by Maeve Binchy
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 wa
s 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.
Moira wished that life was as simple for her. Charles Lynch didn’t have to fear a series of articles in the newspapers saying that yet again the dog walkers had been found wanting and that all the signs had been there ready for anyone to see.
· · ·
Next day, Moira began to understand the nature of her job. She was helped in this by Hilary, the office manager, and a Polish girl, Ania, who had recently had a miscarriage and had only just returned to work. She seemed devoted to the place and totally loyal to Clara Casey.
There was, apparently, a bad man called Frank Ennis who was on the hospital board and was the hospital manager, who tried to resist spending one cent on the heart clinic. He said there was absolutely no need for any social services whatsoever in the clinic.
“Why can’t Clara Casey speak to him herself?” Moira asked.
“She can and does, but he’s a very determined man.”
“Suppose she just took him out to lunch one day?” Moira was anxious for this matter to be tied up so she could get back to her real work.
“Oh, she does much more than that,” Ania explained. “She sleeps with him. But it’s no use—he keeps his life in different compartments.”
Hilary tried to gloss over what had been said. “Ania is just giving you the background,” she said hastily.
“I’m sorry. I thought she was on our side.” Ania was repentant.
“And I am, indeed,” Moira said.
“Oh, that’s all right then,” Ania said happily.
The whole atmosphere in the clinic was a combination of professionalism and reassurance. Moira noticed that the patients all understood the functions of the various medications they received and they had little booklets where their weight and blood pressure were recorded at every visit. They were all very adept at entering information and retrieving it from the computer.
“You wouldn’t believe the trouble we had getting a training course organized. Frank Ennis managed to make it sound like devil worship. Clara practically had to go to the United Nations to get the instructors in.”
“He sounds like a dinosaur, this man,” Moira said disapprovingly.
“That’s what he is, all right,” Hilary agreed.
“But you say that Dr. Casey sees him … um … socially?” Moira probed.
“No. Ania was saying that, not me—but indeed it is true. Clara has humanized him a lot but there’s a long way to go still.”
“Does Frank Ennis know that I’m here?”
“I don’t think so, Moira. No point in troubling him, really, or adding to his worries.”
“I like playing things by the book,” Moira said primly.
“There are books and books,” Hilary said enigmatically.
“If I am to write a report, I’ll need to know his side of things as well.”
“Leave him until you’ve nearly finished,” Hilary advised.
And as she so often did these days, Moira felt she wasn’t handling things as well as she might have. It was as if Hilary and the clinic were drawing away from her. She had meant to be there as their savior but somehow playing it by the book had meant that she had stepped outside her brief and that they were all withdrawing their support and enthusiasm.
The story of her life.
Moira worked on diligently.
She saw that there was a case for having a social worker attend one day a week. She looked through her notes. There was Kitty Reilly, possibly in the early stages of dementia, conducting long conversations with saints. There was Judy, who definitely needed home help but had no idea where to turn to find it. There was Lar Kelly, who gave the appearance of being an extroverted, cheerful man but who was obviously as lonely as anything, which was why he kept dropping into the clinic “just to be sure,” as he put it.
A social worker would be able to point Kitty Reilly in the direction of care a few days a week, find an aide for Judy and arrange for Lar to go to a social center for lunch and entertainment.
It was time to approach the great Frank Ennis.
She made an appointment to see him on her last day in the clinic. He was courteous and gracious—not at all the monster she had been told about.
“Ms. Tierney!” he said, with every sign of pleasure at meeting her.
“Moira,” she corrected him.
“No, no, Clara says you are a ‘Ms.’ person for sure.”
“Really? And did she say anything else about me?” Moira was incensed that Clara had somehow got in ahead of her.
“Yes. She said you were probably extremely good at your job, that you were high in practicality and doing things by the book and low in sentimentality. All the hallmarks of a good social worker, it would appear.”
It didn’t sound that way to Moira. It sounded as if Clara had said she was a hard-faced workaholic. Still, on with the job.
“Why do you think they shouldn’t have the part-time services of a social worker?” she asked.
“Because Clara thinks the hospital is made of money and that there are unlimited funds that should be at her disposal.”
“I thought you and she were good friends …,” Moira said.
“I like to think we are indeed friends, and more, but we will never see eye-to-eye about this bottomless-pit business,” he said.
“You really do need someone part-time, you know,” Moira said. “It would round it all off perfectly; then St. Brigid’s can really be said to be looking after patients’ welfare.”
“All the social workers and people in pastoral care are run off their feet in the hospital already. They don’t want to be sent over to that clinic, coping with imaginary problems from perfectly well people.”
“Get someone new in for two or three days a week.” Moira was firm.
“One day a week.”
“One and a half,” she bargained.
“Clara is right, Ms. Tierney: you have all the skills of a negotiator. A day and a half a week and not a minute more.”
“I feel sure that will be fine, Mr. Ennis.”
“And will you do it yourself, Ms. Tierney?”
Moira was horrified even at the thought of it. “Oh, no! No way, Mr. Ennis. I am a senior social worker. I have a serious caseload. I couldn’t make the time.”
“That’s a pity. I thought you could be my friend in court: my eyes and ears, curb them from playing fast and loose with expenses and taxis.” He seemed genuinely disappointed not to have her around the place, which was rare these days. Most people seemed to be veering away from he
r.
But of course it was totally impossible. She could barely keep up with her own work, let alone take on something new. And yet she would be sorry to leave the place.
Ania had brought in some shortbread for their afternoon tea to mark the fact that Moira was leaving. Clara joined them and made a little speech.
“We were lucky that they sent us Moira Tierney. She has done a superb report and has even braved the lion’s den itself. Frank Ennis has just telephoned to say that the board have agreed to us having the services of a social worker for one and a half days a week.”
“So you’ll be coming back!” Ania seemed pleased.
“No, Ms. Tierney made it clear that she has much more important work to do elsewhere. We are very grateful to her for putting it on hold for the two weeks that she was here.”
Frank Ennis had obviously briefed his girlfriend very adequately on the situation so far. Moira wished she had not stressed so heavily to Frank Ennis how important her own work was compared to the work here in the clinic. In ways, it would be pleasant to come here on a regular basis. Apart from Clara Casey, they were all welcoming and enthusiastic. And to be fair, Clara had been enthusiastic about the work Moira had done.
Hilary was always practical. “Maybe Ms. Tierney knows someone who might be suitable?” she said.
As if from miles away Moira heard her own voice saying, “I can easily reorganize my schedule, and if you thought I would be all right, then I would be honored to come here.”
They all looked at Clara, who was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I feel that we would all love Moira to join us here, but she will have to sign in under the Official Secrets Act. Frank will expect her to be his eyes and ears, but Moira will know that this can never happen.”
Moira smiled. “I get the message, Clara,” she said.
And to her great surprise she got a round of applause.
The head of the social-work team was not impressed.
“I asked you to write a report, not to get yourself yet another job, Moira. You work too hard already. You should lighten up a little.”
“I did there. I lightened up a lot. I know the setup in the clinic now. It makes sense that I do it rather than train someone in.”