Quentins (30 page)

These thoughts welled up, but Derek was a man used to thinking long and carefully before he spoke, so he
said nothing. And he missed the moment where Cath had seen some softness in his eyes, and where Jimmy had thought for a second or two that Derek might not be a bad old skin.

Instead of speaking with his heart, Derek spoke with his accountant's mind.

And, as the three of them left Quentins to go back to the firm where they would pick up their papers and he would face the wrath of Bob O'Neil, Derek saw people from other tables smile at them and even clasp their hands as the Costellos walked with him.

Nobody greeted Derek Barry, partner in the accountancy firm and father of the proprietor of Quentins.

The world had changed, and not for the better.

L
aura Lynch was forty when her husband left home. There had been no row. He just said it had been an empty, shallow, one-way relationship. She had not grown or developed within the marriage while he had and bettered himself.

Laura had been so dependent, so lacking in get-up-and-go, so he could no longer stay in something that was making neither of them happy. And he left with a much younger colleague, who had no problem at all in getting up and going. He had been coldly and clinically fair in the division of property, and even given her some unasked-for advice.

“If I were you, Laura, I would develop an independent streak,” he said quite seriously, as if he had not insisted that she be a stay-at-home mother for their children.

And in the twenty years since he left, Laura Lynch did indeed develop an independent streak. She needed one, since it was hard work turning what had been the family home into a guest house. The children were fifteen, fourteen and thirteen at the time of the breakup. All of them much more like their father in personality. Independent to a fault, Laura sometimes thought.

It was never a house of hugs and spontaneous gestures. They showed no need for any emotional exchanges or
confidence. So Laura learned to be independent. She learned not to be needy and never to allow herself to feel disappointed and let down over things.

She had hoped that she might meet someone and marry again, but it did not look likely. She managed her money well, and once she had sold the guest house to buy a small garden flat, she made a sort of social life with friends of her own choosing. There were bridge lessons, and theater groups, and creative writing classes. No empty evenings to sit brooding and wondering why she heard so little from the two daughters and son and four grandchildren that she loved so much. She must indeed have been a very dull and dependent woman, as her ex-husband had said.

Amazing that she had not resented his cold, parting words, but had actually heeded them instead.

It was great that Mother had such an independent streak, they told each other. A lot of their friends had the most dreadful problems with clinging mothers, interfering mothers, critical mothers. They were indeed blessed with their own.

The Lynch family often told each other this when they met once a month in Quentins for Saturday lunch. It was a tradition they enjoyed: Harry Lynch and his sisters, Lil and Kate. No spouses, just the three of them, twelve times a year, they kept up with each other's lives, unlike many families they knew who just lost touch.

Lil looked forward to these Saturdays. She got her hair done and went to the charity shop. Lil's husband, Bob, was careful about money. He said that anyone with a good eye could pick up the most marvelous stylish bargains there. And he was right, Lil said defensively, as she often did. Her sons had Saturday jobs, their father didn't believe in letting young people idle about.

Kate loved the family lunch too. Weekends were
often lonely for her, since Charlie went back to his wife and children for the weekend to keep stability in the family. Charlie was so wonderful to her brother and sister: he admired Lil's crazy 1980s jackets and always asked about Harry's endless garden work.

Harry enjoyed the lunch meeting. He found Lil's Bob rather trying, telling him how to save money on phone calls, and there was something phony about Kate's Charlie, who appeared to be running two establishments quite cheerfully. Nice to see his two sisters on their own, and tell them about the new pergola and how well the azaleas had done when repotted. He would talk too about Jan and the girls, who always spent Saturdays at the gym, as if they were his only real family and didn't know where Harry had his lunch or even if he had his lunch.

Brenda Brennan wondered how long they had been coming in, these Lynches. Must be nearly fifteen years now, or was it more? From time to time she had seen Kate in here with that Charlie, the man-about-town who usually brought his wife here for anniversaries or birthdays. Still, people made their own arrangements. Brenda shrugged—as she often did about the way her customers lived their lives. She knew that Lil was married to a man who had a very good job.

Bob often brought big groups to Quentins for very pricey meals. He always checked and sometimes queried the bill. Maybe that's why his wife dressed in other people's castoffs. Harry Lynch was a dull man whose eyes lit up only when he talked to her about growing vegetables. It was fairly easy for Brenda to talk about vegetables, since Quentins prided themselves on their homegrown organic produce. But how did people in the bank react? she wondered. But this was not her business.

Her husband, Patrick, said that she got far too
involved in people's lives. “Just serve them, Brenda,” he would plead.

But there was no life in that sort of thing, and anyway, part of Quentins' success was due to the fact that she remembered who people were and all about them. She knew that the Lynch family always chose pasta, so she came armed with information about the really good pesto. Contained pine nuts, of course, just in case anyone was allergic, but a very distinctive flavor. They would have one glass of house wine each, and Kate would stay on to read her paper and have a second and third glass on her own. There was not much that escaped Brenda.

“I see that there's a booking for twelve under the name of Lynch for Mother's Day. Is that your family?” Brenda asked brightly. The moment she had asked she regretted it. They were bewildered, looking at each other in surprise.

“Mother's Day. No, that's not us. We usually just give Jan a bunch of flowers from the garden,” Harry said.

“My boys wouldn't be able to afford this . . . and Bob, well, he doesn't like big gatherings,” Lil said.

“A lot of these Mother's Days and other things are just purely commercial,” Kate said with her brow darkening. Charlie's wife would undoubtedly get the full works.

Brenda recovered herself. “You're so right, Kate, it only benefits us and the florists and of course the card manufacturers. Still, we are happy to see it! That's commercialism for you, of course!” She laughed easily and moved back to the kitchen, mopping her brow.

“Sometimes, not all the time, Patrick, but sometimes I think you're right about not getting involved in their lives,” she said ruefully.

“What have you said now?” He laughed affectionately.

“I just thought that the Lynches at table nine might have booked to take their mother out for lunch a week from tomorrow, but the thought had never crossed their little minds.”

“We don't need any more bookings. We couldn't cope with them. We're full.” Patrick was mystified.

“That's not the point. They have a mother, they haven't booked her in anywhere at all.”

“Leave it alone, Brenda,” Patrick said, shaking a spoon at her.

“Do you think she might have meant had we booked for Mother?” Kate asked.

“But we never did anything like that. Mother wouldn't have expected it. Nor wanted it,” Harry said. He would have to take a lot of persuading to get Jan and the girls to go along with such a scheme. Sundays were for long, healthy walks, not for sitting down and ingesting calories.

“And even if we were to ask Mother out to lunch, it couldn't be a place like that,” Kate said. Kate had a particular distaste for those kinds of wives and mothers who wanted a silly, expensive fuss made over them just to reinforce their status.

“And she's so independent,” Lil said. “She's always doing something whenever you want to see her.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Kate said.

“I see her very often,” Harry protested. “We have coffee quite a lot, as a matter of fact.”

“Only because she goes to the gardening center on late-night opening to meet you there,” Kate said.

There was a silence. Harry seemed put out. “At least I do see her, and as Lil said, she has a fiercely independent streak. When do you see her?”

“I often ring her and suggest that we go to the cinema on the spur of the moment. Half the time she's doing
something else,” Kate said. She knew that the others would realize that she rang her mother only on the nights when Charlie was unexpectedly unable to meet her.

“It's a long way for her to get into town to meet you,” Lil said.

“So what do you do for her, Lil?” Kate asked, stung.

Lil paused to think. “When we go to the market and get vegetables in bulk, we often drop in. You can buy things only in huge quantities, and this way it works out cheaper for Mother, you know . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“She's got loads of friends,” Harry said defensively.

“And would hate waste.” Lil was very definite on this.

“I suppose she would consider it a waste?” Kate had done the unforgivable. She had introduced some doubt about Mother's independent streak, the one solid pillar that had given them all the freedom to get on with their slightly complicated lives without considering the needs of a sixty-year-old woman whose husband had left her two decades previously.

Lil and Harry were uncomfortable. Kate was sorry she had spoken. Their pleasant lunch was turning to ashes on them and it was all her fault. Kate needed her brother and sister rather more than they needed her. After all, they had the fairly unsatisfactory Bob and Jan, plus, of course, their children. Kate had nothing but the part-time attention of Charlie.

“Look, why don't I phone and ask her out somewhere. That would cover it.”

“We don't want to leave it all to you . . .” Lil protested very feebly.

“I mean, perhaps we could . . . I mean . . .” Harry said very unconvincingly.

“No, honestly, I'll do it. I know that dragon lady, Brenda Brennan, hates cell phones, but if I whisper, she can't complain.” Kate saved the lunch for them.

Mother thanked her and said it was sweet of Kate, but she and a group of friends had already planned to go out that day. But she really did want to thank Kate. So they looked at each other with relief. The day and the ritual of their monthly lunch was secure again. Silly of Kate to have thought Mother, who was so independent, might be at a loose end.

Laura Lynch sat very still for a while. This was the first time that any of her children had offered to celebrate Mother's Day or acknowledged it in any form other than a small, dutiful card.

How odd that she hadn't even been tempted to accept Kate's offer. But there wasn't a question of it. She would so much prefer the previous engagement.

As part of her independent streak, Laura had created an annual outing. It was called the Chickless Mothers. Women like herself, who did not have loving or demonstrative families. Women for whom there would be no breakfast in bed and huge fuss made. They knew the expression “a motherless chick”—it was in some song. But the opposite held good too. The only rules for the outing were that they enjoy themselves, they did not speak disparagingly of their thoughtless young. Nor were they allowed to make defensive speeches excusing them. It had worked very well for the past years, and on each occasion they chose a different restaurant.

This year it would be Quentins.

And the twelve Chickless Mothers would certainly enjoy that.

P
atrick Brennan was very annoyed when the message came. His routine prostate examination required him to return to the district hospital for some more tests.

Probably nothing at all to worry about, he had been told by the cheerful young woman from the hospital—a woman who was maybe fifteen years younger than him and who would never have to have a prostate examination herself anyway. Easy for her to say there was nothing to worry about.

“It's all your fault for making me have this checkup,” he grumbled to Brenda. “One of the busiest weeks in the year, and I have to be out of the restaurant having bits of me poked at and frightening myself to death.”

Brenda ignored him. She was consulting her big contact book. She would find someone who could cover for him in the restaurant. Patrick knew this.

“If I died, you could just look up that book and replace me in six months,” he said.

“Why should I wait six months?” Brenda asked absently. “We'll ask Cathy Scarlet or Tom Feather. One of them will do it for us.”

Anyone she suggested he would object to, and they both knew it.

“They have their own business to run,” Patrick
complained. “They can't abandon that and come in to run our kitchens because some fool in the hospital couldn't do proper tests on me first time round.”

“We helped them in the past, Patrick, and they'll do it. After all, you're going to be out for only three days.”

“That's what they say.” Patrick's voice was sepulchral.

“Oh, for God's sake, will you stop upsetting yourself. And me, Patrick. You're going to be fine and those two will be delighted to come in. Either of them could cope with anything.”

Tom and Cathy knew dramas and disasters in the kitchen were part of everyday business. They had married recently and were expecting their first child. But these were not matters that would slow them down.

“Don't tell them what is . . . what's wrong with me,” Patrick said.

“No, Patrick, I'll just say it's a mystery illness . . . some kind of plague originating in our kitchens. Would that satisfy you?”

He smiled for the first time. And stretched out his hand to her.

“It's just that I was worried, if you get my drift,” he began hesitantly.

She squeezed his hand very hard. “My drift is the same, Patrick my love, but we're both mad to be worried. Instead, we should be delighted that we live in such modern medical times.” Brenda blew her nose. “Now, can I ring these two and get us sorted?” she said briskly.

“You never said yes? Not this week, when we have so much on?” Cathy Scarlet's face was a round O of horror and amazement.

“What was I to say? The poor guy has to go back for more tests. Obviously he thinks he's for the high jump.”

“It's probably just routine.”

“Yes, for you and me it looks like routine because it's
happening to someone else. Suppose it were us?” Tom Feather's handsome face was upset.

“I know.” Cathy did know. She would have responded exactly the same way.

“So we do it?” Tom checked.

“Of course we do. I was just having a grumble. But don't forget we have that awful family with their graduation party.”

“I know, but we can use Quentins' kitchen to do some of that work there. Brenda said we can use the place as our own.”

Tom had learned that it was often wiser to tell Cathy the good news and let the bad news creep up on them. So he didn't tell her that Brenda said there was going to be a shellfish banquet organized by a company who were really and truly the People from Hell. That would be faced later.

Blouse Brennan drove his brother, Patrick, to the hospital. “Should I say we'll manage fine without, or should I say we'll be lost entirely?” he asked innocently.

Patrick managed a weak smile. “Say you'll manage fine without me for three days but after that you'd be lost entirely,” he suggested.

“I'll make sure the vegetables are top class,” Blouse said soothingly.

“This is the week when I wish you grew oysters, scallops, clams and mussels in that garden of yours,” Patrick said.

“Mollusks,” Blouse said proudly.

“That's right.” Patrick was surprised. His younger brother had been a slow learner at school and to this day frequently read instructions on a packet by putting his finger under each word. Imagine him knowing a word like mollusk!

“The very thing, Blouse.” Patrick tried to keep the amazement out of his voice.

“I'm interested in them. They have no say in anything, did you know that, Paddy? They're just swept along by the tide and stick to rocks. They never make a decision of any kind. Isn't it a queer sort of life?”

“Well, I suppose it is, but no worse than for a lot of sea creatures,” Patrick said, mystified.

“Aw, no, Paddy, a crustacean has legs after all, or claws, and a lot of them even have a jointed shell. They've got a load of choices where to go. Not like your poor mollusk.”

Patrick Brennan took his small suitcase out of the car and went into the hospital. While he was waiting to check in, he thought about the conversation with Blouse.

He would tell Brenda about it when she came to settle him in for the night.

Brenda admired the way Tom and Cathy got down to business and how well they got on with the waiters. Monica, the Australian girl, Yan, the Breton, and Harry, a new boy from Belfast, listened intently as Tom explained how the dishes would be cooked.

“Stay up at the hospital for longer, Brenda,” Cathy pleaded. “I can do your front-of-house bit for one night. I've seen you do it often enough. Just go through the bookings with me first and then tell me if there's anything I should know.”

Brenda's face looked as if she were going to agree.

After all, there was a very solid team already in place.

Mon was a great sunny waitress. Nothing could go wrong with her tables.

Yan the handsome Breton boy was charm itself.

Even Harry the newcomer was showing signs of being a reliable lad. He had the huge advantage of realizing that he didn't know everything and the ability to ask when in doubt.

But even though she was tempted, Brenda said that Patrick would never get better if he thought there was nobody minding the shop. So she waited until the dinner was well under way before she got her coat and left them to return to Patrick. “Save your strength for the real horrors ahead on Wednesday,” she said as she left.

“What real horrors?” Cathy asked Tom when Brenda had gone to the hospital.

“Oh, you know, just the usual Wednesday people,” poor Tom stammered.

“Tom. You are the worst liar in the world. Tell me what's happening on Wednesday or else I shall take out both of your eyes with the melon baller.”

He told her about the shellfish banquet for this hated public relations company.

“A seafood buffet?” she asked.

“No, specifically shellfish, the guy said. Not salmon, not smoked salmon, not trout. Unless the thing lives in its shell, it doesn't get on our table.” Tom tried to make light of it.

“We can't do it,” Cathy said grimly.

“What do you mean? We have to.”

“Listen, Tom, I've been doing the fish buying for the last couple of weeks. The catch is very small. There were practically no prawns, the lobster cost a fortune and the oysters had all gone to France.”

“But they'd have contacts . . . I mean, this is Quentins. They wouldn't be Mickey Mouse like us . . . they must spend a fortune on fish, for God's sake . . .”

“Well, let's pray they do,” Cathy said.

“We've a lot of stuff frozen back at the premises. We could give them that.”

“We can't. We thawed the lot today for the Demon Graduation Party.”

“Oh, God, please, please, nice God, won't you be very
good to us and let us lay our hands on some shellfish,”

Tom prayed.

“Tell me more about this job on Wednesday,” Cathy asked Brenda when Quentins had closed. They sat in the kitchen, rubbing their ankles and drinking great mugs of tea.

“Something we should never have taken on. He's the most disgusting man. He fights every bill, upsets the staff . . . It had been a bit slow recently, so I thought it would be worthwhile. But I fear we have a few problems.”

“Like?” Cathy said, although she knew the problem only too well.

“Like a grave shortage of shellfish. No joy from the usual sources, I'm afraid. I've been on to them all.”

“He'll have to take salmon like everyone else. We'll tell him, Brenda, he can't expect someone to do a quick miracle these days. Those times are long gone.” Cathy spoke firmly, as if to encourage her own flagging spirits.

Brenda looked up. Her face was white and drawn. “I wish you hadn't said that. I was sort of relying on the thought that there might be a few miracles still hovering around.”

The Tuesday seemed to be ninety hours long for everybody. For Patrick, in hospital, the time crawled. He forced himself not to look at his watch again. They would have to come for him sometime soon.

Back at Scarlet Feather's premises, Tom Feather, busy dressing the lobster for the Demon Graduation Party, feared catching sight of the clock in case he would panic at how behind they were. They really needed Cathy today, but she was down at Quentins.

Cathy was purple in the face trying to rescue cream sauce that had unaccountably curdled. Brenda showed
the guests to their tables with her usual polite, welcoming smile. Inside she was churning. It was lunchtime—surely the doctors must have seen Patrick by now. And if they had, why hadn't she heard? Her friend among the nurses promised to call as soon as the test results came through. Please, please, may it not be bad news.

Tom phoned when the pressure in Quentins restaurant was at its height. Sorry, sorry, he knew this was the worst time, but the graduation party had hit another low. Could someone, anyone, come over with a big bowl of tomato salad? The graduate's mother was now losing what remained of her senses and was weeping over something that had never been ordered. Was there a chance? If they only knew what it was like here!

“If you knew what it's like
here
!” Cathy said. She had the phone in the crook of her arm while she mixed a sauce and issued directions to the waiters. Brenda's strained face moved in and out of the dining room. She didn't need another crisis.

“I'll send Blouse,” Cathy said. “Give him the address, will you, and get off the phone quickly in case the hospital rings.”

At half-past two, Patrick was told he had the all-clear. Could he get back to the restaurant? he asked. Apparently not, still a few formalities to go through. And rest. He must rest. But he could leave tomorrow.

Three minutes later he was on the phone to Brenda. Cathy handed her a paper towel to wipe the tears from her immaculately made up face. The staff looked away so as not to catch Mrs. Brennan with her guard down.

“Where's Blouse?” she wanted to know.

“Don't ask,” Cathy pleaded. But she wondered where on earth he actually was. It was an hour and a half since he'd left in a taxi. Please may there not have been yet another disaster to drive them mad. Had he found the
right house? When she next had two seconds, she would call Tom.

But Tom called first. “Can you talk?”

“Sure. Great news. Patrick's okay. And he'll be back tomorrow.”

“Good news here too . . .” Tom began.

“Listen, I'm sorry for interrupting you, but have you any idea where Blouse is?”

“He's here, saving our lives.”

“The tomato salad?” she asked, bewildered.

“No, nobody's eating that, like I told them.”

“So what's he doing, then?” Nothing would surprise Cathy by this stage.

“There are about fourteen horrific children, monsters all of them. Anyway, they were annoying everyone, breaking things, sulking. Blouse has them all down at the bottom of the garden. He's running an herb competition.”

“What?”

“You wouldn't believe it. He has them captivated. They all have little yogurt pots or cream cartons. And he's talking about lovage and verbena.”

“What about the graduate's mum?”

“Mrs. Dracula is fine. She's my new best friend, as it happens.”

“Oh, tell me about it. You turned on the charm. Maybe you could charm some shells out of the rocks for us for tomorrow here?”

“That not sorted yet?”

“No, but we're on the case.”

From his hospital bed, Patrick Brennan was also on the case. And the news was very bad. Not a prawn or lobster to be found. Patrick rang the PR man.

“Why does it have to be shellfish . . . please, just tell me.”