by Maeve Binchy
'How do we know?' asked Frankie's father.
'Because God is good,' James Byrne suggested.
The Riordans, who had given the christening party, recognised Cathy also.
'Didn't think they were up to this kind of place,' sniffed Molly Riordan.
'Well they sure as hell know how to charge. Why wouldn't they be able to afford it here?' asked the husband, who was still anxious that Tom Feather might blow the whistle on him.
At that moment Hannah Mitchell came in, hair freshly done, new heather-coloured wool suit, carrying parcels in Haywards bags, fussing about her fur coat, wondering very oversolicitously if the table was all right for Cathy. And eventually sitting down.
'God, that's Jock Mitchell's wife, they do move in high circles,' said the husband, very surprised.
'I've always wanted to meet her. Hannah Mitchell runs these charity bridge dos. They're always photographed in the papers and magazines. I might just drop past the table later,' said the wife.
'Oh, leave it out… They're nobodies, those caterers. We don't need an introduction that badly,' said the husband, who greatly feared ever having to meet Tom Feather ever again.
'Mrs Mitchell, Ms Scarlet,' Brenda greeted them in her calm, measured way.
'You know my daughter-in-law?' Hannah annoyed as always that she had not been able to make the introduction.
'It's always a pleasure to see both of you,' Brenda murmured as she left them the menus. She had not mentioned that Cathy had washed plates in the kitchen, served tables and was far better known in this establishment than the elegant Hannah would ever be. Mrs Mitchell was special only for habitually changing her table, sending food back or querying the bill. Cathy had carved for the entire restaurant the night that Patrick the chef had burned his hand. Cathy had found fifty pounds in the ladies' cloakroom and had managed to give it back to the woman who had left it there without letting her husband see. Cathy had been there the night the drains packed up. It was no contest as to who was the favourite customer.
'It is nice to have time to have a little chat like this,' Hannah Mitchell began.
'It's very kind of you, and a lovely break for me, certainly,' said Cathy, who had told herself twenty-five times already that there was no point in going to this lunch at all unless she remained calm and courteous. The shouting bit was over, the confrontation had taken place. She had not spoken to her mother-in-law for weeks until she had made the phone call to confirm this lunch date with her. She must listen now, listen and not react.
'Possibly you work too hard. You should have a few more breaks,' Hannah said.
'Possibly indeed.'
'So you agree you might be overworked, a little tense, ready to fly off the handle, then?'
Cathy saw now where her mother-in-law was coming from. She, Cathy, was going to be cast in the role of screaming neurotic, up to high doh over her little business, unable to control herself at functions. A-ha… It was good to see the way the land lay.
'Funnily, Neil and I were saying this the other day, at our time of life we all have to work so hard running just to keep up, that by the time we get to your age and Mr Mitchell's, our life will be so much calmer.'
'You were saying that?'
'Yes. We were noting the way Mr Mitchell can spend so much time on the golf course, and you have all these hours to give to charity lunches. Our day, for all that, will come too.' Cathy smiled broadly.
Mrs Mitchell was put out. This was not the way she had intended the conversation to go. 'Yes dear, but don't you think you might be… how shall I put this… directing too much energy into one channel?'
Cathy looked at her, confused. 'One channel?' she asked.
'Well, this waitressing business.'
Cathy laughed aloud. 'Yes, that's what we call it too, like Simon and Maud. They are funny, aren't they. So solemn, and yet total babies at the same time.'
'I don't know what you mean.' Hannah was genuinely perplexed.
'I'm sorry, it's just that they call our catering company a waitressing business too because they don't understand… I assumed you were quoting them.' Her eyes were hard and her voice harder still.
Hannah made a decision. 'Yes, of course I was,' she said.
'I knew you were, but to go back to your point, Mrs Mitchell, you're probably right. I am devoting a lot of energy to the new company, and so is Tom Feather, but that's natural. Once we get it off the ground we hope to relax a little more, have two or three nights properly off a week.'
'But my dear, that's ludicrous, isn't it? What about your life, your real life… With Neil, for example.'
'Neil's working almost every night too, either at home or at some consultation. It's just the way things are.'
'I think it's just the way you've let things become, dear.'
Cathy remembered that tone. It was the way Mrs Mitchell had spoken to her mother. 'Sorry, Lizzie dear, I don't think we were terribly thorough cleaning the bath, were we?' Cathy had wanted to kill the woman then. The feeling was hardly less strong now. She crumbled some olive bread in her fingers and reduced the substance to a fine powder as she did so.
'Do explain what you mean, Mrs Mitchell.'
'It's just that I'm asking myself, why does Neil go out so much for work, why do you not have a social life, give dinner parties, go to clubs? I mean are you a member of any clubs, tell me? It's just, I worry when a young couple don't have a healthy social life. One begins to wonder why.'
'We both work fairly hard, and I think we can safely say that Neil cares hugely about his clients and about justice being done, so this naturally takes up a lot of his time. I think that must be it, don't you?'
'Well, yes, of course, of course, that goes without saying, it's just that I wondered, perhaps if you were to… Well if you were to try and…' She seemed to lose the words.
'If I were to what, Mrs Mitchell?' Cathy was genuinely interested now. What on earth was the woman going to suggest? That Cathy should learn some new and devastating sexual techniques, or give dinner parties twice a week inviting politicians and the media? She waited with interest.
'Well, that you should smarten yourself up a little.' Mrs Mitchell was diffident. But once she had said it she was sticking to it. 'It's just that possibly you've been so busy with work and everything… that you haven't had time to stop and take a good long look at yourself.'
Cathy did not know whether to feel humiliated or amused. It was so patronising for one woman to tell another that she needed to clean up her act. Yet this advice was being given by a woman aged sixty, with her hair scraped up into a style that was ten years out of date, squeezed into a wool suit one size too small, wearing a nail colour that had not been seen outside pantomime for decades. Hannah Mitchell whose hard, over-made-up face and mink coat made her a caricature, was daring to offer Cathy advice.
'And where do you think I should start?' she asked in a level voice.
'Well, your hair, of course, and to show you how much I really mean it I've got you a token for Haywards.' Mrs Mitchell pulled out an envelope.
'I can't possibly accept this,' Cathy began.
'But you must. I don't think I gave you a proper Christmas present, and let this be it. You did such a delightful job catering for our New Year's Eve party, a lot of people have spoken of it so well since. The very least I can do is start you off on some kind of makeover.'
Cathy stared glumly at the envelope.
'And do get your nails done at the same time, have nail extensions maybe, won't you? There's a good girl. If there's anything a man likes to see on a woman it's long, groomed nails.'
'You know, Mrs Mitchell, I'll certainly think about the hairdo but if you don't mind, I think I'll pass on the nails. You see in our job nail extensions would be a bit dangerous—we could lose them making pastry, for example.' Cathy tried to be light-hearted. It was the only alternative to doing what she really felt like doing, which was standing up and pushing over the dining table into her mother-in-law's lap.
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br /> 'Well.' Mrs Mitchell sounded sad and disappointed, as someone who had done her best but failed in the end, thanks to Cathy's gross stupidity.
'But truly I am grateful for your kindness, Mrs Mitchell. And for this lunch.'
They had just put the fish in front of them, and Hannah was looking at it suspiciously. Is it properly filleted?' she asked the waiter.
'I hope so, madam. Very often a tiny bone escapes, but I think you will find great care has been taken.' Cathy winked at the waiter as Hannah peered at her plate. She knew him well from her nights working here. He kept a solemn face. Brenda Brennan ran a tight ship at Quentin's. He didn't want to be spotted mocking the customers.
James Byrne approached the table with an elderly man.
'Ms Scarlet, I wouldn't dream of interrupting you, but I hoped you might just meet Mr Martin Maguire, from whom you brought your premises. He is only in Dublin for a few hours.'
Cathy leaped up. I'm so pleased to meet you. Would you come round and meet Tom Feather there this afternoon? We'd love to show you how happily we've settled in, and excuse me, may I introduce Mrs Hannah Mitchell, who is taking me to lunch here?'
Hannah stared. She could never accustom herself to the fact that her maid's daughter introduced her with ease to two well-dressed men older than herself. Where had this confidence come from? Mr Maguire promised to come to the premises for coffee at four o'clock, and they were gone. Sensing the older woman's irritation, Cathy changed the subject.
'I must tell you that my sister Marian is getting married. Do you remember her at all from the old days?'
Hannah Mitchell's eyes narrowed as the old days were mentioned. 'No, your mother didn't bring any of the children except you.'
'Oh, Marian's the bossiest of us all.'
'Out in Chicago. That's where I think they went. I remember your mother saying.'
'They love it there. I've been out to visit. Have you been there at all, Mrs Mitchell?'
Before Hannah had time to shudder her disapproval of any city where Poor Lizzie's children had ended up, Cathy saw that they were being approached again, and to her horror she saw that it was the terrible couple who had given the nightmare christening party. Again she made the introductions, but this time Hannah Mitchell offered some information.
'I'm actually Cathy's mother-in-law,' she said. This was a personal first.
'And is er… Tom… your son, then?' Molly Riordan asked, gushing.
'Oh, no, no, not at all. My son is a lawyer, a barrister actually,' Hannah said.
They left eventually, the couple having given their card to Hannah and assured her of substantial sponsorship at the next charity do.
'Sorry about that,' Cathy apologised.
'No, I'm amazed. If your poor mother could see you here with these people…'
'Mrs Mitchell, it's very, very good of you to take me to lunch here and to offer me this expensive hairdo, and I am touched and grateful, but can I ask you as a personal favour not to refer to my mother as my poor mother. She is far from poor, she is happy and content and has children and a husband who love her.'
'Yes, of course… I only meant…'
Cathy waited.
After a long time Hannah Mitchell said, I only meant she doesn't have your confidence.'
'Oh, confidence isn't everything, Mrs Mitchell.'
'It seems to get people quite far, though.' The mouth was narrow.
Cathy saw Geraldine being ushered to a nearby table with Peter Murphy, the managing director of the hotel where she did the public relations. Their eyes met, and Cathy gave a barely obvious shake of her head. Geraldine got the message and didn't acknowledge her. To be greeted by a third customer at Quentin's would put Cathy in an intolerable position. She had already shown her mother-in-law too much of this confidence thing. It was time to listen to the wisdom of having a regular facial and not let the muscles get saggy. Cathy listened, and wondered to herself as she had so often before how this empty, sad, envious woman and her pleasure-loving husband had given birth to Neil. Neil, who was at this moment fighting another no-hoper's case, Neil who would be mildly interested that she had met his mother for lunch but who would never understand in a million years how outrageous it was to be patronised like this. Cathy almost wished they could have gone back to the days of straightforward hostility. It was far easier to cope with.
Peter Murphy and Geraldine O'Connor saw them leave.
'God, isn't that a tiresome poor woman?' he said.
'She's pretty difficult as a mother-in-law, let me tell you,' Geraldine said.
'And how on earth would you know?' he asked.
'That's Cathy Scarlet, my niece, walking out the door with her. She has the bad luck to be in that role.'
'Yes, I did know that. She married the young lawyer, right?'
'And has set up a very good catering company I keep telling you about, which you keep telling me is of no interest to you.'
'No indeed, it is not of any interest only in so far as it's competition. She can't hate her mother-in-law so much if she's having lunch with her.'
'She does, believe me.'
'And why didn't you say hallo to them?'
'Cathy frowned at me not to,' Geraldine explained.
'I'll never understand women,' said Peter Murphy, who had nonetheless made considerable efforts to do so by having affairs with many of them. Including Geraldine, some years back. But that was all over now. Today they were just very good friends.
'I wish I hadn't agreed to go back to the old place,' Martin Maguire said to James Byrne as the two men strolled through Stephen's Green and fed ducks with the bread given to them by Brenda Brennan as they left Quentin's
'No, believe me it's a good idea. You'll remember it like this now, the way they have it all shiny, and different,' James reassured him. They watched in silence as a mother duck rounded up her ducklings for the new source of food.
'Look at that.' Martin Maguire was amazed. 'Look at the way they love their parents and trust them. It's not like that with humans.'
'Don't punish yourself. Please, Martin, there's no point.'
'There's not much point in anything. Are you sure you didn't tell them?'
'I told you I didn't.'
'They must have wondered why I was so eager to sell so quickly. They must have asked.'
'It's your story, your life, Martin. Of course I didn't tell them,' said James. 'Anyway, those two were so anxious to get their business up and running, they never asked. Believe me.'
'I can't go,' Martin Maguire said. 'It's as simple as that. Will you tell them, James?'
'Of course.' James Byrne nodded gravely.
'Imagine, she's their daughter-in-law and she's only got a real ordinary accent.' Molly Riordan was astounded.
'I could have told you that she wasn't married to that tall eejit Tom with the face like some kind of teenage idol,' said Larry, sounding aggrieved.
'I thought he was cute,' she said.
'Well I tell you, he's not going for a lady barrister. No, his line is a bit of stuff, believe me.'
'How on earth do you know?' Molly asked.
'I heard,' he nodded sagely.
Molly shrugged. 'Well, all our friends thought he was a doll. Why did you take such a dislike to him?'
The husband couldn't remember. Just one of those instant things, he thought.
Brenda Brennan was having a cup of coffee in the kitchen when lunch was over at Quentin's.
'Patrick, we should try and put a bit of work in Cathy and Tom's way, it's very hard at the start.'
'What do you suggest?' he asked.
'You know the way people often ask us to do funerals… and we can't get away so end up sending them over a dressed salmon.'
'You're right, next one we'll recommend them. Get them to give us a card.'
'They already have,' said Brenda.
Tom and Cathy had coffee and shortbread ready at four.
'What were you doing at Quentin's anyway?' Tom asked.
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'Penance for all the many sins I committed in my life,' she said.
'What did you eat?'
'I can't remember. I was with Hannah.'
'Is there blood all over the place?'
'No, she just wanted to cut my hair,' said Cathy.
Tom found this increasingly puzzling. 'But she didn't?' he said eventually.
'She did.' Cathy tapped her handbag. 'She gave me a voucher for it, so I'll be in Marcella's domain one of these days. Tom, do I need my hair cut?'
'I don't know. Do you want to?'
'No, not particularly.'
'Then don't.' It was simple. Simple for men. Simple for anyone who hadn't taken Hannah Mitchell's money.
At that moment they heard James Byrne and Martin Maguire arriving.
'Remember, we must not sound as if we are too grateful or he'll take it back,' Cathy fussed.
'It's all signed and sealed, Cath, it's only a social call,' Tom whispered, and they opened the door. James Byrne was alone.
'I'm very sorry. He decided not to come after all, so I came along to give you his apologies.'
They were very disappointed. 'Whatever made him change his mind?' Cathy asked, and as soon as she spoke she knew that James Byrne would not tell her.
'I just said I'd tell you that he was sorry.' He looked sad himself.
'Well, maybe it was too soon for him; he might come another time,' Cathy said.
'He might indeed. He'll be glad to know that he didn't cause any fuss.'
James Byrne left.
'We'll never know,' Cathy said.
'Nobody'll ever know our secrets from him either,' Tom said.
'We don't have any secrets,' she laughed. 'Though actually I do. I'm going to give this hairdressing voucher to June.' She waved it gleefully.
'How much is it for?' asked Tom and when she showed him he pretended to reel around the premises. 'Do people really spend that much money on hair?' he asked.
'Apparently.' Cathy laughed.
