The Daisy Picker

by Roisin Meaney

  As she dries off after her shower, Lizzie thinks about the weekend she’s just spent with Mammy. She’s still lonely for Daddy, of course – they both are – and she’s definitely quieter than she was before; but she seems to be coping well enough.

  Lizzie called over to Claire next door while Mammy was lying down on Saturday afternoon – something she started to do after Daddy died – and Claire insisted on bringing her in for coffee.

  ‘She’s out and about a fair bit, Lizzie; she visits the grave most mornings. She seems in good enough spirits when I meet her. I don’t think you need to worry. It’s early days yet; it’ll take a while for her.’

  They went to the grave on Sunday morning. Lizzie had bought two little variegated holly bushes in pots from Big Maggie, and she positioned them on either side of the O’Grady headstone.

  ‘They look nice,’ Mammy said. ‘He’d have liked those in the garden.’ Then she bent her head and started whispering words. Lizzie thought about Daddy leading her as a child around the garden to show her the new plants coming up, teaching her how to say ‘dahlia’ and ‘cyclamen’ and ‘primrose’, marking off a patch for her to plant bulbs in autumn, rubbing a mint leaf between his hands and letting her sniff it. Bringing her by the hand to join the library when she was barely able to read. Teaching her how to brush her teeth. Helping her with her homework . . . How lucky she’d been to have him.

  Later Mammy stood under an umbrella waving her off, looking small and old and very alone. Rose was due in two days to stay for a week or so. Driving back to Merway, Lizzie decided to phone home while Rose is there, to see how she thinks Mammy is doing.

  She’s just finished dressing when the door of the caravan opens.

  ‘Lizzie?’ Angela calls. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘In here – just coming.’ Lizzie opens the bedroom door and nearly collides with her.

  ‘Dee’s missing.’ Her face is chalk-white; her hands, as they grab Lizzie’s wrists tightly, are icy cold.

  ‘What? Angela, hang on – she’s probably –’

  Angela shakes her head impatiently. ‘No, no, no, she’s gone, she’s been gone all day – I’ve phoned all her friends, she’s not with any of them. I’ve just come from the McCoys’ – I could only get the answering machine, and I thought maybe – but she’s not there, she’s nowhere, I can’t find her . . .’ Her words are tumbling over one another; when she stops talking, her lips tremble.

  She drops Lizzie’s wrists and puts her hands up to her face. ‘God, where is she? Where is she, Lizzie?’

  ‘Hang on – have you tried her mobile?’ Lizzie says calmly, taking her by the arm. She’s surprised that Angela has worked herself into such a state; isn’t Deirdre always off out with her pals?

  Angela takes her hands down from her face and blinks. ‘Her phone is switched off. None of her friends have seen her all day . . . Oh God, Lizzie, what’ll I do? What if something’s happened her? She’s still only fifteen – oh God –’ Tears fill her eyes; she puts a hand back to her mouth.

  ‘Angela, I’m sure she’s OK.’ As if she could possibly be sure of that, having been away all weekend. But Angela is watching her and nodding, desperate for reassurance, tears running down her face.

  Lizzie speaks firmly. ‘Look, she’s sensible, Angela. She wouldn’t do anything stupid. She’s probably trying to get hold of you right now to tell you she’s fine. Maybe her mobile is out of credit – did you think of that? I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.’

  She racks her brains for something else to say, anything to calm Angela. ‘She might have had a date, not told you because she was afraid you wouldn’t approve . . .’

  But Angela is shaking her head rapidly. ‘She wouldn’t do that – she’s no interest in boys yet. Have you ever seen her with one?’

  Suddenly Lizzie thinks of Charlie and Deirdre, outside the chip shop in Seapoint, a few weeks ago. She immediately decides not to mention it – the state Angela’s in, she’d definitely hit the roof if his name came up. And there’s no way Deirdre would be daft enough to have anything to do with someone like him; he was probably just trying to impress her that day, the creep.

  She begins to steer Angela towards the caravan door. ‘Look, let’s go up to the house and try and figure out . . . ’ What? She hasn’t a clue what the next step should be. But, if nothing else, the house will be warmer – and it’s where Deirdre will surely turn up before long, wherever she is.

  In the kitchen, Lizzie sits Angela at the table and takes the chair beside her. Thank goodness there are no meals to cook tonight, and no one staying over. ‘Now, when did you last see her?’

  ‘This morning,’ Angela says, sounding distracted. ‘She left here early, about nine – said she was going to spend the day with her pal Judy. She brought a bag with her – I assumed it was the make-up kit . . . And she’s done that before – gone to Judy’s for the day, I mean – so I thought no more about it . . .’

  Suddenly she pushes back her chair and stands. ‘She wasn’t back by six, so I phoned to see if she wanted a lift home –’ She paces the floor, pulling at her hair. ‘– Judy lives about a mile and a half away . . . No answer from her mobile, so I called Judy’s house. She never went there – Judy was there all day, she never saw her . . . ’

  She’s starting to get frantic again. ‘Since then I’ve been phoning, and going, and – what’ll I do, Lizzie?’ She paces rapidly, hands balled into fists, breathing ragged.

  Lizzie has to ask. ‘Have you phoned John?’ Maybe Deirdre went to him, for some reason. And if she didn’t, he should be told that she’s missing.

  Angela looks at her, blankly at first, then with dawning understanding. ‘You think he’s taken her.’ There’s something new in her voice that makes Lizzie nervous.

  ‘What? No, of course not – I just thought she might have –’ But Angela is already in the hall. She grabs the phone and punches numbers. She waits, mouth tight; then – ‘It’s me. Is Deirdre with you?’

  Lizzie watches her face as John speaks. It goes from fear to impatience – ‘Obviously I know that; have you seen her since then?’ – to anger – ‘I wouldn’t be asking you if I knew’ – and back to fear: ‘Not since this morning, about nine – she said she . . .’ Her shoulders slump; after a minute she says, ‘Right,’ in an empty voice and hangs up.

  They go back into the kitchen and Angela leans against the worktop. ‘He’s coming over. He hasn’t seen her since Saturday week.’ Lizzie remembers John calling to take Deirdre out, for the first time in ages. He didn’t come in, like he used to, just sat in the car till she came out to him. But at least he came for her. And she came back from Seapoint with the new boots that she’d wanted for ages.

  Angela is biting her nails – Lizzie doesn’t remember ever seeing her do that before. She takes her hand gently.

  ‘Have you checked to see if she took anything with her – in that bag, I mean? Let’s go upstairs and see.’ She may as well keep Angela busy doing something – it’s better than sitting and brooding herself into another state.

  Angela nods, and they go up to Deirdre’s room together.

  Lizzie has never been inside it; it’s smaller than Angela’s but brighter, at the back of the house. It’s got the usual teenage things: posters of young people who look vaguely familiar to Lizzie; a dressing-table scattered with make-up and brushes and bits of sponges and cotton-wool balls; clothes hanging over the back of a chair, more thrown in a bundle in a corner, shoes in an untidy pile beside the half-open wardrobe door; a shabby-looking blue furry rabbit sitting on the pillow; some books stacked on the chest of drawers, more on the floor beside the bed.

  Lizzie takes Angela’s arm and guides her to the wardrobe. ‘Look and see if you can tell what’s missing – any clothes, or shoes maybe . . .’ She glances out the window – it’s pitch-dark by now – and feels a stirring of panic herself. ‘I’ll go and get some paper and we’ll make a list.’

  Twenty minutes later they’re back dow
nstairs, sitting at the kitchen table. Deirdre hasn’t taken much – just one change of clothes, a pair of shoes and a few toiletries. Most of her make-up is still there, apart from a lipstick or two.

  But her passport is gone.

  Angela drinks a little of the brandy Lizzie has insisted on pouring. Her colour hasn’t come back, and her eyes look huge and black against the whiteness of her skin. Her hand shakes as she puts the glass down.

  ‘We’ll have to call the guards.’

  Lizzie nods. It’s raining now; they can hear the drops slapping against the window.

  Just then, the kitchen door opens and Pete walks in. As soon as she sees him, Lizzie remembers that the three of them had planned to go to Doherty’s that evening. The Sunday night out.

  ‘Hey –’ Pete’s grin fades as he catches sight of Angela’s face. She looks at him and dissolves into tears. He’s beside her in three steps, lifting her from the chair, rocking her in his arms and stroking her hair. He says softly, into her ear, ‘Hey, shh – easy, hon . . . shh . . . it’s OK, darlin’ . . . ’

  He looks over her shoulder at Lizzie, and she says quickly, ‘Deirdre’s missing. I’m just going to phone the police.’

  She goes out to the hall, picks up the phone and dials Joe’s number – before she changes her mind, or loses her nerve.

  He answers after a few rings. ‘Hello?’

  She grips the receiver tightly. ‘Joe, it’s Lizzie.’ Without giving him a chance to respond, she rushes on: ‘Deirdre has disappeared – she’s been gone all day. Angela is out of her mind with worry.’ She stops, glances over her shoulder at the closed kitchen door, then races on. ‘Joe, I saw her with Charlie a few weeks ago in Seapoint. Have you any idea if they were seeing each other?’

  There’s a second’s silence. When he speaks, he sounds shaken. ‘No, none at all. But . . .’

  He stops. Lizzie closes her eyes, takes in a shuddering breath; what now?

  ‘Charlie has gone too – with yesterday’s takings. I only discovered it a while ago. If you saw him with Dee, we have to assume that they might be together now. Have you called the guards?’

  ‘No – I’m just about to.’ Oh, God – Deirdre with that man . . . She prays for it not to be true.

  ‘Right; I’ll talk to them too.’ Joe hangs up abruptly, and she hears the buzz of the phone in her ear.

  After she’s spoken with a garda in Seapoint, she replaces the receiver. Then she forces herself to examine the awful possibility that Deirdre and Charlie might be together.

  It makes no sense. Deirdre is so sensible, so level-headed; why would she look twice at someone like Charlie?

  Because he meets her in secret, tells her how pretty she is, talks like someone on the telly. Tells the shy little Irish girl that he loves her, that they have to go away so they can be together. The thought comes out of nowhere, makes Lizzie draw her breath in sharply. And starts to make some kind of awful sense.

  She remembers Deirdre hurrying up from the beach with flushed cheeks, looking relieved when Lizzie tells her that Angela isn’t home – relieved that her mother isn’t there to witness what Lizzie chooses not to notice: the look of excitement on her face.

  The more she thinks about it, the more sense it makes. It would have amused Charlie that the innocent little Irish colleen was so gullible, so easily satisfied. A few compliments, a few kisses in the moonlight, and she’d be ready to run away with him to God knows where.

  Lizzie goes back into the kitchen with a heart full of dread. Pete is still holding Angela, who leans her head against his shoulder and grips his shirt tightly. He strokes her hair and murmurs to her. They could be lovers; Lizzie almost feels in the way.

  Angela lifts her head; her eyes are swollen, her face still deathly pale. ‘Are they coming?’

  ‘They’ll be right out,’ Lizzie says. She fills the kettle, trying to convince herself that there’s nothing to be gained by mentioning Charlie; Angela will hear it soon enough.

  They’re halfway through the second cup of tea when the doorbell rings. Lizzie opens the front door; Joe is standing there in the rain with two uniformed gardaí. She clenches her fists as she follows them into the kitchen.

  ‘Mrs Byrne.’ The gardaí introduce themselves and take Deirdre’s details from Angela, who holds Pete’s hand tightly as she answers their questions in a low voice. Joe stands just inside the door, head bent. Lizzie doesn’t look in his direction, but she’s acutely aware of his presence.

  Then the garda who seems to be in charge looks up from his notebook and explains to Angela that Mr McCarthy has informed them that his son is also missing, and that they’re checking out the possibility that the two disappearances might be linked.

  Angela looks blankly at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Joe steps forward slightly, and Angela seems to notice him for the first time. She stares at him for a few seconds. ‘Son? What son?’

  The garda checks his notebook. ‘A Mr Charlie McCarthy – he’s been staying with Mr McCarthy for the past –’

  ‘That’s not his son, that’s his nephew, and he’s got nothing to do with my daughter – they didn’t even know each other,’ Angela says, exasperated. ‘Tell them, Joe.’

  ‘He is my son, Angela.’ His voice is hardly recognisable, so low and defeated.

  As he speaks, Lizzie watches Angela’s face. It goes from incomprehension to denial, as Joe tells her gently that Deirdre and Charlie were seen together, to horror. And then to rage.

  She pulls away from Pete and stands up slowly. ‘My God – you knew, didn’t you? You knew they were seeing each other.’ Her eyes blaze into Joe; he’s shaking his head, but she ignores it. ‘You knew – and you did nothing to stop it.’ Her knuckles are white where they grip the back of the chair.

  ‘Angela, you must believe me –’

  ‘Shut up!’ she practically screams. Lizzie flinches; she’s never seen her in this state. ‘Shut up, Joe McCarthy! Your good-for-nothing son –’ She spits out the word, ‘ – that . . . that scumbag . . .’

  Joe just stands there, stony-faced; in spite of all that has happened, Lizzie’s heart goes out to him as Angela rages.

  ‘If that bastard has touched a hair on her head, if he’s done anything to her, I’ll hold you responsible, Joe McCarthy – and I will never, ever forgive you for this.’

  Joe says nothing as Angela rants on, accusing him of letting them meet in his house – maybe he even introduced them, thinking it might help Charlie to settle down? Maybe that was why he brought him over from England in the first place, to find him a nice innocent Irish girl?

  John Byrne arrives in the middle of her tirade and tries to calm her down. ‘It’s not Joe’s fault, love – you can see he’s as upset about all this as we are. You can’t blame him –’

  But Angela is beyond reasoning with; she’s pale and shaking, cold and dry-eyed one minute, raging with hot floods of tears the next. She flings John’s arm off, spins round and stabs a finger at him.

  ‘You keep out of this! Where were you when she went missing? What do you care what happens her? What do you care about anything except your fancy woman? Coming over here and taking Dee out, pretending you give a damn, spending money on rubbish in Seapoint . . .’

  They let her continue – what else can they do? In the end she collapses into Pete’s arms, exhausted, and the two gardaí leave with a photo of Deirdre, promising to call the minute they have news. Joe leaves with them, looking haggard.

  Lizzie fills the kettle for what seems like the umpteenth time, and the four of them sit around the table like survivors of a nuclear war. John stares down into his coffee cup with a face like thunder, pretending he doesn’t notice Pete’s arm across Angela’s shoulders, her head leaning against his chest.

  Lizzie sits miserably at the table, praying for news.

  Several cups of tea, four glasses of brandy, a few rounds of ham sandwiches and twelve hours later, the phone rings.

  Chapter Twenty-six


  ‘They took a Ryanair flight from Dublin to Birmingham yesterday evening; we had a positive sighting from one of the stewardesses. And your daughter’s bank card was used to withdraw two hundred pounds from a cash machine in Birmingham at ten fifty-two last night.’ The garda is reading from his notebook; Angela’s eyes never leave his face. ‘She gave herself up early this morning – just walked into a police station.’

  ‘On her own.’ Angela is only repeating what she already knows.

  ‘It seems they had some kind of falling-out,’ says the garda. ‘From the information she gave us, we were able to intercept Mr McCarthy when he arrived in Euston Station in London.’

  Angela’s whole face is transformed; even streaked with tear-tracks, blotchy with lack of sleep, it looks beautiful. Since they got the phone call, she’s been smiling.

  ‘She’s safe,’ she says, so low it’s almost a whisper.

  The garda nods. ‘Probably feeling a bit miserable, but otherwise she’s fine, and on her way back. They’re putting her on a plane to Shannon, and then she’ll be driven here. She should be home by late afternoon.’ He closes his notebook and stands up. ‘Mr McCarthy has been detained for questioning in England.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Angela takes the garda’s hand and shakes it. ‘That’s wonderful – thank you so much.’

  He nods again, a bashful smile spreading over his face; he can’t be more than twenty-five. Lizzie is happy for him, that he’s able to bring good news – he’ll surely have plenty of terrible visits to make to other homes in the future. ‘No problem, Mrs Byrne. I’m just glad your ordeal ended well.’ He looks at the four of them standing in the doorway. ‘Maybe you should all try and get some sleep before she arrives; it’ll be a few hours yet.’

  When she’s closed the door behind him Angela leans against it, suddenly looking exhausted.