The Daisy Picker

by Roisin Meaney

  Wave goodbye, Lizzie. Wave goodbye to forty-one years of waiting for something to happen. Forget O’Gorman’s and Tony and Tuesday-night bacon and cabbage, and rubbing Deep Heat into Daddy’s bad knee and finding Mammy’s tatty purple slippers that never seem to be where she left them last night. Now pull yourself out of the rut, wind up your window and say hello to the rest of your life.

  Her cheek is itchy; she puts her finger up to scratch it and finds a tear. She doesn’t remember feeling sad.

  Chapter Four

  Lizzie rubs the tear away, blinks and checks the clock on the dashboard. Ten past ten. She never understood why people called it ‘tinker’s time’ until one day she suddenly realised you were supposed to say ‘tin past tin’.

  She’s got the rest of the day to go – where? The absurdity of the fact that she hasn’t a notion where she’s going makes her smile. She pulls over and reaches for the road map. Imagine if Mammy came along with her shopping trolley; they’d have to say goodbye all over again.

  She looks at the map. Kilmorris is right in the midlands, about seventy miles from the west coast. She fancies living near the sea, in a place much smaller than this one – a fairly big village, or a small market town maybe; big enough that she won’t stand out, small enough that she’ll get to know people fairly easily.

  They spent a few holidays by the sea when she was young, staying in rented houses or caravans and having lunch in pubs where old men in tweed caps played fiddles and tin whistles and belted out rhythms on bodhráns. She remembers the salty tang of the periwinkles Daddy used to buy in little white paper bags and fish out of their shells for her with the pin that came with them, and the sticky balls of candyfloss she’d pull apart with her hands. She used to love the smell of the seaweed and the noise of the waves in the evening when they’d go walking along the prom after dinner, Lizzie full of huge yawns after the day of sea air.

  Yes, she wants to live by the sea. She’ll take the road going west and head for the coast, and then meander around a bit until she finds somewhere that she likes the look of. And maybe she should aim to be not too far from a fairly big town, so she can have a bit more of a social life if she feels the need. She folds up the map again and sets off. Through the next lights and left at the roundabout, and she’ll be headed west.

  She’s just past the roundabout when she sees him. Thumb raised, sitting on a backpack twice as big as hers. Longish fair hair, hand-knit baggy jumper, jeans, sandals – God help us, sandals in January in Ireland. He has thick woolly socks on under them, but still. He must be insane.

  Lizzie has never hitched a lift, and never given a lift to a hitchhiker, in her life. Tony didn’t believe in it – ‘Let them get the bus, that’s what they’re for’ – and she’s a bit wary of picking up someone when she’s on her own in the car, especially if he’s a man with long hair who shows definite signs of madness.

  And then she remembers the old woman from the hill country of Kentucky wishing she’d taken more chances. Ah, hell – she’s looking for a change, isn’t she? And what can happen to her at tin past tin on a Monday morning? Jones will mind her. She pulls over, forgetting to indicate – another first – and checks that her handbag is safely under her seat while she waits for the hitchhiker. Jones will have to move into the back; he won’t mind.

  The lunatic hitchhiker hefts his backpack up and lopes on long legs to the car. Lizzie leans across and opens the passenger door, and he sticks his head in, smiling. He has lovely, even white teeth.

  ‘Hi, how ya doin’? Happy New Year. Thanks for stoppin’.’

  His voice is slow and drawly, and American. That may explain the sandals. And the madness. Lizzie smiles back at him, glad she stopped. Sorry, Tony.

  ‘Happy New Year to you. Where’re you headed?’

  ‘I’m goin’ to Rockford.’

  ‘Fine; that’s on my way.’ Rockford is about fifteen miles down the road. ‘Help me move Jones into the back.’

  He squats down, puts a finger through the wire front of the carrier and scratches Jones’s head. ‘Hey, buddy, sorry ’bout that.’ Jones closes his eyes and purrs loudly.

  Lizzie unbuckles his seat-belt. ‘He doesn’t mind; he’s a real sweetie.’

  As she goes to lift the carrier, the hitchhiker takes it from her. ‘Here, I got it.’ He hefts it easily over the front seat and settles it in the back. ‘There you go, Jones; all safe and sound. Let’s clip you in there.’

  Then he picks up his rucksack and hauls it in beside the cat-carrier. ‘Hey, Jones, keep an eye on my stuff, OK?’ He wags a finger at Jones, who blinks back at him.

  Lizzie laughs. ‘Shut up and get in before you freeze us out of it.’ She wonders if he’ll mind being told to shut up. Probably not – the free lift will take the sting out of it. He hops in and pulls the door shut, and she puts the car in gear and drives off. The hitchhiker turns sideways in his seat and pokes a finger in at Jones, who mews at him.

  ‘I’m Pete, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Lizzie – and Jones you’ve already met.’ She glances down at his feet. ‘Do you mind my asking why you’re in sandals in the middle of an Irish winter?’

  Pete smiles ruefully. ‘Yeah, looks kinda strange, I guess. My boots are wet through from yesterday, so I had no choice.’ Good, at least he has boots. Not totally insane, then.

  ‘You must be frozen; hang on.’ She directs the hot air towards his feet and turns it up full blast. As he begins to feel the warmth, he wriggles his toes and sighs happily.

  ‘Hey, that feels gooood.’ He manoeuvres out of the sandals and pushes them aside, then wriggles his thick-socked toes again. Lizzie smiles; he reminds her of Jones – slow, lazy, easy.

  ‘I presume you’re American.’

  He cocks his head at her and puts on a mock-astonished expression. ‘Hey, that’s amazing. How the heck did you know?’

  She laughs. ‘Whereabouts in the States?’

  ‘Tennessee, and upstate New York, but I been livin’ here in Ireland for the past year.’ She loves his drawl; much more attractive than the flat Kilmorris accent.

  ‘Don’t tell me – you came to find your roots.’

  He grins and shakes his head. ‘No, ma’am. Don’t believe I’ve a drop of Irish blood in me, unfortunately. No, I came here to get away from all that US crap. Got tired of the whole materialism thing there – all those weapons, all that macho stuff, specially after 9-11; I wanted to take some time out and just chill.’

  Hmmm – a not-so-typical American. ‘So you came over to holy Catholic Ireland.’ Pete raises his eyebrows at her and smiles, but says nothing. ‘You must like it if you’re still here.’

  He nods. ‘Sure do. Good people, still got some values.’ He looks over at her. ‘So what’s your story?’ He cocks his head at the cat-carrier. ‘Where’re you and Jones headed?’

  Lizzie grins. ‘We’re going on an adventure.’

  He raises his eyebrows in delight. ‘No kiddin’ – sort of a Thelma and Louise thing?’

  She’s thrilled at the comparison; all she needs is the scarf and the glasses. And the convertible. ‘Exactly – except we don’t intend to kill anyone, and we probably won’t rob anyplace either.’ She shoots a look over at him. ‘And I should tell you that I have no intention of driving off a cliff.’

  ‘Well, now, I’m kinda relieved to hear that.’ Pete settles himself more comfortably into his seat, head turned towards her. ‘So tell me more about this adventure.’

  She smiles. ‘God, where do I start? Until today I lived at home with my parents.’

  ‘No kiddin’? Never left the nest?’ She looks over at him again – is he laughing at her? – but he seems genuinely surprised.

  ‘Is that unheard of in the States?’

  He nods. ‘Pretty much – where I come from, anyway. My buddies and me all moved out after high school. We found apartments to share.’ Then he smiles, shaking his head. ‘Course, some of the places we stayed in . . . even the roaches moved out. And some of th
e roommates I got weren’t exactly house-trained.’

  She laughs. ‘But at least you had independence, did what you wanted. I’ve slept in the same bedroom since I was brought home from the nursing home. My mother cooks all the meals, same things every week: always a roast on Sunday, lamb chops on Monday, bacon and cabbage on Tuesday . . .’

  He grins. ‘Hey, when I lived at home, we always had my mom’s blueberry pancakes for breakfast on Sundays.’

  ‘Mmm – sounds delicious. Much more interesting than prunes and Bran Flakes.’ Lizzie makes a face. ‘I’m never again going to eat prunes.’

  He nods. ‘Good idea. How ’bout the rest of your family – do they all live at home too?’

  She’s amused at his assumption that she comes from a good Catholic big Irish family. ‘There’s just me, I’m afraid. Only child.’

  ‘Yeah? So there’s no one to take the pressure off. All the expectations are restin’ on your head.’

  She looks over at him, amazed. ‘Exactly; that’s exactly it. I never had anyone to – I don’t know – dilute them with, I suppose; do you know what I mean?’

  Pete nods again. ‘Sure.’ And he really seems to understand. ‘So what made you make the break?’

  She smiles as she remembers the dentist’s waiting room. ‘Oh, just something I read; it made me realise that I was letting my life slip by, when I could do something about it if I wanted.’ As she talks, she begins to feel the same excitement bubble up in her again. She looks over at Pete. ‘I was engaged, too, for years. And I worked with my fiancé, in his family business.’

  ‘No kiddin’?’ He shakes his head. ‘So you finished with him?’

  She nods. ‘Broke off the engagement, packed in the job.’ She can’t believe she’s telling so much to a perfect stranger. Is it because she knows she’ll be waving goodbye to him in about ten minutes? ‘So here I am, car packed with all my worldly goods, heading off to God knows where. I have no idea where I’m going to end up, don’t even know where I’m going to sleep tonight.’ She darts a look at him. ‘What do you think – am I daft?’

  He smiles widely at her, showing his perfect American teeth again. ‘I think that’s a heck of a move you’re makin’ there. I think you’re gonna have a blast. Sounds wonderful.’

  She laughs; that’s exactly what she wanted to hear. ‘I’m going to head for the coast; I’ve decided I want to live by the sea.’

  He nods slowly. ‘Yeah, good start, I guess. The ocean is a special place – and you’ve got some pretty cool coastline here.’ He puts his hands behind his head and stretches his long legs out as much as the little car will allow. Then he closes his eyes with a deep sigh.

  Lizzie sneaks a proper look. He’s a bit younger than her; she guesses he’s somewhere in his mid-thirties. Sallow skin, slightly tanned; whatever work he does – if he does any – is probably out of doors. Nice cheekbones, dark-blond stubble around his chin. No coat, in the middle of winter – mind you, that jumper looks like a blanket, and he’s probably got loads of layers on under it. Hair in need of a good cut, but thick and clean-looking. Fingernails not too bad. A gold claddagh ring, and a battered leather wrist-strap with what she thinks is ‘Leo’ stamped on it. No wedding ring. She gets a faint smell of damp wool, and something sweet and vaguely familiar.

  Suddenly he sits up. ‘Hey, mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Em . . . OK.’

  Lizzie has never let anyone smoke in her car. But she can’t say no outright to a stranger. Well, she could – it is her car, after all, and she is doing him a favour, but still . . . Anyway, this is the new Lizzie, the easygoing, chance-taking one. She can put up with a bit of smoke – it won’t kill her. She hopes.

  She inches down her window. Sorry, Jones.

  Pete reaches behind and pulls a pouch from a pocket in his backpack. He takes out a packet of cigarette papers, then starts to roll a cigarette. He winds his window down a few inches before taking a lighter from the pouch and lighting up; he drags deeply, holds the smoke for a long moment, then turns his head towards the window and exhales slowly.

  A thick, sweet scent wafts towards Lizzie. She recognises it instantly from occasional dinner parties in the past, when some of the more daring couples would produce a few joints after the meal. Lizzie was never tempted to try it – she’d felt sick for ages after trying to smoke regular cigarettes in her teens, and of course Tony never touched it – but she secretly liked the musky smell that clung to her clothes for a day or two afterwards.

  She smiles to herself. No wonder he’s so mellow. Probably high as a kite half the time. The cheek of him, using illegal substances in my car. She bets the old woman from Kentucky would have enjoyed a joint if she’d got the chance.

  She looks over at Pete the pothead, and he holds out the joint to her.

  ‘No, thanks.’ One major life change a day is quite enough. ‘So what brings you to Rockford?’

  ‘Got buddies there, potters. They’re from the States too, but they been livin’ here a few years.’

  ‘And where have you been living since you came to Ireland?’

  He shrugs. ‘Oh, I been wanderin’. Here, there . . . wherever I can find some work. I’m comin’ from Tipperary today.’

  Lizzie is fascinated – his life is so different from hers. She imagines what it must be like to wander round a whole new country, live in a place for a few weeks, maybe, and then just up and move. Pack your rucksack and go wherever the fancy takes you. And he thinks she’s being adventurous.

  ‘What kind of work d’you do?’

  He shrugs again. ‘Anythin’ that needs doin’ – farmin’ mostly, or construction, that sorta stuff.’

  ‘So now you’re going to visit Rockford for a while.’

  He nods. ‘Yeah. They tell me there’s good music there, so I brought along my tin whistle.’

  She’s intrigued. ‘You play the tin whistle?’ Definitely not a typical American.

  He grins back at her. ‘Sure do. Just picked it up from hearin’ guys in the bars here.’ He jerks his thumb towards the back seat. ‘Fancy a tune?’ He pronounces it ‘toon’.

  ‘Love one.’ And if he’s no good, Rockford is only five minutes away.

  Pete pinches the end of the joint into the ashtray and puts the rest of it back in his pouch before turning to rummage in the backpack. His jeans are frayed at the seams. He pulls out a tin whistle and settles himself again, and then he puts it to his lips and starts to play.

  He plays a tune Lizzie doesn’t recognise, and it’s sweet and slow and sad. She is amazed that a tin whistle can produce music like this, with every note so clear and pure. Then he goes straight into ‘Ode to Joy’, and behind the dancing notes she can hear the orchestra. After that he plays a lively traditional Irish air whose name she can’t remember. She’s back in the holiday pubs of her childhood, tapping along to the rhythms as she munches Taytos and sucks Fanta through her straw.

  When he stops she turns to him. ‘That was wonderful; really.’ She smiles. ‘You must spend a fair bit of your time in pubs to have learnt so well.’

  He grins back. ‘Hey, it’s no big deal; tin whistle’s easy. I taught myself guitar too – that was a little harder.’ He turns to put the tin whistle away.

  ‘Wow.’ Lizzie is impressed. She remembers Mammy sending her off to learn the piano when she was eight. She hated every minute of it, stamping off to the sitting room and banging the door behind her whenever she was sent in to practise. She lasted eight weeks, never getting past a stumbling ‘Blue Danube’. Eventually Mammy gave in and stopped the lessons. Now Lizzie would give anything to be able to play the piano. Or to play anything at all.

  She sees the sign announcing Rockford, and feels disappointed; Pete’s been good company. ‘Here we are. You’ll have to direct me to your friends’ house.’

  He turns back from his rucksack and shakes his head. ‘Hey, no way. The main street’ll be fine. You’ve done enough by bringin’ me here, honest.’

  She looks sternly
at him. ‘You’re not exactly dragging me across New York. It’ll take about thirty seconds to bring you wherever it is.’ Rockford straggles along half a main street and meanders down two little lanes off it. ‘Tell me which way to go – I insist.’

  He grins. ‘OK, thanks a lot. I gotta look out for a store on a corner and go right.’

  They find it and turn; after a hundred yards or so, Pete says, ‘Guess this is it; they said the one with the pump.’

  Lizzie stops and looks at the abandoned cottage he’s pointing at, with the rusty pump at the side.

  ‘No, it can’t be this one.’ He’s got the directions mixed up, or his pals must have moved. Waist-high weeds tumble over themselves in what was probably the front garden fifty years ago. The roof was once thatched – now it’s more holes than roof. The front door, blue paint peeling away, hangs half off its hinges, leaning outwards. The flaking whitewashed walls look pretty solid, but that’s about it. A condemned building – no doubt about it. Lizzie pulls in, thinking that they’ll have to go back to the bit of a main street and enquire.

  But suddenly, incredibly, she notices a wisp of smoke coming from the remains of the chimney – and Pete has already stepped out and is hauling out his backpack. ‘I’m pretty sure this is it.’

  She sits speechless; how can someone live like this? Then, from behind the house, a man about Pete’s age comes sauntering; one of the potters, presumably. He’s equally skinny and hairy, with identical jeans and a green army jacket, striding towards the car in big, solid-looking boots – sandals are obviously not the thing in falling-down houses.

  ‘Hey, man, you made it.’

  Pete lets his rucksack drop and they bear-hug, slapping each other’s back. Then they separate and Pete gestures towards Lizzie, still sitting dumbstruck in the car.