Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [62]
Dr. Hat was indeed wearing headgear: a smart navy cap with a peak. He welcomed Moira in warmly and offered her a cup of hot chocolate.
“You don’t know what I’m here about yet,” she said cautiously. Maybe he would find this intrusive. She didn’t want to accept a hot chocolate under false pretenses.
“Yes, I do. Declan called me so that I could be prepared.”
“That was courteous of him,” Moira said, though she would have preferred to handle this on her own.
“I like Gerald. I have no problem going to see him. In fact, we could play chess. I’d like that.”
Moira’s shoulders relaxed. She would have the hot chocolate now. Sometimes things worked out well at work. Not always, but sometimes. Like now.
Just after she got back to her flat there was a phone call from home. Her brother, Pat, never called her usually: she was alarmed. She knew from experience that there was no point in hurrying him. He would take his time. “It’s Dad,” he said eventually. “He’s selling everything—the house, the land, the livestock. He’s moved out.”
“Moved out where?”
“He’s up with Mrs. Kennedy. He’s not coming back.”
“Well, can’t you bring him back?”
“I did once and he wasn’t best pleased,” Pat said. “Couldn’t you do something, Moira?”
“God Almighty, Pat, I’m two hundred miles away. You and Da have to sort this out between you. Go on up to Mrs. Kennedy. Find out what he’s up to. I’ll come down next weekend and see what’s going on.”
“But,” Pat asked, “what am I to do? I’ll have nowhere to go.”
“Why would he want to sell the farm?” Moira was impatient.
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Pat.
Moira sat in her chair for a while thinking about what to do. She knew how to run everyone else’s lives but not her own. Eventually she pulled herself together and got on the phone. She had kept Mrs. Kennedy’s number in her huge address book in case she ever needed to contact her father when he was chopping wood up there. She asked could she speak to her father and, to use Pat’s phrase, he certainly was not best pleased with the call.
“Why are you bothering me here?” he asked querulously.
“I’ll be down next weekend. I need to see you, Dad. We need to talk about all this.…” And she hung up before she could learn exactly how displeased her father was with this call.
Clara Casey turned out to be a friend rather than a foe. In fact, she even suggested that Moira come to lunch with her one day. This was not the norm at work. Her team leader would never have suggested a social lunch.
Moira was surprised, but very pleased. She was even more pleased when the restaurant turned out to be Quentins. Moira had thought they would go somewhere in the shopping precinct.
Clara was obviously known in the place. Moira had never been there before.
It was amazingly elegant, and Brenda Brennan, the proprietor, recommended the monkfish: it was beautifully prepared in a saffron sauce.
“I don’t suppose this restaurant is feeling any bad effects of the recession,” Clara said to Brenda.
“Don’t you believe it. They’re all drawing in their horns. Plus we have a rival now. Anton Moran is getting a lot of business for his place.”
“I read about it in the papers. Is he good?” Clara asked.
“Very. Huge flair and a great manner.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, he worked here once and came back to do the odd shift. A real heartbreaker—he has half the women in Dublin at his beck and call.”
Moira was thoughtful. Surely this was the name of the young man whom Lisa Kelly had a relationship with? She had mentioned his name more than once. Moira smiled to herself. For once, it looked as if Lisa might not find the world going entirely her way.
Clara was easy company. She asked questions and was helpful about Moira’s brother.
“You might want to stay there Monday morning and catch people at work,” Clara said. “We can change your days around—no problem.”
Moira wished they didn’t have to go back to the clinic. It would have been lovely to have had a bottle of wine and a real conversation