Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [87]
The conversation was tense and stilted, as it always was on the days after Linda had discovered that, yet again, she wasn’t pregnant. Clara and Hilary looked at each other. Years ago it had been so different. There were orphanages full of children yearning for happy homes. Today, there were allowances and grants for single mothers.
Clara wondered if Moira had any further news about the child she said would shortly be going into care. She’d said the little girl was a few months, exactly the same age as Declan and Fiona’s baby. Lucky little girl if she got Linda and Nick as parents. No child would find a more welcoming home, not to mention two besotted grannies. She must ask Moira about it tomorrow.
Clara let her mind wander to Frank’s apartment. She hoped he was being tactful and diplomatic with Des Raven. Had she stressed enough that he must sound delighted and welcoming? The first impression was crucial. This boy had waited for over a quarter of a century to talk to his father. Let Frank make it a good experience for him. Please.
Yet again the call went to the answering machine.
Frank was unreasonably annoyed. Did this guy spend any time at home? It must be about six-thirty in the morning. Where was he? Absently, later in the evening he dialed again, and to his surprise the phone was answered by a girl with what seemed a very strong Australian accent. Frank realized that Des Raven probably spoke like that too.
“I was looking for Des Raven …,” he began.
“You missed him, mate,” she said cheerfully.
“And who am I talking to?” Frank asked.
“I’m Eva. I’m housesitting.”
“And when will he be back?”
“Three months. I’m walking his dog and looking after his garden.”
“Oh, and are you his girlfriend?”
“Who are you?” she asked with spirit.
“Sorry, I’m just a … friend … from Ireland.”
“Well, he’s on his way to you, then.” Eva was pleased to have it all settled so easily. “Probably there now. No, wait, he’s going to England first because that’s where he lands. It’s near you, right?”
“Yes, under an hour’s plane journey.” Frank felt the entire conversation was very unreal.
“Right, then, he knows where to find you?”
“He does?”
“Well, he left here with a briefcase full of papers and notes and letters. He showed a big batch to me. I think they were all from people he had written to who had written back.”
“Yes, yes, indeed …” Frank was miserable.
“So, will I say who called him? I’m keeping a list beside the phone.”
“Have many people called?” he asked out of interest.
“Nope, you’re the first. What will I put down?”
“As you say, he’ll be here in a day or two.…” Frank Ennis had no wish to muddy these waters any further.
He contemplated telling Clara, but she was at this confounded dinner and might not value an interruption about his private life. It was impossible to know how women would react to anything. Look at Rita Raven, heading to the ends of the earth to have a child by herself! Look at how childishly pleased Clara had been to hear that Frank had fathered a child outside marriage!
He thought morosely about the women after Rita and before Clara. A line, not a long line, but they all had one thing in common: they were incredibly hard to understand.
The boy would have to get in touch through the hospital. He didn’t know Frank’s home address. He wasn’t going to blurt out the whole story to whoever he met first. Frank had no fears on that score. The boy, Des, as he must learn to think of him, had written that he understood the moral climate might not have changed or moved on in Ireland as much as it had in Australia. He wished Des had sent a picture of himself. Then he realized that the boy … all right, Des … didn’t know what his father looked like either.
Quite possibly there was a picture of Frank from many years ago. He hoped not. He hated being seen twenty-five years later, hair beginning to thin, stomach beginning to expand. What would Des Raven think of the father he had waited so long to meet? The