The Daisy Picker

by Roisin Meaney

  And so it goes. Three hours a day, three mornings a week, and tea and home-baked biscuits and talk, talk, talk around the small table in the back of Ripe. Sometimes she thinks: This is enough; this can go on forever and I won’t mind if nothing more happens. Other times she wonders if he’s forgotten the night of the party and the way they looked at each other, and she tries to calculate how long it’ll be before she just has to knock back a few more glasses of wine and throw herself at him.

  The only topic that never comes up is Charlie. Joe never mentions him, and Lizzie never asks about him. He wanders into the shop occasionally; he always goes straight into the back room, barely looking at her. She reminds God that Charlie has been scrounging from his uncle for well over six months now, and maybe it would be a good time for him to think about going back to London, if God wouldn’t mind just planting the idea in his head.

  And then three things happen that change everything.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Angela, hi. I’m just off – see you about one. Can I get you anything on my way home?’

  Angela is standing at the sink, her hands in the water. She turns and looks blankly at Lizzie.

  Something’s wrong. Lizzie goes over to her. ‘Angela?’ Her face is paler than usual; her eyes look empty. ‘What’s up?’

  Angela takes her hands out of the water and wipes them on a towel. ‘I got a letter.’ Her voice is wobbly.

  ‘A letter? Who from?’ But she knows.

  Angela goes to the table and sits down, leaning heavily against it as she does.

  ‘He wants to come back.’ She spreads her fingers on the table and stares down at them.

  Lizzie sits down beside her. ‘Hang on.’ She takes her new mobile from her bag and dials Joe’s number. ‘Joe? It’s Lizzie. I’ll be a bit late today – can you hold the fort for a while?’

  Joe doesn’t ask any questions, and she blesses him for his sensitivity. Angela sits without moving, looking down at her hands. Her calmness – her blankness – is frightening.

  Lizzie puts her phone back in her bag and takes Angela’s hands in hers; they’re warm from the washing-up, but they’re trembling slightly. ‘Now, what did he say?’

  ‘He says . . . he realises he made a terrible mistake . . . and he wants to come back. And he hopes I’ll have him.’ Her voice is completely without expression – she could be reciting words in a foreign language that mean nothing to her. She is still looking down at her hands, limp and shaking in Lizzie’s.

  ‘Angela –’ Is she in shock? ‘Hang on.’ Lizzie gets the brandy from Angela’s press and pours a dollop into a glass. ‘Here, take a bit of that – just a sip.’

  Angela lifts the glass with both shaking hands, and gulps and splutters, and sets the glass down. But it seems to bring her back a bit.

  ‘Thanks.’ She takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘Bit of a turn-up, isn’t it?’

  Lizzie hardly knows what to say. ‘Had you no idea at all that this was coming?’

  Angela shakes her head, and picks up the brandy glass again. ‘None.’ She takes another, smaller sip. ‘The birthday card was a shock, but I just thought it must have been Dee’s idea, or something . . . This was a complete surprise.’ She shakes her head again.

  Lizzie says nothing, just waits. After a few minutes Angela says, in a low voice, ‘When he left . . . I was – it was worse than him dying, you know?’ Lizzie nods. ‘Knowing that he was with someone else, that he’d chosen her over me, that she was –’

  Angela bites her lip, takes another long, ragged breath and finishes the brandy. ‘I had to carry on, for Dee’s sake. She was distraught; she couldn’t understand why he’d left, although we both, separately, tried to explain to her that he still loved her, that that would never change . . .’ She looks down into the empty glass. ‘It took six months before I could think about him without crying.’

  The colour is slowly coming back to her cheeks. ‘The first few times he came to see Dee, I couldn’t talk to him – I just pretended I was too busy, told her to run out to him on her own . . . I did a bloody good job of hiding my feelings; I’m sure everyone around here thought I was wonderful, how I recovered, turned everything around and got over him.’ She sighs deeply. ‘If they only knew how many nights I didn’t close my eyes, how many times I cursed the ground he walked on . . . and in the next breath wished to God he’d just come back to us.’

  She smiles faintly. ‘I suppose, in a way, it made me more determined to make a go of this place. I wanted to show him that I could do it, that he couldn’t destroy me.’ She twirls the glass around and around by its stem. ‘I hated him, even while I still loved him . . . I’d never realised it was possible to do that – love someone and hate them at the same time.’

  Lizzie says nothing, just nods and listens. After a few seconds Angela says, ‘It’s been two and a half years now; I’ve moved on. Dee and I have survived. I’m making enough money to live on, and life is starting to look good again.’ She puts down the glass and takes one of Lizzie’s hands. ‘You’ve helped, Lizzie, you really have. You’ve gone from being the lodger in the caravan to being a real good pal. In a way, the fact that you never knew John is great; you’re part of my fresh start.’

  Then her face hardens. ‘And now he wants to sail back in here as if nothing had happened. How dare he? I’ve a good mind –’

  ‘Angela, hold on.’ Lizzie grips Angela’s hand. ‘I think you should do nothing; wait until this has sunk in a bit. You need to think about it. Please don’t do anything rash that you might regret.’

  ‘You don’t think I’d consider letting him come back, do you?’ Angela’s face is incredulous. ‘Lizzie, you can’t imagine I’d do that.’

  ‘I don’t know – I can’t know what’s best for you. Only you can be the judge of that.’ Lizzie holds on to her hand. ‘But, Angela, for what it’s worth, I do think you should give it some thought. Just sleep on it for a night or two – make sure you really come to the right decision here.’

  ‘Sleep on it – that’s a good one.’ The ghost of a smile passes over Angela’s face. ‘That man has made sure that I’ll have at least a week of lying in bed looking at the ceiling.’

  She lets go of Lizzie’s hand and stands up. ‘Look, you need to get to work. Thanks for listening, and sorry for laying all that on you.’

  Lizzie stands too. ‘If you need to talk about it some more, you know I’m happy to do that.’ She puts her arms around Angela and hugs her tightly. ‘I’m not going anywhere; the lodger is staying put in the caravan. You’ll have to kick me out.’ She lets her go and picks up her bag. ‘See you around one. Take care.’

  She leaves Angela standing in the middle of the kitchen. Her heart aches for her; what a horrible position to be in . . . At least she has me to listen to her, for what it’s worth. Angela has done so much for her since she got here – giving her a place to stay, not to mention the job she’d always wanted, and introducing her all around Merway. Lizzie is glad that she can do something in return, even if it’s only being there when Angela needs someone to talk to.

  As she walks down the street towards Ripe, she thinks about loving and hating someone at the same time, and wonders how it’s possible. Who said, ‘Love is akin to hate’? It sounds vaguely like Shakespeare, but it could have been anyone. Two of the strongest emotions, so close together that maybe sometimes they collide and cause all sorts of heartache.

  When Lizzie reaches Ripe, Joe is standing in the doorway to the back room, arms crossed, looking thoughtful. The shop is empty.

  ‘Morning,’ he says.

  ‘Hi, Joe; sorry about that – something came up.’ She heads towards the counter, taking off her jacket as she goes.

  ‘Did you sort it out?’ He watches her.

  ‘Yeah, it’s OK now.’ She looks at him. ‘It’s . . . not really something I can discuss, Joe. I hope you understand.’ She drops her jacket on a chair behind the counter.

  ‘That’s fine; no problem.’ Joe hesitates,
as if he’s going to say something else, then seems to change his mind. He turns. ‘I’ll be in the back if you need me.’

  Lizzie looks after him, frowning; he’s so serious this morning, not a bit like his usual self – not a hint of a smile, no smart comment. Could he be annoyed that she’s late? She shakes her head – no, of course not. He’d assume she had a good reason.

  She shrugs, and decides she’s imagining things; that business with John’s letter has her a bit anxious. It’s a pity she can’t talk it over with Joe, let someone else share the worry – and get a man’s perspective. But of course she can’t.

  She busies herself tidying up, sweeping and polishing and serving and chatting with whoever comes in. Joe doesn’t appear. Normally he puts his head around the door every so often with a smart comment – ‘Just checking that you haven’t made off with the takings.’ But there’s no sound at all from the back room. Even the radio’s off.

  He’s just busy, that’s all. Rushing to get this order out to Cork. Maybe he had a row with Charlie, and he’s a bit fed up; he’s entitled. Lizzie tries to concentrate on the crossword, to take her mind off the niggling worries, but the clues make no sense.

  At twelve-thirty she goes to the back room. ‘Joe? It’s half twelve.’ Maybe he doesn’t feel like tea today. She’ll leave it up to him.

  He looks up and drops the wood he’s holding. ‘Right; thanks. We’ll have tea.’

  He still looks so serious. Suddenly Lizzie has to find out what’s wrong.

  ‘Joe, is everything all right? You look – upset.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Is it something I’ve done?’

  He gives her an odd look – she can’t define it – and shakes his head. ‘Not at all, Lizzie. Sorry if you thought that. I do need to have a word with you, though.’ He gestures towards the table. ‘Please sit down. I’ll put on the kettle.’

  As if I’m a visitor, and he has to be polite. As if we’ve never sat around the table, laughing at nothing. As if there’s nothing between us at all. Her heart sinks further.

  ‘No, thanks, not for me; I don’t really feel like tea today.’ It would probably choke her. She sits on her usual chair and waits. First Angela, and now this . . .

  Joe sits down opposite her. ‘Lizzie, I’m very sorry –’ Oh, no; she doesn’t want to hear what’s coming. ‘ – but I have to let you go.’

  She looks at him, and can’t think of a single thing to say. He laces his fingers together; she’s never seen him like this, so uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie. It’s been great having you here, but the fact is . . .’ He stops, and meets her eye for the first time since he sat down. ‘Charlie has offered to work here, and as he’s family, I can’t very well say no.’

  This is the last thing Lizzie expected. Charlie is taking over. Sullen, scruffy Charlie is moving in and taking her place. Ruining everything.

  ‘I see.’ She forces a smile. ‘That’s fine, Joe. As you say, he’s family. It makes sense to bring him in and let him help you out.’ Shut up. You don’t mean a word of this; shut up. She stops talking and stands abruptly. Her chair scrapes along the floor.

  Joe stands too, then puts his hand in his back pocket and takes out an envelope. ‘Here’s what you’re owed, Lizzie, and a week in hand.’

  Lizzie is mortified, without knowing why. A memory of Julia O’Gorman handing her an envelope flashes through her head. She feels as if she might get sick at any moment.

  Her face flames as she reaches out for the envelope – ‘Thanks, Joe; I’ll see you’ – and practically runs out of the place, grabbing her jacket as she goes through the shop. Joe starts to say something, but she keeps going.

  At the door, she nearly collides with Big Maggie coming in. ‘Sorry, Maggie – I’m late for an appointment; Joe’s inside.’ There’s no way she can stop and talk – least of all to the town gossip, who’ll probably wonder to everyone she meets why Lizzie O’Grady was in such a flap coming out of Joe McCarthy’s shop.

  She walks quickly down the street towards The Kitchen, head down, blinking away tears and hoping to God she meets no one else she knows; and for once He listens. When she reaches her car she gets in and drives off towards Seapoint. There’s no way she can go in to Angela, much as she’s dying to talk to her; Angela has quite enough to think about without Lizzie crying on her shoulder. And she’d surely be spotted if she tried to sneak down to the caravan. No, she’ll go and find a café in Seapoint and sit there with a coffee and try and pull herself together. She still has an hour or so before she needs to make a start on this evening’s baking.

  Her throat feels tight; her eyes are hot. As she drives towards Seapoint she forces herself to think positive thoughts.

  It’s not the end of the world. I’ve been let go because he needs to give Charlie something to do – to keep him out of trouble, probably. It’s no reflection on how he feels or doesn’t feel about me; he just can’t afford to take two people on – and, anyway, there’s no need to have two behind the counter in such a small shop. I’ll still be meeting him around the place. Nothing’s changed.

  By the time she drives back to Merway, an hour and two cappuccinos later, she’s almost persuaded herself.

  As soon as Lizzie walks in the back door of The Kitchen, Angela stands up from the table and goes quickly towards her.

  ‘Lizzie, I’ve been trying your mobile – I phoned the shop and Joe told me you were already gone –’ Her face is pale. Something tightens around Lizzie’s chest. Oh, God, what now? She doesn’t want to hear, whatever it is; she can’t face more trauma today.

  But she has to. ‘I switched off the mobile. What is it?’ Can this day get any worse?

  ‘Your mother phoned.’

  Oh, God. Daddy.

  ‘Your father had a fall. He’s all right, though.’ Angela holds out a bit of paper. ‘Here, give her a ring – she left this mobile number, it’s a neighbour who’s at the hospital with her.’

  The hospital. Lizzie’s heart pounds. She looks at the paper, and the numbers dance. ‘Will you dial, Angela?’ Her voice is shaking.

  She hears Angela’s voice asking for Mammy. Then the phone is passed to her. She takes it with a hand that won’t keep still.

  ‘Mammy?’

  ‘Lizzie, we’re all right.’ Mammy’s voice sounds incredibly calm. ‘Daddy had a bit of a fall. We’re at the hospital, and he’s having X-rays now. I’m in the waiting room with Claire.’

  For a second, Lizzie can’t think who Claire is; then she remembers – their next-door neighbour. For some reason she thinks of a cat.

  ‘I’ll come right back. I should be there in about two hours.’ She’s afraid to ask anything, for fear of what she’ll hear.

  ‘Drive carefully, love.’ Mammy hangs up, and Lizzie is left holding the phone, and shaking. Why didn’t she tell me that there’s no rush, that I could wait until tomorrow if I wanted? A hand gently takes the receiver away from her, sits her down and places a steaming cup in front of her.

  ‘I have to go – Angela, I can’t –’

  ‘Just drink a bit of this – it’ll settle you.’ Angela spoons sugar into the cup and stirs it. ‘I’ve put an overnight bag together for you –’ she gestures towards a bag sitting by the back door; Lizzie had walked right past it ‘– in case you can’t come back straightaway.’

  What’s she talking about? Of course I’ll be back straightaway. Daddy will be fine when I get there. He just had a fall; it’s nothing.

  Angela lifts the cup, puts it into her hands. ‘Take it, Lizzie. You need something before you can drive.’

  The tea is sweet and very hot – she burns her tongue. But her heart slows down a little and she feels a bit steadier. After she’s forced down half a cup, she goes and picks up the bag.

  ‘Now you take your time; you won’t be much good to anyone if you have an accident.’ Angela hugs her quickly. ‘Ring me when you’ve news – and take care, Lizzie. We’ll look after Jones till you get back.’

  Jones – she’d totall
y forgotten him. ‘Thanks, Angela.’

  They go out to the car, and Lizzie gets in and drops the bag on the seat beside her. A memory nudges inside her head – saying goodbye to Mammy and Daddy when she left Kilmorris. Packing up the Fiesta and heading off to start her life.

  And never going back to see them since, not once; although they asked her and asked her. Putting it off every time she thought about it. Making every excuse she could think of.

  She fights down a feeling of panic and starts the engine. Daddy will be fine. He’s had a fall, that’s all; his bad leg gave way, probably. Maybe now they’ll fix it once and for all – no more Deep Heat.

  She puts her head out of the window. ‘I’ll call you when I have news.’ Angela nods, and waves as Lizzie drives off.

  As she passes Ripe, she sees Joe’s black Land Rover outside the door. She puts her foot on the accelerator and drives out of Merway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Daddy has cancer. Daddy is dying.

  Lizzie sits beside Mammy, holding her hand. Mammy’s hand is cold and rough. It’s twenty past midnight, and they’ve just been told that Daddy has enough cancer in his body to make sure he’s dead within weeks.

  Daddy’s bad leg. For the past year and a half they’ve called it Daddy’s bad leg, in the same tone of voice they’d use to talk about Daddy’s best suit or Daddy’s gardening gloves. Daddy limping around the house, wincing if he banged his knee against anything, saying, ‘It’s at me today a bit.’ Mammy and Lizzie taking turns to rub Deep Heat into Daddy’s bad leg. And all the time it was filling him up with poison, spreading the poison around his body till he was eaten up with it. Trying to cure cancer with Deep Heat. Like trying to put out a blazing building with a watering can.