Maeve Binchy

by The Quentins (Lit)

  "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 mobile 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 independent, might be at a loose end.

  so

  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

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  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.

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  Patrick 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 contacts 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."

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

  "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 mouth 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 organised by a company who were really and truly the People From Hell. That would be faced later.

  Blouse Brennan drove his brother to the hospital. "Should I say

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  u 1

  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.

  "Molluscs," Blouse said, proudly.

  "That's right." Patrick was surprised. His young 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 mollusc!

  "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 mollusc."

  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."

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

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

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  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 realising 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 t
he 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 bailer."

  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.

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  "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 has 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 dr awn. "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, busy dressing the lobster for the Graduation Lunch, 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!

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  "If you knew what it's like here!" Cathy said. She had the phone clamped against her ear while she mixed more 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.

  Til 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 a herb competition."

  "What?"

  "You wouldn't believe it. He has them captivated. They all have little yoghurt 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."

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  "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?"

  "It's an image, a concept - the whole idea of sticking fast. We"ve used it in our literature just to attract this client's account. You"re not telling me you're going to go back on the agreed menu . .."

  "I'm not telling you anything. What are you advertising?"

  "It's no business of yours ..."

  "What is meant to be sticking to what? What's the concept about? Can't you tell me? We're doing the bloody presentation for you," Patrick roared.

  "All you were asked to do was to provide a shellfish buffet."

  "It's in your interest to tell me," Patrick lowered his voice impressively.

  The PR man eventually gave in and told him it was a new insurance company that stuck with you through thick and thin.

  "In that case you don't need shellfish, you eejit. You need molluscs."

  I need what?"

  "Prawns and lobsters don't stick to things, you clown. They walk all over the ocean floor. Your clients would drop you as soon as look at you. What you want is molluscs. Why didn't you tell me before?"

  He hung up and called the restaurant. I need Blouse urgently," Patrick begged. He was told he would have to wait in line. "We have to find him quickly, Cathy. Tomorrow we're doing molluscs."

  "Doing what?"

  "Didn't they teach you anything at that catering college? Molluscs. Single shell, double shell. There's thousands of them out there, stuck to rocks. All we have to do is get them to the table."

  "Do you mean things like mussels or whelks or cockles?" Cathy felt dizzy.

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  "Yes, and everything else ... clams, razor shells, limpets ... Blouse will know where to find them. Where is he, anyway?"

  Til get him to call you in the hospital, Patrick," Cathy sighed. The restaurant must be in a poor position if Blous
e Brennan was going to be sent off to scrape limpets off rocks.

  Tom rang again. "The party's over but the children won't go home. They wouldn't even come up for the group picture with the Graduate. Blouse has them hypnotised, he's like the Pied Piper. I wouldn't be surprised if they followed him back to Quentins."

  "Yeah, well ask him to break off just long enough to call his brother in the hospital. Patrick wants him to do the Pied Piper thing along the shore tomorrow to collect limpets."

  "Isn't this a totally crazy life?" Tom said, with the tone of a man who would never live any other kind of life.

  Cathy felt the same. But with one proviso. She wished mightily that tomorrow night was over. She couldn't see one redeeming feature that would save them. But she had reckoned without Blouse and his newly found self-confidence.

  And the next night they all watched, astounded, as the boy they had all considered slow, pointed out, with an elegant cane, the variety of shellfish displayed on what he called the Mollusc Medley. The limpet, the cockle, the whelk and the winkle ... all of them praised for their qualities of constancy. The oyster, the scallop, the mussel likewise. These were loyal invertebrates, Blouse told the group earnestly. Like the insurance company they were here to honour, these magnificent molluscs were noted for their sticking power in a world where, alas, not everything could be relied upon.

  Patrick Brennan sighed a very great, long sigh. His early release from the hospital had been justified. The PR man was as delighted as the Graduate's demon mother. The PR company he ran was booking further spectaculars, but only if Blouse could be part of the package.

  "He doesn't come cheap, of course," Patrick heard himself saying. His voice sounded weak. It had taken hours to persuade Blouse not to stress the lonely, futile and pathetic lifestyle of the mollusc. He hadn't been sure if Blouse had grasped it until the very last moment. But there were lots of things he wasn't sure of any more. Like how Blouse had found all those children to help him get buckets of those terrible things to the restaurant. They