by Maeve Binchy
Emily had, in one week, managed to get more information out of Noel about the nature of his work than his parents had learned in years. She had even been able to collect brochures, which she went over with Noel. This course looked good, but rather too general; the other looked more specific, but might not be relevant to his work at Hall’s. Little by little, she had learned of the mundane clerical officer–type work Noel did all day—the matching of invoices, paying of suppliers and gathering of expenditure data from departments at the end of the month. She discovered that there were young fellows in the company who had “qualifications,” who had a degree or a diploma, and they climbed up what passed for a corporate ladder in the old-fashioned builders’ providers store that was Hall’s.
Emily spent no time regretting time wasted in the past or wrong decisions or Noel’s wish to leave his school and not continue with education. When they were alone one night, she said to him that the whole business of beating a dependency on alcohol was often a question of having adequate support.
“Did I ever tell you that I was battling against alcohol?” Noel asked her.
“You don’t need to, Noel. I’m the daughter of an alcoholic. I know the territory. Your uncle Martin thought he could do it on his own. We lived through that one.”
“Maybe he didn’t choose AA. Maybe he wasn’t a social man. He could have been a bit like me and didn’t want a lot of other people knowing his business,” Noel said in his late uncle’s defense.
“He wasn’t nearly as good a man as you are, Noel. He had a very closed mind.”
“Oh, I think I have a closed mind too.”
“No, you don’t. You’ll get help if you need it. I know you will.”
“It’s just I don’t go along with this thing ‘I’m Noel. I’m an alcoholic’ and then they all say, ‘Ho, Noel’ and I’m meant to feel better.”
“People have felt better for it,” Emily said mildly. “They have a great success rate.”
“It’s all a matter of ‘me and my illness’; it’s making it so dramatic for them all, as if they are heroes of some kind of thing that’s working itself out onstage.”
Emily shrugged. “So AA doesn’t do it for you. Fine. One day you might need them. They will still be there, that’s for sure. Now let’s look at these courses. I know what CPA means, but what are ACA and ACCA? Tell me the difference between them and what they mean.”
And Noel could feel his shoulders relaxing. She wasn’t going to nag him. That was the main thing. She had moved on and was asking his advice on other matters. Where could she get timber to make window boxes? Would his father be able to make them? Where might Emily get some regular paid work? She could run an office easily. Would it be a good idea to get a washing machine for the household, as they were all going to be so busy raising money for St. Jarlath’s statue?
“Emily, you don’t think that will really happen—the statue business, do you?”
“I was never more sure of anything in my life,” Emily said.
Katie Finglas went to the hospital again. Stella Dixon looked worse than before: her face thin, her arms bony and her round stomach more noticeable.
“This has got to be a really good hairdo, Katie,” Stella said, as she inhaled the cigarette down to her toes. As usual, the other patients kept watch in case a nurse or hospital official should come by and catch Stella in the act.
“Have you set your eye on someone?” Katie asked. She wished that she could take a group of her more difficult clients into this ward so they could see the skin-and-bones woman who knew nothing ahead of her except the certainty that she would die shortly after they did the cesarean section to remove her baby. It made their problems so trivial in comparison.
Stella considered the question. “It’s a bit late for me to have my eye on anyone at this stage,” she said. “But I am asking someone to do me a favor, so I have to look normal, you know, not mad or anything. That’s why I thought a more settled type of hairstyle would be good.”
“Right, we’ll make you look settled,” Katie said, taking out the plastic tray that she would put over the hand basin to wash Stella’s thin, frail-looking head with its pre-Raphaelite mass of red curly hair. She had styled it already, but the curls kept coming back as if they had decided not to take any notice of the diagnosis that the rest of her body was having to cope with.
“What kind of a favor is it?” she asked, just to keep the conversation going.
“It’s the biggest thing you could ever ask anyone to do,” Stella said.
Katie looked at her sharply. The tone had changed and suddenly the fire and life had gone out of the girl who had entertained the ward and made people smuggle her in packets of cigarettes and do sentry duty so that she would not be discovered.
“Call for you, Noel,” Mr. Hall said. Nobody ever telephoned Noel at work. The few calls he got came in through his cell phone. He went to Mr. Hall’s office nervously. This was a time he would normally have had a drink; it was the low time of morning and he always liked a drink to help him cope with an unexpected event.
“Noel? Do you remember me, Stella Dixon? We met at the line dancing night last year.”
“I do, indeed,” he said, pleased. A lively redhead who could match him drink for drink. She had been good fun. Not someone he would want to meet now, though. Too interested in the gargle for him to meet up with her these days. “Yes, I remember you well,” he added.
“We sort of drifted away from each other back then,” she said.
It had been a while back. Nearly a year. Or was it six months? It was so hard to remember everything.
“That’s right,” Noel said evasively. Almost every friendship he had sort of drifted away, so there was nothing new about this.
“I need to see you, Noel,” she said.
“I’m afraid I don’t go out too much these days, Stella,” he began. “Not into the old line dancing, I’m afraid.”
“Me neither. I’m in the oncology ward of St. Brigid’s, so in fact I don’t go out at all.”
He focused on trying to remember her: feisty, jokey, always playing it for a laugh. This was shocking news indeed.
“So would you like me to come and see you sometime? Is that it?”
“Please, Noel, today. At seven.”
“Today …?”
“I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.”
He saw Mr. Hall hovering. He must not be seen to dither. “See you then, Stella,” he said, and wondered what on earth she wanted to see him about. But, even more urgently, he wondered how he could approach a cancer ward to visit a woman he barely remembered. And approach her without a drink.
It was more than any man could bear.
The corridors of St. Brigid’s were crowded with visitors at seven o’clock. Noel threaded his way among them. He saw Declan Carroll, who lived up the road from him, walking ahead of him and ran to catch him up.
“Do you know where the female oncology ward is, Declan?”
“This lift over here will take you to the wing. Second floor.” Declan didn’t ask who Noel was visiting or why.
“I didn’t know there were so many sick people,” Noel said, looking at the crowds.
“Still, there’s lots that can be done for them these times compared to when our parents were young.” Declan was always one for the positive view.
“I suppose that’s the way to look at it, all right,” Noel agreed. He seemed a bit down, but then Noel was never a barrel of laughs.
“Right, Noel. Maybe I’ll see you for a pint later? In Casey’s, on our way home?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t drink anymore,” Noel said in a tight little voice.
“Good man, yourself.”
“And, anyway, I was actually barred from Casey’s.”
“Oh, well, to hell with them then. Big barn of a place anyway.” Declan was being supportive, but he had a lot on his mind. Their first baby was due in the next several weeks and Fiona was up to high doh over everyth
ing. Plus his mother had knitted enough tiny garments for a multiple birth even though they knew they were going to have only one baby.
He could have done with a nice, undemanding pint with Noel. But that was obviously not on the cards now. He sighed and went purposefully towards a patient who was busy making plans to come out of hospital soon and wanted Declan to try to hurry up the process. The man’s diagnosis said that he would never leave the hospital, sooner or later, and would die there within weeks. It was hard to rearrange your face to see something optimistic in this, but somehow Declan managed it.
It went with the territory.
There were six women in the ward. None of them had great, tumbling red curly hair.
One very thin woman in the corner bed was waving at him.
“Noel, Noel, it’s Stella! Don’t tell me I’ve changed that much!”
He was dismayed. She was skin and bone. She had clearly made a huge effort: her hair was freshly washed and blow-dried, she had a trace of lipstick on and she wore a white Victorian nightdress with a high neck and cuffs. He remembered her smile, but that was all.
“Stella. Good to see you,” he mumbled.
She swung her thin legs out of the bed and gestured for him to pull the curtains around them.
“Any ciggies?” she whispered hopefully.
“In here, Stella?” He was shocked.
“Particularly in here. Well, you obviously didn’t bring me any, so reach me my sponge bag there. The other girls will keep watch.”
He looked on, horrified, as she pulled a cigarette from behind her toothpaste, lit it expertly and made a temporary ashtray out of an old envelope.
“How have you been?” he asked and instantly wished he hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t been well—otherwise why was she wasting away in front of his eyes in a cancer ward? “I mean, how are things?” he asked, even more foolishly.
“Things have been better, Noel, to be honest.”
He tried to imagine what Emily might say in the circumstances. She had a habit of asking questions that required you to think.
“What’s the very worst thing about it all, Stella?”
She paused to think, as he had known she would.
“I think the very worst thing is that you won’t believe me,” she said.
“Try me,” he said.
She stood up and paced the tiny cubicle. It was then he realized that she was pregnant. Very pregnant. And at exactly that moment she spoke to him.
“I was hoping not to have to bother you about this, Noel, but you’re the father. This is your baby.”
“Ah, no, Stella, this is a mistake. This didn’t happen.”
“I know I’m not very memorable, but you must remember that weekend.”
“We were wasted that weekend, both of us.”
“Not too drunk to create a new life, apparently.”
“I swear it can’t be me. Honestly, Stella, if it were, I would accept … I wouldn’t run away or anything … but … but …”
“But what, exactly?”
“There must have been lots of other people.”
“Thanks a lot for that, Noel.”
“You know what I mean. An attractive woman like you must have had lots of partners.”
“I’m the one who knows. Do you honestly think I would pick you out of a list of candidates? That I’d phone you, a drunk in that mausoleum where you work, in some useless job? You live with your parents, for God’s sake! Why would I ask you, of all people, to be the father of my child if it wasn’t true?”
“Well, as you said yourself, thanks a lot for that.” He looked hurt.
“So you asked me what would be the worst thing. I told you and now the worst has happened. You don’t believe me.” She had a defeated look.
“It’s a fantasy. It didn’t happen. I’d remember. I haven’t slept with that many women in my life, and what good would I be to you anyway? I am, as you say, a useless drunk with a non-job in Hall’s, living with my mother and father. I’d be no support to you. You’ll be able to bring this child up fine, give him some guts, fight his battles for him, more than I would ever do. Do it yourself, Stella, and if you think I should make some contribution, and I don’t want you to be short, I could give you something—not admitting anything—just to help you out.”
Her eyes blazed at him.
“You are such a fool, Noel Lynch. Such a stupid fool. I won’t bloody well be here to bring her up. I’m going to die in three or four weeks’ time. I won’t survive the operation. And the baby is not a boy, by the way, she’s a girl, she’s a daughter, her name is Frankie. That’s what she’s going to be called: Frances Stella.”
“This is only a fantasy, Stella. This illness has made you very unhinged.”
“Ask any of them in the ward. Ask any of the nurses. Wake up to the real world, Noel. This is happening. We have to do something about it.”
“I can’t raise a child, Stella. You’ve already listed all the things against it. Whatever chance she’s going to have, it can’t be with me.”
“You’re going to have to,” Stella said. “Otherwise she’ll have to go into care. And I’m not having that.”
“But that would be the very best for her. There are families out there who are dying to have children of their own …,” he began, blustering slightly.
“Yes, and some other families, like the ones I met when I was in care, where the fathers and the uncles love to have a little plaything in the house. I’ve been through it all and Frankie’s not going to have to cope with it just because she will have no mother.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“To mind your daughter, to give her a home and a secure childhood, to tell her that her mother wasn’t all that bad. Fight her battles. The usual things.”
“I can’t do it.” He stood up from his chair.
“There’s so much to discuss …,” Stella began.
“It’s not going to happen. I’m so sorry. And I’m really sorry to know how bad your illness is, but I think you’re painting too black a picture. Cancer can be cured these days. Truly it can, Stella.”
“Good-bye, Noel,” she said.
No matter how often he said her name she would not turn towards him.
He walked to the door and looked around once more. She seemed to have shriveled even further. She looked tiny as she sat there on her bed. He fancied that the other women in the ward had heard most of their conversation. They looked at him with hostility.
On the bus home Noel realized that there was no way he could force himself to sit at the kitchen table eating a supper that Emily would have kept warm for him. Tonight was not a time to sit and talk about saints and statues and fund-raising and accountancy and business management classes. Tonight was a night to have three pints in some pub and forget everything. He headed for the pub where Paddy Carroll, Declan’s father, took his huge Labrador dog every night. With any luck, at this time of night Noel might get away without being spotted.
The beer felt terrific. Like an old friend.
He had lowered four pints before he realized it.
Noel had hoped that he might have lost the taste for it, but that hadn’t happened. He just felt a great sense of irritation and annoyance with himself that he had denied himself this familiar and friendly relaxation. Already he was feeling better. His hand had stopped shaking, his heart wasn’t pounding as it had been.
He must stay clear and focused.
He would have to go back to St. Jarlath’s Crescent and take up some semblance of ordinary life. Emily would, of course, see through him at once, but he could tell her later. Much later. No need to announce everything to everyone all at once. Or maybe no need to announce anything at all. It was, after all, some terrible mistake. Noel would know if he had fathered a child with that girl.
He would know it.
It had to have come from her mind having been affected by this cancer. Anybody normal would not have selected Noel, of all people, as the fath
er of their child. Poor Stella was far from normal and he pitied her, but this was ludicrous.
It could not be his child.
He waved away the suggestion of a fifth pint and moved purposefully towards the door.
He didn’t see Declan Carroll having a drink with his father and looking curiously at the man who had claimed to have given up alcohol but who had just downed four pints of beer at racing speed.
Declan sighed.
Whatever Noel had heard at the hospital, whoever he had visited, it had not made him happy.
Paddy Carroll patted his son’s hand.
“In a matter of weeks it will all be behind you. You’ll have a great little son and the waiting bit will be forgotten.”
“Yes, Dad. Tell me what it was like when Mam was expecting me.”
“I don’t know how I survived it,” Declan’s father said, and told the old, familiar story again from the point of view of the father of the baby.
The mother’s role in the birth had been merely minimal, apparently.
Noel had only opened his mouth when Emily looked up at him sharply. It was as if she had called the meeting to order.
“We’re all tired now, it’s late. Not a good time to discuss the running of a thrift shop.”
“A what?” Noel shook his head as if that would somehow settle the collection of thoughts and ideas that were nestling in it. His parents looked disappointed. They were being carried along by the enthusiasm of Emily’s planning and they were sorry to see it being cut short.
But Emily was adamant. She had the whole household ready for bed in no time.
“Noel, I saved you some Italian meatballs.”
“They were just delicious,” Josie said. “Emily can turn her hand to anything.”
“I don’t think I really want anything. I stopped on the way home, you see …,” Noel began.
“I did see,” Emily said, “but these are good for you, Noel. Go on into your room and I’ll bring a tray in to you in five minutes.”
