Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [63]
Moira had learned little about Clara, except that she was long divorced from her husband and she had two married daughters: one working on an ecology project in South America and the other running a big CD and DVD store. She had originally taken on the heart clinic for one year, but it was now her baby and she would let nobody, particularly anyone like Frank Ennis, take away one single vestige of its power or authority.
Clara was particularly sympathetic about Moira’s mother having died. She said her own mother was straight out of hell, but she knew that this was not the case with everyone. Hilary, back at the clinic, had been heartbroken when her own mother had died.
Moira was to take the time she needed to sort out her family problems. It was as simple as that.
· · ·
Of course it wasn’t simple when she got back home to Liscuan. Moira had known that it wouldn’t be. Pat had completely broken down. He hadn’t milked the cows, he hadn’t fed the hens, he babbled about his father’s plan to sell the family home from under him and move in with Mrs. Kennedy. This did indeed appear to be the case.
Moira asked her father straight out. “Pat has probably got this all wrong, Da, but he thinks that you have plans to move in permanently with Mrs. Kennedy and sell this place.”
“That’s right,” her father said. “I intend to go and live with Mrs. Kennedy.”
“And what about Pat?”
“I’m selling up.” He shrugged, gazing around at the shabby kitchen. “Look around you, Moira. I can’t do it anymore. I’ve dealt with this all my life while you were having a fine time up in Dublin. I deserve a bit of happiness now.”
With every single client in her caseload, Moira knew what to do. She had known how to set things in order for Kitty Reilly, Judy and Lar at the heart clinic. Why was her own situation so totally impossible?
She spent the Monday helping Pat to look for accommodation. Then she wished her father well with Mrs. Kennedy and took the train back to Dublin.
In Chestnut Court, Frankie was crying again. Noel was beginning to think that he would never know what the crying meant. Some nights she didn’t sleep for more than ten minutes at a time. There was one level for food, but she’d just been fed and burped. Perhaps it was more wind. Carefully, he picked up his daughter and laid her against his shoulder, patting her back gently. She cried on. He sat down and laid her chest across his arm while he rubbed her little back to soothe her.
“Frankie, Frankie, please don’t cry, little one, hush now, hush now …” Nothing. Noel was aware that his voice was sounding increasingly anxious as Frankie cried on piteously. Perhaps for a nappy that needed changing? Could it be a changing job?
He was right. The nappy was indeed damp. Carefully he placed the baby on a towel spread over the table where they changed her. As soon as he removed her wet nappy, the crying stopped and he was rewarded with a sunny smile and a coo.
“You, my pet,” he said, smiling back at her, “are going to have to learn how to communicate. It’s no good just wailing. I’m no good at understanding what you want.”
Frankie blew bubbles and reached up towards the paper birds flying from the mobile above her head. As Noel stretched out his hand to reach for the cleaning wipes, to his horror she twisted away from him and began to slip off the table.
Quick as he was, he was not in time.
It felt as though everything were happening in slow motion as the baby began to fall from the table. As Noel froze in horror, she hit the chair beside, then fell to the floor. There was blood around her head as she started to scream.
“Frankie, please, Frankie,” he wept incoherently as he picked her up and clutched her to him. He couldn’t tell if she was hurt or where she was hurt or how badly. Panic