The Daisy Picker

by Roisin Meaney

  Not that she’s lost much sleep over that. Sometimes she wonders idly how Tony and Pauline are getting on. Do they go out every Sunday night, like she and Tony did? Does he go around to the Twomeys’ for his dinner every Thursday? She wouldn’t be at all surprised.

  It’s funny: Sunday has turned out to be Lizzie’s main going-out night in Merway, too. For years it was the only night when she and Tony could go out together – and now, with The Kitchen open every other night of the week, it’s the only one that suits Angela. Mind you, nights out with Angela – usually in one or another of Merway’s four pubs – are a lot more fun than a couple of glasses of wine in the local with Tony.

  One night Lizzie tells Angela about Pauline Twomey.

  ‘He has a new girlfriend – Mammy told me.’

  Angela gives her a sympathetic look. ‘I bet you were disappointed when you heard.’

  Lizzie starts to protest – ‘God, no’ – and then realises that, oddly, she was a bit taken aback. ‘Well, I suppose it was a bit of a surprise . . .’

  ‘Human nature.’ Angela nods. ‘You don’t want him, but you’re damned if you want anyone else to claim him.’ She pauses. ‘When John left, I was devastated – completely broken-hearted. But then, I still wanted him, very badly.’ She shrugs, runs her hand through her sleek blonde hair. ‘He was the love of my life. We grew up together. Our first date was on Valentine’s Day, when I was fifteen – just Dee’s age, imagine.’

  So she was with the love of her life for around twenty-five years. Lizzie can’t begin to imagine how that break-up must have felt. She remembers longing for a bit of heartbreak when she was younger. Maybe she was as well off without it.

  She glances sympathetically at Angela. ‘Poor you; it must have been horrible.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. Horrible.’ Angela looks down at the table and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand – is she brushing away a tear? Then she smiles faintly. ‘We hadn’t a long engagement at all – hardly any engagement, really. He proposed in February – Valentine’s Day again; I was twenty-four – and we married in June.’ She makes a face. ‘Actually, it’s a good job we did: Deirdre was born seven and a half months later. John’s mother convinced herself, to the day she died, that Dee was premature.’

  Then she looks up at Lizzie. ‘He’ll be here tomorrow.’

  Lizzie looks back at her. ‘Who’ll be here?’

  ‘John; he’s due to see Deirdre. He phoned a couple of days ago and arranged it. He’ll take her out for the day to Seapoint – spoil her rotten, as usual. And then she’ll come back and be down in the dumps for a week.’

  Lizzie wonders if she’ll finally get to meet him; so far she’s missed him when he’s called.

  Angela absently runs her finger along the side of the table. ‘Dee’s such a quiet little thing, it’s hard to know what she’s thinking. I hope she’s not bottling things up; she knows she can always talk to me.’

  ‘No sign of a boyfriend yet?’ At fifteen, Deirdre must be beginning to realise that there’s an opposite sex.

  But Angela shakes her head firmly. ‘Not a hint, thank goodness. Once she discovers boys, that’ll be the end of the studying, if she’s anything like her mother.’

  John Byrne turns up the following morning. Lizzie is in the kitchen, trying her hand at making a sourdough starter, when Angela comes in and says, ‘Lizzie, this is John. John, Lizzie is my new lodger, and my excellent baker.’ There’s something in her manner that Lizzie hasn’t seen before. Her smile snaps on and off; she seems ill at ease in the company of the man who shared her life for so long.

  John isn’t what Lizzie would call handsome – not in the way that, say, Joe McCarthy is – but he has a nice open face, and warmth in his eyes. She can see what drew Angela to him.

  Deirdre looks a lot like her father. They both have the same brown hair and green eyes – Angela is blue-eyed, and much fairer – and she’s inherited his height, too. At fifteen she’s already an inch or so taller than Angela, who’s about Lizzie’s height – five four or five; John is nearly a head above that again.

  ‘Are you planning to stay long here?’ he asks Lizzie. He probably wonders what on earth brought her to Merway.

  ‘Not sure, really; I’ll just see how it goes.’ Instinctively she’s cautious with him, doesn’t feel like going into detail.

  He nods; then Deirdre comes flying down the stairs, and they’re gone. Angela is quiet for the day, checking the clock often. Lizzie does most of the talking while they’re getting the evening meals ready. When John and Deirdre get back, around eight, he doesn’t come in with her – just drives off.

  As she watches Angela admiring Deirdre’s new make-up collection (‘Look, Mum, it’s got everything – look at all the brushes . . .’) Lizzie’s heart goes out to her. She clearly still has feelings for John – maybe not love any more, but strong feelings all the same.

  Lizzie thinks about the woman John went off with. She seems to remember Angela saying that she was local. Is she much younger than Angela? Does Deirdre ever meet her with John? Do her parents know Angela – do they ever bump into her in the street? Lizzie can’t imagine how a meeting like that would go.

  Then she wonders what hope there is that any love can survive, if a relationship that sounds like the perfect one can just crumble and die like that. Maybe couples like Tony and herself, who didn’t have such a big emotional investment, would actually have a better chance of making it. If she’d stayed in Kilmorris, they’d probably have trundled along together for another twenty years – not ecstatically happy, but content enough, maybe.

  And then she tries to figure out why, in the face of all this doomed-relationship and heartbreak stuff, she still hopes to God she’ll find someone with the power to seriously break her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Angela looks at the brown-paper package, then back up at Lizzie. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Deirdre told me; and don’t kill her – I swore her to secrecy.’

  She shakes the package gingerly. ‘When’s yours, so I can get my own back?’

  ‘Not till September.’ It’s only the last day of April. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll leave plenty of clues lying around when it gets near. Hurry up and open that.’

  Angela pulls the paper apart and peers in. ‘Oh, wow.’

  She takes out the framed photo and holds it up. Then she turns a beaming face to Lizzie. ‘It’s great. Did you take it?’

  ‘I did.’

  Lizzie thought of it a few weeks ago, when she was racking her brains for a birthday present for Angela. She was looking absently around the caravan, and her eye fell on a photo of a much smaller Jones that Daddy had got framed for her one Christmas. That was an idea: she could take a photo of Dumbledore, or maybe Deirdre – or how about the two of them? – and put it in a nice frame.

  A handmade frame. Hand-carved. Now where would she get a frame like that? She’d have to find herself a master craftsman.

  She went straight to Ripe the next morning.

  Joe was sweeping the floor. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘I’m always up early – I’m just not usually around town till later,’ Lizzie answered. ‘Joe, I have a request.’

  He leant on the brush. ‘As long as it involves fruit or veg, I can probably help.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, it doesn’t; it involves wood. And a bit of labour on your part.’

  That smile was just waiting to happen again. ‘Tell me more – this sounds interesting.’

  She told him her idea of the photo. ‘I need a frame for it, and I wondered . . . would you be able to make one for me?’ She gave him a pleading look. ‘There’s a cake in it for you – baked by a master baker.’ By this time everyone knew she was baking for Angela.

  ‘Oh, we’re bartering, are we now?’ Joe looked thoughtfully at her, leaning on his brush. ‘And what if I want more than a cake?’ No hint of a smile.

  Lizzie did her best to look as if gorgeous men flirted with her every day o
f the week. With a gigantic effort, she kept her expression neutral.

  ‘What would you be thinking of as suitable payment?’ She hoped to God she wasn’t blushing.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ He looked off into the distance. ‘An expertly-made wooden frame . . . would probably be worth – hmmm . . .’ There was a long silence while he pretended to do sums in his head, mouthing, ‘Carry the two . . . divide by four . . . ’ He knew well that Lizzie was desperately trying not to get embarrassed; and he was doing his level best to embarrass her. She wanted to slap him. In the nicest possible way.

  Finally he looked back at her. ‘At least two cakes. Big ones, with fresh cream, and maybe a bit of jam.’

  She laughed at him. ‘Consider it done; and thanks a million, Joe.’

  He bowed his head. ‘My pleasure. What size were you thinking?’

  So she told him, and they talked about a design; and she stood beside him and watched the dark hair on the backs of his hands as he scribbled on a pad, and she looked at his rolled-up shirt sleeves and she thought how good olive green was against his skin, and she smelt the spice of his aftershave, and she tried to sound calm.

  Lizzie and Deirdre waited for a fairly sunny day; then, as soon as Angela had driven off for Seapoint, they went into the garden and found Dumbledore, hiding from Jones under his usual bush. Deirdre sat on the ancient wrought-iron seat at the bottom of the garden, with Dumbledore on her lap. The sea was in the background – you could see it through the gaps in the fence – and the sky was pale blue. Deirdre was wearing a khaki top and cream-coloured combats and smiling her shy smile, and a little breeze lifted her long hair slightly as Lizzie took the photo. Dumbledore was looking up at her, tongue out.

  When it was developed, Lizzie was delighted. She got it blown up to a bigger size, then put it carefully into the frame Joe had provided.

  Now she says, ‘Happy birthday to you,’ and hugs Angela. ‘Thanks for being the best landlady I’ve ever had; and the fact that you’re the only one I’ve ever had has nothing to do with it.’

  Angela hugs her back. ‘Oh, Lizzie, it’s great – I just love it. It’ll take pride of place in the restaurant. Nearly takes the sting out of being forty.’ She makes a face. ‘Nearly – but not quite. My only consolation is that you’re still older than me.’

  She looks at the photo again. ‘The frame is fabulous.’ She traces over the ivy twined with flowers winding round two of the corners. ‘Would I be right in guessing that young Joe McCarthy had a hand in it?’

  Lizzie is blushing – she can feel it, crawling up her neck. ‘Well, I wanted something really nice, and he’s the only –’ She stops and watches the smirk spread over Angela’s face. ‘Leave me alone, you bully; I’ve just given you a present.’

  Angela holds up a palm. ‘Say no more – I promise not to tell the whole of Merway that you fancy the pants off the local fruit-and-veg man; although . . .’ She looks thoughtfully at Lizzie. ‘I may just have to say it to Big Maggie – that poor woman could do with a little bit of gossip to brighten her days. I’ll make her swear not to tell anyone, honest.’

  She ducks as a cushion comes flying at her. ‘Steady on, Lizzie – what would you do if Joe saw you flinging cushions around the place? He’d be shocked – he thinks you’re a real lady.’

  Lizzie giggles, picking up another cushion and hugging it to herself. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am a bit smitten.’ She looks hopefully at Angela. ‘D’you think the feeling is at all mutual?’

  ‘Definitely. I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one sees him.’ Angela gets a glint in her eye. ‘Just what we need to brighten our days – a bit of romance around Merway.’

  ‘Hang on, now; don’t get carried away here.’ Lizzie has visions of Angela taking on the role of matchmaker; how mortifying would that be? ‘There’ll be no fixing anything up, d’you hear me, Angela Byrne?’

  Angela is the picture of innocence. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean. I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort – the very notion. But’ – she turns a mischievous face towards Lizzie – ‘wouldn’t it be only natural for me to have a bit of a do for my fortieth – maybe a little cocktail party in the restaurant on Sunday night? I could invite a few friends around. And, naturally enough, Joe McCarthy would be on the guest list, being a close friend of the birthday girl. And of course there would be nothing wrong with fellow guest Lizzie O’Grady indulging in a bit of . . . mild flirtation with him. And, sure, wouldn’t it be only natural for him to give back as good as he got?’ She laughs at Lizzie’s blushing face. ‘Now what could be wrong with that?’

  ‘You don’t fool me for a second; you’re a schemer to the core.’ Lizzie feels the blood slowly draining from her cheeks. ‘But I have to admit a cocktail party sounds good.’ She points a finger across at Angela. ‘As long as you swear on the future of this restaurant that you’ll have no surprises up your sleeve – like everyone disappearing off into the kitchen and leaving me and Joe alone.’

  Not that I wouldn’t jump at the chance to have Joe to myself; especially if I thought the feeling was mutual – and Angela seems to think it might be . . .

  Angela shakes her head. ‘Oh, no, there’ll be none of that – I have a feeling I won’t have to do a thing to help this romance along.’ Then she stands up. ‘Now, we’ll have to decide on the guest list later – I have cleaning to do, birthday or no birthday. Hand me that apron. Has the post arrived yet?’

  Lizzie stands too. ‘I’ll go and check.’

  There are four envelopes on the mat. One is for Lizzie, in Mammy’s writing. Mammy writes about once a fortnight – Lizzie can hear her talking every time she reads one of her letters.

  . . . There’s a new butcher beside the shopping centre you know, where the dry cleaner’s was but he’s no good. We had some of his chops last night and they were all gristle . . . I met Veronica Dooley in the library today; she was asking for you. I thought she’d put on a lot of weight . . . Jack and Catherine O’Neill are going to Canada in the summer, and they only back a few months from that coach tour of Italy. I don’t know where they get the money . . . I hope you’re keeping warm; it’s very cold still at night, we haven’t taken off any blankets yet . . . Daddy’s leg was at him in bed last night, he had to get up and put on the Deep Heat . . .

  She enjoys Mammy’s letters; sometimes, reading them, she feels a pang of what she thinks might well be homesickness, but then she remembers Tony and O’Gorman’s and the white pudding, and the pang usually disappears pretty fast. She still has to make plans for a trip home, though – she’s let it slide a bit. She can’t go next weekend, with the party on, and the following one is very busy . . . She’ll go in the middle of May, definitely.

  The other three letters are for Angela – Lizzie hopes they’re birthday cards. She takes them into the kitchen; Angela has started washing up.

  ‘One for me, three for you.’ Lizzie puts Angela’s post on the table.

  Angela comes over, peeling off her rubber gloves. ‘Goody.’ She picks the envelopes up and looks at the first one. ‘Mam, the pet – she never forgets.’ She glances at the one underneath. ‘What’s that – some oul’ junk.’ She turns over the third one – a big cream envelope – and looks at it for a few seconds.

  Her back is to Lizzie, who has opened Mammy’s letter and started to read. She giggles. ‘Angela, listen. “The O’Driscolls” – they’re our next-door neighbours – “have got a new cat, who insists on using our garden as his toilet. Daddy’s pansies are starting to go all brown. He’s put down a few of those plastic bottles, although I can’t see for the life of me how they’d work . . . ” It could only happen to Mammy.’

  No response from Angela. Lizzie looks up; Angela’s head is bent forward and something about her back looks wrong. Lizzie goes over to her. ‘Angela, what is it?’ Don’t let her have bad news, not on her birthday.

  Angela turns and looks at Lizzie, her face drained. She holds out a birthday card. ‘It’s from John.’ Her
mouth stretches in what Lizzie presumes is meant to be a smile. ‘My husband has written to wish me a happy birthday. Isn’t that thoughtful of him?’ Tears appear out of nowhere and roll down her face. She puts a hand to her mouth and the tears run over it.

  Lizzie can’t bear to see the pain on her face. She puts her arms around her and holds her. ‘Oh, Angela, you poor thing. Poor you.’ She hates John Byrne, hates the power he has over her friend – with one thoughtless gesture he can squeeze the happiness out of her. Could he possibly have thought she’d like to get a birthday card from him? Or did he do it deliberately to hurt her? Surely not; she remembers his open, pleasant face.

  After a while Angela pulls away and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry, Lizzie.’ She goes to the sink and splashes cold water on her face. ‘Silly to get so upset – the eejit probably thought I’d enjoy it.’ She turns around, dabbing at her face with a towel. ‘He didn’t send me one last year – which killed me at the time – so it was the last thing I expected today.’

  What is the man playing at? Maybe he has qualms of conscience about the break-up. Maybe Deirdre reminded him, the last time they were out together, and he felt duty bound. Lizzie is willing to bet his new lady knew nothing about it.

  She looks at Angela. ‘Bet her cooking isn’t a patch on yours.’

  Angela looks back and sniffs. ‘Bet she can’t boil an egg.’

  Lizzie considers. ‘Bet she likes sweet white wine.’

  A tiny smile appears at the corner of Angela’s mouth. ‘With cheese-and-onion crisps.’

  ‘Bet she burns his shirts when she irons them.’

  ‘Bet she doesn’t own an iron; he has to put his shirts under the mattress at night.’

  ‘Bet she reads magazines that are meant for teenagers, and thinks they’re great.’

  ‘Bet her custard is always lumpy.’

  ‘Bet she loves Jerry Springer.’

  ‘Definitely.’ Angela gathers up her rubber gloves and turns back to the sink. Lizzie picks up Mammy’s letter. ‘Well, you’ve just earned yourself the mother of all birthday cakes for Sunday night – if you still want to go ahead with the party.’