Minding Frankie (17 page)

No love, no thanks, no explanation, no good-byes. She looked around the house as if she had never seen it before. She realized it was the way her mother looked at things.

Not long ago Katie had said Lisa was turning into her parents and that she should leave home as soon as possible. She longed to tell Katie that she had finally taken her advice but she would wait until she had found somewhere to stay. It would not be in St. Jarlath’s Crescent with Charles and Josie, no matter what Dingo thought, and no matter how Emily might try to persuade her.

Back at the Lynches’ house, Emily wanted to know how it had all gone. She was relieved that there had been no confrontation. She had feared that Lisa would say more than she meant to.

“I’m never going to say anything to them again,” Lisa said.

“Never is a long time. Now let’s get these potatoes into the microwave.”

Lisa sat down weakly and watched Emily moving expertly around this little place, which she had made completely her home, and suddenly it was easy to talk, to explain the shock of seeing her father with a prostitute last night, the realization that Anton did not
see her as the center of his life, the fact that she had no money, nowhere to live, no career to speak of. Lisa spoke on in measured tones. She did not allow herself to get upset. There was something about Emily that made confiding easy—she nodded and murmured agreement. She asked the right questions and avoided the awkward ones. Lisa had never been able to talk like this before. Eventually she came to a full stop.

“I’m so sorry, Emily. I’ve been going on about myself all afternoon. You must have plans of your own.”

“I’ve telephoned Noel. He’ll be here around five. I’ll take Frankie back to Chestnut Court and Dingo can spring into action then.”

Lisa looked at her blankly.

“What action exactly, Emily? I’m a bit confused here. Are you suggesting that I live with Charles and Josie, because I honestly don’t think …”

“No, no, no. I’m going to live here again for a little bit, then who knows what will happen?” Emily looked as if it should have been obvious to anyone that this was going to happen.

“Yes, well … but, Emily, all my things are outside in Dingo’s car. Where am I going to live?”

“I thought you could go to live with Noel in Chestnut Court,” Emily said. “It would sort out everything.…”

Moira Tierney was good at her job. She had a reputation for following up the smallest detail. With its faultless filing system, her office was a model for young social workers. Nobody ever heard Moira moan and groan about her caseload or the lack of backup services. It was a job and she did it.

Social work was never going to be nine-to-five; Moira expected to be called by problem families after working hours. In fact, this was often when she was most needed. She was never away from her cell phone, and her colleagues had become used to Moira getting up and leaving in the middle of a meeting because there was an emergency call. She was easy about it. It went with the territory.

Moira spent days and nights picking up the pieces for people where love had gone wrong: where marriages had broken down, where children were abandoned, where domestic violence was too regular. These had once been people filled with romance and hope, but Moira had not known them then. They wouldn’t have been in her casebook. It didn’t make her deliberately cynical about love and marriage; it was more a matter of time and opportunity.

At the end of a day Moira had little energy left to go to a nightclub. Anyway, even if she had she might well have had to take a call while on the dance floor—a call meaning that she would have to go deal with somebody else’s problems.

Yes, of course she would like to meet somebody. Who wouldn’t?

She wasn’t a beauty—a little squarish, with curly brown hair—but she wasn’t ugly either. Much plainer women than Moira had found boyfriends, lovers, husbands. There must be someone out there, someone relaxed and calm and undemanding. Someone much more peaceful than those she had left behind her at home.

When Moira visited Liscuan, she took the Saturday train across the country and the bus to the end of their road. She spent most of her time there cleaning up the house and trying to find out what benefits her father could claim. She came back the following day.

Nothing ever changed; in all the years since she had left to study in Dublin, things had been like this. Nothing altered.

People didn’t much like coming to the house anymore, and her father took to going to Mrs. Kennedy’s house, where she would give him a meal in return for his cutting logs for her. Apparently Mr. Kennedy had gone to England looking for a job. He may or may not have found one, but he had never come back to report.

Moira’s brother, Pat, was left to his own devices. He worked around the place, milking the two cows and feeding the hens. He went for a couple of pints in Liscuan village on a Saturday night, so Moira had very little conversation with him. It made her sad to see him dress himself up in a clean shirt and put on hair oil for his weekly outing. Any more than in her own, there was no sign of a love in Pat’s life.

Pat said little about it all, just burned the bottom of one frying pan after another as he cooked bacon and eggs for supper every night. This cramped little farmhouse would never know the laughter of grandchildren.

It was lonely going home to Liscuan but Moira did it with a good grace. She could tell them nothing about her life in Dublin. They would be shocked if they knew she had dealt with an eleven-year-old girl constantly raped by her father and now pregnant, or a battered wife, or a drunken mother who locked her three children in a room
while she went to the pub. Nothing like this happened in Liscuan, or so the Tierneys thought.

So Moira kept her thoughts to herself. This particular weekend she was glad of the time. She needed to think something through. Moira Tierney believed that you often had a nose for a situation that wasn’t right, and this was your role in the whole thing. After all that, what those years of training and further years on the job taught you was to recognize when something wasn’t right.

And Moira was worried about Frankie Lynch.

It seemed entirely wrong that Noel Lynch should be given custody of the child. Moira had read the file carefully. He hadn’t even lived with Stella, the baby’s mother. It was only when she was approaching her death and the baby’s birth that she had got in touch with Noel.

It was all highly unsatisfactory.

Admittedly, Noel had managed to build up a support system that looked pretty good on paper. The place was clean and warm and adequately stocked with what was necessary for the baby. The sterilizing for bottles was set up, the baby bath in position. Moira couldn’t fault any of that.

His cousin, a middle-aged, settled person called Emily, had stayed with him for a time, and she still took the baby with her wherever she went. And sometimes the baby stayed with a nurse who had a new baby of her own and was married to a doctor. Very safe environment. And there was an older couple called Signora and Aidan who already looked after their grandchild.

There were other people too. Noel’s parents, who were religious maniacs and were busy drumming up a petition to erect a statue for some saint who died thousands of years ago; then there was a couple called Scarlet: Muttie and Lizzie and Simon and Maud—they were part of the team. And there was a retired doctor who seemed to be called Dr. Hat, of all things, who was supposed to be particularly soothing to infants, apparently. All reliable people, but still …

It was all too bitty, Moira thought: a flimsy daisy chain of people,
like the cast of a musical. If one link blew away, everything could crash to the ground. But could she get anyone to support her instinct? Nobody at all. Her immediate superior, who was head of the team, said that she was fussing about nothing—everything seemed to be in place.

She had tried to enlist the American cousin on her side, but to no avail. Emily appeared to have a blind spot about Noel. She said he had made amazing strides in turning his life around so that he could look after his daughter. He was persevering at his job. He was even studying at night to improve his work chances. He had given up alcohol, which he found very hard to do, but he was resolute. It would be a poor reward for all this if the social workers were going to take his child away. He had promised the baby’s mother that the child would not be raised in care.

“Care might be a lot better than he can offer,” Moira had muttered.

“It might, but then again it might not.” Emily was not to be convinced.

Moira had to hold back. But she was watching with very sharp eyes for anything to go out of step.

And now it had.

Noel had brought a woman in to live in the flat.

He had done up the spare room for her to sleep in.

She was young, this woman—young and restless. One of those tall, rangy women with hair down to her waist. She knew nothing about babies and seemed defensive and resentful when asked about any parenting skills.

“I’m not here permanently,” she had said over and over. “I’m in a relationship elsewhere. With Anton Moran. The chef. Noel is just giving me somewhere to stay, and in return I’m helping him with Frankie.” She shrugged as if it were simple and clear to the meanest intelligence.

Moira didn’t like her at all. There were too many of these bimbos around the place, leggy, airheaded young women with nothing in their minds except clothes. You should
see
the dress that this Lisa
had hanging on her wall! A red and blue designer outfit probably costing the earth.

Whatever doubts Moira had had about Noel’s judgment, they had been increased a hundred-fold by the arrival of Lisa Kelly on the scene.

There were great plans afoot for a double christening. Frankie Lynch and Johnny Carroll, born the same day, minded by all the same people, were to be baptized together. No one but Emily saw the irony in their names. Frankie and Johnny were as famous as apple pie at home. She started to hum the familiar lyrics
“Frankie and Johnny were lovers …”
then shuddered when she remembered the line
“He was her man, he done her wrong.”
Well, that wasn’t going to happen with this Frankie and Johnny! She decided to keep it to herself, but she had to write to Betsy about it:

Moira was surprised to be invited. Noel had said that there would be a baptism in Father Flynn’s church down by the Liffey, and a little reception in the hall afterwards. Moira was very welcome to join them.

She tried to put the right amount of gratitude onto her face. They didn’t need to do this, but perhaps they were trying to underline the stability of their situation.

“What kind of christening gift would you like?” she said suddenly.

Noel looked at her in surprise.

“There’s no question of that, Moira. Everyone is giving a card to both Frankie and Johnny; we’re going to put them in albums for
them with the photographs so that they will know what this day was like.”

Moira felt very reproved and put down. “Oh, yes, of course, certainly,” she said.

Noel couldn’t help being pleased to see her wrong-footed for once. “I’m sure everyone will be delighted to see you there, Moira,” he said with no conviction whatsoever.

There was a much larger congregation than Moira had expected at Father Flynn’s church. How did they know all these people? Most of them must be friends of Dr. Carroll and his wife. Surely Noel Lynch wouldn’t know half the church?

The two godmothers were there, Emily holding Frankie, and Fiona’s friend Barbara, who was also a nurse in the heart clinic, carrying Johnny. The babies, freshly fed and changed, were beautifully behaved and for the most part slept through the ceremony. Father Flynn kept it brief and to the point. The water was poured over their little foreheads—that of course woke them up, but they were quickly soothed and calmed—vows were made for them by the godparents and they were now part of God’s Church and His family. Father Flynn hoped that they would both find happiness and strength in this knowledge.

Nothing too pious, nothing that anyone could object to. The babies took it all in their stride. Then everyone moved to the hall next door, where there was a buffet and a huge cake with the names Frankie and Johnny iced on it.

Maud and Simon Mitchell were in charge of the catering, Moira remembered the names being listed among Noel’s babysitters for Frankie. They seemed out of place in her vision of Frankie’s life. But then, so did this whole christening party.