Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [84]
“And thinking they’re knocking people’s eyes out with envy,” Simon said.
“But what’s the point of asking people to your house and then upsetting them?” For Muttie this was a real problem.
The twins sighed.
“I wonder, has he asked her yet?” Maud said.
“If he doesn’t want his dinner burned to a crisp, I’d say he has.”
“Who’s this?” Muttie asked with interest.
“A desperately old man called Frank Ennis is proposing to some very old woman.”
“Frank Ennis? Does he work up in St. Brigid’s?”
“Yes, he does. Do you know him, Muttie?”
“Not personally, but I know all about him from Fiona. Apparently, he is their natural enemy in the clinic where she works. Declan knows him too. He says your man is not a bad old skin, just obsessed with work.”
“That will all end if he marries the old lady,” Simon said thoughtfully.
“It will change for the old lady too, remember,” Maud reminded them.
“Has he paid you?” Muttie asked suddenly.
“Yes. He left an envelope for us,” Simon confirmed.
“Good. That’s fine, then. I hear from Fiona that he’s a total Scrooge and won’t pay his bills until the last moment.”
“He did mention thirty days’ grace,” Simon said.
“You didn’t tell me!” Maud said.
“I didn’t need to. I said to him we operated a money-up-front, no-credit business. He totally understood.”
Simon was immensely proud of his negotiating skills and his command of the language of commerce.
Clara Casey was looking at the letter that Frank had handed to her.
“Are you sure you want me to read it?” she asked. “He didn’t write it to me.…”
“He didn’t know about you,” Frank explained.
“But the question is what does he know about you?” Clara asked gently.
“Read it, Clara.”
So she began to read a letter from a young man:
You will be surprised to hear from me. My name is Des Raven and I believe that I am actually your son. This will probably strike terror into your heart and you will expect someone searching for a fortune turning up on your doorstep. Let me say at once that this is not at all the case.
I live very happily here in New South Wales, where I’m a teacher and—just to reassure you—where I will go on living!
If my presence in Dublin will cause embarrassment to you and your family, I will quite understand. I just hoped it might be possible for us to meet at least once when I am in Ireland. My mother, Rita Raven, died last year. She got a heavy pneumonia and didn’t have it properly treated.
I have not lived at home for the past six years while I went to teachers’ training college, but I always came home once a week and cooked her a meal. Sure, she put the washing through the machine for me, but she liked to do that. Truly she did.
Funny thing, I never asked her any questions about where I came from and what kind of a guy was my father. I didn’t ask because she didn’t seem very easy about the whole thing. She would say she had been very young and very foolish at the time and hadn’t it all worked out so well. She said she never regretted one day of having me, which was good. And Australia had been good to her. She arrived here pregnant and penniless when she had me and then she trained as a hotel receptionist.
She had a couple of romances: one fellow lasted six years. I didn’t much like him but he made her happy … and then I think something marginally more interesting for him turned up. She had a lot of good friends and kept in touch with her married sister, who lives in England. She was forty-two when she died, although she claimed to be thirty-nine and I’d say, all in all, she had a good and happy life.
Of you, Frank Ennis, I know nothing except your name on my birth certificate. I found you on the Internet and called the hospital from here and asked were you still working there and they said yes.
So here goes with the letter!
You only have my assurance that I will not make trouble for you and your present wife and family. I also know that you didn’t know anything about where I lived. Mum was very adamant about that. She told