Quentins Page 14

  Three nights before the event, when every catastrophe that could have happened had happened, Patrick and Brenda were still in the restaurant kitchen at 3 a.m. They had lived through a day when a car had reversed into one of their windows, leaving broken glass and a whistling wind until the whole thing could be boarded up and made to appear like a bomb site. Then there had been a gas leak, a shelf containing a lot of valuable produce collapsing, and a lavatory in the ladies" room overflowing. Somebody had sent back the fish because it tasted "funny" and everyone else felt uneasy about their portions, which had tasted fine up to then. One of the waiters had left because he said, frankly, the place was a shambles and would never take off as a top-class place to work.

  "What are we doing it for?" Patrick asked again.

  "Sorry, Patrick?"

  "You heard me. What's it for? I'm bloody exhausted. You're like skin and bone. You've aged twenty years. We were mad to try to do all this. Crazy, that's what we were ..."

  "Would it have been worth it if we had a child or even the prospect of one, do you think? Would it have made sense out of a day from hell like today?"

  "You know it would."

  "No, I don't. We would have been just as tired, even more so."

  "You know what I mean. There would have been some sort of purpose to it all. Something at the end."

  "And there's nothing now, no purpose in anything, is this what you're saying?"

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  "You're picking a row, Brenda. It's far too late."

  "You're right. Why don't you go on up to bed?"

  "Aren't you coming?"

  "In a while. Please go on up."

  Patrick dragged himself to the door and climbed the stairs.

  Brenda looked around the place where she had soldiered since 7 a.m. Twenty hours. She walked thoughtfully over to a mirror they had put strategically for staff to give themselves a quick glance before going into the dining-room. Skin and bone, he had said. Aged twenty years, he had said.

  She wrote a short note to Patrick.

  I'm sorry, but I don't feel like sharing a bed with you tonight. Not if you think I'm old and sad and wretched-looking. Not if you see no hope, no purpose in anything. I'm going to a friend for the night, or what's left of it. But whatever I am, I am a pro. I'll be back tomorrow, 12 noon for the photo call Mary has arranged, and for my lunchtime shift. I don't feel the need to say anything about this to anyone, so you needn't either. Brenda

  She left it on the table beside where he slept in a deep sleep, arm thrown across to her side of the bed as he had done for years. She took her coat, a change of clothes and some washing things, and let herself out into the early morning of Dublin City.

  She took a taxi to Tara Road where Colm ran a restaurant. He was a recovering alcoholic, a man who slept lightly. He too lived over the premises. They had always joked about being rivals, but his restaurant -in its green suburb catered to an entirely different clientele from Quentins" city-centre trade.

  She rang the bell and he answered in a wide-awake voice. "Brenda Brennan? The very person."

  "Colm, could I have a bed for the night, what's left of it?"

  "Sure. Will you have tea and toast or do you want to sleep straight away?"

  "Tea and toast will be fine," she said.

  He never asked her what it was about and she went to bed half an hour later in Colm's spare room, where she slept until 10 a.m.

  "Do I look skin and bone and twenty years older, Colm?" she asked at a breakfast of melon, champagne and orange juice, and a freshly baked pastry.

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  "No, and only an overtired husband in a blind panic over his restaurant would have said that. Are you going back to him?"

  "Of course I am. I'm a professional."

  "And you love him?" he pleaded.

  "Maybe."

  "No, definitely," he said.

  "Anyway, Colm, could you get me a taxi, and know you are the truest friend anyone ever had?"

  The taxi came in five minutes. Eleven minutes into the journey the taxi was hit by a large truck. It came from the side where Brenda was seated. The blow to her head knocked her unconscious at once. She knew nothing at all after the impact.

  Brenda had never been late for anything. Patrick began to be seriously worried. She had said she would be back. He knew that she would. He wondered what friend she had gone to see. He wished that he hadn't been so sharp-tempered. Why could he not have given her a hug and said that when the world settled down they would talk? Brenda was never moody. She wouldn't make a scene like this on such a very important day.

  When she hadn't turned up for the photo call, he became serio usly alarmed. He had tried to reassure everyone else, insisted that Blouse and Mary be included in the pictures as well as the newly recruited staff. He said there were a million last-minute things that each of them had to see to.

  They served a lunch short-handed, every moment he expected to see her come in to the kitchen and slip her coat off. But lunch was over, and there was still no sign.

  The afternoon didn't bring her, either. He was now getting really worried. By six o"clock he was ready to call the Guards. They were not helpful. A domestic incident at 4 a.m.! They were sympathetic, but they had better things to do with their time. Most missing people came home, they said. Try her friends, they suggested.

  He had no idea who to call. He slapped the food on to plates for the dinner with no idea what he was serving.

  She would not have left him like this.

  In hospital, they searched for any identification which would tell them who the dark-haired woman was. All they had was a set of

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  keys and some bank notes in her pockets, a change of clothes in an overnight bag. No hint at all about whom they might contact.

  During dinner Patrick went upstairs again. He saw Brenda's handbag on the floor beside the dressing table. She had gone away without anything. It wasn't possible that she had gone away to kill herself. He didn't want to involve Blouse and Mary. Blouse was so simple and innocent. But by eleven o"clock that night he had to tell them.

  He was sitting crying in the kitchen and they demanded to know why.

  "We'll call the hospitals," Mary said.

  They took six of the major places and tried two each.

  Blouse found her on his first go.

  "Long, straight, dark hair usually tied up in what is called a French pleat," he said, proud of having got it all together.

  Patrick wondered if he would have been able to give such a good description. He grabbed the phone. "Is she alive?" he sobbed. "Thank God. Thank God."

  She had come round for a moment, spoken in a garbled way of Patrick and Quentin but they had no idea what she meant. They were letting her sleep now.

  Blouse got out of the van. Patrick sat inside holding his head. Had he really said to this wonderful, strong, loyal woman that there was no hope, no purpose in anything? Could he have driven her out in to the night because she couldn't bear to lie beside him? The only thing that mattered was Brenda, he knew it somewhere inside. Why could he not have admitted it, and said it to her? Please, please God, may there be years and years ahead when he could tell her.

  He sat by her bed all night and stroked her thin, pale cheek. He half-remembered people telling him about the accident and the taxi and the truck. She had been on her way home to him and this had happened.

  Then at dawn she woke and he laid his head on her chest and sobbed as if his heart would break.

  There was no concussion, very little bruising, just great shock. She had been lucky. The taxi driver had been lucky. Everyone was all right.

  I think I'll make it for the party after all," she said.

  "You're everything in the world to me, Brenda. You're enough, do you hear what I'm saying? You're more than enough. I love

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  you so much, we have huge hope, a huge future together, you and I."

  Everyone was there that night at the anniversary party of Q
uentins, which was as glittery a do as Dublin had seen for a long time, and they would always remember one particular moment.

  It was when Patrick Brennan took his wife's hand in his and held it very tight. He looked around the crowd and lowered his voice slightly.

  "Brenda and I have a wonderful baby to rejoice over with you tonight. The baby is one year old and we have all of you here to celebrate the fact we have a restaurant which survived a year and where we hope to make friends and strangers alike welcome and happy with us. It's not as wonderful as a real christening with a real baby, but for us it's everything that a real christening is, with a sense of fulfilment and hope and a future ahead of us all. So will you drink to our baby, Quentins, and wish us all well in the adventures that the rest of life will bring to everyone in this room?"

  Even hard-bitten media people and professional first nighters were silent as Patrick Brennan kissed his thin, elegant wife Brenda. As the years went on, people said that Brenda Brennan never cried, they must have imagined it. But those who were there knew that they hadn't imagined it. And it wasn't only the Brennans who had cried. Everyone in the room seemed to have been affected, too.

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  PARI II

  Chapter Five.

  I

  r

  j

  There were so many stories about Quentins, it was hard to sort out which they could use and which to throw away. Setting up a movie seemed to cost a great deal of money. They pored over their budget with anxious faces. Sandy had some money in a savings account which she willingly put into the fund. Nick mortgaged his flat and raised a reasonable sum. But, of course, if they were going to make a film that would win prizes and awards, they would have to have high production values and it would mean asking for serious finance from the King Foundation. They had received their application form and took great care over filling it in.

  Til have to work much harder than you two because I have nothing to invest," Ella said. "So today I brought us a bottle of champagne that a customer gave me in Colm's last night. Imagine, he said he didn't want to insult me with money! If he only knew how ready I was to be insulted with money."

  They laughed as they got great tumblers and poured it out. They toasted Firefly Films, Quentins, and the King Foundation in New York.

  When they had finished the bottle of champagne, Nick had said they must be realistic. They were looking for something that was way out of their league. "It's not Mickey Mouse money this time," he said, frowning.

  Sandy tried to make light of it. She hated to see Nick frown.

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  "Don't knock Mickey Mouse. He made a lot of money for Walt Disney in his time," she said.

  He grinned feebly. "Sandy, I'm only saying aloud what we're all thinking. Maybe we can come up with another terrific idea. Ella got us this far. All we need is another leap now."

  Ella saw the shadow pass over Sandy's face. "I didn't get us very far. It was Sandy who wrote out the whole proposal that won the pitch. And in addition, as soon as this champagne's finished I'm going to have to leave you and look for more paid work with other people. I hate to do it, but you know the scene."

  "Are your parents in the shed yet?" Nick asked.

  "Yes, we all are, but we actually call it the Annexe, to'make ourselves feel better."

  "Is it very cramped?" Sandy wanted to know.

  "Not too bad, amazingly. Colm knew some builder in the early days, and they do each other favours. Anyway, this fellow built us a grand place with lots of windows in the roof so at least there's plenty of light coming in and there's a whole bank of storage lockups so that my mother can keep things for when we get out of debt again. I even put my things in there."

  "And will you? Ever get out of debt?" Nick was blunt.

  "I don't know. I wouldn't think so, but it's a start, and my father's calmed down again. For a while I thought he was going to be in a mental home. People know he's doing his utmost to pay them back and that's a help. And two of the flats are already occupied in what we now call the Main House; two more ready by the end of next week. That's not a bad recovery." She forced her voice to sound cheerful.

  Sandy and Nick nodded with respect. Compared to what the Bradys were going through, their own problems were small. They would find the money for their project, or they wouldn't - at least they didn't owe real money to anyone.

  "What work are you going to do?" Nick asked.

  "Deirdre's got me a part-time job up in her lab. I've got two nights a week waitressing in Colm's, two nights a week for Scarlet Feather - you know, your pals Tom and Cathy - weekends in Quentins and, wait for it, two hours a week teaching a pair of twins maths and basic science. They're something else, those two. They keep asking me am I part of the New Poor. I don't know where they heard the expression, but they love it."

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  "Doesn't sound as if there's much time for a social life," Nick said.

  "Oh, Nick, I've had as much social life in the last two years as any girl needs!" she laughed "wryly.

  "Was it as long as that?" He seemed disappointed that her affair had gone on for such a time.

  "Give or take a bit," she said. "In my case, mainly give, but who's counting?"

  Afterwards Sandy asked her very confidentially, "Do you think Nick likes me at all, Ella, or am I just wasting my time?"

  "Oh, I think he likes you a great deal, Sandy. But I beg of you, don't listen to me, what do I know about men and what they like and don't like? Nothing, that's what I know."

  Deirdre said that Nuala was coming over next week. "Great, let's get a bottle of wine each and entertain her," Ella said. "But wait, it will have to be after midnight or between four and six Wednesday and Saturday."

  "Oh, God, I can't wait till you're back in teaching and have normal hours again."

  "I'm not going back," Ella said.

  "Of course you are."

  "I can't afford to," Ella said simply. "Why don't we say we'll have a picnic in Stephen's Green? Nuala would like that, then I can get back to Quentins at six."

  "I'll check it out," Deirdre said.

  "Bad news, Ella. I'm going to give it to you straight. Nuala doesn't want to meet you in Stephen's Green."

  "Okay, where does she suggest?"

  "This is the hard bit. She doesn't want to meet you at all."

  "I don't believe you."

  "It's what the lady says."

  "Has she gone soft in the head or something?"

  "It's to do with Don. Her husband and his brothers lost a lot of money because of Mr Richardson. Apparently she's feeling a bit sore about it."

  "Well, I'm sure she is, and so are a lot of other innocent people, but why doesn't she want to meet met I haven't got her bloody money." Ella was hurt and angry.

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  "Oh, I don't know, some garbled thing about you having a fine time out in Spanish hotels with Frank's money."

  "Isn't she a weak slob? Couldn't I do the same to her, moan and groan and say that it was at her awful in-laws" party that I met Don and ruined my life?"

  "Leave it, Ella. She's not worth it."

  "But you're still going to meet her?"

  "Not if you don't want me to."

  "Oh, meet her, for God's sake. What do I care?"

  "Ella, come on now!"

  "No, I don't care. What does one more small-minded, petty self seeker matter?"

  "She used to be our pal."

  "She's forgotten that pretty quickly."

  Til tell you what she says," Deirdre sighed.

  "If you must."

  Til take her to Quentins, some time you're not working there."

  "Yeah, make sure I'm not working when she's there. I've a neat way with very hot soup straight into someone's lap," said Ella.

  It was Ella's weekly lunchtime lesson with Simon and Maud. They lived with their grandparents in St Jarlath's Crescent. They were bright enough, but had missed out on some mathematics teaching. They were some kind of cousins of
Cathy Scarlet. Ella had learned never to ask for too much detail. But then, she had never met children like Simon and Maud before. They insisted on telling her their whole life story and that they were really related to Cathy's ex-husband, the lawyer Neil Mitchell, but that through a lot of adventures and eventually court orders, they were now living with Cathy's mother and father, Muttie and Lizzie.

  They had a dog called Hooves, who had a limp. They had a brother who "was on the run from the police in several countries. They had their own passports, which they had needed because they'd been to Chicago to dance at a christening party. On the plane, they had been allowed up to the flight deck. In Chicago they had . . .

  "Sure, but I think we'd better get down to the algebra before I hear any more."

  "Are we boring you?" Simon asked very earnestly. "People say we go on a bit."

  "No, you're not boring at all," Ella said truthfully. "It's just that I

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  am being paid proper money to teach you, and I don't want to cheat your grandparents or whatever."

  "Strictly speaking, they're not our grandparents," Simon began,

  "So I brought this book. It's simpler than the one you have at school, but I thought if we went through it first, then when it was all a bit clearer, we could look at your book."

  "And can we have real conversation with you when we"ve understood it?" Maud asked.

  "Certainly," Ella said, flattered.

  "It's just that we were told not to be asking you questions about your sad life, but we wanted to know all the same," Simon explained.

  Ella put her hand up to her face to hide the smile. Til give you blow-by-blow details if you can get your heads round these equations," she promised.

  "You're not going to spend the whole lunch looking at me as if I'm some kind of criminal?" Nuala said.