The Daisy Picker

by Roisin Meaney

  She turns back to Dominic; normal conversation is called for. ‘You must be getting ready for the big American adventure.’ He’s due to leave in a few weeks, for at least two months.

  He nods, folding up his paper. ‘I’m just about getting around to it now; I’m giving Joe a few instructions – he’s going to be on duty while I’m away.’ He catches the barman’s eye and holds up his glass. ‘You’ll have a pint, Joe – and Lizzie?’

  ‘No, thanks, Dominic; I’m with a few over there.’ She gestures towards the back; they both look over, and Angela spots them and waves. Have they seen Pete beside her? Of course they have – good.

  Once Lizzie has ordered, she decides she may as well tell them the news, now that it’s official. ‘Actually, we’re celebrating. Angela and I are going into partnership in the restaurant.’ It sounds good; she hopes she gets lots of chances to say it.

  ‘Lizzie, my dear, that’s wonderful,’ Dominic exclaims, beaming. ‘All the very best to you both.’

  The drinks he ordered arrive, and he turns around to pay for them. Lizzie makes herself look over at Joe again, and waits for him to speak.

  ‘So you’re here to stay, then.’ His expression is hard to read – not that it matters, of course; she didn’t come back for him. Still, it would be nice to feel that he was pleased at the prospect of her living here long-term.

  Then he smiles slowly. ‘Good. I’ve got used to you around the place.’ The dimple is still there; the smile still has the power to play havoc with her heart rate.

  And then her drinks are there, and she has to pay for them and gather them up; by the time she turns and tells Joe and Dominic that she’ll see them around, she’s nearly calm and composed again.

  When she gets back to the table, Pete is standing. ‘Time to tune up.’ He’s still calling it ‘toon’. The musicians are getting ready. Lizzie hands him his pint and watches him stride over to them, pulling his tin whistle out of his back pocket.

  Yes, I badly need a diversion.

  She looks across at Angela. ‘Well?’

  Angela looks blankly back. ‘Well what?’

  ‘Angela Byrne, do I have to torture it out of you?’ Lizzie demands in exasperation. ‘What do you think of Pete?’

  ‘He’s lovely.’ Angela looks over at him, settling down beside Johnny Morris. ‘Gorgeous, funny, just younger enough to be interesting . . .’ She looks back at Lizzie. ‘And I have no intention of getting romantically involved with another man for at least ten years.’

  Lizzie shakes her head, laughing. ‘Not for you, silly – for me. Don’t you think it’s high time I had a fling? Haven’t you been telling me that since I arrived in Merway?’

  Angela considers for a minute, smiling faintly. Then the music starts and she leans closer to Lizzie.

  ‘Did young Joe McCarthy have anything interesting to say for himself?’

  Lizzie shakes her head, glad that the music prevents too much chat. She knows exactly what Angela is getting at.

  She taps her foot in time to the music and watches Pete as he plays the tin whistle. His hair is slightly longer than it was in January, just tipping his shoulders. He’s got a bit of a beard now, too – it suits him. His fingers fly over the holes in the tin whistle, his head bobs up and down in time to the lively air they’re playing. Great cheekbones, clear tanned skin. His legs are crossed; one sandaled foot taps in rhythm.

  He looks up and winks at her. Lizzie lifts her glass and grins back, and tries not to wonder whether anyone at the bar noticed the wink.

  Not that it would matter, of course. Not at all.

  At the end of the night they bring Pete and Denis – a quiet, middle-aged musician from Seapoint who promised Pete a lift home – back to The Kitchen for toasted cheese sandwiches and tea. Pete plays a few more tunes on the tin whistle, and Denis sings ‘Blackbird’ in a surprisingly strong voice, before Angela hunts the two men out the door – ‘My partner and I have a business to run in the morning.’

  When she comes in from seeing them off, Lizzie is washing up.

  ‘Pete’s coming back for dinner next Wednesday night,’ Angela says. ‘With any luck it’ll be fairly quiet inside, and I’ll bribe Dee to go on duty – I’m sure she won’t mind.’

  Deirdre has had a lot more time off since the partnership arrangement kicked in; after dinner, she often disappears until quite late. Angela doesn’t seem too bothered – ‘She’s with some pal or other, she’s fine.’ It’s great, the trust she has in her daughter.

  ‘That’s nice.’ Lizzie’s head is beginning to throb faintly; one too many gin and tonics.

  ‘Look at her, pretending not to care, when I’m doing my level best to matchmake.’ Angela picks up a tea towel.

  ‘Are you now?’ Lizzie takes a cup out of the soapy water and puts it on the draining board.

  ‘Ah, not really; but . . .’

  When Angela says nothing else, Lizzie turns around. ‘But what?’ But she knows what.

  Angela picks up a plate and starts to dry it. ‘Lizzie, what about Joe?’ she says gently, no laughing now.

  Damn – even his name makes her heart skip a beat, blast it. She feels around in the soapy water and fishes out two teaspoons. Then she empties the basin and wipes her hands on a towel.

  ‘I’m still mad about him, of course.’ She can’t lie to Angela. Her mouth feels dry, even after the two cups of tea she’s just had.

  Angela says nothing, just goes on drying.

  ‘But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t feel the same.’ The throbbing is getting stronger. Lizzie rubs her temples. ‘He told me Charlie offered to work in the shop, but he’s hardly ever there.’

  ‘Lizzie, that doesn’t prove anything –’

  ‘He’s never there, Angela. Joe said I had to go because he had to give Charlie a job – and Charlie is never there.’ She stops. ‘Sorry, my head is splitting – have you any pills?’

  ‘Here.’ Angela fishes around in a drawer, finds a packet of Panadol and hands two of them to Lizzie.

  ‘Thanks.’ Lizzie fills a glass with water and swallows them.

  Angela watches her. ‘I wish I knew what was going on in that man’s head, and I think you might have it all wrong, but . . . I just don’t know, Lizzie. Joe McCarthy has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so it’s hard to figure out . . . Mind you, I do know that he hasn’t been himself these last few weeks, whatever’s wrong. He’s distracted, he’s – I don’t know . . .’

  ‘The thing is,’ Lizzie says, putting the glass into the sink, ‘I’ve had my fill of hoping and waiting. I did enough of that with Tony.’ She forces a tiny smile. ‘I think I’ll just move on, like you’re doing.’

  Then she glances up at the clock on the wall. ‘And since you’re on breakfasts, you’d better high-tail it to bed.’

  Angela groans. ‘Four and a half hours from now, God help me.’

  ‘Just think of your lie-in on Tuesday.’ They’ve decided to split the breakfasts between them, taking turns, as part of the new arrangement.

  ‘Night, then,’ Angela says, heading for the hall door. ‘I hope you enjoyed your birthday.’

  ‘I sure did – it was a great night. Thanks, Angela.’

  She’s just about to open the back door when Angela says, ‘Oh, by the way –’

  Lizzie turns.

  ‘I’ve left your birthday present in the door of the caravan. Night.’

  ‘What – ?’ But she’s gone.

  Lizzie walks down the gravel path, breathing in the night air, and stops at the caravan door. There’s nothing there. Angela said she left it on the door, didn’t she? What’s she on about?

  She shrugs; no doubt she’ll find out in the morning. She falls asleep a second or two before her head hits the pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘Now, tell me all about it.’ Mammy crosses one slippered foot over the other and looks expectantly at Lizzie, who’s just settled herself into the sofa. Daddy’s chair is still on the other side
of the fireplace; every time Lizzie looks at it she feels a stab of sorrow. She doubts that she or Mammy will ever sit in it. Maybe the odd visitor will.

  On the face of it, Mammy seems to be coping well with life on her own. She’s quieter, more inclined to tears than before, but generally she’s managing fairly well – keeping the house as clean as ever, cooking the dinner in the evening the way Lizzie remembers it and meeting a few friends in town like she always has.

  She doesn’t bake her brown bread any more; Lizzie will supply it now. She brought two loaves with her from Merway and put one and a half in the freezer when she arrived. With only Mammy to eat it, it should last till her next visit. She used Mammy’s recipe, amused at the amount of bran that it calls for; no wonder she was always so regular, with the bread and the Bran Flakes.

  She wishes she could be sure that Mammy is doing as well as she makes out. Rose is going to come up from Cork for a few days every two or three weeks, and she’ll be home often herself, but still . . .

  She imagines Mammy sitting alone in front of the fire every evening, in her slippers, with her crossword book and her marshmallows, turning on the telly to watch the programmes that Daddy always watched with her. Does she look at the gardening programme that Daddy never missed? Does she light the fire when she’s on her own? Does she bother cooking dinner for herself?

  Lizzie wonders, not for the first time, why God has to work in such mysterious ways. What’s wrong with a bit of transparency, for crying out loud? Why can’t they be able to say, ‘Oh, I know what He’s going to do now,’ and be right? She assumes it’ll all be made clear when they meet, and she looks forward to a bloody good explanation.

  She looks across at Mammy, sitting with her crossword book closed on her lap and waiting to hear all about Lizzie’s new business arrangement.

  ‘Mammy, it’s the best thing I ever did,’ she says. ‘I really feel I’m where I should be, you know?’

  And she realises with a jolt that it’s probably the first time that what Mammy wants to hear, and what she wants to tell her, are the same.

  She talks about the rota they’ve worked out for the breakfasts, and the new specials board for the evening meals, and the painting job they’re planning for the outside. She tells her about Angela’s idea of occasional live music in the evenings. ‘We’re going to look at a second-hand piano next week, and Angela knows someone who plays the cello; wouldn’t that be lovely? And we get on so well; there’s never a problem about the work, or who does what. Angela’s baking is definitely improving, and she’s taught me so much, too . . .’ She trails off – is she going over the top a bit, gushing about her wonderful new circumstances, while Mammy is still trying to cope with the huge change in her life?

  But Mammy nods, pleased. ‘That’s great, love – it’s so much better than trying to start a business yourself from scratch.’

  She takes a marshmallow and chews it slowly. Lizzie opens the magazine on her lap and glances down at it.

  After a minute, Mammy says, ‘Lizzie, there’s something I have to tell you, before you hear it in town tomorrow.’

  Lizzie looks up.

  Mammy fiddles with her Biro. ‘It’s Tony O’Gorman. Remember I told you he started seeing Pauline Twomey after the two of you . . . well, after you –’

  After I dumped him. ‘Yes?’

  Mammy presses the top of the Biro up and down, up and down. ‘Julia told me yesterday that they’ve got engaged.’

  ‘Engaged?’ Lizzie says blankly. ‘But they’ve only been going out for a few months.’

  It took him six years to decide he wanted to marry me. Mind you, they’ll probably take forever to walk down the aisle.

  ‘And Lizzie, love, they’re getting married at Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas?’ Three months away. Nine months from first date to altar; a slight improvement on seventeen years.

  Maybe Pauline is pregnant.

  Mammy is looking at her as if she’s an invalid. ‘It’s for the best, love; you know ye weren’t suited.’

  Is she really worried that I’m upset? Can she actually imagine that this news would come as a disappointment? Lizzie thinks of Tony – his V-neck jumpers with the crocodiles or alligators or whatever on them, his golf, his bags of Liquorice Allsorts that gave him a black tongue, his drip-dry shirts.

  Then she thinks of Joe, and the grass growing out of the Ripe sign and the silly jokes over tea that had her in stitches and the spicy scent of him that drives her mad, and the way he wrapped her up in the church and held on to her. ‘Sorry, Lizzie.’ For what, for what? What were you sorry for?

  She makes a big effort and smiles brightly. ‘That’s great news, Mammy; I’m happy for them. Julia must be delighted.’ And Mammy’s face relaxes as she reaches for another marshmallow.

  For a second Lizzie considers telling her about Joe – but what would she say? There’s a man in Merway that I’m mad about, but I don’t think he feels the same way, and now I’m trying hard to forget about him, when all I want is for him to love me back half as much as I love him . . .

  Hardly; Mammy isn’t quite ready for that yet.

  And she can’t tell her about Pete, either – Mammy would have them married off before you could say, ‘But he’s a jobbing American who probably doesn’t intend to settle down for another twenty years.’ No, she’d better not bring up the subject of Pete.

  Even if she’s secretly decided that he’s really very cute. Very, very cute indeed.

  And funny. The night he came to dinner at The Kitchen, Lizzie nearly choked on her wine at least three times. Pete and Angela were the perfect double act; they seemed to spark each other off.

  ‘Hey, I really like this room – got a good karma here,’ he said, walking around the kitchen, taking it all in.

  Angela gave him her most innocent look. ‘Karma? Is that something you put petrol into?’

  Pete was well able for her. ‘No, honey,’ he said, deadpan, ‘karmas run on diesel – in the States, anyhow.’

  Angela turned to Lizzie, frowning. ‘Didn’t Johnny Morris have an old yellow karma that took petrol?’

  Over the leek-and-ham pie Angela asked Pete how he’d got there. Of course she meant how he had got to Merway that evening, and of course he knew that; but he pretended to consider, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. ‘Well, it all started when my mom fell in love with my dad . . .’ Angela’s fork clattered onto her plate.

  He raved about the food, especially the gooseberry crumble flan. ‘Hey, I haven’t had stuff this good since my mom’s home cookin’ back in the States.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – pecan pie? Blueberry muffins? Hash browns?’ Angela’s American accent was atrocious.

  He gave her a withering look. ‘My mom makes a mean pizza base, lady. I must ask her to write you with the recipe.’

  He wore a dark-green T-shirt under a green-and-beige checked flannel shirt, and a slightly less faded pair of jeans – probably his good ones. On his feet were the boots he should have been wearing in January. There was a nice lemony smell from him – shampoo? aftershave? Not that he shaved too often, by the look of him. His eyes were greenish-brown – was that what hazel was? Lizzie hadn’t really noticed them before.

  Pete caught her studying him and smiled that lazy smile of his. ‘Do I pass?’

  She blushed and grinned – ‘Sorry’ – feeling about seventeen, especially with Angela smirking over at her. She ducked her face into her glass and drank. He’d brought a bottle of Australian wine, darkly woody.

  The first time Deirdre put her head round the door – she was waitressing for the night – Angela introduced them.

  ‘Dee, this is Pete, a strange American gentleman that Lizzie picked up somewhere. Say hello and then leave quickly, for your own safety.’

  Deirdre smiled shyly at Pete. ‘Hi. Take no notice of my mother.’ She filled a carafe with water, then took a bread-basket and cut a few slices from the loaves on the table. ‘Mam, one lasagne, one pie, and one red an
d one white wine.’

  ‘Hi, there.’ Pete looked at Deirdre in surprise, then back at Angela. ‘I’d no idea you had kids.’

  ‘Just the one – and if you think I don’t look old enough, you’re dead right; I was a child bride. And anyway, Dee is only ten.’

  Deirdre just grinned and raised her eyes to heaven. When she left the room Angela told Pete, very matter-of-factly, that she and Deirdre’s father had split up. Pete didn’t comment, just nodded.

  They managed to have an almost uninterrupted meal – there were only a few customers after Pete arrived, and Angela and Lizzie took it in turns to dish up the meals that Deirdre collected and brought out.

  ‘When do you get to eat?’ Pete asked her at one stage.

  ‘Oh, I don’t eat – Mother doesn’t allow it.’ Deirdre looked back at him with Angela’s innocent expression; it was the first time Lizzie had seen a resemblance. ‘Although if there are any leftovers she might let me finish them in the morning, depending on her mood.’ She made a face. ‘They’re not that nice cold, though – she doesn’t allow me to heat them up.’

  Pete grinned and leant back in his chair. ‘Looks like you’re raisin’ your very own wise guy there, Angela.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Pete,’ said Angela modestly. ‘I do my best.’ She watched fondly as Deirdre disappeared out the door. ‘And, in case you’re wondering, she had her usual hearty dinner before any of us.’

  Pete told them he’d be working with Donal Harris for another few weeks.

  ‘What do you do there?’ Angela forked up a piece of flan and held out her glass for Lizzie to refill.

  He shrugged. ‘Whatever needs doin’: fix a fence, milk the cows, take a trip to the mart, bring in the hay, go to the bog for peat – I mean turf . . .’ He put on an Irish accent on ‘turf’.

  ‘Were you farming in the States?’ Angela asked.

  He nodded. ‘Some of my family have farms, so I was brought up in that environment. Farming ain’t that much different over here.’