Minding Frankie

by Maeve Binchy

  Just as his feet were starting to turn towards the doorway, the nurse arrived with Frankie, wrapped in a big pink shawl.

  She looked up at him trustingly, and suddenly, from nowhere, Noel felt a wave of protectiveness almost overwhelm him. This poor, helpless baby had no one else in the world. Stella had trusted him with the most precious thing she ever had, the child she knew she wouldn’t live to see. Nervously, almost shyly, he took the baby from the nurse.

  “Little Frankie,” he said to the tiny baby. “Let’s go home.”

  Emily had said she would come to stay with him for a few days to tide him over the most frightening bits. There were three bedrooms in the apartment, two reasonably sized and one small one, which was to be Frankie’s, so she would be perfectly comfortable. The visiting nurse came every couple of days but even so, there were so many questions.

  Was that horrible-colored mess in the baby’s nappy normal, or did she have something wrong with her? How could anyone so very small need to be changed ten times a day? Was that breathing normal? Did he dare go to sleep in case she stopped?

  How on earth did anyone manage to get all those snaps on a baby’s sleep suit in the right places? Was one blanket too much or too little? He knew she mustn’t be allowed to get too cold, but the pamphlets were full of terrible warnings about the dangers of overheating.

  Bath times were a nightmare. He knew to test the temperature of the water with his elbow, but would a mother’s elbow signal a different temperature from his? Emily needed to come to test the water as well.

  She was kept busy: she would do the laundry and help him prepare the bottles and they could read the hospital notes and the baby books and consult the Internet together. They would take the baby’s temperature and make sure they had supplies of nappies, wipes, newborn formula. So much of it and so expensive. How did anyone cope with all this?

  How did anyone learn to identify what kind of crying meant hunger, discomfort or pain? To Noel all crying sounded the same: piercing, jagged, shrill, drilling through the deepest, most exhausted sleep. No one ever told you how tiring it was to be up three, four times every night, night after night. After three days he was near to weeping with fatigue; as he walked up and down with his daughter trying to burp her after her third feed of the night, he found himself stumbling against furniture, almost incapable of remaining upright.

  Emily found him asleep in an armchair. “Don’t forget you have to go to the center every week.”

  “They’re not taking any chances with me,” Noel said.

  “It’s the same for everyone. They call it the Mothers and Babies Group, but more and more it can be Fathers and Babies.” Emily was practical.

  “It’s not just that they think I’m a bit of a risk—past history of drinking and all that?” Noel asked.

  “No. Don’t be paranoid. And aren’t you a shining example of what people can achieve.”

  “I’m terrified, Emily.”

  “Of course you are. So am I, but we’ll manage.”

  “You won’t go back to America and leave me here all on my own.…”

  “No plans to do that, but I think you should set up some kind of a system for yourself from the very start. Like going to your mother and father for lunch on a Sunday every week.”

  “I don’t know … Every week?”

  “Oh, at least, and in time you should offer to take Declan and Fiona’s baby one evening a week to give them a night off. They’ll do the same for you.”

  “You definitely sound as if you’re going to jump ship and you’re just building me up some support to keep me going,” Noel said.

  “Nonsense, Noel. But you have to learn to do it without me. You’ll be on your own soon.” Emily had no plans to go back to New York for a while, but she must be practical and get this show properly launched on the road.

  Father Flynn found a gospel choir, which sang at the funeral Mass down at his church at the welcome center for immigrants. Twins called Maud and Simon, who seemed to be related to Muttie Scarlet, prepared a light lunch in the hall next door. There were no orations or speeches. Declan and Fiona sat next to Charles and Josie; Emily had the bag of baby essentials while Noel held Frankie wrapped in a warm blanket.

  Father Flynn spoke simply and movingly about Stella’s short and troubled life. She had died, he said, leaving behind a very precious legacy. Everyone who had come to know and care for Stella would support Noel as he provided a home for their little daughter.…

  Katie was there with Garry and Lisa. She had only recently found out that Lisa was on the same course as Noel and had begun at the same time. They knew each other, had had coffee together once or twice; Lisa knew the story. Katie had hoped that Lisa would learn something from Noel—like that it was totally possible to get up and leave the safety of the family home. Home was not a healthy place to be, Katie thought, but there was no talking to Lisa, beautiful and restless as she had always been. Katie noticed that Lisa, for once, was not being distant and withdrawn as she so often was. Instead she was being helpful, offering to pass plates of food or pour coffee. She was talking to Noel in terms of practicalities.

  “I’ll help you whenever I can. If you have to miss any lectures I’ll give you the notes,” she offered.

  “People are being very kind,” Noel said. “Kinder than I ever expected.”

  “There’s something about a baby,” Lisa said.

  “There is indeed. She’s so very small. I don’t know if I’ll be able … I mean, I’m pretty clumsy.”

  “All new parents are clumsy,” Lisa reassured him.

  “That’s the social worker over there. Moira,” he said with a nod in her direction.

  “She’s got a very uptight little face,” Lisa said.

  “It’s a very uptight job. She’s always coming across losers like me.”

  “I don’t think you’re a loser—I think you’re bloody heroic,” Lisa said.

  Moira Tierney had always wanted to be a social worker. When she was very young she had thought she might be a nun, but somehow that idea had changed over the years. Well, nuns had changed, for one thing. They didn’t live in big, quiet convents chanting hymns at dawn and dusk anymore. There were no bells ringing and cloisters with shadows. Nuns, more or less, were social workers these days, without any of the lovely ritual and ceremony.

  Moira was from the west of Ireland, but now she lived alone in a small apartment. When she first came to Dublin, she went home to see her parents every month. They sighed a lot because she hadn’t married. They sighed over the fact that she was working among the poor and ruffians instead of bettering herself.

  They sighed a great deal.

  After her mother died, her visits became less frequent. Now she would go back just once or twice a year to the ramshackle farmhouse she had once called home.

  She wished that her block of flats had a garden but the other residents had all voted for more car parking, so it was just yards of concrete outside. Still, democracy ruled, she thought, and made do with window boxes that were the envy of her neighbors. She liked her work, but it was rarely, if ever, straightforward.

  Noel Lynch was someone who puzzled her. It appeared he had known nothing of the child he had fathered until a few short weeks before the baby arrived. He had lost touch with the mother. And then, suddenly, he had almost overnight changed his lifestyle totally, joined a twelve-step program, taken up lectures and approached his job in Hall’s seriously. Any one of these things would have been life-changing, but to take them all on while looking after an infant seemed to be ludicrous.

  Moira had read too many concerned and outraged articles about social workers who didn’t do their jobs properly to feel any way at ease. She knew what they would write. They would say that all the signs were staring everyone in the face. This was a dangerous situation. What were the social workers doing? She didn’t know why she was so certain about this, but it was a feeling that wouldn’t go away. Every box had been ticked, all the relevant authori
ties had been contacted, yet she was completely convinced that there was something out of place here.

  This Noel Lynch was an accident waiting to happen. A bomb about to explode.

  Lisa Kelly was thinking about Noel at the same time.

  She had said to Katie that if she were a betting woman she would give him one week before he went back on the drink and two weeks before he gave up his lectures. And as regards minding an infant—the social workers would be in before you could say “foster home!”

  Just as well she hadn’t found a betting shop.

  Lisa had done a job for a garden center but her heart wasn’t in it. All the time that she toyed with images of floral baskets, watering cans and sunflowers in full bloom she thought of Anton’s restaurant. She found herself drawing a bride throwing a bouquet—and then the thought came to her.

  Anton could specialize in weddings.

  Real society weddings. People would have to fight to get a date there. They had an underused courtyard where people often escaped for a furtive cigarette. It could be transformed into a permanent, mirror-lined marquee for weddings.

  He didn’t open for Saturday lunch so that was the time to do it; the guests would have to leave by six o’clock. There was a singing pub called Irish Eyes nearby and they could make an arrangement with the pub that there would be a welcoming pint or cocktail and the scene would move seamlessly onward. The bride’s father would be relieved that he wasn’t paying for champagne all night and the restaurant could get straight into “serving dinner” mode. There would be only fifty “Anton Brides” a year, so there would be huge competition to know who they would be.

  It was too good an idea to keep to herself.

  Anton had sounded fretful in his recent texts. Of course he couldn’t fix a date for their trip to Normandy. Not now, not in the middle of a recession. Business was so up and down. No groups of estate agents and auctioneers celebrating another sale, like they had every day during the property boom. No leisurely business lunches. Times were tough.

  So Lisa knew that he would love this idea. But when to tell him?

  If only she had her own place. It would have been totally different: Anton could have popped around in the afternoon or the early evening. Or better, he could have come to visit late in the evening, when he could unwind and stay the night. When she did spend time with Anton it was always at a conference hotel or on a visit to a specialty restaurant where they would stay overnight at a nearby inn. This hope of Honfleur was what had kept her going for weeks and now it looked as if it wasn’t definite, but when he saw all the work she had done on the concept of Anton Brides, he would pay attention. Yet again she would have rescued him and he would be so grateful.

  She just couldn’t wait any longer. She would tell him tonight. She would go to his restaurant tonight, straight after her lectures. She would go home and change first. She wanted to look her very best when she told him about this news that would turn his fortunes around and change their lives.

  At home, Lisa went to her room and held two dresses up to the light, the first a black and red dress with black lace trimming, the other a light wool rose-colored dress with a wide belt. The black-and-red was sexy, the pink more elegant. The black-and-red was a little tarty but the pink would attract every stain going and would need to be dry-cleaned.

  She had a quick shower and put on the black and red dress and a lot of makeup.

  Teddy the maître d’ was surprised to see her when she arrived at Anton’s.

  “You’re a stranger round here, Lisa,” he said with his professional smile.

  “Too busy thinking up marvelous ideas for this place, that’s why,” she laughed. In her own ears her laughter sounded brittle and false; she didn’t much care for Teddy. Tonight, though, she was going to establish her place in this restaurant. Anton would see how brilliant her scheme was; she wasn’t even remotely nervous about meeting him and explaining her new plan.

  “And are you dining here, Lisa?” Teddy was unfailingly polite but very focused. There was no room for vagueness in Teddy’s life.

  “Yes. I hoped you could squeeze me in. I need to talk to him about something.”

  “Alas, full tonight.” Teddy smiled regretfully. “Not a table left in the place.” They were having a special event, he explained, a four-for-the-price-of-two night in order to get the word out about Anton’s. Of course it had been April’s idea.

  “The place is packed out tonight,” Teddy said. “There’s a wait list for cancellations.”

  This was not what she had come to hear. She had come here to give Anton news about how to change the downward spiral.

  “But I really need to talk to him,” she insisted. “I’ve got a great idea for bringing in new business. Look, Teddy,” she continued, becoming aware that the shrillness in her voice was attracting attention, “he’s really going to want to hear my ideas—he’s going to be very angry if you don’t let me see him.”

  “I’m sorry, Lisa,” he said firmly. “That’s just not going to be possible. You see how busy we are.”

  “I’ll just go back into the kitchen and see what Anton has to say about that …,” Lisa began.

  “I think not,” said Teddy firmly, stepping smoothly to one side and gripping her elbow. “Why don’t you telephone tomorrow and make an appointment? Or better still, make a reservation. We’d love to see you here again, and I will certainly tell Anton you called in.” As he spoke, he was guiding her firmly towards the door.

  Before she knew what had happened, Lisa found herself outside on the street, looking back at the diners, who were staring at her as if hypnotized.

  She needed to get away quickly; turning on her heels, she fled as quickly as her too-tight skirt would allow her.

  When she was able to draw breath, she pulled out her cell phone to call a taxi and found, to her annoyance, that she had let the battery run down. The night was going from bad to worse.

  And then it started to rain.

  The house was quiet when she let herself in but that didn’t make it any different than usual. Here there was no conversation, unless Katie had come on one of her infrequent visits. Lisa hoped that no one was going to be there tonight. She was in luck. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, there was just silence about the house, as if it were holding its breath.

  And that’s when it happened. Lisa saw what the newspapers would have called “a partially clothed woman” come out of the bathroom at the top of the stairs holding a mobile phone to her ear. She had long, damp hair and was wearing a green satin slip and nothing much else by the look of her.

  “Who are you?” Lisa asked in shock.

  “I might ask you the same,” the woman said. She didn’t seem annoyed, put out or even embarrassed. “Are you here for him? I’m just ringing a taxi.”

  “Well, why are you ringing it here?” Lisa asked childishly. Who could she be? You often heard of burglars coming into a house and just brazening it out with the householders. Maybe she was part of a gang?

  Then she heard her father’s voice. “What is it, Bella? Who are you talking to?” And her father appeared at his bedroom door in a dressing gown. He looked shocked to see Lisa. “I didn’t know you were at home,” he said, nonplussed.

  “Obviously,” Lisa said, her hand shaking as she reached for the front door.

  “Who is she?” the girl in the green satin slip asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  And Lisa realized that it didn’t. It had never mattered to him who she was or Katie either.

  “Well, who am I to say what you should do with your own money.…” The woman called Bella shrugged in her green satin underwear and went back into the bedroom.

  Lisa and her father looked at each other for a long minute; then he followed Bella back into the bedroom as, unsteadily, Lisa left the house again.

  Noel allowed himself to think that Stella would have been pleased with how he was coping with their daughter. He had been without an alcoho
lic drink for almost two months. He attended an AA meeting at least five times a week and telephoned his friend Malachy on the days he couldn’t make it.

  He had brought Frankie to Chestnut Court and was making a home for her. True, he was walking round like a zombie from tiredness, but he had kept her alive, and what’s more, the visiting nurses seemed to think she was doing well. She slept in a small crib beside him and when she cried he woke and walked around the room with her. He sterilized all the bottles and nipples, made up her formula and changed her. He bathed her and burped her and rocked her to sleep.

  He sang songs to her as he paced up and down the bedroom every night, every song he could think of, even if some of them were mad and inappropriate. “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” … “I Don’t Like Mondays” … “Let Me Entertain You” … “Fairytale of New York” … Any snippet of any song he could remember. Why didn’t he know the words to proper lullabies?

  He had conducted three satisfactory meetings with the social worker Moira Tierney and five with Imelda, the visiting nurse.

  His leave was over and he was about to go back to work at Hall’s; he wasn’t looking forward to it, but babies were expensive and he really needed the money. He would wait a while and then ask for a bit of a raise in salary. He was catching up with his lectures from the college—Lisa had been as good as her word—and was back on track again there.

  He was tired all the time, but then so was every young mother whom he passed on the street or at the supermarket. He was certainly too tired to pause and wonder was he happy with it all himself. The little baby needed him and he would be there. That’s all there was to it. And his life was certainly much better than it had been eight weeks ago.