by Maeve Binchy
There was no escape.
He sat there waiting for her and the storm that would follow. Oddly there was no storm. She never mentioned the fact that he had taken up drinking again. And Emily had been right—he did feel better when he had something to eat. She was clearing up and about to go when she asked sympathetically if it had been a bad day.
“The worst ever,” he said.
“Mr. Hall?”
“No, he was fine. Just something mad and upsetting happened later on in the day. That’s why I went back to the pints.”
“And did that help?” She seemed genuinely interested.
“At first it did a bit. It’s not working now and I’m just annoyed with myself for staying off it for all those days and nights and now running straight back when I get a bit of an upset.”
“Did you sort out the upset?” She was completely nonjudgmental. She looked at him, inviting him to share whatever it was, but she would have left if there was no information to hear.
“Please sit down, Emily,” Noel begged, and he told the whole story, haltingly and with a lot of repetition. Mainly he said that he could not have fathered a child without remembering it.
“I have so little sex, Emily, that I’m not likely to forget the little bit I do have.”
She was very still as she sat and listened to him. Her face changed from time to time. It was concerned and distressed when she heard how gaunt and painful Stella’s face had become. She inclined her head to show sympathy as Noel told how Stella had said that if she were to choose a father from anyone in the world he would be the very last choice—a drunk who was a loser and still lived with his parents.
It was only when Noel came to the end of his tale, when he got to the part where he had walked away from Stella, the hospital and the problem, that Emily’s face became confused.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“Well, what else could I do?” Noel was surprised. “It has nothing to do with me. There’s no point in my being there—it’s adding to the whole charade. The girl’s head is unhinged.”
“You walked out and left her there?”
“I had to, Emily. You know what a tightrope I’m walking. Things are quite bad enough already without inviting the Lord knows what kind of fantasies in on top of me.”
“You say that things are bad enough for you, Noel? Right?”
“Well they are bad.” He sounded defensive.
“Like you have terminal cancer?” she asked him. “Like you were abused when you were in foster care? Like you are going to be dead a month from now, before you see the only child you will ever have? No, indeed, Noel, none of these things has happened to you, yet you just said things are very bad for you.”
He was stricken.
“That’s all you think. You think how things are for you, Noel. Shame on you,” she said, her face full of scorn. This was the nearest he had come to having a best friend and now she was turning against him.
“Emily, please sit down. You asked me what was wrong, so I told you.”
“Yes, you did, Noel.” She made no movement to sit down.
“So? Won’t you stay and discuss it?”
“No. Why should I join in this charade, as you call it? Don’t make faces at me, Noel. These are your words. Why should I not think of the perilous tightrope that I am walking in my life? I’m sorry, but everyone in all this is becoming … what did you call it—‘unhinged in the head’? Why should I let people surround me with their fantasies?” She was almost at the door.
“But they’re not fantasies, Emily. It’s what happened.”
“That’s right. They’re not fantasies. It’s what actually happened. But hey, what the hell? It’s got nothing to do with you, Noel. Good night. I’m sorry, but that is all I feel capable of saying.” And she was gone.
He had thought that this day just couldn’t get any worse. That’s why he had told her. In a few short hours two women had turned away from him in disgust.
And somehow it had made the day worse than ever.
Betsy,
There is a drama unfolding here which we would have considered compelling when we were kids and went to the movies on Saturday afternoons. But oddly it’s too sad to talk about just now. I will tell you how it turns out.
OF COURSE you should go out with Eric! I told you a hundred times he is not interested in me. He just said that as a devious way of getting to know you better.
I know! I know! But the longer I live, the more crazy I think everyone is.
Love,
Emily
Katie Finglas was locking up the hair salon. It had been a long day and she was tired. It was Garry’s night out. Once a week he and a group of the lads kicked a ball around a pitch and planned strategy for the year.
Katie would have loved to have gone home and had a long bath while he made them some French onion soup. Then they could have sat by the fire and talked about the big decision they had to make. People thought that Katie and Garry had plenty of time to talk to each other all day since they worked together in the salon. Little did people know how rarely they had a chance to snatch a five-minute coffee together. And then there were always people within earshot and it was impossible for Katie and Garry to talk about their plans.
So she was looking forward to a proper discussion. One where they would put all the arguments on one side and then the other. They would list the reasons why they must lease the flat over their salon: they needed to expand, they had no storage place, they had no proper staff areas, they would be able to install little manicure stations and could fit in tables and mirrors for at least six more customers, how it would mean that they would be able to compete on equal ground with the successful health and beauty salons in Dublin.
It was too much to take on. Too big and spread out so they would use only half the space upstairs. And just suppose they did do it—then they would have to do up some of the rooms and sublet them in order to try to get a return on their money. And just suppose that they did rent them—what kind of people would they get? Suppose they turned out to be the tenants from hell, making a lot of noise and leaving litter, making nonsense of all Katie and Garry’s hard work?
Katie sighed as she set the alarm outside her premises.
Across the street she saw Father Flynn, that cheerful priest from the center down the road, the one who had introduced her to poor Stella Dixon up in St. Brigid’s.
Stella had said that she didn’t normally have a lot to say for the clergy, but Brian Flynn was a very decent fellow and didn’t go on about sin and redemption and things. He did what a priest should do—he brought her cigarettes and did little jobs for people.
Katie called out to him and was delighted when he suggested they go for a coffee in a small Italian place on the corner.
Father Flynn spoke briefly and testily about his friend the priest who had fallen down the Spanish Steps and was still malingering in Rome. He also spoke about his greedy landlord, who had evicted him, and how it was impossible for a man of simple lifestyle, like himself, to discover any kind of budget accommodation.
“I’m such an undemanding person, really,” Brian Flynn said, full of self-pity. “If people only knew how little I want in terms of style or comfort.”
Katie looked at him thoughtfully across her cappuccino. “Exactly how undemanding?” she asked. She suddenly saw a solution to everything.
Father Flynn would be the perfect tenant.
“Finish up your coffee there and come with me,” she said, draining her cup and heading back to the salon that she had just locked up.
By the end of the month, he had moved into his new home. His friend Johnny had put up a few bookshelves for him and Katie’s husband had found him a secondhand fridge where he could keep his milk, butter and the odd can of beer. His only duty was to make sure that he locked the salon properly and put on the burglar alarm whenever he left the premises after hours. It suited everyone perfectly.
Chapter Three
> Noel couldn’t believe that Emily, who had recently been part of his every waking moment at St. Jarlath’s Crescent, now seemed to have disappeared completely.
“Where is she?” he asked his mother on the morning after Emily had left his room in scorn and disgust. “It’s not like Emily to miss breakfast.”
“Oh, she’s gone to find a premises for the charity shop,” Josie Lynch replied, confident that Emily would have one before the day was out. There was nothing that woman couldn’t do.
“She took Caesar with her. She’s going to make inquiries for me about dog-walking opportunities as well.” Charles was pleased too. “She said she’d have more credibility if she was accompanied by a dog herself when she went looking for business.”
“She’ll be back after lunch, Noel, if you wanted her for anything,” Josie said. “She’s going to the market for our supper later. What did we do before she came to stay?”
Noel hadn’t known Emily to be out of the house for two meals in one day. Not since she had arrived. There was only one explanation. She was avoiding him.
He did try to stay off drink when he was at work, but the sharp pain of Stella’s situation and Emily’s shocked revulsion kept coming back to him as the day crawled along. When it came to midafternoon he could bear it no more and made an excuse to go out and get some more stationery supplies. He bought a half-bottle of vodka and decanted it into a bottle that already had a fizzy orange drink in it. As he drank mug after mug of it he felt the strength coming back to him and the pain receding. The familiar blur came down like a thick, comforting shawl.
Noel now felt able to face the afternoon again; but what didn’t go away was the feeling that he was a loser who had let down three people: the dying Stella, his strong cousin Emily and an unborn child called Frankie, who could not possibly be his daughter.
But he should have handled it very differently.
Emily was in the Laundromat with Molly Carroll. She had brought towels for a service wash but actually she was there on a mission. On a previous visit she had noticed two large sheds that were not in use. They might form the basis of the new thrift shop that would help raise money for the statue. She had to take it one step at a time: find out who actually owned the premises first.
It had turned out to be much simpler than she had feared. Molly and Paddy Carroll had bought the sheds some years back when the owner had had some pressing gambling debts and was anxious for a quick sale. They had never needed the unused part of the premises but had been loath to sell it in case someone built a noisy takeaway food outlet.
Molly thought that a thrift shop would be perfect. She and Emily toured the place and decided to put shelves here and clothes rails there. They would have a secondhand book section and Emily said she could grow a few plants from seed and sell them too. Together they made a list of people to approach, those who might give a few hours every week to working in the charity shop.
Molly knew a man who had the unlikely name of Dingo. He was a decent soul and would help them with his van, collecting things or stacking them. Emily had met several women who said they would be happy to help, but were a little anxious in case they wouldn’t be able to manage the till properly. Emily said she would check what permits they might need and if they had to apply for a change of premises; she promised she would deliver a fully planted window box to the Laundromat the following week to celebrate the whole deal. Molly said her husband Paddy’s friend had a lot of Associates in the pub who could do the refurbishments.
They decided to call the place St. Jarlath’s Thrift Shop, and Molly said it would be great to be partly in charge because if a nice jacket came in she could get first crack at it. Emily left with the air of someone who had completed a difficult and complicated assignment.
She stopped at a fishmonger and bought some smoked cod. Charles and Josie had not been great fish lovers or salad eaters when she arrived but, little by little, she was changing their ways. It was a pity that she couldn’t do anything to direct Noel, but the boy had built a shield about himself that even she couldn’t penetrate.
“Is there anything I can get you, Stella?” Father Flynn had brought her the usual pack of cigarettes.
“Not much, Brian, but thanks all the same.” She looked very down, not her usual gutsy self.
He hesitated asking any more. The future was bleak for her. What helpful words could he find?
“Any visitors?” he asked.
Stella’s eyes were dull. “No visitors to speak of,” she said, and as he looked at her with sympathy and with the realization he had no comfort to give, he saw for the first time a tear in her eye.
“I’m no good with words, Stella,” he began.
“You’re fine with words, Brian, and with getting me fags and a hairdresser—for all the bloody use it was.”
“Your hair looks very nice,” he said hopelessly.
“Not nice enough to make that no-hoper believe me.”
“Believe you about what, exactly?” Brian was confused.
“That he was the father of my child. He said he couldn’t remember having sex with me. That was nice, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, God, Stella, I’m so sorry.” There was real compassion in his face.
“It was probably my own fault. I told him all wrong. He’s a bit drinky, as I was indeed myself, and he couldn’t face it. He ran out of here. Ran, I tell you.”
“Maybe he’ll come back when he sees sense.”
“He won’t—he literally doesn’t remember. He’s not making it up.” She sounded resigned, defeated.
“Could you get a DNA test to prove he’s the father?”
“No. I thought about it, but if he doesn’t remember being there at her conception, there’s no point in asking him to be a father to her. No, she’ll have to take her chances like the rest of us.”
“Would it help if I had a word with him?” Brian Flynn felt that he should offer anyway.
“No, Brian, thanks, but no. If he ran when I told him, he would go into orbit if I sent a priest after him.” For a moment, there was a flash of the old Stella.
After supper that night in St. Jarlath’s Crescent Emily was busy explaining her day’s negotiations with Molly Carroll. Charles and Josie were drinking in every word.
Charles had news too. There would be a good-bye celebration for him in a few weeks’ time at the hotel—finger food, wine and beer, and a presentation. And would you believe who wanted to come to it, but Mrs. Monty—who was really Lady something. The woman who wore a fur coat, a big hat and pearls and nothing else: the hotel manager was very nervous about letting her in.
Mrs. Monty was now going into a residential home where, sadly, Caesar would not be welcome; and since Charles had agreed to take him, she wanted to thank the kind employee who had given the little spaniel such a good home. She was also going to make a donation to a charity of his choice. It would be a wonderful start to the fund-raising.
Charles was allowed to bring a small number of family and friends. As well as Josie, Emily and Noel, he thought he would invite Paddy and Molly Carroll and the Scarlets, Muttie and Lizzie.
“Will Noel be able to come, do you think?” Emily’s voice was slightly tart.
“Well, here he comes now—we can ask him!” Josie cried out happily.
Noel listened carefully, arranging his face in various receptive expressions as the excitement of the good-bye celebrations was revealed.
Emily knew the technique: she recognized it from her father. It was a matter of saying as little as possible and therefore cutting down on the possibility of being discovered to be drunk.
Eventually he had to speak. Slowly and carefully he said that he would be privileged to be part of the ceremony.
“It would be great to be there when they are honoring you,” he said to his father.
Emily bit her lip. At least he had been able to respond adequately. He had managed not to rain on his father’s parade.
“There’s some lamb stew left, N
oel. I’ll heat it and bring it up to you,” she said, giving him permission to leave before his mask of sobriety collapsed.
“Thank you, Emily, I’d love that,” he said and fled to his room after shooting a grateful look in her direction.
When she went in with the tray, he was sitting in his chair with tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, Lord, Noel, what is it?” she asked, alarmed.
“I’m utterly useless, Emily. I’ve let everyone down. What’s the use of my going on, waking in the morning and going to bed at night? What good does it serve?”
“Have your supper, Noel. I brought you a pot of coffee as well. We have to talk.”
“I thought you didn’t talk to me anymore,” he said with a great sniff and wiping his eyes.
“I thought that you were avoiding me,” she said.
“I didn’t want to come home and have you being cold and distant. I don’t have any friends, Emily. I have no one at all to turn to.…” His voice sounded lost and frightened.
“Eat your supper, Noel. I’ll be here,” she said. And she was there while he told her how despairing he was and what a hopeless father he would be to any child.
She listened and then said simply, “I hear all that and you may well be right. But then again it might be the making of you, and Frankie. She might make you into the kind of person you want to be.”
“They’d never let me keep her … the social welfare people …”
“You’ll need to show them what you’re made of.”
“It’s better they don’t know,” Noel said.
“Please, Noel, no self-pity. Think—think what you should do next. A lot of lives will be affected by it.”
“I couldn’t bring the child here,” he said.
“It was time for you to move on anyway.” Emily was as calm as if they were discussing what to have for lunch tomorrow, rather than Noel’s future.
Next morning, Stella looked up from the magazine she was reading as a shadow fell on her bed. It was Noel, carrying a small bunch of flowers.
