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Authors: Maeve Binchy
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haven’t begun to know hardship… They weren’t catering a party for Hannah Mitchell.’ Cathy rolled her eyes. Shona would know the dreaded Hannah, always the stalwart of fashion news and Valued Customer evenings at Haywards.
‘And you’re still alive and smiling.’
I wasn’t smiling over the party, believe me. You don’t sell any untraceable poisons in that store of yours, I suppose? Where were
you
last night, anyway?’
I was at Ricky’s party. I met Marcella and Tom… Well… Tom just for a bit.’
Cathy paused. She would like to have told Shona their news, but they had all agreed nobody would know until there really
was
something to know. Geraldine and Marcella had agreed to be silent, so Cathy must say nothing. Nor did she ask why Tom had only been there for a bit.
‘What was the food like?’ Cathy asked instead.
‘Not you too. Tom practically had a forceps and swab out examining it.’
‘Sorry. I know we’re very boring.’
‘Not a bit, and the truth is the food was very dull. Not only did I ask them for a brochure which I’ll send you, I also asked Ricky how much he paid them and you’ll be stunned…’
‘Stunned good or stunned bad?’
‘Good, I imagine – I know what you two could do for that price. Sorry, this animal’s going to have me in the harbour in a minute.’
‘He’s never yours, how do you keep something that size in Glenstar apartments?’
‘No, I just borrowed him to get me out for a walk before lunch.’
Cathy realised that she knew nothing at all of Shona Burke’s private life. Maybe everyone worked too hard these days to
have
a private life. Or more likely, maybe they worked too hard to have any time to speculate about anyone else’s.
I swear I’m keeping my eyes open for a place for you. You will find one when you least expect it, believe me.’
Cathy felt shabby thanking her. But a promise was a promise. She looked into the faces that passed her by. Some people might never be their clients in a million years, but others might well need Scarlet Feather some time in their lives. There would be birthdays, graduations, weddings, anniversaries, reunions – even funerals. People no longer thought that caterers were the preserve of only the rich and famous. They had given up the nonsensical superwoman image of pretending that they had cooked everything themselves while holding down a job, looking after their children and running a home. In fact, nowadays you were considered intelligent to be able to find someone else to take part of a compartment of your life. Some of these people taking a morning walk and watching the waves might well be sending for the brochure that she and Tom would soon get ready. The brisk couple with their two spaniels might well be booking a retirement party or a thirtieth wedding anniversary. The well-dressed woman who looked so fit might need to organise a ladies’ lunch for fellow golfers. That couple holding hands might want a drinks party to announce their engagement. Even the man with the red eyes and white face, who was vainly hoping that fresh air might work miracles on whatever damage he had done to himself last night, might be a senior executive who was looking for a firm to run his corporate hospitality.
The possibilities were endless. Cathy hugged herself with pleasure. Her father used always to say that it was a great life just as long as you didn’t weaken. Not that her father had ever shown much get up and go except to Sandy Keane’s, or Hennessy’s the bookmaker’s. Poor Da: he would fall down if he knew how much she and Tom Feather were prepared to pay for these premises. And her mother would go white. Mam would be apologetic to the end of her life that somehow the maid’s daughter had snared the great Hannah Mitchell’s only son. It had been a terrible crime – ten thousand times greater than taking a half-hour off for a mug of tea, a smoke and a look at a quiz show on television. There was no changing her. In
‘And you’re still alive and smiling.’
I wasn’t smiling over the party, believe me. You don’t sell any untraceable poisons in that store of yours, I suppose? Where were
you
last night, anyway?’
I was at Ricky’s party. I met Marcella and Tom… Well… Tom just for a bit.’
Cathy paused. She would like to have told Shona their news, but they had all agreed nobody would know until there really
was
something to know. Geraldine and Marcella had agreed to be silent, so Cathy must say nothing. Nor did she ask why Tom had only been there for a bit.
‘What was the food like?’ Cathy asked instead.
‘Not you too. Tom practically had a forceps and swab out examining it.’
‘Sorry. I know we’re very boring.’
‘Not a bit, and the truth is the food was very dull. Not only did I ask them for a brochure which I’ll send you, I also asked Ricky how much he paid them and you’ll be stunned…’
‘Stunned good or stunned bad?’
‘Good, I imagine – I know what you two could do for that price. Sorry, this animal’s going to have me in the harbour in a minute.’
‘He’s never yours, how do you keep something that size in Glenstar apartments?’
‘No, I just borrowed him to get me out for a walk before lunch.’
Cathy realised that she knew nothing at all of Shona Burke’s private life. Maybe everyone worked too hard these days to
have
a private life. Or more likely, maybe they worked too hard to have any time to speculate about anyone else’s.
I swear I’m keeping my eyes open for a place for you. You will find one when you least expect it, believe me.’
Cathy felt shabby thanking her. But a promise was a promise. She looked into the faces that passed her by. Some people might never be their clients in a million years, but others might well need Scarlet Feather some time in their lives. There would be birthdays, graduations, weddings, anniversaries, reunions – even funerals. People no longer thought that caterers were the preserve of only the rich and famous. They had given up the nonsensical superwoman image of pretending that they had cooked everything themselves while holding down a job, looking after their children and running a home. In fact, nowadays you were considered intelligent to be able to find someone else to take part of a compartment of your life. Some of these people taking a morning walk and watching the waves might well be sending for the brochure that she and Tom would soon get ready. The brisk couple with their two spaniels might well be booking a retirement party or a thirtieth wedding anniversary. The well-dressed woman who looked so fit might need to organise a ladies’ lunch for fellow golfers. That couple holding hands might want a drinks party to announce their engagement. Even the man with the red eyes and white face, who was vainly hoping that fresh air might work miracles on whatever damage he had done to himself last night, might be a senior executive who was looking for a firm to run his corporate hospitality.
The possibilities were endless. Cathy hugged herself with pleasure. Her father used always to say that it was a great life just as long as you didn’t weaken. Not that her father had ever shown much get up and go except to Sandy Keane’s, or Hennessy’s the bookmaker’s. Poor Da: he would fall down if he knew how much she and Tom Feather were prepared to pay for these premises. And her mother would go white. Mam would be apologetic to the end of her life that somehow the maid’s daughter had snared the great Hannah Mitchell’s only son. It had been a terrible crime – ten thousand times greater than taking a half-hour off for a mug of tea, a smoke and a look at a quiz show on television. There was no changing her. In
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