Maeve Binchy - Quentins

This year it would be Quentins.

And the twelve Chickless Mothers would certainly enjoy that. 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."

"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 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. 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 the 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.

"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."