"This was what was worrying you?" Aidan was puzzled.
"Yes, I thought I might have to spend every night on my mother's sofa."
"We'd have been very uncomfortable on a sofa," he agreed.
"No, you'd have been grand, you'd have been here," Nora said, stroking his face.
"I wouldn't have been at all grand without you," he said softly.
"What was your news for me?" she asked.
I saw Nell about t he divorce. She said fine, but that we're far too old to be getting married at our age, but fine."
"She is right, of course," Nora said thoughtfully.
"She is not right. We will be married, you and I, with all our friends there to celebrate our good luck and happiness," said Aidan with spirit.
"Aidan, you're wonderful but we can't think of it, we haven't any money, and I've been saving for it all the time."
"But I'll have the money."
"How can you save, Aidan?"
"Well, this man Richardson, whose kids I teach. He's a big financial adviser and he told me what to do with my money. In fact, I don't take my fee at all from him. Now each week he invests it for me and it's well over doubled. Imagine that." "Imagine!" She looked at him with great love.
"And now about you. Was this big decision about your mother's sofa easy to make?"
In the end it took about ten seconds," Nora said. I have to tell just one more person, Carissima."
"Will she be surprised?"
"You have no idea with Brenda Brennan," Nora said. "She'll be pleased, but I will go to my grave wondering whether or not she's surprised."
"Why did you call the place Quentins?" Mon asked one morning at coffee break.
"That's his name, the guy who owns it." Brenda was surprised that the young Australian girl didn't know this. She was so bright, so quick.
"I thought you two owned it." Mon "was very confused. "You mean, you could be given the push, just like me?"
"Oh, very unlike you," Brenda laughed. "He knows we are reliable. You're still proving it."
"Does he know about me?" Mon wanted to be part of the team.
"Not too much detail, but yes, he would know that we hired you and we're pleased. Now is that all right?"
"Does he ever come over and see the place?"
"No, hardly ever, once he got us in to run it. Sometimes he sends friends and then lets us know that they thought it was all going fine."
"He must trust you utterly."
"Well, we send him the accounts regularly, but you know, I think he hardly reads them," Brenda said wonderingly. "And I haven't heard from him in a long time. I think I'll send him a cheery message if there's time today."
"What makes you think there's going to be time today? There never is any other day." Mon rinsed her coffee cup and went out to check the faultless dining tables in Quentins Restaurant.
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.