Minding Frankie (18 page)

Moira stood on the outside watching the people mingle and talk and come up to gurgle at the babies. It was a pleasant gathering, certainly, but she didn’t feel involved.

There was music in the background and Noel moved around easily,
drinking orange juice and talking to everyone. Moira watched Lisa, who was there looking very glamorous, her honey-colored hair coiled up under a little red hat.

Maud noticed Moira standing alone and came over to her, offering her the serving tray. “Can I get you another piece of cake?” she offered.

“No, thank you. I’m Moira, Frankie’s social worker,” she said.

“Yes, I know you are. I’m Maud Mitchell, one of Frankie’s babysitters. She’s doing very well, isn’t she?”

Moira leaped on this. “Didn’t you expect her to do well?” she asked.

“Oh, no, the reverse. Noel has to be both mother and father to her, and he’s doing a really great job.”

More solidarity in the community, Moira thought. It was as if there were an army ranked against her. She could still see in her mind the newspaper headlines:
SOCIAL SERVICES TO BLAME. THERE WERE MANY WARNINGS. EVERYTHING WAS IGNORED
 … “How exactly are you and your brother friends of Noel?” she asked.

“We live on the same street as he used to live, where his parents live now. But we’re hoping to go to New Jersey soon—we have the offer of a job.” Her face lit up.

“No work here?”

“Not for freelance caterers, no. People have less money these days, they’re not giving big parties like they used to.”

“And your parents—will they be sorry to see you go …?”

“No, our parents sort of went ages ago, we live with Muttie and Lizzie Scarlet, and it will be hard saying good-bye to them. Honestly it’s too long a story, and I’m meant to be collecting plates. That’s Muttie over there, the one in the middle telling stories.” She pointed out a small man with a wheeze that didn’t deter any of his tales.

Why had he brought up these two young people? It was a mystery, and Moira hated a mystery.

·   ·   ·

At the weekly meeting, Moira’s team leader asked for a report on any areas that were giving cause for alarm.

As she always did, she brought up the subject of Noel and his baby daughter. The team leader shuffled the papers in front of her.

“We have the nurse’s report here. She says the child is fine.”

“She sees only what she wants to see.” Moira knew that she sounded petty and mulish.

“Well, the weight gain is normal, the hygiene is fine—he hasn’t fallen down on anything so far.”

“He’s brought a flashy girl in to live there.”

“We are not nuns, Moira. This isn’t the nineteen fifties. It’s no business of ours what he does in his private life as long as he looks after that child properly. His girlfriends are neither here nor there.”

“But she says she’s
not
a girlfriend, and that’s what he says.”

“Really, Moira, it’s impossible to please you. If she
is
a girlfriend you’re annoyed and if she’s not you’re even
more
annoyed. Would anything please you?”

“For that child to be put into care,” Moira said.

“The mother was adamant and the father hasn’t put a foot wrong. Next business.”

Moira felt a dull, red flush rise around her neck. They thought she was obsessing about this. Oh, let them wait until something happened. The social workers were always blamed and they would be again.

But not Moira. She had made very sure of this.

The next morning, Moira decided to go and examine this St. Jarlath’s Thrift Shop, where the baby spent a couple of hours a day.

The place was clean and well ventilated. No complaints there. Emily and a neighbor, Molly Carroll, were busy hanging up dresses that had just come in.

“Ah, Moira,” Emily said, welcoming her. “Do you want a nice knitted suit? It would look very well on you. It’s fully lined, see, with
satin. Some lady said she was tired of looking at it in her wardrobe and sent it over this morning. It’s a lovely heather color.”

It was a nice suit, and ordinarily Moira might have been interested. But this was a work visit, not a social shopping outing.

“I really called to know whether you are satisfied with the situation in Chestnut Court, Ms. Lynch?”

“The situation?” Emily looked startled.

“The new ‘tenant,’ for want of a better word.”

“Oh, Lisa! Yes, isn’t it great? Noel would be quite lonely there on his own at night, and now they go over their college notes together and she wheels Frankie down here in the mornings. It’s a huge help.”

Moira was not convinced. “But her own relationship. She says she’s involved with someone else?”

“Oh, yes, she’s very keen on this young man who runs a restaurant.”

“And where is this ‘relationship’ going?”

“Do you know, Moira, the French—who are very wise about love, cynical but wise—say, ‘There is always one who kisses and one who turns the cheek to be kissed.’ I think that’s what we have here: Lisa kissing and Anton offering his cheek to be kissed.”

This silenced Moira completely. How had this middle-aged American woman understood everything so quickly and so well? Moira wondered would she buy the heather knitted suit. But she didn’t want them to think that somehow she was in their debt. She might ask a colleague to go in and buy it later.

There was a notice on the corridor wall just outside Moira’s office. The heart clinic in St. Brigid’s wanted the services of a social worker for a couple of weeks.

Dr. Clara Casey said they needed a report done that she could show to the hospital management to prove that the part-time help of a social worker might contribute to the well-being of the patients who attended the clinic. The staff, though eager and helpful, were
not aware of all the benefits and entitlements that existed, nor did they have the expertise to advise patients about how best to get on with their lives.

Moira looked at it vaguely. It wasn’t of any interest to her. It was just politics. Office politics. This woman, Dr. Casey, wanted to enlarge her empire, that’s all. Moira couldn’t have cared less.

She was surprised and very annoyed, therefore, when the team leader dropped in to see her about it. As usual, she admired the streamlined office and sighed, wishing that all the social workers could be equally organized.

“You see that job in St. Brigid’s—it’s only for two weeks. I’d like you to do it, Moira.”

“It’s not my kind of thing,” Moira began.

“Oh, but it is! No one would do it better or more thoroughly. Clara Casey will be delighted with you.”

“And my own caseload?”

“Will be divided between us all while you are away.”

Moira didn’t have to ask was it an order. She knew it was.

Moira had tidied up all the loose ends about Noel before her two weeks at St. Brigid’s. But she had one more stop to make. She called on Declan Carroll, who opened the door with his own son in his arms.

“Come on in,” he said. “The place is like a tenement. Fiona is going back to work tomorrow.”

“And how will you cope?” Moira was interested.

“Oh, there’s a baby mafia on this street, you know—we all keep an eye out for Frankie; well, they’ll do the same for Johnny. My parents are dying to get their hands on him, turn him into a master butcher like my dad! Emily Lynch, Noel’s parents, Muttie and Lizzie, the twins, Dr. Hat, Signora and Aidan. They’re all there for the children. The list is as long as my arm.”

“Your wife works in a heart clinic?” Moira had checked her notes.

“Yes, up in St. Brigid’s.”

“I’m going there for two weeks tomorrow, as it happens,” Moira said glumly.

“Best place you’ll ever work. There’s a great atmosphere in the place,” Declan Carroll said effortlessly, shifting the baby round in his arms.

“Do you think Noel is fit to raise a child?” Moira asked suddenly. If she had hoped to shock him into a direct answer, she had hoped in vain.

Declan looked at her, perplexed. “I beg your pardon?” he said slowly.

Nervously, she repeated the question.

“I can’t believe that you are asking me to give you a value judgment about a neighbor.”

“Well, you’d know the setup. I thought I’d ask you.”

“I think it’s best if I assume you didn’t just say that.”

Moira felt the slow, red flush come up her neck again. Why did she think that she was good at working with people? It was obvious that she alienated everyone everywhere she went.

“That social worker is a real pain in the arse,” Declan said that evening.

“I suppose she’s just doing her job,” Fiona said.

“Yeah, but we all do our jobs without getting people’s backs up,” he grumbled.

“Mostly,” Fiona said.

“What did she expect me to say? That Noel was a screaming alcoholic and the child should be taken away? The poor fellow is killing himself trying to make a life for Frankie.”

“They’re pretty black-and-white, social workers,” Fiona said.

“Then they should join the world and be gray like the rest of us,” Declan said.

“I love you, Declan Carroll!” Fiona said.

“And I you. I bet nobody loves Miss Prissy Moira, though.”

“Declan! That’s so unlike you. Maybe she has a steaming sex life that we know nothing about.”

Moira had sent her colleague Dolores in to buy the knitted suit. Dolores was a foot smaller than Moira and two feet wider. Emily knew exactly what had happened.

“Wear it in happiness,” she said to Dolores.

“Oh … um … thank you,” said Dolores, who would never have got a job in the Secret Service.

Moira wore the heather-colored suit for her first day at the heart clinic. Clara Casey admired it at once.

“I love nice clothes. They are my little weakness. That’s a great outfit.”

“I’m not very interested in clothes myself.” Moira wanted to establish her credentials as a hands-on worker. “I’ve seen too many people get distracted by them over the years.”

“Quite.” Clara was crisp in response and yet again Moira felt that she had somehow let herself down. That she had turned away the warmth of this heart specialist by a glib, smart remark. She wished, as she wished so many times, that she had paused to think before she spoke.

Was it too late to rescue things?

“Dr. Casey, I am anxious to do a good job here. Can you outline to me what you hope I will report to you?”

“Well, I am sure that you won’t hand my own words back to me, Ms. Tierney. You don’t seem that sort of person.”

“Please call me Moira.”

“Later, maybe. At the moment Ms. Tierney is fine. I have listed the areas where you can investigate. I do urge, however, some sensitivity when talking to both staff and patients. People are often tense when they are confronted with heart problems. We are heavily into the reassurance business and we emphasize the positive.”

Not since she was a student had Moira received such an obvious ticking-off. She would love to be able to rewind the meeting to the moment where she had come in; at the point when Clara had admired her outfit, she would thank her enthusiastically—even show her the satin lining. Someday she would learn, but would it be too late?

The head of the team had not said she must stay away from her caseload. Moira went home by way of Chestnut Court. She rang Noel’s doorbell. He let her in immediately.

They looked like a normal family. Lisa was giving the baby a bottle and Noel was making spaghetti Bolognese.

“I thought you were going to work somewhere else for two weeks?” Lisa said.

“I never take my eye off the ball,” Moira said. She looked at Lisa, who was now holding the infant closely and supporting the baby’s head as she had been taught to do. She was rocking to and fro and the baby slept peacefully. The girl had obviously bonded with this child. Moira could find nothing to criticize; on the contrary, there was something very safe and solid about it all. Anyone looking in might think they were a normal family instead of what they were: unpredictable.

“Must be dull for you here, Lisa,” she said. “And I thought
you
had a relationship.”

“He’s away at the moment. Anton went to a trade fair,” Lisa said cheerfully.

“Bit lonely for you, I imagine.” Moira couldn’t resist it.

“Not at all. It’s a great chance for Noel and myself to catch up on our studies. Do you want a bowl of spaghetti, by the way?”

“No, thank you. It’s very nice of you, but I have to get on.”

“Plenty of it …,” Lisa said.

“No … thanks again.” And she left.

Moira was going back to her own flat. Why had she not sat down and eaten a bowl of spaghetti? It smelled very good. She had hardly
any food at home: a little cheese, a couple of rolls. It wasn’t compromising her whole stance to have stayed and eaten some of their supper.

But as she walked home, Moira was glad she hadn’t stayed. This was all going to end in tears, and when it did she didn’t want to be anyone who had stayed and had dinner in their house.

As she walked along the canal, Moira saw a small man surrounded by dogs walking towards her. It was Noel’s father, Charles Lynch, marching along with dogs of different sizes and shapes: a spaniel, a poodle and a miniature schnauzer trit-trotting on their leads on one side and a huge Great Dane padding along on the other. Two elderly Labradors, unleashed, circled the group, barking joyously. Charles Lynch should have looked ridiculous. Instead he looked blissfully happy. In fact, Charles took his dog walking very seriously. Clients paid good money to have their pets exercised, and he never shortchanged them.

He recognized the stony-faced social worker who had been dealing with his son and granddaughter.

“Miss Tierney,” he said respectfully.

“Good evening, Mr. Lynch. Glad to see someone else apart from myself in this city is actually working.”

“But what easy work I have compared to yours, Miss Tierney. These dogs are a delight. I have been minding them all day, and now I am taking them home to their owners—except Caesar, here, who lives with us now.”

“There are two other dogs not on leads—whose are they?” Moira asked.

“Ah, those are just our local dogs, Hooves and Dimples, from St. Jarlath’s Crescent. They came along for the fun of it.” And he nodded in the direction of the old dogs that had just come along to share the excitement.