by Maeve Binchy
'Would it be educational for us to go to it, do you think?' Simon wondered the night before.
'No,' said Cathy briefly, and saw their two disappointed faces. 'Thank you for suggesting it, but actually it would be boring and depressing for you. Have I ever told you a lie?'
They paused to consider this question. 'No,' they said at exactly the same time. 'Will there be leftovers, do you think?'
'Not at St Jarlath's tomorrow, Maud. Your aunt Hannah is coming to Waterview tomorrow, tomorrow night, to supper with Neil and myself.'
'Are you going to poison her?' Simon asked.
'Of course not, I'm going to serve her and your uncle Jock some delicious Spanish food and try and make my hair look good.'
'Why would she want to see your hair?' Maud asked.
'Believe me, Maud, I'm not sure, but she does, and often when people want things that are quite easy it's probably best to do them, it saves trouble in the long run.'
'Where did you learn that… Was it at school?' Maud wondered.
'No, my aunt Geraldine told me, years ago. It's a very useful piece of advice.'
The estate agents loved the lunch. None of them mentioned the food; they all talked about the atmosphere.
'Right again, Tom,' Cathy said, genuinely admiring. He got things so right, he had known all along they were selling the mood, not the gourmet dishes of Spain. A lot of these people wouldn't even venture into proper Spanish food when they bought their villas out there.
'They needed good food as a back-up. If it hadn't been as good as it was, we would have heard the complaints,' he reassured her as they packed up the leftovers. Some were going to Fatima, where Tom's father, now home from hospital was well on the mend. There had been a huge basket of fruit delivered there, courtesy of Joe who was still in the Far East. Tom didn't say much about it, but Cathy knew he was very pleased. Cathy was packing two separate boxes, a small one for the twins who would be hoping for something, and another to provide most of the meal tonight when the Mitchells were coming to Waterview. Please may Neil not be late again. Please may Jock not know any of the estate agents here today who might have mentioned they were at a Spanish lunch. And please may Hannah Mitchell not get into a temper because she hadn't used the hair voucher.
The Mitchells were in good time, and of course Neil wasn't home. Cathy had laid out little dishes of black olives.
'Thought we'd be getting these,' Jock Mitchell laughed his bluff, loud laugh.
'Ran into a couple of lads from the golf club and had a drink with them. They said you had done this slap-up Spanish meal, and I said to Hannah on the way over here what's the betting we get the taste of old Espana tonight.'
Cathy's face took on a set look. 'Ah, but I hope you didn't have real money on it because you'd have been wrong, Mr Mitchell,' she said triumphantly. 'Just these lovely fat olives. I thought I'd save a few for you.'
He seemed disappointed. Hannah was busy hanging up her coat and looking around disapprovingly at their house, as she always did. She hadn't seen Cathy properly since she came in.
'Oh, dear, Cathy, no time to get the little job done on the hair yet?' she said, more in sorrow than in anger.
Cathy felt that she wanted to put on a raincoat and start running in any direction, miles and miles from these people.
'Alas no, Mrs Mitchell, but I have given it a lot of thought,' she said.
Neil came in at that moment. 'Hey, that smells good,' he began. Cathy put her finger over her lips and then spoke in a high, unnatural voice.
'Neil, great you're back. I have to do just five minutes' work and send something by taxi somewhere. Your parents are here, can you entertain them for just a minute?'
'Sure,' he said agreeably.
But before he went in she whispered in his ear, 'We are not eating Spanish food, not, repeat not.'
'Of course not.' He shrugged, puzzled.
She called her local taxi firm and wrote a note to Brenda Brennan at Quentin's.
'This is Last Chance Saloon. Can you send me with this taxi driver four portions of anything at all on God's earth that I can give my bloody mother-in-law. Only thing, nothing Spanish. I will pay whatever you want, whenever you like or work it off for you in the kitchen. Love from a distraught Cathy.'
Then she went back and talked nonsense and rubbish to them all for forty-five minutes until the taxi returned with a wondrous steak and kidney pie, a bowl of salad, mashed potatoes and garlic bread. She managed to get it all on the table without any of them seeing, and called them in blithely to their dinner.
'This is lovely,' Hannah said, and Cathy smiled serenely. I knew it wouldn't be reheated Spanish food,' Hannah continued. 'Jock can be way off-beam sometimes.'
'Sorry,' said Jock. 'Should have realised I was dealing with a professional.'
And Cathy knew she shouldn't be so pleased about it all, but there was no way of hiding it. Afterwards when they were washing up she admitted it to Neil.
'It was touch and go but it worked,' she said, delighted with the little victory.
'Sure,' he said.
She knew that he was patting her down. 'But seriously Neil, wasn't it brilliant?'
It wasn't necessary, hon.'
It was essential,' Cathy said with total conviction.
'What are you trying to prove?'
'That she hasn't won.'
'But you proved that, Cathy, long ago.'
'No I haven't.'
I married you, didn't I? What other battleground has she got to fight on?'
Tom was a great audience next morning when Cathy told the tale of the taxi takeaway from Quentin's. They sat companionably drinking mugs of coffee and trying out his new date and walnut bread.
'Tell me how did they not see it coming in.' He sat like a huge child on his high stool, wrapped in his scarlet apron.
'I put a big screen near the door.' She was gleeful about it all.
'And the containers, all the foil, didn't they notice?'
'No, Quentin's sent proper dishes, all I had to do was put them straight on the table.'
'And what did you do with the Spanish food?'
'I asked the same taxi driver to take it straight round to St Jarlath's. I don't care what it all cost, it was worth it, Tom, it was so worth it.'
A pinger sounded on the kitchen wall, so Cathy reached into the oven to take out more bread and screamed with pain. Tom leaped up to take the tray from her.
'I've told you a hundred times to put on those long gloves,' he fussed.
'I know, it's just that I was trying to be quick.'
'That's what you always say, and is it any quicker? Here, let me see.'
He held her two arms under the cold-water tap and let the water flow over the red patches.
'It's nothing, Tom, stop clucking like a hen.'
'Someone has to cluck or you'll be as much use as the Venus de Milo.'
'What?'
'The one with no arms. It was a joke.'
'I know, you eejit, it's just that Hannah and Jock were only talking about it last night.'
'What cultured conversations you have with your in-laws.' He had patted her arms dry and was rubbing the cream in gently.
'I wish. It was an argument between Neil and his father. Jock had bought some sculpture for his office, Neil said it was showy and a waste of money. Jock said that if Neil got a present of the Venus de Milo tomorrow he'd only stick a pair of arms on it and sell it to raise funds for tinkers and foreigners. That kind of cultured conversation.'
Tom laughed as he stuck the gauze on loosely, leaving room for air to get into the burn, and put things away in their first-aid cabinet. 'And what did you and Hannah talk about?'
'My hair,' Cathy said simply.
To her rage, she felt tears in her eyes. Cathy didn't want to be as obsessed with her body as Marcella was, but she wanted to look well.
'Oh, Cathy,' he said.
'Tell me, Tom, is it stupid or something? I don't know.'
'Is th
is serious?' he asked, astounded.
'Of course it is. If that awful woman gave me a king's ransom to get it changed, then it must be frightening the dogs in the street.'
'But if Neil tells you it's lovely… ?'
'He'd say anything for an easy life.'
'No he wouldn't, and it's gorgeous.'
'What's it like? Go on, close your eyes, tell me.'
Tom closed his eyes. 'Let me see, it's fair, sort of honey fair, very thick and it's tied behind your back, and little bits curl over your ears and it smells of shampoo and it's just fine.'
Peter Murphy called Geraldine in the office. 'Awkward thing to ask you,' he began. 'My speciality, awkward things,' she said. It was easy for her to sound so suave and cool. She knew already the awkward thing he was going to ask. Peter Murphy's estranged wife had died that morning, Geraldine had already been told this. It would be either asking her to attend the funeral or not to. It was a matter of indifference to her, whichever Peter wanted she would do. They were old history now as a couple; there had been many ladies in his life since she had been there. They were truly just good friends now. She listened and made what she hoped were the appropriate and non-committal sounds of regret, coming as they did from an ex-mistress. It turned out that Quentin's wouldn't do the catering for the funeral, they were passing such work over to Scarlet Feather. Would this be embarrassing for Geraldine?
'Absolutely not, I'm just delighted they can help you, and I'm sure they'll do it very well,' she said, still in her concerned, sympathetic voice.
'It will be on Saturday morning… um… at what is… was… well, her house… The children… Her friends would expect…' Geraldine had never known Peter Murphy at a loss for words before. For years he had been able to live exactly the life he wanted to. Only by dying had the sad, rich, plain wife whom he had always managed to ignore satisfactorily even slightly inconvenienced him.
'Yes, Peter, and what would be best… ?' She waited. He was unwilling to decide, she would second-guess him. 'Perhaps I shouldn't come to the house. I didn't really know her personally, after all.' She could hear his sigh of relief, echoed by her own. Geraldine had no wish to be seen as a false sympathiser. Yet she would like to know who turned up. This way she could work behind the scenes, peer out and see everything without being seen herself.
'I've got a question for you Simon,' Lizzie said.
Simon's face lit up. 'Is it about Muttie's Yankee today? Did it work, then?' He was very excited.
'Yankee?' Lizzie said.
'It's a bit complicated, it's a way of increasing your stake,' Simon explained helpfully.
'I know only too well what it is, thank you Simon, it's just that there was an agreement that such a thing as a Yankee was never, ever going to happen with household money.' Lizzie's face was thunderous.
'I'm sure it wasn't with household money,' Simon said swiftly.
'No, I'm sure it wasn't. It must have been from his own personal income, his stocks and shares and dividends,' she said vaguely.
'Oh, good, that's all right then,' Simon said, relieved.
Lizzie looked at him in despair. 'That wasn't the question,' she said. 'It's that you and Maud have to say yes or no to Marian's wedding today. If you say yes, then you get dancing lessons and outfits. If you say no then that's fine. It's got to be your decision, the pair of you.'
'Then I say no,' Simon said.
'Right.' Lizzie was leaving it at that.
'What do you mean, right?' Simon could be very imperious.
'Just that you got a choice, you said no. Maud will be disappointed, she said yes, she wanted to dress up.'
'Well I don't,' he said.
'Fine. Cathy will be relieved.' This was part of a plan.
'Why?' He didn't like playing into Cathy's hands.
'She says you'd have been no good. Muttie and I didn't agree, and it would have been a great day out but there, it's your choice.'
'I suppose I could do it, I mean, if Maud wants it so much.'
'Yes or no today.'
'Oh, all right then, yes.'
'And you do have to learn the dances and wear a kilt?' Lizzie was making sure there were no grey areas.
'Well, I suppose. There's not going to be anyone from school there, after all.' He was talking himself into it.
And then came the clincher. 'And of course the tigers? Will there still be tigers?' He had remembered Cathy's chance throwaway remark, just as he would remember Lizzie saying sourly that Muttie had stocks and shares.
'I don't think so, I think there was some kind of a problem getting the tigers into Dublin.'
'But why, Lizzie. Why?'
Lizzie finally spoke. 'I beg you, Simon, don't ask me the answers to any more questions. I don't have any answers. Why does Muttie throw away everything he gets? Why does Geraldine live like a millionaire? Why isn't Cathy grateful to Mrs Mitchell for everything that woman gives her? Why does Marian want some of the Mass to be in the Irish language at her wedding? Why do women I clean houses for leave such terrible rotting things in their fridges? I'll tell you, I really and truly don't know.'
'Do you know when the wedding is, Lizzie?' Simon asked in a level voice.
'Yes, it's in the summer,' she said glumly.
'I suppose we could learn to dance in four months,' said Simon, who had discovered that life threw something new at you all the time.
'Listen, can I help you out Saturday at the Murphy funeral? What I want to do is be in the kitchen out of sight, buttering bread and washing dishes.'
'Why?'
'Because you're a businesswoman. Where will you get a better offer, a pair of hands free for four hours?'
'No, you're doing this for some horrible reason.'
'Only pure curiosity. I used to have a fling with the grieving widower, as you well know. I'd like to see at first hand how many people turn up and who they are.'
'I'm not in favour of it,' Cathy said.
'I could approach your partner, Mr Feather.'
'How will we get you in?'
'I'll come in with you when they're all at the church.'
'The kitchen might not be big enough to hide you.'
It is,' said Geraldine, who had after all been there when it was a joint family home, but when the deceased lady was not in residence.
This was their first funeral, and they must do it right. Brenda Brennan at Quentin's, who had given them the job, said there was a lot of work in that area. You just had to be terribly nice and considerate to the family concerned, and keep everyone else fed and supplied with drink. The problem, of course, was that nobody could tell them how many people to expect. Certainly not Mr Murphy, who seemed highly embarrassed about it all.
They would cook two hams, Tom decided, baked and dressed, just produce one and carve it in the dining room, keeping the other in reserve. This way it wouldn't point it up if there was a very small attendance, much less than had been anticipated. They would have salads ready to make on the premises, a selection of Tom's breads ready to warm up in the oven, Cathy's home-made chutneys and pickles served in the big white pots with their Scarlet Feather logo. There would be warm asparagus quiches and big plates of Irish cheese served with apples and grapes. Desserts might make it somehow too festive and party-like. Inappropriate was the word they kept using to each other. And yet it was very odd and inappropriate to be looking for approval and new business and success just because some wealthy, unloved woman had died and her guilty, remorseful relatives were trying to give her a good send-off.
'Very big house, isn't it,' said Cathy as they climbed the steps with the first load of boxes.
Geraldine sniffed as if she could tell a lot of stories about this house but would not be drawn. June said that she might meet a rich fellow here today. Walter, who was being the barman once again, said it was ridiculous for one woman to have lived in a huge place like this on her own. Tom said it was great that there was lots of space, because he was so big he took up the whole kitchen in some
houses. Cathy said nothing but just scurried back to the van for the next lot of trays. A lot of things were puzzling her. Why was Geraldine coming here, anyway? The place must have nothing but bad memories for her. Why was June talking about meeting a fellow? She had met a fellow years ago, for heaven's sake, and had two children with him. Why was Walter so bitter? He had everything going for him. All right, so two very dysfunctional and at present disappeared parents. But he had never been involved even when they were around. How could he resent anyone who had anything? Including a dead woman whom he had never even known. And lastly, how could anyone else on earth be so unfailingly optimistic as Tom Feather? They had three loose cannons on board with them today. They didn't know whether there would be thirty or two hundred people turning up today. And still he was able to see something good about it all, like he would have a big kitchen. She smiled to herself as she ran up the steps again.
'Don't get into a good humour on me, Cathy Scarlet… That's when you usually burn yourself or cut yourself,' he warned.
'Right,' she said. 'Grim-faced from now on.'
The family of the late Mrs Murphy were back at the house first. Cathy took their coats and hung them on her mobile coat rack which was set up in the back of the wide hall. Then Walter offered them a drink, and they moved into the big and seldom-used drawing room.
'Should we help with the food?' one of the daughters offered grudgingly.
'No, no, it's all under control, and you'll see we have set up a buffet here in the back room.'
They looked around. In all the years that she had lived here their mother would never have entertained like this. And the big rooms looked so well today; these caterers had added small touches, and certainly managed to show the place at its best. How sad that the first time their mother's house, their own family home, should be seen in its glory was at her funeral.
