Lizzie can’t believe it. A baking job, right under her nose. Working with Angela. Here in this kitchen, two seconds from where she lives.
‘Well – what do you say?’ Angela is waiting.
Lizzie picks up her cup and clinks it against Angela’s. ‘I say you’ve got yourself a baker.’
Chapter Nine
And so it begins.
Lizzie joins Angela in the kitchen every afternoon and chooses three different loaves of bread from her many recipes – cheese and black pepper, garlic and herb, sun-dried tomato, lemon poppyseed, pumpkin, rye, potato. Sometimes she makes rolls for a change – sesame seed, olive, five grain, ciabatta – or breadsticks, or savoury scones.
While the yeast is rising she makes three desserts, which she changes every week. She and Angela sit down every Sunday night and choose the three for the following week. It can take quite a while.
‘Ooh, sticky toffee pudding – yes, please.’
‘That’s very heavy with your main courses; aren’t you doing a carbonara next week? And the goulash is very rich too. What about this one, razzleberry crisp? It’s full of fruit, and really light. Or a mousse – I’ve a lovely brandy-and-ginger recipe.’
‘OK – but I want the sticky toffee pudding next week, or you’re evicted. And that orange-and-carrot cake, too, or I start charging Jones rent.’
‘Yes, boss.’ There’s no doubt about it: Lizzie has died and gone to heaven.
She can’t believe that two restaurants can be so different. The cosiness of The Kitchen, with its roaring fire and candles and mellow wooden floor; the simple, delicious meals that Angela changes every week; the friendliness of the customers, who often chat away to one another across the room and who don’t mind waiting twenty minutes for their herby chicken with fragrant rice; the soft jazz of Ella Fitzgerald or Nina Simone in the background . . . It’s all light years away from the dreariness of O’Gorman’s, with its patterned carpet and people who sit silently at tables with plastic flowers in china vases while they chew the same old food, day in, day out, listening to someone they know playing a request for Aunty Pauline who’s just had a hysterectomy.
At night Lizzie lies in her big double bed under her feathery duvet and listens to the sea fourteen steps away, and tells God that she’s very, very grateful. And she wonders if there’s any chance that Tony could meet some nice girl who loves being engaged, and who isn’t too pushed about getting married. And she knows she’s asking a lot, but maybe Daddy’s bad leg could be sorted out too – it’s been at him for ages.
And if there’s the smallest possibility of her meeting someone nice who likes fresh-baked bread and fat ginger cats, she’d be even more grateful.
‘Lizzie, if you had to think up a business name, what would it be?’ She and Angela are in the kitchen one afternoon, just starting on the preparations for that evening’s meal.
Lizzie considers. ‘For my baking, you mean? If I had my own range of products?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, let’s see . . . what about Daily Bread?’
‘God, no – too religious; it would put all the atheists off.’ Angela looks at the ceiling. ‘Sorry, God, but I have to be honest; you can understand that.’
Lizzie grins at her. ‘OK, then, what about Pat-a-Cakes?’
‘Absolutely not – too babyish. They’d think all you made was fairy cakes and Rice Krispie cookies.’
‘Right then . . . Mrs Bun the Baker?’
‘Nah, sounds a bit housewifey. And you’re not, anyway, are you? You’re Ms Bun; and that just doesn’t have the same ring.’
Lizzie laughs. ‘God, you’re hard to please – and I’m running out of ideas . . . What about Bun in the Oven?’
Angela doesn’t even bother to look up from the chopping board. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’ Then she stops and points half a carrot at Lizzie. ‘Maybe you could go into partnership with Big Maggie and be Baking Miracles.’
Lizzie giggles. ‘Or Blooming Bakery.’
‘Or what about Lizzie’s Loaves? Hey, that’s not bad.’ Angela chops carrots thoughtfully.
Lizzie grins as she kneads the dough for that evening’s caraway-and-rye bread. ‘But that sounds as if I only do bread, when we all know that I can bake just about anything – apart from the lemon tart I attempted in the caravan a while back. I told you about that, didn’t I?’
It turned out flat and soggy – clearly the miniscule cooker hadn’t been designed with a delicate touch. Such a waste of those lovely lemons. ‘Hey, that reminds me – the guy who owns the fruit-and-veg shop down the street . . .’
‘Joe? What about him?’
‘What’s he like?’ She remembers the gorgeous blue eyes, and the very pleasant smile. And the fact that he knew exactly where Angela’s wood carvings were. Let’s see if she gets embarrassed.
Angela picks up a potato and starts to peel it, not looking in the least embarrassed. ‘Joe? He’s a pet. He’s the one who made Deirdre’s clown, and my cook – very talented.’
Lizzie shakes her head. ‘No, not the woodcarver, the fruit-and-veg man.’
Angela peels on, nodding. ‘Yeah; they’re one and the same.’
‘What? He’s the one who made them? But hang on, he sells fruit and veg – and you said the woodcarver has his own shop.’ This isn’t making sense.
Angela turns, amused at Lizzie’s confusion. ‘Yes, he has, but he doesn’t sell carvings in it – he sells fruit and veg. He just carves the wood in his spare time.’
‘I see.’ Or does she? Lizzie brushes the hair out of her eyes with a floury hand. What did he say, when she admired the sign outside the shop? Something about it being made by a master craftsman who lived in the area . . . but that was himself he was talking about. So he was just being funny.
And of course he knew where the wooden cook was, if he made it. And Lizzie remembers asking him if the woodcarver had a shop, and he said something like ‘He does and he doesn’t’ – and sent her around looking into the shop windows for surprises. And not a hint of a smile on his face.
He seems like a bit of a joker. She smiles down at the dough and begins to pound it again. ‘So the clown belongs to Deirdre.’
Angela nods. ‘Yeah, he made it for her when John left – I thought it was really sweet of him. She put it in the restaurant so everyone could see it.’
Lizzie wonders again if there’s anything going on between Angela and Joe. She’s as good as single now, and he . . . ‘Is he married?’ She remembers noticing no ring.
‘No.’ Angela shakes her head. ‘Though not for the want of trying by half the eligible females of Merway. He’s had his moments, like the rest of us, but no one’s managed to drag him up the aisle yet. As far as I know he’s unattached at the moment.’
She puts the peeled potatoes into a saucepan and narrows her eyes at Lizzie. ‘Why all the questions about our Joe, young lady? Are you keen?’
Lizzie laughs and squashes the dough into the baking tin. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you two had anything going on – you know, the cook, the clown . . .’
Angela shakes her head, smiling. ‘No, we’re great pals but that’s as far as it goes. I didn’t know him all that well growing up – he’s about ten years older than me. It’s only really since John left and I started my own business that we’ve got friendly. He was a great help at the start – sold me veg for next to nothing till I got set up with Nuala and Ríodhna. And you needn’t read anything into the carvings; Joe carves for everyone – practically every shop in town has a piece in the window.’
‘I know – I saw them. In fact, he was the one who told me about them – without telling me they were his. And when I admired the sign over his door he told me about the master craftsman who’d made it.’
Angela laughs. ‘Typical Joe; the man has a wicked sense of humour – just comes out of nowhere and surprises you.’ She looks at Lizzie, and her smile fades. ‘You haven’t come across Charlie, have you?’
Lizzie th
inks of the men she’s met in Merway; the name doesn’t ring a bell. ‘Don’t think so. Who’s he?’
‘Joe’s nephew from London; arrived out of the blue a few months back and just moved in.’ Angela makes a face. ‘He hasn’t exactly endeared himself to the folk around here – spends his time in the pub, or swanning around the place in Joe’s car. I don’t know why Joe doesn’t just tell him to get lost; he’s not exactly a help to him – I’ve never seen him working in the shop, and he’s probably eating Joe out of house and home. And I’d bet anything he’s not paying a cent towards his keep.’
Lizzie remembers the young man she passed when she was leaving Ripe, the same one who’d been in Dignam’s. ‘Is he mid-twenties, longish brown hair, thin face?’
Angela nods. ‘That’s him – shifty-looking.’ She covers the potatoes and glances at the clock. ‘God, we’d better get a move on.’
Later that evening, on her way back to the caravan for the night, Lizzie pauses with her hand on the door handle. Then she walks on to the bottom of the garden. She stands by the rickety old wooden fence that Angela keeps threatening to replace.
On a clear, frosty night like this, she can see a million stars and one moon, or a bit of a moon. She breathes in the pure, salty air and gazes up, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. The waves rattle the pebbles, pulling them out to sea. The stars are amazing. She loves how visible the night sky is, here in Angela’s back garden. The bit of a poem that she always thinks of when she looks at the stars is rattling around in her head:
Looking up at the stars,
I know quite well
That for all they care
I can go to hell.
She loves those lines – the way they turn around and surprise you at the end; she’s always loved surprises. Tony was never much of a one for them, though – always so predictable, with his vouchers and chocolates . . .
And now she’s living in a place that has a surprise in every shop window.
She turns back and walks towards the caravan.
Chapter Ten
Lizzie can’t believe she’s been three months in Merway, but there it is in black and white. Tomorrow morning she’ll be tearing March off the calendar and crumpling it into the bin. April already; imagine.
She goes out to make her weekly phone call home. For once Mammy has real news for her.
‘I was talking to Julia today.’ Pause. Lizzie’s heart sinks – Mammy is slowly coming round to the fact that Lizzie has made the break, but still . . . ‘Tony has a new girlfriend: Pauline Twomey. I think you knew her sister in school – Maeve, was it?’
Pauline Twomey; three years younger than Lizzie – and about three stone lighter. Hardly anything there to put his arms around. Hasn’t taken him long to get over Lizzie.
But she’s happy for him – she really is.
‘Lizzie, are you there?’
No, Mother, I’ve gone off to slit my wrists. ‘Yes, I’m still here. That’s good news about Tony; I hope he’s happy. How’s Daddy’s leg?’
A sigh from Mammy’s end. ‘Sure, not too good, really, Lizzie. I keep telling him he should go to Dr Cronin, but I might as well talk to the wall. That old Deep Heat isn’t making a blind bit of difference.’ Pause. ‘Hang on, he wants a word.’
‘Hello, love.’ He sounds the same as ever – Lizzie can see the grey Fair Isle cardigan that he’s worn forever; or is he wearing the one Mammy got him at Christmas? The grey is a bit darker on the new one.
‘Daddy, how are you?’
‘Fine, love; can’t complain.’ Not a word about the knee. ‘How’s it going there with you? Any plans to come back and see us?’
‘Yeah, I will, honest – just as soon as Angela can give me a few days off in a row; she’s a bit stuck at the moment.’
She’s given them to understand, without actually lying, that she’s practically indispensable to Angela. ‘I don’t know how she managed before me; she was as good as running the B&B single-handedly; she was worn out’ – Sorry, Deirdre – ‘and now that I’m baking for her regularly too . . . it’s a bit hectic, even with the two of us.’ If they only knew she spends less than four hours a day working . . .
Hanging up, she feels a twinge of guilt: she really must get back home for a weekend soon. Maybe straight after Easter – The Kitchen should be fairly quiet then.
Next morning Lizzie stands outside Ripe and tries to put her finger on what’s different. It seems exactly as it always is: a big wheelbarrow on either side of the door, one filled with fruit, the other with veg; windows shining, as usual – Joe keeps the place spotless . . .
And then she sees it, poking out from behind the beautiful wooden sign over the door. It couldn’t be – but it is.
Grass.
Tufts of grass are sprouting from the top of the sign, all the way across. What on earth? She blinks hard and checks again; it’s definitely there.
She goes inside. Joe looks up from behind the counter. ‘Hi, Lizzie. Nice day.’
‘Hi, Joe.’ Should she say anything? How exactly should she put it? ‘Your sign is growing grass’ sounds a bit silly.
He’s looking enquiringly at her. ‘Have you forgotten what you wanted?’ He always looks like a smile is just waiting to happen. And those blue eyes definitely grow on you.
Lizzie blinks. ‘No, no, I’ll just get them.’ She fills her bags, still wondering if she should mention the grass. Maybe he’s done it on purpose. Maybe it’s a sales gimmick of some sort.
By the time she’s got everything, she’s decided to say something. She waits until she’s paid him. ‘Em, Joe . . . I want to show you something outside a minute.’
He hands her her change, eyebrows raised. ‘Outside?’
‘Yeah, just outside the door.’ She’s beginning to feel sorry she brought it up. Of course he knows about it – grass doesn’t suddenly appear overnight on a wooden sign. Fruit and veg, growing stuff, all that kind of thing – it must be a marketing thing. But it’s too late now; he’s walking with her to the door. God, this is going to be mortifying.
Outside, she says nothing, just points up to the grass. Joe looks up, then draws in his breath. ‘Good God. Where did that come out of?’
Whew – he didn’t do it, then. She’s not going to look like some prize eejit. They stand looking up, Joe shaking his head in bafflement.
‘I don’t believe it; it’s back.’
‘What?’ Lizzie’s head swivels back to him. ‘You mean it’s happened before?’
He nods his head, still gazing up. ‘Oh, yes. It always seems to happen around this time of the year.’
‘Joe, you’re not serious.’ Signs don’t suddenly start to sprout grass – even signs advertising things that grow. ‘Are you saying this happens regularly?’
‘Yes. Very strange.’ He’s still nodding slowly, still looking up at the grass. ‘Every year, always on the same date.’ He looks back at her, his face serious. ‘Lizzie, you don’t think that it could have anything at all to do with the fact that it’s . . . April Fool’s Day?’
Not a flicker of a smile. How does he do it? Lizzie slaps his arm, half annoyed, half amused. ‘Joe, you eejit – have you nothing better to do?’
He grins, rubbing his arm. ‘Nothing at all; isn’t it terrible? What kind of a place have you decided to come to, at all, at all?’ He’s highly amused at the success of his joke; and she’s the perfect target – such a gullible ninny.
She tries to look stern and fails utterly. ‘I’m beginning to wonder. Maybe I should go back home for myself – at least they leave the grass on the ground there.’ Damn – she can’t keep a straight face like he can.
‘Ah no, stay – I’ll be good.’ He starts back into the shop. ‘Well, I’d better get back inside and wait for my next victim – I mean customer.’
‘God help them.’ She heads off down the street.
‘And, Lizzie –’
She turns.
‘Have a nice day, now.’ And he’s gone.
Lizzie smiles and walks on with her bag of fruit, shaking her head. He’s full of surprises, that man.
Wait till she tells Angela.
Chapter Eleven
‘Turn around.’ Angela looks carefully as Lizzie swivels her head. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘Really?’ She puts up her hands and touches her hair – it still feels very strange. ‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘Absolutely not. It really suits you; it’s much nicer than before. I love the way the wax lifts it, shows off the layers. And the highlights are great – just in time for summer, such as it is.’
That morning Lizzie had woken up and looked in the mirror and decided she needed a change – a totally new look. So she got into her car, drove to Seapoint, found the trendiest-looking salon and marched in. Three hours later and a hundred euros poorer, she came out with a brand-new blonde crop.
She loves it – and so, it seems, does Angela. ‘We have to go out and show off that hair. There’s a session in Doherty’s on Sunday night. You’ll drive Johnny Morris wild.’ Johnny Morris is a soft-spoken local man who occasionally plays the fiddle in Doherty’s. He’s also the wrong side of ninety.
Lizzie looks sternly at Angela. ‘I’ll have you know that I’ll be setting my sights a lot younger than Johnny Morris.’
‘Well, you never know . . .’ Angela edges towards the door of the caravan. ‘Joe McCarthy might be there too.’ And she’s gone, just before Lizzie’s cushion hits the door.
Lizzie opens her wardrobe. Nothing jumps out at her; just the same old jeans and tops. She needs something new, to go with the new hair. She’ll head back into Seapoint tomorrow; there are a few decent boutiques there. Maybe she’ll get a pair of those low-rise trousers everyone is wearing; if she sucks in her tummy, she just might get away with them.
And she has no idea where Angela got the notion that she’s interested in Joe McCarthy. For goodness’ sake, she’s just over a big break-up.
The Daisy Picker Page 9
