The Daisy Picker

by Roisin Meaney

  And as he speaks she comes around and sits beside him and curls up in his arms and slides her hand between his shirt buttons and feels his chest tighten as she touches it, and shudders at his mouth on the back of her neck. And then she opens his shirt and tastes his skin and hears him say, ‘Darling Lizzie . . .’

  And later, much later, Jones leaves his spot at the bottom of the duvet and pads out of the bedroom, looking for someplace quieter to sleep . . .

  And in Dominic’s house Pete dreams of Angela . . .

  And in Connemara Deirdre sleeps peacefully, and Angela lies awake in the other bed and watches her . . .

  And Mammy sits at the kitchen table in Kilmorris and drinks tea and watches the dawn breaking . . .

  And the sea laps up on the pebbles at Merway like it always has, as if nothing at all had happened.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘Lizzie, would you ever hold still? I can’t stick these feckin’ flowers in your hair if you keep turning your head.’ Angela flaps a white rosebud in exasperation.

  ‘Sorry – I’m just admiring Deirdre’s handiwork; she’s brilliant.’ Lizzie flutters her eyelashes – her longer, darker, curlier eyelashes – and puts a hand up to stroke her smooth, freckle-free cheek. Angela instantly slaps it away – ‘Get off; stop pawing it’ – and rapidly clips another rosebud into the side of Lizzie’s hair.

  Then she stands back and puts her head to one side. ‘Right, I think that’ll do. Stand up till I see you properly.’

  But Lizzie stays sitting, watching her in the mirror. ‘Angela – did you ever think you’d see the day? Really, now?’

  Angela grins back at her. ‘Listen, girl, didn’t I always tell you I’d fix you up in Merway? You should have listened to Auntie Angela.’

  Lizzie laughs. ‘Hey, you didn’t have anything to do with it; I got him all by myself.’

  ‘No way.’ Angela shakes her head firmly. ‘I had a quiet little word with him, told him what a good catch you were – a wife who’d bake for her husband all day long – not to mention the novenas I sent up to Saint Jude on your behalf.’

  Wife. Husband. The words sound unreal, as if they belong to another language – one that Lizzie has never learnt to speak fluently. But today she’s becoming a wife – and getting a husband.

  She turns and looks out the window. The wind rattles the glass, the rain lashes against the panes.

  Perfect. Everything’s perfect.

  ‘But seriously, Lizzie . . . are you really sure you know what you’re doing? I mean’ – Angela puts up a hand as Lizzie starts to speak – ‘some people might say you’re rushing into it; it’s not as if you’ve known him a long time, really.’

  Lizzie looks at her in the mirror – is she pulling her leg? ‘I know him well over a year.’

  Angela sighs. ‘Yes, dear, but remember your last relationship. How many years was it again?’ She’s as good as Joe with the poker face.

  Lizzie swivels in her chair and gives her a dig in the ribs. ‘Drink your champagne and shut up.’

  ‘All right, dear.’ Angela blinks innocently back at her before picking up her champagne glass from the dressing-table and draining it. ‘Yum.’

  ‘Here’s to lucky escapes, and short engagements,’ Lizzie says. She tips back her glass and swallows the cold, delicious bubbles; then she stands up.

  Angela divides the last of the champagne between their glasses, then puts out a hand and tweaks at Lizzie’s dress. ‘Aren’t you glad I made you buy it?’

  It’s white, with giant splashes of mauve and turquoise flowers, and it falls gently from the deep V of the neckline to just above her ankles. It’s not too fitted, not too full, with sheer sleeves that hug her arms and end just below her elbows. She feels like a bride in it.

  Around her neck she wears Granny’s single pearl, on a thin gold chain, that Mammy wore on her wedding day. She has little white kitten-heeled shoes on her feet, and five tiny white rosebuds from Big Maggie in her hair.

  There’s a rap on the bedroom door. ‘Lizzie, are you ready?’ Mammy puts her head around the door; she’s unfamiliar in her pale-peach suit and little pillbox hat, and lipstick, which she rarely wears.

  ‘Mrs O’Grady, you look absolutely gorgeous,’ Angela says, hugging Mammy. ‘And what do you think of the bride?’

  ‘I think she’s beautiful.’ Mammy smiles as her eyes fill with tears, and Lizzie pulls a tissue from the box on the dressing-table and hands it to her. Mammy’s been tearful all morning, since she handed over Granny’s pearl at breakfast.

  She’s not the only one who keeps remembering Daddy; Lizzie would have loved him to walk her up the aisle – or, in this case, up the passage between the chairs in the sitting room.

  When Lizzie found the courage to tell Mammy they wanted to get married in the house, Mammy looked at her in disbelief.

  ‘What – you don’t want a church wedding?’ Her expression wasn’t encouraging.

  Lizzie hastened to explain that of course she wanted Father Lehane to marry them – it wasn’t the religious ceremony she was avoiding. ‘But it would be so much more . . . meaningful, here where I grew up – and where . . .’ She spoke carefully, not wanting to upset Mammy any more. ‘. . . I feel Daddy is still here, in a way . . . And we could suit ourselves about the day, and the time – provided Father Lehane is free, of course – and maybe do a little sherry reception beforehand?’ That might sway her – Mammy loved her Bristol Cream.

  And she finally agreed, if a little doubtfully. Julia O’Gorman was sent an invitation – Tony and his new wife were not, of course – and so were Claire and Peter from next door, and Aunt Rose and a few other uncles and aunts, and one cousin who lived three streets away, and of course a group from Merway, who all booked into the Kilmorris House Hotel for the night.

  Lizzie made the cake – a rich, rum-soaked fruitcake, just one tier – and she and Angela spent yesterday morning walloping pots in the kitchen, stopping only to call Mammy in for ham-and-cream-cheese rolls at lunchtime. Then Angela shooed them both out of the kitchen for the afternoon, and they spent it cleaning the rest of the house and borrowing chairs and glasses from the neighbours. Then they all went out for dinner to a new steak restaurant – Mammy’s choice. Lizzie was just happy that she hadn’t chosen O’Gorman’s.

  Now the fridge is full of food, the dining-room table is covered with borrowed bowls and plates and dishes and platters, Angela and Lizzie are finishing off a bottle of champagne in the bedroom, and eighteen people full of Bristol Cream are down in the sitting room waiting for Lizzie to come and get married.

  Mammy has disappeared again, after being assured that they’ll be right down, when there’s another tap on the door. Angela goes over and opens it.

  ‘Lizzie, it’s time.’ She fusses for a minute with Lizzie’s hair, then hands her the little bouquet of lilac and white freesias. ‘Right – knock ’em dead.’

  Lizzie takes a last sip of champagne and goes out to Pete on the landing.

  He’s dressed in a shirt that looks blue-white against his tan, and chinos that she hasn’t seen before. He’s shaved and cut his hair for the occasion; but Lizzie knows, by the look she gave it when she saw it, that Mammy still considers it too long.

  He looks at Lizzie and whistles. ‘Hey, you look great.’ Then he puts out his arm. ‘Ready?’

  She nods – ‘Ready’ – and takes his arm.

  Angela comes out of the bedroom. ‘Hey, what about me?’

  Pete puts his other arm around her shoulders and kisses her. ‘You look beautiful too, honey.’ Angela smiles, and steps back to let them walk downstairs ahead of her.

  At the door into the sitting room they pause. Deirdre presses a button on the CD player; ‘Here Comes the Bride’ begins to play, and everyone turns and looks at Lizzie and smiles. She and Pete walk slowly towards the other side of the room, and the scent of the flowers Maggie Delaney brought mixes with perfumes and sherry, and Julia O’Gorman puts an arm around Mammy, and Aunt Rose takes a
photo.

  And there, standing between Father Lehane and Mammy’s china cabinet, Joe McCarthy is waiting for her.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Blast.’ The handful of confetti that Angela has thrown is scooped up by the wind and carried high into the sky. Pete takes the box from her – ‘Hey, do it right, lady’ – and empties what’s left of it over the heads of Joe and Lizzie McCarthy, as they stand brazenly kissing on the side of the road in Kilmorris for everyone to see.

  They draw apart, laughing and shaking the tiny coloured horseshoes and crescent moons and hearts from their hair, but Joe keeps an arm around Lizzie’s waist. Angela looks at him and thinks, He can’t bear to let her go, and prays that it’ll always be like that.

  She drapes an arm over Joe’s shoulder like she always used to – how could she ever have thought he wouldn’t forgive her? – and wags a finger across him at Lizzie.

  ‘You do realise, don’t you, that you’re making off with the only eligible bachelor that Merway had to offer?’

  The smile that’s been on Lizzie’s face for the last hour widens. ‘I don’t see why that should bother you,’ she says, looking significantly at Pete, who’s just said something to make Mammy and Rose laugh; such a charmer.

  Angela follows her gaze and watches him fondly for a minute. ‘Yeah, I’m not complaining.’ Then she turns back to Joe and Lizzie. ‘Now remember, you two – no disappearing off into the sunset forever. You have two weeks, then it’s back to work.’

  Lizzie salutes with the hand that’s not pressed against Joe’s side. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  They’re going to Greece, because Joe remembered her saying she’d always wanted to see it. They’ve found a travel company that sends people to some of the tiny islands, and they’ve got a house on the tiniest they could find. Lizzie imagines them sitting on a whitewashed balcony, surrounded by bougainvillea and jasmine, eating fat olives and feta cheese and sipping ouzo and watching the sun staining the sky red as it sinks slowly over the sea. And she knows that, even if it isn’t a bit like that, she’ll still love every minute.

  When they come back, Lizzie McCarthy will move out of the caravan and into Joe McCarthy’s house. She’ll work in Ripe in the mornings, while Joe carves, and in the afternoons she’ll go to The Kitchen to bake for a couple of hours, and every second evening she’ll go back later to help serve the meals and clear up.

  And when school finishes for the summer, in three more weeks, Deirdre and Angela and Pete will hook Lizzie’s caravan to the back of Angela’s car and head off to explore the west coast for a fortnight.

  And in August Deirdre will get a new half-brother or sister.

  Angela told Lizzie a few weeks ago. ‘I got the shock of my life when John told me, but actually, it’s the best thing that could have happened. It lets us all move on. And Dee’s really excited.’

  Connemara sorted a lot out for Angela and Deirdre. ‘We talked like we hadn’t in a long time,’ Angela told Lizzie. ‘I realised how much I’d missed. I’d been assuming she was coping fine with the separation – which she wasn’t, of course. She was hurt and confused and looking for reassurance – and then that man came along, just when she was vulnerable.’

  When Deirdre and Angela arrived home from Connemara, Pete was waiting.

  ‘He’s so sweet, Lizzie – a real tonic; just what I need. It’s probably not a forever thing – I don’t know that I believe much in that any more – but while it lasts, I’m going to enjoy it.’

  Six months later they’re still enjoying it. When Dominic got back from the States, Pete moved his things into The Kitchen – by then he was well established as the local handyman – and he’s showing no signs of wanting to move on. If the way he looks at Angela is anything to go by, Lizzie thinks that, in the grand scheme of things, they stand a pretty good chance of survival.

  And in eight years, less with good behaviour, Charlie will be released from jail. And there’s time enough to worry about what will happen then.

  ‘Back in a sec.’ Lizzie plants a kiss on her new husband’s cheek, unwinds his arm from around her waist and goes through the house, past the dining-room table littered with leftovers – Jones and Dumbledore will have a feast when Angela goes home tomorrow – and down to the bottom of the garden.

  She stands among Daddy’s roses – not open yet – and sees him bent over them, lifting the leaves, touching the buds gently. She puts out a hand and feels the tight parcels of velvety petals as they think about starting to unfurl.

  Life going on. Her life going on.

  After a minute, she turns and walks back up the garden.

  Thanks a Bunch

  To Mam and Dad, for being a rock of support, in this as in everything.

  To Ciars, for generously sharing his San Francisco home with me and my laptop.

  To Treas, Tomás, Colm and Aonghus, just for being there.

  To David Rice, for giving me the gentle nudge I needed to set off on this thrilling journey.

  To Alison, Deirdre and Tana, for licking me into shape.

  To Cliona, Chris and all at Tivoli, for guiding me safely through the process.

  To Faith, my far from secret agent, for looking after me.

  To Charlie Varon, a valuable mentor and a very nice man.

  To John Regan, for kindly sharing his knowledge of woodcarving with me.

  To Orla, Mags and all my great friends, for being nearly as delighted as I am.

  To Judi, a fellow writer-in-progress and a valuable sounding-board.

  To Liz, for whipping out the camera and doing the needful.

  To Annaghmakerrig, for allowing me to live like a writer for a summery month.

  To Lizzie O’Grady, for coming when I called her.

  Tivoli

  an imprint of Gill & Macmillan

  Hume Avenue

  Park West

  Dublin 12

  with associated companies throughout the world

  www.gillmacmillanbooks.ie

  © Roisin Meaney 2004

  First published by Tivoli 2004

  This ebook edition published by Gill & Macmillan 2004

  978 07171 3673 6 (print)

  978 07171 5723 5 (epub)

  978 07171 5724 2 (mobi)

  Cover design by Slick Fish Design

  Cover illustration by Zink Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers.

  A catalogue record is available for this book from the British Library.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  About the Author

  Roisin Meaney was born in Listowel, Co. Kerry, and now lives in Limerick, and is a full-time writer. She has also taught in Dublin and Zimbabwe. She has had a varied career, working as a freelance copywriter, a secretary for a Japanese trading company and a painter of cartoons in children’s bedrooms. She is currently working on her ninth novel, in between doing cryptic crosswords and watching Coronation Street.

  About Gill & Macmillan

  Gill & Macmillan’s story begins in 1856 when Michael Henry Gill, then printer for Dublin University, purchased the publishing and bookselling business of James McGlashan, forming McGlashan & Gill. Some years later, in 1875, the company name was changed to M.H. Gill & Son. Gill & Macmillan as we know it today was established in 1968 as a result of an association with Macmillan of London. There was also a bookshop, popularly known as Gills, located on Dublin’s O’Connell Street for 123 years until it eventually closed in 1979. Today our bookshop can be found online at www.gillmacmillanbooks.ie.

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