Minding Frankie (47 page)

“I love you, Frankie,” Noel said to her.

“Dada,” she said.

“I really do love you. I was afraid I wouldn’t be good enough for you but we’re not making a bad fist of it, are we?”

“Fst,”
Frankie said, delighted with the noise of the word.

“Say ‘love,’ Frankie. Say, ‘I love you, Dada.’ ”

She looked up at him. “Love Dada,” she said, as clear as a bell.

And to his surprise he felt the tears on his face. He wished not for the first time that there really was a God and a heaven because it would be really great if Stella could somehow see this and know that it was all working out like she had hoped.

Noel and Lisa planned a first birthday party for Frankie. There would be an ice cream cake and paper hats; Mr. Gallagher from Number 37 could do magic tricks and said he’d come along and entertain the children.

Naturally, Moira got to hear of it.

“You’re having all these people in this small flat?” she asked doubtfully.

“I know—won’t it be wonderful?” Lisa deliberately misunderstood her.

“You should do more for yourself, Lisa. You’re bright, sharp, you could have a career and a proper place to live.”

“This
is
a proper place to live.” Noel was at the washing machine in the kitchen so didn’t hear.

“No, it’s not. You should have your own apartment. You’ll need one soon anyway, if Noel’s romance continues,” Moira said, practical as always.

“But meanwhile I’m very happy here.”

“We have to stir ourselves from our comfort zones. What are you doing here with a man who is bringing up some child that may or may not be his own?”

“Of course Frankie’s his own!” Lisa was shocked.

“Well, that’s as may be. She was very unreliable, the mother, you
know. I met her in hospital. A very wild sort of person. She could have named anyone as the father.”

“Well, really, Moira, I never heard anything so ridiculous,” Lisa said, blazing suddenly at the mean-spirited pettiness of Moira’s attitude. Wasn’t life the luck of the draw? They could have got a very nice social worker like that woman Dolores who came to Katie to get her hair done at the salon.
She
would have been delighted with the way Frankie had turned out and would rejoice at such a successful outcome. But no, they were stuck with Moira. Thank God Noel had been in the kitchen while stupid, negative Moira was talking. It was just a miracle that he hadn’t heard.

Noel had, of course, heard every word and he was holding on by a thread.

What a sour, mean cow Moira was, and he had just begun to see some good in her. Not now. Not ever again after such a statement. He managed to shout out a cheerful good-bye as he heard the door. He wouldn’t think about it. It was nonsense. He would think about the party instead. About Frankie, his little girl. That woman’s remarks had no power to hurt him. He would rise above it.

First he must pretend to Lisa that he hadn’t heard. That was important.

Moira walked briskly along the road away from Chestnut Court. She was sorry she had spoken to Lisa like that. It was unprofessional. It wasn’t like her. She had been thrown by Lisa’s apparent freedom to get on with it and then, of course, she had her own worries about her father and Maureen Kennedy. Still and all, it was no reason to run off at the mouth about Noel. Mercifully, he was in the kitchen at the washing machine and didn’t hear. Lisa was unlikely to bring the subject up.

Why did worries never come singly?

Moira’s brother had written to say that their father and Mrs. Kennedy were getting married. Mr. Kennedy was now presumed dead after fifteen years’ absence, with no contact being made and his name not found on any British register. They would marry in a month’s time and a few people were being invited back to the house. Everyone was very pleased, her brother wrote.

Moira was sure they were, but then they didn’t have to cope with the fact that Mr. Kennedy was alive and well, living in the hostel and on Moira’s caseload.

“Father, it’s Moira.”

He sounded as surprised as if the prime minister of Australia had telephoned him.

“Moira!” was all he could say.

“I hear that you’re getting married again.…” Moira came straight to the point.

“Yes, we hope to. Are you pleased for us?”

“Very, and is everyone okay with you getting married, what with …” She paused delicately.

“He’s presumed dead,” her father said in sepulchral way. “The state gives a declaration of death after seven years and he’s been gone years longer than that.”

“And … um … the Church?” Moira said.

“Oh, endless conversations with the parish priest, then they went to the archdiocese, but there’s a thing called
presumptio mortis
and each case is argued on its merits, and since this boyo hasn’t had an address or a record of any sort, there isn’t any problem.”

“And were you going to invite me?” It felt like probing a sore tooth. She hoped her father would say it was very small and, considering their age and circumstances, they had restricted the numbers.

“Oh, indeed. I’d be delighted if you were there. We both would be delighted.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Not at all. I’m glad you’ll be there.” He hung up without giving her the date, time or place but, after all, she could get those from her brother.

Frankie’s birthday party was a triumph.

Frankie had a crown and so did Johnny, since it was his birthday too. Apart from the two birthday babies there were very few children coming to the party, but lots of grown-ups. Lizzie was helping with the jellies and Molly Carroll was in charge of the cocktail sausages. Frankie and Johnny were much too young to appreciate Mr. Gallagher’s magic tricks but the grown-ups loved him and there were great sighs of amazement as he produced rabbits, colored scarves and gold coins from the air. The children loved the rabbits and searched fruitlessly in the magician’s top hat to know where they had gone. Josie suggested a rabbit hutch in the new garden, and the idea was received with great enthusiasm.

Noel was glad the party went well. There were no tantrums among the children, no one was overtired. He had even arranged for wine and beer to be served to the adults. It hadn’t bothered him in the least. Faith and Lisa cleared up and quietly put the unfinished bottles in Faith’s bag.

But Noel’s heart was heavy. Two chance remarks at the party had upset him more than he would have believed possible.

Dingo Duggan, who always said the wrong thing, commented that Frankie was far too good-looking to be a child of Noel’s. Noel managed to smile and said that nature had a strange way in compensating for flaws.

Paddy Carroll said that Frankie was a beautiful child. She had very fine cheekbones and huge dark eyes.

“She’s like her mother, then,” Noel said, but his mind was far away. Stella had a vibrant, lively face, yes, but she didn’t have fine cheekbones and huge dark eyes.

Neither did Noel.

Was it possible that Frankie was the child of someone else?

He sat very quietly when everyone had gone; eventually, Faith sat down beside him.

“Was it a strain having alcohol in the house, Noel?” Faith asked.

“No, I never thought about it. Why?”

“It’s just you seem a bit down.” She was sympathetic, and so he told her. He repeated the words that Moira had said: that he was naïve to believe he was Frankie’s father.

Faith listened with tears in her eyes.

“I never heard anything so ridiculous. She’s a sour, sad, bitter woman. You’re never going to start giving any credence to anything she would say?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“No, it’s not possible! Why would she have chosen
you
unless you were the father?” Faith was outraged on his behalf.

“Stella more or less said that at the time,” he said.

“Put it out of your head, Noel. You are the best father in the world and that Moira can’t bring herself to accept this. That’s all there is to it.”

Noel smiled wanly.

“Here, I’ll make us a mug of tea and we’ll eat the leftovers,” she said.

Moira went to visit Mr. Kennedy in the hostel to make sure he was getting all his entitlements. He had settled in well.

“Did you ever think of going back home to where you were from originally?” she asked him diffidently.

“Never. That part of life is over for me. As far as they’re all concerned I’m dead. I’d prefer it that way,” he said.

It made Moira feel a little bit, but not entirely, better. She was being unprofessional, and when all was said and done she had nothing left but her profession. Had she fallen down on that too?

She also regretted her outburst to Lisa when she questioned Noel’s paternity of Frankie. It had been unforgivable. Fortunately,
he hadn’t heard it, or at any rate he was polite when she talked to him, which was the same thing.

Noel couldn’t sleep, so he got up and went to the sitting room. He got a piece of paper and made a list of the reasons that he was obviously Frankie’s father and another list of reasons that he might not be. As usual, he came to no conclusion. He loved that child so much—she must be his daughter.

And yet he couldn’t sleep. There was only one thing to do.

He would get a DNA test.

He would arrange it the next day. He tore up the sheets of paper into tiny pieces.

That was all there was to it.

Noel didn’t want to approach either Declan or Dr. Hat about the DNA test. He had asked at the AA meeting if anyone knew how it was done. He made it seem like a casual inquiry for a friend. As always, the assembly was able to find an answer. You went to a doctor, who took a swab of your cheek and sent it to a laboratory—couldn’t be more simple.

Yes, all very well, but Noel didn’t want Declan to know his doubts. He couldn’t ask Hat either, since Hat was family now that he had married Emily. So it would have to be someone totally new.

He wondered what advice his cousin Emily would give him. She would say, “Be ruthlessly honest and do it quickly.” There was no arguing with that.

He looked up a doctor on the other side of the city. It was a woman doctor, who was practical and to the point.

“It will cost you to have this test done. We have to pay the lab.”

“Sure, I know that,” Noel agreed.

“I mean, it’s not just a whim or a silly row with your partner or anything?”

“It’s nothing like that. I just need to know.”

“And if it turns out that you are
not
the child’s father?”

“I will make up my mind what to do then.”

“You have to be prepared to hear something you don’t want to hear,” she persisted.

“I can’t settle until I know,” he said simply.

And after that it was straightforward. He brought Frankie in and swabs were taken. He would know for sure in three weeks.

Even though he had been told that it would take three weeks, Noel watched the post every day. The doctor had promised to let him have the results as soon as she got them. They had agreed that phones could be unreliable or too public.

Better to send it in a letter.

Noel examined every envelope that arrived, but there was nothing.

Lisa went to London and came back thrilled with a job offer.

He had never felt time moving so slowly. The days in Hall’s were endless. His need for a drink after each day was so acute that he went to an AA meeting almost every evening. Why could it take so long to match up bits of tissue or whatever DNA was?

He would look at Frankie sometimes and feel covered in shame that he was doing this to her—that he wanted so much to know.

Noel had a long history of being in denial. When he was drinking, he denied the possibility that anyone would ever discover this at work. When he stopped drinking he banished all thoughts of comfortable bars from his head and memory. Mainly it worked for him, but not always.

It was the same now. He banished the possibility that Frankie might
not
be his child. He just would not think what he would do then. The fact that Stella might have lied to him or been mistaken and the heartbreaking possibility that Frankie might not be his little girl but somebody else’s—it was too big to think about. It had to be left out of his conscious mind.

Once he knew one way or the other, it would be easier. This was the worst bit.

·   ·   ·

The letter arrived at Chestnut Court.

Lisa left it on the table as she went out; in the silent flat Noel poured himself another cup of tea. His hand was too shaky to pick up the envelope. The teapot had rattled alarmingly against the teacup. He was too weak to open it now. He had to get through this day without shaking like this. Perhaps he should put the letter away and open it tomorrow. He put it into a drawer. Thank God he had shaved already; he could never do it like this.

He dressed very slowly. He was pale and his eyes looked tired, but really and truly he might pass for a normal person, not someone with the most important secret of his life tidied away, unopened, in a drawer. A person who would give every single possession he had for a pint of beer accompanied by a large Irish whiskey.