Maeve Binchy - Quentins

By chance, Quentin's father came in to lunch that day. He had now retired from the accountancy practice where he had always hoped that his son would succeed him. Distanced and confused by the boy's wish to go abroad and paint, he was grimly pleased that the dream of being a great artist had somehow eluded his son.

"Do you hear any news from Morocco?" Brenda asked quietly as she settled the older man at his table.

"You'd hear more than I do," Quentin's father grunted.

"Absolutely not. He's the employer you dream of. Not a word except a raise at Christmas, no wonder we get arrogant, Patrick and I, and think we own it ourselves."

"By rights you should own it. Didn't the pair of you make it what it is?"

"No, your son had the dream, the idea. We just helped him carry it out."

Brenda and Patrick never would have been able to raise the capital to buy the place, but it didn't matter. As long as Quentin lived his peaceful life in the hills of Morocco and let them at it, they had no worries. Sometimes they wondered what would happen if Quentin should die suddenly. Still, every day they worked there, their reputation increased. Brenda and Patrick Brennan would not be long unemployed in Dublin.

"My son gets many compliments for this place, but they should all be addressed to you and your husband," the old man said gruffly.

"They are, Mr. Barry, and you are kind enough to send us a lot of marvellous clients ... so please know we are very grateful." She moved away gracefully.

Over the years she had learned just how much people like to be recognised, acknowledged, but not monopolised by restaurant staff. She wished that Quentin would come back just for a week, sit at the discreet table in the booth and see how the restaurant that bore his name carried on while he lived and painted in the hot African sun.

She would telephone Quentin now, this very afternoon. She needed to keep him up to speed about the documentary anyway. She had written when it was first suggested and asked his permission but as they had expected he wrote back to say that the matter was entirely in their hands, he knew they would make the right choice.

She reached for the telephone.

He was having his early-evening mint tea served in a glass held by a metal container. One of the little boys in Fatama's corner shop brought it along at five-thirty every evening. Like the people who sent him bowls of vegetables scrubbed clean to make soup, or baskets of luscious fruit wiped lest an insect or a bruise appear. They were so good to him. Quentin could have never asked for kinder people, but he had an urge to go home. Just to see was it home or another country, a different world? That was the moment she rang. The cool unhurried voice of Brenda Brennan.

They had just served 120 spectacular lunches, his father had been in, and one of the staff, Mon, a laughing young waitress could not believe that they didn't actually own the place themselves, and that there was a Quentin.

"Did you tell her I'd be no good to her?" he laughed as he always did about his sexuality.

"No, I did not. You are good to her providing her with a great restaurant to train in. Anyway, she doesn't want you, she's landed one of our most prestigious customers from the bank next door."

He didn't ask why Brenda called. She would come to it.

I was thinking, would you like to come back for a visit, Quentin? Just sit and observe us secretly. We'd love to show off for you."

"You're psychic ... I was just thinking of it."

They fixed a date. It was for a few weeks ahead.

Til leave it to you to tell your father about your plans." Brenda was diplomatic.

"Thank you. I'll take my mother to choose a hat one day and I'll probably call Father the day before I leave. Less is best. Do you feel that too about families?" Quentin was always polite and never intrusive. Nobody minded answering any of his direct questions.

"Well, my parents are mainly fine, but then I always had plenty of sisters to share them with, unlike you. Sort of shared the load."

"Yes, there was just me, a big disappointment to them both."

"Your father's in here very regularly, Quentin. He can't be all that disappointed in you. In fact, he boasts of being your father."

"Imagine." There were very bitter tones in his voice.

"Will it just be you?" Brenda asked. Once there had been a delightful young man, Katar.

"I'll be on my own," he said.

Til make sure Patrick has something from our poor imitation of Moroccan cuisine when you come," she promised. "We do a nice orange and cinnamon salad with a chicken tajine, but it's not quite exotic enough."

"Probably quite exotic enough for Dublin," Quentin laughed.

"You have been away for a long time," she said. She talked to Patrick about it that night.

"You should have said a couscous," he complained. "He'd know we were trying, at least."

"He's not coming home to examine the food," Brenda said.

"What for, then?"

"I don't know." She didn't know. It seemed too odd to say she thought he was coming home to say goodbye. He came in exactly on time and smiled warmly as he was introduced to the staff. A tall, slight man, forty-something, still handsome, tanned, but tired-looking.

"Where did he get the money to own a place like this?" Mon whispered to Yan.

"I heard it was from some inheritance," Yan said.

"But who? Not his awful father, for sure." Mon shook her head. "Look at his face. He looks like a sort of saint really, doesn't he?"

You couldn't speak softly enough to avoid detection by Brenda Brennan, who could, after all, lip-read. "Quentin's not exactly a saint," she said to them pleasantly. "But he came by the place legally. From an old friend."

She watched their mouths drop open with the shock of being overheard and smiled to herself. It had been so useful, that little trick, she'd learned so very much over the years. Quentin saw her smile when she came back to the table.

"I'd love to know what you're thinking," he said gently.

"I might even tell you later. Now I have to get the show on the road."

Brenda made sure that Quentin had two kinds of bottled water. She sensed he would not drink wine. She ordered a tray of appetisers. Something he could pick from. She had seen enough people come and go to know that he was not going to eat very much. Quentin Barry was a sick man. He ate in the booth and watched his mother come to lunch with three of her friends. Sara Barry had aged in a way that she would not have enjoyed had she been able to observe it properly. She looked puffy and rather silly. He would have advised her against the light pastel colours and the fussy jewellery.

Quentin's mother had no idea that she was being closely watched from the discreet little booth across the restaurant. All she cared about was that the four women at her table realised just how much she spent on clothes. She talked to them about the wisdom of having an account at Haywards store, it saved so much trouble in the end. You just waved your card and that was that, they were so obliging.

Quentin felt sorry for her. The staff in Haywards would be equally helpful and obliging had she waved a credit card, a chequebook or a fistful of notes. He had worked there for long enough to know. All those years before his luck had changed. He knew Mr. George, Mr. Harold and Miss Lucy and how little respect they had for card holders above anyone else.

And he thought back on how his future had been written for him through the generosity of Mr. Toby Hayward, who still wrote to him from Australia and who had given him this strange, unexpected start and a chance to own his own restaurant.

It had all been so mysterious. Quentin had been told that his best policy was to ask no deep questions.

Katar had said the restaurant had been given to him by God, some vague Irish god who knew Quentin was unhappy and wanted him to have a business that would eventually give him the funds to go out to Morocco. But then, Katar was the sunniest person Quentin ever knew.