"Welcome back home to Ireland with this warm and loving novel"
Reviewed by Sharon Galligar Chance
Posted March 17, 2011
Fiction | Contemporary
Queen of the Irish novel, Maeve Binchy, returns to the cozy
neighborhood of St. Jarlath's Crescent in Dublin to bring
her readers another heartwarming story of family, love and
faith with MINDING FRANKIE. When Noel Lynch discovers that a girl he vaguely remembers
hooking up with has named him as the father of her unborn
child, his life is turned upside down. And when he finds
out that she is dying of cancer, won't survive the baby's
birth, and wants him to care for the baby, Noel must do
some fast growing up to do right by baby Frankie. But as a
single father battling demons of his own, Noel can't do it
alone. Luckily he has a caring network of friends, family
and neighbors to help him out. But not everyone is pleased with the unconventional
arrangement, especially a nosy social worker, Moira, who is
convinced that baby Frankie would be better off in a foster
home. Now it's up to Noel to persuade her that everyone in
town has something special to offer when it comes to
minding Frankie. As is her style, Binchy includes a charming large cast of
characters that add to the lively story, and includes small
updates on characters who have appeared in her previous
books. Reading a Maeve Binchy novel is like taking quick
trip to
the old country where you are always welcomed home with
open arms.
SUMMARY
When Noel learns that his terminally ill former flame is
pregnant with his child, he agrees to take guardianship of
the baby girl once she’s born. But as a single father
battling demons of his own, Noel can’t do it alone. Fortunately, he has a competent, caring network of friends,
family and neighbors: Lisa, his unlucky-in-love classmate,
who moves in with him to help him care for little Frankie
around the clock; his American cousin, Emily, always there
with a pep talk; the newly retired Dr. Hat, with more time
on his hands than he knows what to do with; Dr. Declan and
Fiona and their baby son, Frankie’s first friend; and many
eager babysitters, including old friends Signora and Aidan
and Frankie’s doting grandparents, Josie and Charles. But not everyone is pleased with the unconventional
arrangement, especially a nosy social worker, Moira, who is
convinced that Frankie would be better off in a foster home.
Now it’s up to Noel to persuade her that everyone in town
has something special to offer when it comes to minding Frankie.
ExcerptChapter OneKatie Finglas was coming to the end of a tiring day in the
salon. Anything bad that could happen had happened. A woman
had not told them about an allergy and had come out with
lumps and a rash on her forehead. A bride’s mother had
thrown a tantrum and said that she looked like a
laughingstock. A man who had wanted streaks of blond in his
hair became apoplectic when, halfway through the process, he
had inquired what they would cost. Katie’s husband, Garry,
had placed both his hands innocently on the shoulders of a
sixty-year-old female client, who had then told him that she
was going to sue him for sexual harassment and
assault. Katie looked now at the man standing opposite
her, a big priest with sandy hair mixed with
gray. “You’re Katie Finglas and I gather you run this
establishment,” the priest said, looking around the innocent
salon nervously as if it were a high-class
brothel. “That’s right, Father,” Katie said with a
sigh. What could be happening now? “It’s just that I
was talking to some of the girls who work here, down at the
center on the quays, you know, and they were telling me . .
.” Katie felt very tired. She employed a couple of
high school dropouts: she paid them properly, trained them.
What could they have been complaining about to a
priest? “Yes, Father, what exactly is the problem?”
she asked. “Well, it is a bit of a problem. I thought
I should come to you directly, as it were.” He seemed a
little awkward. “Very right, Father,” Katie said. “So
tell me what it is.” “It’s this woman, Stella Dixon.
She’s in hospital, you see . . .” “Hospital?” Katie’s
head reeled. What could this involve? Someone who had
inhaled the peroxide? “I’m sorry to hear that.” She
tried for a level voice. “Yes, but she wants a
hairdo.” “You mean she trusts us again?” Sometimes
life was extraordinary. “No, I don’t think she was
ever here before. . . .” He looked bewildered. “And
your interest in all this, Father?” “I am Brian Flynn
and I am acting chaplain at St. Brigid’s Hospital at the
moment, while the real chaplain is in Rome on a pilgrimage.
Apart from being asked to bring in cigarettes and drink for
the patients, this is the only serious request I’ve
had.” “You want me to go and do someone’s hair in
hospital?” “She’s seriously ill. She’s dying. I
thought she needed a senior person to talk to. Not, of
course, that you look very senior. You’re only a girl
yourself,” the priest said. “God, weren’t you a sad
loss to the women of Ireland when you went for the
priesthood,” Katie said. “Give me her details and I’ll bring
my magic bag of tricks in to see her.” “Thank you so
much. I have it all written out here.” Father Flynn handed
her a note. A middle-aged woman approached the desk.
She had glasses on the tip of her nose and an anxious
expression. “I gather you teach people the tricks of
hairdressing,” she said. “Yes, or more the art
of hairdressing, as we like to call it,” Katie
said. “I have a cousin coming home from America for a
few weeks. She mentioned that in America there are places
where you could get your hair done for near to nothing cost
if you were letting people practice on you.” “Well, we
do have a students’ night on Tuesdays; people bring in their
own towels and we give them a style. They usually contribute
five euros to a charity.” “Tonight is Tuesday!” the
woman cried triumphantly. “So it is,” Katie said
through gritted teeth. “So, could I book myself in?
I’m Josie Lynch.” “Great, Mrs. Lynch—see you after
seven o’clock,” Katie said, writing down the name. Her eyes
met the priest’s. There was sympathy and understanding
there. It wasn’t all champagne and glitter running
your own hairdressing salon. Josie and Charles Lynch
had lived in 23 St. Jarlath’s Crescent since they were
married thirty-two years ago. They had seen many changes in
the area. The corner shop had become a mini-supermarket; the
old laundry, where sheets had been ironed and folded, was
now a Laundromat, where people left big bags bulky with
mixed clothes and asked for a service wash. There was now a
proper medical practice with four doctors where once there
had been just old Dr. Gillespie, who had brought everyone
into the world and seen them out of it. During the
height of the economic boom, houses in St. Jarlath’s
Crescent had changed hands for amazing sums of money. Small
houses with gardens near the city center had been much in
demand. Not anymore, of course—the recession had been a
great equalizer, but it was still a much more substantial
area than it had been three decades ago. After all,
just look at Molly and Paddy Carroll, with their son
Declan—a doctor—a real, qualified doctor! And just look at
Muttie and Lizzie Scarlet’s daughter Cathy. She ran a
catering company that was hired for top events. But a
lot of things had changed for the worse. There was no
community spirit anymore. No church processions went up and
down the Crescent on the feast of Corpus Christi, as they
used to three decades ago. Josie and Charles Lynch felt that
they were alone in the world, and certainly in St. Jarlath’s
Crescent, in that they knelt down at night and said the
Rosary. That had always been the way. When they
married they planned a life based on the maxim that the
family that prays together stays together. They had assumed
they would have eight or nine children, because God never
put a mouth into this world that He didn’t feed. But that
wasn’t to happen. After Noel, Josie had been told there
would be no more children. It was hard to accept. They both
came from big families; their brothers and sisters had
produced big families. But then, perhaps, it was all meant
to be this way. They had always hoped Noel would be a
priest. The fund to educate him for the priesthood was
started before he was three. Money was put aside from
Josie’s wages at the biscuit factory. Every week a little
more was added to the post office savings account, and when
Charles got his envelope on a Friday from the hotel where he
was a porter, a sum was also put into the post office. Noel
would get the best of priestly educations when the time
came. So it was with great surprise and a lot of
disappointment that Josie and Charles learned that their
quiet son had no interest whatsoever in a religious life.
The Brothers said that he showed no sign of a vocation, and
when the matter had been presented to Noel as a possibility
when he was fourteen, he had said if it was the last job on
earth he wouldn’t go for it. That had been very
definite indeed. Not so definite, however, was what he
actually would like to do. Noel was vague about this,
except to say he might like to run an office. Not work in an
office, but run one. He showed no interest in studying
office management or bookkeeping or accounting or in any
areas where the careers department tried to direct him. He
liked art, he said, but he didn’t want to paint. If pushed,
he would say that he liked looking at paintings and thinking
about them. He was good at drawing; he always had a notebook
and a pencil with him and he was often to be found curled up
in a corner sketching a face or an animal. This did not, of
course, lead to any career path, but Noel had never expected
it to. He did his homework at the kitchen table, sighing now
and then, but rarely ever excited or enthusiastic. At the
parent-teacher meetings Josie and Charles had inquired about
this. They wondered, Did anything at school fire him up?
Anything at all? The teachers were at a loss. Most
boys were unfathomable around fourteen or fifteen but they
had usually settled down to do something. Or often to do
nothing. Noel Lynch, they said, had just become even more
quiet and withdrawn than he already was. Josie and
Charles wondered, Could this be right? Noel was quiet,
certainly, and it had been a great relief to them that he
hadn’t filled the house up with loud young lads thumping one
another. But they had thought this was part of his spiritual
life, a preparation for a future as a priest. Now it
appeared that this was certainly not the
case. Perhaps, Josie suggested, it was only the
Brothers’ brand of religious life that Noel objected to. In
fact, he might have a different kind of vocation and want to
become a Jesuit or a missionary? Apparently
not. And when he was fifteen he said that he didn’t
really want to join in the family Rosary anymore; it was
only a ritual of meaningless prayers chanted in repetition.
He didn’t mind doing good for people, trying to make less
fortunate people have a better life, but surely no God could
want this fifteen minutes of drone drone drone. By the
time he was sixteen they realized that he didn’t go to
Sunday Mass anymore. Someone had seen him up by the canal
when he was meant to have been to the early Mass up in the
church on the corner. He told them that there was no point
in his staying on at school, as there was nothing more he
needed to learn from them. They were hiring office staff up
at Hall’s and they would train him in office routine. He
might as well go to work straightaway rather than hang
about. The Brothers and the teachers at his school
said it was always a pity to see a boy study and leave
without a qualification, but still, they said, shrugging, it
was very hard trying to interest the lad in anything at all.
He seemed to be sitting and waiting for his schooldays to
end. Could even be for the best if he left school now. Get
him into Hall’s, the big builders’ merchants; give him a
wage every week and then they might see where, if anywhere,
his interest lay. Josie and Charles thought sadly of
the fund that had been growing in the post office for years.
Money that would never be spent making Noel Lynch into a
reverend. A kindly Brother suggested that maybe they should
spend it on a holiday for themselves, but Charles and Josie
were shocked. This money had been saved for God’s work; it
would be spent on God’s work. Noel got his place in
Hall’s. He met his work colleagues but without any great
enthusiasm. They would not be his friends and companions any
more than his fellow students at the Brothers had become
mates. He didn’t want to be alone all the time, but
it was often easier. Over the years Noel had arranged
with his mother that he would not join them at meals. He
would have his lunch in the middle of the day and he would
make a snack for himself in the evening. This way he missed
the Rosary, the socializing with pious neighbors and the
interrogation about what he had done with his day, which was
the natural accompaniment to mealtimes in the Lynch
household. He took to coming home later and later. He
also took to visiting Casey’s pub on the journey home—a big
barn of a place, both comforting and anonymous at the same
time. It was familiar because everyone knew his
name. “I’ll drop it down to you, Noel,” the loutish
son of the house would say. Old Man Casey, who said little
but noticed everything, would look over his spectacles as he
polished the beer glasses with a clean linen
cloth. “Evening, Noel,” he would say, managing to
combine the courtesy of being the landlord with the sense of
disapproval he had of Noel. He was, after all, an
acquaintance of Noel’s father. It was as if he were glad
that Casey’s was getting the price of the pint—or several
pints—as the night went on but as well as this he seemed
disappointed that Noel was not spending his wages more
wisely. Yet Noel liked the place. It wasn’t a trendy pub
with fancy prices. It wasn’t full of girls giggling and
interrupting a man’s drinking. People left him alone
here. That was worth a lot.
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