Scarlet Feather

by Maeve Binchy

  'Good morning,' he said as he re-entered.

  Simon, with a nightmare rictus grin on his face, came out to shake hands. 'Good morning Tom,' he said.

  'You are most welcome, Tom,' Maud said.

  'Thank you… um… Maud and Simon,' said Tom, gritting his teeth at being welcomed to his own premises by these two children. 'Thank you so much, and to what exactly do we owe the pleasure of your company?' They looked at him without an idea of what he was talking about.

  Cathy explained. 'My mother isn't all that well this morning.'

  'Too much wine here last night,' Simon explained.

  Cathy interrupted, 'and so I thought it would all be for the best if they came to help me here… And if you have no objections, they are about to unload and load the dishwashers very carefully now.

  Now,' she barked suddenly at the children, who scuttled away to get on with it.

  'Sorry,' she whispered to Tom. 'I really had to. I've never seen my poor mother so shook. She never goes anywhere where there's drink, and it's all my fault. I hated that old bitch Hannah Mitchell so much I kept tanking poor Mam up so that she wouldn't hear your woman patronising her.'

  'Cathy, whatever you want, believe me, it's just…' 'It's just what?' Her eyes were bright and searching his face for what he was trying to say.

  'Well it's just that I don't seem to do as much as you do. I was going to meet Joe here and have a chat with him, so now we might slope off and that's not fair on you… And also it's just…'

  'Oh, go on, say it Tom. Ask are they going to be living with us until Neil and I are old and grey, and the answer is I don't bloody know. I just know that we can't abandon them. And they will do this, you know, so go off with Joe and for God's sake stop saying you're not pulling your weight. You do far more than me.'

  'It was a great night last night,' he said. 'I really do think we're going to be all right, don't you?'

  'I think we'll be millionaires,' said Cathy, just as Joe came in through the open door.

  'That's what I like to hear,' said Joe Feather. He took Cathy up in his arms and swung her round in a circle. 'Well done, Cathy Scarlet, you and my little brother here have really got the right touch.'

  She was pleased, Tom noted, as every woman that Joe Feather looked at seemed pleased.

  Maud and Simon peered out of the kitchen at the sounds. 'Good morning, I'm Maud Mitchell and this is my brother Simon. You're very welcome.'

  'Would you like me to take your coat?' Simon asked.

  'I'm Joe Feather. Delighted to make your acquaintance,' Joe said.

  'Are you Tom's father?' Simon asked, interested.

  Cathy's face fell.

  'Not quite, more his brother,' Joe said agreeably.

  'And do you have children and grandchildren of your own?' Maud wanted to be clear on everything too.

  'No, I'm a bachelor, that's a man never lucky enough to marry,' said Joe as if he were being interviewed on radio. 'And I live by myself in London in an apartment in Baling. I go to work by the Central line every day from Haling Broadway to Oxford Circus, and I walk down to the garment district, where I sell clothes.''

  Tom hadn't known any of this. He knew his brother's post code, but he hadn't known it was Ealing… He didn't know about the tube journey, either.

  'Do you sell them in a shop or in a street?'

  'It's more an office really. You see, they come in to me and then I send them out again,' Joe explained.

  'Do you improve them before they go?' Maud asked.

  'Actually, no. No, they go the same as they arrive,' said Joe.

  'Terrible waste then, isn't it, them going to you?' Simon said.

  There was a silence. I suppose it is in a way,' Joe agreed. 'But it's the system, you see. It's how I earn my money.'

  There was another silence. 'Are we talking too much?' Simon asked Cathy.

  'No, truly, but why don't you go into the kitchen again and sort the cutlery? Like now,' Cathy shouted so that they all jumped. Maud and Simon went out immediately.

  'They're extraordinary,' Joe said.

  'Mixed blessing,' Cathy said.

  'Who are they?' he asked.

  'You don't have time. Go off and have a coffee somewhere sane, and we'll do this place.'

  Tom thought that Joe was reluctant to leave. His brother was such a womaniser and always had been. Tom hoped against hope that Joe hadn't suddenly taken a fancy to Cathy. Life was never uncomplicated, but all he needed now was something like this to happen, for his brother, who seemed to be able to get the entire female population of Ireland to fancy him, to move in on the happiest marriage in the Western world—that of Cathy and Neil Mitchell. Whatever else happened, this must not even be allowed to get to first base. 'Come on, Joe, we'll go to Bewley's,' Tom said, and they left.

  'What does Geraldine do for a living?' Joe asked when they were seated with their sticky almond buns and coffee.

  'She's got a PR agency, you know that.'

  'No, I meant how did she get the money to set it up, and how can she match me pound by pound?'

  'Funny thing,' Tom said. 'Geraldine asked Cathy the same question. She wanted to know where you got the money.'

  'And what did Cathy say?'

  'She said that she didn't know, and as far as she knew that I didn't know either.'

  Joe said, 'So what do you want to know? Ask me, I'll tell you.' 'I suppose I don't know exactly what you do. You don't ever say.'

  Joe leaned on the table and looked across at him without the usual jokey smile. 'God, you know what I do, Tom. I rent two rooms in the garment district in London. I get stuff made up out in the Philippines. I import it, I show it to retailers, they buy it and I get more stuff made up in Korea and I show it to more retailers and they buy it.' 'And that's it?'

  'Of course it's bloody it. What did you think it was, stealing old ladies' pension books, selling hash in pubs?' 'No, of course not.'

  'But what then? You know what I do. There was never any mystery. When you went to work in those restaurants I knew what you were at. I didn't say to myself, I wonder what Tom is doing in Quentin's? I knew you were an apprentice learning how to cook with that chef Patrick, what's his name?' 'Brennan. Patrick Brennan.'

  'Yes, I know. I often go in there, his wife Brenda is something else. When you went on the catering course, I knew what it was about. Ask me anything you like if you can't understand what it is I'm doing,' Joe grinned at him.

  'I know, it does sound like the Special Branch. Sorry.' 'It sounds worse, it sounds like the Inland Revenue,' Joe said with a look of mock terror on his face.

  'Talking about that, Joe, we have a very upright bookkeeper…' I get your drift,' he laughed.

  'No, I mean he really does ask toughish questions and, you know me, I like the canvas to be uncluttered with little problems.'

  'I have one really spotless account, believe me. Any support comes from that one.'

  Tom decided to go no further down the road on that one, in case he heard of accounts which were not spotless and learned more than he wanted to know. 'And do you ever go out to these places in the Far East to see them making your clothes?' he asked.

  'As little as I can. I know you think I'm a capitalist pig but I actually can't bear to see how poor they are and how little they're paid, I just prefer to see stuff arriving in a warehouse.

  'Oh, I can't talk about people being capitalist pigs now, I've joined them,' Tom said ruefully.

  'I know, the Feather brothers taking over.' Joe grinned at him.

  'Talking of that...'

  'Yeah?' Joe was wary now, as if he knew what was coming.

  'Joe, I don't want to preach but couldn't you just go sometimes to see Ma and Da. You never see them and I have to keep on…'

  'No, Tom, you don't have to keep on doing anything you don't want to. I met them last night, for God's sake.'

  'For thirty seconds at a party.'

  'You want me to spend hour after hour listening to Ma telling me I'll burn i
n hell because I don't go to Mass, Da complaining that my name isn't on the sign in the builders yard… No, Tom, I have a life to lead.'

  'So do I, and I have to live yours for you too… Where is he, why doesn't he stay in touch.'

  Joe shrugged. 'Say you don't know.'

  'I do say it, and it's the truth. I don't know. I don't know why you who are so good with people can't send them the odd postcard, make the odd call.'

  'If I go to Manila I'll send them a card, is that a deal? Will you get off my back now?'

  'A card from London would be exotic enough for Ma and Da,' said Tom, but he knew when he had to give up.

  Tom and Cathy sat for hours dreaming up menus for the christening, the first night party and the business lunch. All of them desperately important in their own way. The christening would have a very flash, moneyed crowd at it, people who could spend. They would have to do it right, lay out a bit more on the actual presentation. The theatre party was on a very low budget; what they wanted was something much nicer than sausages and crisps but at the price that sausages and crisps would cost. It needed a lot of thought. If they got on well with the theatre crowd it would really stand to them, there would be contacts for all kinds of events from now on. Cathy had been endlessly patient trying to think of cheap food that would seem more upmarket. Crostini, maybe? And lots of dips and pitta. But since people actually did like sausages, maybe they should have some, with a redcurrant and honey glaze.

  She knew there would be no profit in it but that it was very dear to Tom's heart. So he wanted to help her also with the business lunch. Cathy's dream was that they would get into some of the banks or money houses in the financial centre, where they would serve light, exquisite lunches to the companies' clients as part of corporate hospitality, and have the ability to pick up further business at every meal they served. It would mean more daytime work, too.

  Cathy had asked once if Marcella would consider helping to serve this first one, just to start them off. Nobody would ever forget Marcella pouring their mineral water and smiling her dazzling smile. Tom hated having to say no at the outset. He knew that Marcella just would not do it, and it would be unfair to ask her.

  'She must have a stab at this modelling, you know, no matter how hard she pushes herself. I hardly ever see her.'

  'I know what you mean,' she shrugged. 'But you're going to have to get used to it when she does become a model, because she'll be off at shows somewhere all the time.'

  Tom realised with a shock that he had probably thought Marcella would never make it. He had somehow seen a future where Scarlet Feather became very successful and they could put in a manager. A future where he and Marcella would marry and have two children. But perhaps he was just fooling himself.

  'Where will we be in ten years time, do you think, Cathy?' he asked her suddenly.

  'T'd say we'll still be here working out this bloody menu, and the child will be nearly grown-up and walking round a pagan because he never got christened at all,' she said. 'Come on Tom, let's cost it out, salmon and a chicken dish, they want it done right, and judging by your figures, they're not likely to have a big family and lots of other christenings to follow.'

  'It'll be too dear, it's the rich who always carp about the prices… you know that,' Tom said.

  They were back in business. Sitting arguing in their shiny new premises, drinking coffee from the marvellous mugs which said Scarlet Feather. A gift of six of them from Marcella, who had them painted specially. Cathy's friend June who had helped last night came in to say that she would love to do the odd night waitressing, and could they just show her a few of the finer points.

  'I'm not sure we know them,' Tom said. 'But we'll try anyway.'

  June was a small, jolly girl who had been at school with Cathy. She had got pregnant when she was sixteen and the great thing about that, she said, was that she had her family reared now and she was free to do what she liked. According to Cathy, she sometimes felt a little bit too free to do what she liked, or that's what her husband said, anyway. But June just laughed and said that she had to go dancing and to clubs nowadays: she had missed out on all that when she was seventeen and eighteen, pushing prams and minding babies.

  'I'll try not to be too forward or anything,' she promised Tom, 'and if you tell me how to pronounce the things each time, I'll be great altogether. Well, I'll be cheerful anyway, and a lot of these ones you meet at functions look as if they have a poker up their arse.'

  'Yes indeed,' Tom had said.

  'But of course, if they fancy me then I can't help that.' 'No indeed,' Tom said.

  'When's that brother of yours coming back to town? He's nearly as good-looking as yourself, but he's a real goer, isn't he?' June ate one of the crostini.

  'June, stop that, you're eating the profits,' Tom said firmly. 'Oh, Joe comes and goes, he never stays. You just hear he's here, then you hear he's gone.'

  'Dead exciting,' June said.

  It flashed across Tom's mind that June could have been Joe's companion, the woman who had gone back to the hotel with him after the launch party. But no, surely not June. Her interpretation of having a bit of freedom could hardly have extended to staying out all night. She did have children at home. Then of course, he realised, it couldn't have been June, she had been here dancing at the very end, when Joe was long gone. But she could have gone on and joined him there later. Sexy little thing, in her way. Not something he would ask Cathy. What he really needed were those two Mitchell children. They'd get to the heart of any story. For some reason, nobody seemed able to refuse to answer their questions.

  Cathy and Tom had been trained on the catering course to do their accounting very carefully, pricing their ingredients, labour and staff very precisely. They had to work out portion control in advance and take out the hours they worked afterwards. On the theatre job they lost a total of £76. Tom was shaken to the core.

  'It's a one-off,' Cathy soothed. 'It's buying goodwill. We should put part of that under the promotional budget.'

  'We don't have a promotional budget. The launch party saw to that,' Tom wailed in despair.

  'It will lead to other things,' she pleaded.

  'No, Cathy, it won't, it was to please my theatre friends, that's all. They asked half the audience in, so no future business in that crowd… and we were hours getting the place right.'

  'And we had to send June home in a taxi, which was miles,' Cathy agreed.

  'And we had to pay her two extra hours because she worked them. I had no idea it was going to go on so late.' Tom was contrite.

  'Okay, three jobs this month and we lost seventy-six pounds on the first. I wonder what we'll end up losing? If we did it spectacularly enough they could use our books as an exhibit on some marketing course. How not to go into business.'

  'We'll have to get bloody books, you know, otherwise we'll end up in jail as well as bankrupt. It all looked so simple in theory, didn't it?' Tom sounded less cheerful.

  'What we need just now is one of those strokes of luck we kept saying that we were having,' Cathy said.

  The phone rang. Cathy was nearer.

  'Oh, yes, James, how are you?' Tom watched as Cathy frowned.

  'Yes of course, James, it would be a pleasure.' She put the receiver down. 'You'll never guess what James wants.'

  'Nothing would surprise me these days. It's not one of those strokes of luck we were looking for, is it?'

  'I don't think so,' Cathy said slowly. 'He wants us to teach him to make a supper for two people, three courses. He says we are to buy the ingredients and come to his place. He's costing our time at fifteen pounds an hour. Minimum four hours, including the shopping.'

  'When does he want it?' Tom asked. 'We're very busy this week, we're going to…'

  'No, it's ages away, but he's going to pay us in advance to book us, he says it's proper professional practice and he insists upon it,' Cathy said, knowing well that James was only trying to put some money into their very meagre bank account.


  'That's okay. Sixty quid will nearly make up the deficit on the theatre party.'

  'Listen, he said fifteen pounds an hour each.'

  'He's going to pay a hundred and twenty pounds to make a dinner? He's off his skull.'

  'I suppose it's for some woman, he did say that discretion was to be a part of it,' Cathy said.

  'Good. Then let's not let Simon and Maud know; they'd have it on the six o'clock news,' said Tom happily.

  Once a month Neil and Marcella cooked a meal for them all. They were both utterly hopeless at cooking, and Tom and Cathy itched to get up and do it themselves. It would have taken half the time, and been so much better. But they had to sit through the endless fussing, sauces burning, meat shrivelling and salads being drenched in dressing. It was a ritual.

  Tom thought to himself that if they were giving a lesson to poor James Byrne, perhaps they should include their partners as well. But it wasn't something you could suggest. It would look too critical of all that had gone before. But unexpectedly, it was Marcella who suggested it. When she heard about the lesson she said that she and Neil had been thinking of going secretly to Quentin's restaurant to ask Brenda and Patrick for a lesson. Could this be the solution, here on their doorstep? A rehearsal for Mr Byrne? This month it was to be Stoneyfield in their own flat. Perfect.

  'If you were as old as James and he was trying to seduce you, what would you like him to serve you?' Tom asked Marcella.

  'She mightn't be old, she might just be a young one,' Marcella said.

  'Well, what?'

  'Oysters, grilled fillet of sole, French beans and fresh fruit salad with no sugar.' Marcella spoke with certainty.

  'But that's because you've been on a diet since you were nine,' Tom complained. 'She might be a big fat lady dying for steak and kidney pie and apple pie to follow.'

  'Yes, but she wouldn't like it on a date, she likes to be treated as if she were fragile, even if she isn't.'

  Tom thought this was a good idea, and so did Cathy. 'We should put Marcella down as our group psychologist,' she said approvingly. And, as always, Tom beamed at the compliment for his girl. He loved people to praise Marcella, as he sometimes feared that they didn't know her well enough to realise how much she cared about the enterprise.