“I like to think we are indeed friends, and more, but we will never see eye-to-eye about this bottomless-pit business,” he said.
“You really do need someone part-time, you know,” Moira said. “It would round it all off perfectly; then St. Brigid’s can really be said to be looking after patients’ welfare.”
“All the social workers and people in pastoral care are run off their feet in the hospital already. They don’t want to be sent over to that clinic, coping with imaginary problems from perfectly well people.”
“Get someone new in for two or three days a week.” Moira was firm.
“One day a week.”
“One and a half,” she bargained.
“Clara is right, Ms. Tierney: you have all the skills of a negotiator. A day and a half a week and not a minute more.”
“I feel sure that will be fine, Mr. Ennis.”
“And will you do it yourself, Ms. Tierney?”
Moira was horrified even at the thought of it. “Oh, no! No way, Mr. Ennis. I am a senior social worker. I have a serious caseload. I couldn’t make the time.”
“That’s a pity. I thought you could be my friend in court: my eyes and ears, curb them from playing fast and loose with expenses and taxis.” He seemed genuinely disappointed not to have her around the place, which was rare these days. Most people seemed to be veering away from her.
But of course it was totally impossible. She could barely keep up with her own work, let alone take on something new. And yet she would be sorry to leave the place.
Ania had brought in some shortbread for their afternoon tea to mark the fact that Moira was