They drink champagne and wine and Guinness – Deirdre hides a glass of champagne from her mother, and Angela pretends not to notice – and Big Maggie, who brought Angela a begonia with giant frilly-edged leaves in a shocking-pink raffia pot, sings ‘My Irish Molly’, slightly off-key. Dominic the artist, who gave Angela a charcoal sketch of The Kitchen, recites ‘If Ever You Go to Dublin Town’ and makes them all join in on the ‘Fol-dol-the-di-do’ bit. Joe tells a totally ridiculous joke about a cross-eyed goose that goes on forever and has them all in stitches. Angela sings ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ very sweetly. Marjorie, a friend of Angela’s from Seapoint, shows them a trick with matchsticks that no one can figure out. Two of Angela’s overnight guests, an engaged couple from Austria, attempt to teach Angela and Dominic a Viennese folk dance. Another guest, a retired landscape gardener from England, talks to Big Maggie about his prize-winning orchids, and promises to drop into Blooming Miracles in the morning for a look around.
Lizzie sits on the floor by the fire, shoes kicked off, arms wrapped around her legs, and watches them all. She thinks how much her life has changed in the past four months. She remembers opening the magazine in the dentist’s waiting room and reading the words of the old woman from Kentucky and feeling that something was falling away from her, and being able to breathe again. She remembers picking up Pete the American in her blue Fiesta, and listening to him play the tin whistle, and wondering about staying in the tumbledown house in Rockford. She remembers walking into The Kitchen that first night and meeting Angela, and later stepping into the tiny caravan and feeling like she’d come home.
She looks across at Joe McCarthy, who’s sitting the wrong way round on a chair, arms draped over the back of it, chatting to Dominic. As she watches him, he turns his head towards her and meets her gaze.
Lizzie looks back steadily, brave with wine and champagne. She sees him turn back to Dominic and say something; then he takes his glass and goes to the drinks table. He picks up a bottle of red wine and holds it up questioningly. She smiles and nods, and he walks over and sits on the floor beside her, long legs stretched out in front of him.
He pours wine into her empty glass. ‘I probably shouldn’t be doing this; you need a clear head for your new job in the morning.’ At the thought of the job, her heart leaps. Joe puts the bottle on the floor and raises his glass. ‘Here’s to our new regime. May you never forget who’s boss.’
‘And may you never forget to pay me,’ Lizzie says, laughing and clinking her glass against his. ‘I hope you know I expect a good pension scheme, too, and holiday pay.’
He snorts. ‘You’ll be lucky. And you’re the tea lady as well as the shop girl, in case I forgot to mention that. Tea at half twelve, when you finish up.’
She raises her eyes to heaven. ‘I suppose I’ll be expected to supply the biscuits to go with the tea.’
He looks at her over his glass. ‘Why do you think I chose you, darling?’
Darling. Her heart is doing back-flips. She has to touch him. Her hand slides brazenly over and finds his on the floor. No one can see; the room is dim, all candles and firelight. ‘I’ll bring goodies on one condition.’
Joe makes no attempt to pull away. ‘Are you trying to bargain with the boss, by any chance?’ His face, warmed by the fire, is very close to hers. She looks steadily into the bluest eyes in Merway.
‘I want free fruit and veg – and you do the washing up.’ What a hussy all that wine has turned her into. Sorry, Mammy.
He leans over, and for a second Lizzie thinks he’s about to kiss her. Then he puts his lips to her ear. ‘It’s a deal.’ His breath against her skin is hot; her ear tingles when he draws away, and she lifts her glass to cover her flaming face.
She feels his eyes on her as she drinks, and she imagines walking into Ripe in the morning and being practically in the same room with him for three hours a day, three days a week.
And she wonders how long it will take.
Chapter Fourteen
Lizzie puts her head round the open door. ‘It’s twelve-thirty, Joe.’
He’s bent over the workbench with something that looks like a chisel in one hand. ‘Good – I’m ready for a break. Let’s hope they leave us alone for ten minutes.’
Us.
He puts down the tool and the piece of wood he’s been working on, and brushes the shavings from his faded grey flannel shirt and jeans. The floor around him is littered with bits of wood. The room smells like a forest. Then he stretches, arching his back and easing out his shoulders with a satisfied grunt.
Lizzie forces herself to look away from him. She’s trying to be professional and not remember how she grabbed his hand the night before. Such a shame the party broke up just after that, when things were getting interesting.
She glances around the room; Joe showed it to her when she arrived at half nine, but she didn’t get a proper look. It’s fairly small, with a door at either end – one leading into the shop, the other into his house. His workbench, and two long presses above it, take up practically one entire wall, leaving just enough space at the other side of the room for a sink, a fridge, a small square table with a few chairs around it, and another press above the sink. Under the workbench are several crates filled with blocks of wood in varying sizes.
She takes the kettle from the top of the fridge and fills it. ‘How’s the work going?’ Under the woody scent of the room she can smell his aftershave.
‘Good. It’s great to get a run at it like this, with no interruptions.’ He’s still loosening his shoulders, arching his back; it must be pretty tough to stay hunched over like that for a few hours.
She plugs the kettle into the socket beside the fridge and goes over to the bench. Taped to the wall above it, just under the long presses, are several sketches of pigs in various poses. A collection of wooden animals – elephants, monkeys, ducks, kangaroos – is scattered along it. She picks up a duck and runs her fingers along its curves. It feels slightly rough.
Joe takes a brush from where it leans against the wall and starts sweeping up the shavings. ‘Watch out for splinters – those ones aren’t sanded yet.’
‘Where did you learn how to do this?’ She’s fascinated by his ability to take a block of wood and turn it into a thing that’s full of charm.
He smiles, empties the shavings into the bin. ‘Picked it up along the way, really. I liked drawing at school, but I always felt I wanted it to be more . . . 3-D, more solid than just a thing on a page. I think it was only a matter of time before I had a knife in one hand and a bit of wood in the other. Then I just . . . learnt as I went along.’
Lizzie is astonished. ‘You mean you were never taught? Never went to woodwork classes or anything?’
He laughs. ‘Woodwork classes in Merway? Hardly. We were happy to have maths classes.’
She puts down the duck and picks up the pig he was working on when she came in; it’s still warm from his hand. The little chubby head is finished, poking out of the rest of the block. ‘He looks like he’s just about to wriggle out. But how do you know what to do? I mean’ – she points at the pictures stuck to the wall – ‘how do you know you have to work from a picture, and not just from your head? And do you draw the pictures from your imagination? And what kind of wood do you use? And where –’
He puts up his hands, amused. ‘Steady on; one at a time – I’m still a bit addled from being bent over that bench for the past three hours.’ He pauses, massaging the back of his neck. ‘What was the first question again? Oh, yes – whether or not to work from a picture. Well, that depends; some things I can manage freehand, others I need help with. I get my images anywhere I can find them – books, magazines; the Internet is a great source – and then I draw something simple based on those. Dominic has a good photo collection that he lets me use. And National Geographic is great for the animals, of course. The fuchsia I did for Angela’s birthday – I found that in a gardening book in the library. The same book I used for the frame you wanted,
actually.’
He picks up an elephant from the workbench and rolls it absently between his fingers. ‘I get my wood from a few different sources – some locals have their own trees, a pal who’s with Coillte gives me some. I mostly work with beech or sycamore, although occasionally I . . .’
Lizzie watches him rolling the little elephant backwards and forwards in his hand. His fingers are long and slender – craftsman’s hands. His grey shirt is rolled up to the elbows, and the hairs grow black and thick on his arms. She looks at the triangle of skin above the opening of his shirt, and sees a few black hairs wandering up from his chest. She wants to slide her fingers in between the closed buttons and feel him catch his breath.
‘. . . and I never really have to go too far to find it.’ Joe drops the elephant. ‘Now, I suppose there’s no chance of a cup of tea?’ The kettle is singing.
‘Not yet.’ She gestures towards the workbench. ‘Why all the animals?’
‘Noah’s ark; almost done.’ He opens one of the presses above the bench and Lizzie sees several more wooden animals, and more toys – trains, cars, puppets, boats, dolls. ‘I’m just about to send off the first batch.’
‘You’ve done an amount of work,’ she says in admiration. ‘It must have been hard, with no help in the shop. It’ll be great for you to get paid for doing what you love – like me baking for Angela.’
Joe smiles. ‘Provided the children of Cork decide they’d prefer wooden trains to PlayStations. We’ll see what happens when this stuff is actually put out for sale.’
‘Ah, go on – I’m sure it’ll walk off the shelves.’ Lizzie puts two cups out on the table and gets a little jug of milk from the fridge. ‘Such a talent – you’re lucky.’
He washes his hands at the sink, then takes two teabags from the box on top of the fridge and puts one in each cup. ‘You’re just as talented in your own way. It’s not everyone who can bake like you.’ He puts a hand on his hip and crooks his other wrist. ‘I just can’t get my scones to rise.’
She laughs, pouring the water into the cups. ‘Ah, it’s not the same, though. Most people could learn how to bake in a couple of months. What you have is special; and the stuff you make will be around for a long time. My baking doesn’t last more than a day or two. Speaking of which –’ She takes a Tupperware box from her bag. ‘Here’s some I made earlier. Hope you like ginger.’ She puts the box on the table and sits down.
‘I certainly do; thanks.’ Joe sits down opposite her, takes a biscuit and dips it into his tea. ‘Well, how did your first day go?’
‘Fine.’ And it did; she had no trouble with the till, thanks to O’Gorman’s. The customers were friendly – she already knew most of them to see. All the prices were written up. If it hadn’t been for Charlie, the morning would have been perfect.
The shop door opened at half eleven, and Lizzie looked up to see him standing in front of her.
‘Hello.’ With an effort, she arranged her face into a smile.
‘Joe here?’ No introductions, no niceties. He sounded like someone from EastEnders.
She cocked her head towards the back. ‘In there.’ If he wasn’t going to waste his breath on conversation, neither was she.
Charlie went out to the back without a word. After a minute or so, Joe came in, went to the cash register and took out some notes. Lizzie pretended to be too busy arranging the apples in a Ferrero Rocher triangle to notice him. The money would probably go straight into Dignam’s till; poor Joe.
Charlie walked out shortly afterwards. He winked at Lizzie – ‘See you’ – and was gone.
She looked after him as he walked down the street. Why on earth was he there? Had he some kind of hold over Joe? Then she shook her head – it was none of her business. And he was family; Joe felt an obligation, that was all. It was a pity he wasn’t more friendly, though.
Walking home from Ripe, Lizzie hopes to God Charlie isn’t planning to stay much longer with Joe. That afternoon she asks Angela about him again.
‘When did he come here?’
‘It was after I stopped the lunches,’ Angela pauses, her knife poised over the chicken pieces on the chopping-board, ‘so it must have been October, or maybe early November. It was a while before Christmas, anyway.’
‘And you don’t know why he suddenly appeared?’
Angela shakes her head and starts to chop again. ‘Couldn’t find out. I did my level best, but Joe wasn’t giving anything away. For all his cod-acting, he’s actually a very private person; when he doesn’t want you to know something, believe me, you don’t. Even Maggie didn’t have a clue, and that’s not like her.’
‘How are Joe and Charlie related again?’
Angela considers. ‘Charlie must be Tom’s son, since he came from London. Tom is Joe’s older brother – he left here when I was still a child and he hasn’t been home for years, not since the parents died. Joe has two sisters, too, but they’re both living in Ireland. I think one is in Cork, and the other . . . Clonmel, maybe?’
She dips the pieces of chicken into a bowl of spices and places them onto the hot pan. Then she says, ‘You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if that Charlie was on the run. I always think he’s got the look of a criminal about him – those shifty eyes of his.’ She shakes the pan, and the chicken leaps and sizzles. The spicy smell starts to drift around the kitchen.
Lizzie laughs, ‘Ah, here, Angela, I think you’re getting a bit carried away there. Just because he’s not full of charm like his uncle, that’s no reason to suspect him of robbing banks.’ She divides her dough in half and reaches for the rolling pin.
For once, Angela doesn’t joke back. She shakes her head and pokes the chicken around the pan with a wooden spoon. ‘I hope I’m wrong, for Joe’s sake, but I wouldn’t be surprised, that’s all.’
And that’s that. For whatever reason, Charlie moved in, bag and baggage, with his uncle.
And just a few months later – a few weeks, really – Lizzie O’Grady arrived in Merway and fell headlong for Uncle Joe.
Well done, God. Great timing.
Chapter Fifteen
‘You’re getting on well at Ripe, are you, Lizzie?’
Lizzie smiles to herself. She figured it was only a matter of time before Maggie would be on the hunt for a bit of gossip.
‘Grand, Maggie. I enjoy the work.’ Not to mention the company.
‘And yourself and Joe get on well together, by the looks of it.’ It’s not a question, but Lizzie is pretty sure she expects an answer.
‘Fine; but I don’t really see that much of him. He spends his time working on his carvings. That’s why he took me on – so he could get away.’ No need to mention that ‘away’ is still near enough for us to share a radio. Or that it’s only taken a few weeks for our tea break to stretch from ten minutes to nearer thirty. And the fact that they never stop talking, once they sit down, is certainly none of Maggie’s business. Sometimes Lizzie is amazed at the amount of conversation that flows back and forth between the two of them. They can talk about anything.
‘. . . You should never eat a banana till the skin is spotty; that’s when they’re perfectly ripe. Most people eat them before they’re ready – and then they wonder why bananas are supposed to be hard to digest. My favourite sandwich is mashed banana and peanut butter . . . What are you laughing at? . . .’
‘. . . The first cake I baked was a disaster – I read the oven temperature wrong, and it came out weighing a ton and hard as a rock. Daddy ate three slices, the creature. I’d say he was up half the night with indigestion . . .’
‘. . . I thought I was going to bleed to death – the chisel nearly took the top off my thumb. I had to wear one of those lovely leather thumb-covers for a month. Lucky I wasn’t my brother – everyone would have called me Tom Thumb. Look, you can just about see the scar . . .’
She just about managed to resist the urge to stroke it.
‘ . . . Jones got into the kitchen once when my mother had left half a salmon on th
e table – we were having visitors that night, and she had just poached it and left it out to cool. He didn’t eat again for almost two days, and every time she laid eyes on him she grabbed the broom . . .’
‘. . . My first pet was a bee. I caught him in a jam jar and called him Buzzer and put him beside my bed when I went to sleep. In the middle of the night I knocked over the jar, and Buzzer flew out and stung me . . .’
‘. . . I’ve always wanted to go to Greece – ever since I saw Shirley Valentine. I had no idea Tom Conti wasn’t Greek; I’d never seen him in anything else. When I spotted him on telly in a car ad years later, I was dead impressed with his Welsh accent . . .’
‘. . . My sister Bridget called me “Doe” when she was small; she couldn’t manage “Joe”. Tom changed it to “Dodo”, and it stuck, until I was about eight. Then I put my foot down . . .’
‘. . . For my confirmation I wore a lime-green suit and a matching straw hat. I looked like an American tourist on the way to the St Patrick’s Day parade. I came across photos, years later, and begged my mother to let me burn them, but she wouldn’t . . .’
‘. . . Extra-cold Guinness is the invention of the devil – never let anyone talk you into it. It kills the taste; Arthur would turn over in his grave if he knew. The only thing worse was that Guinness Light stuff – what the hell were they thinking of? . . .’
‘. . . Angela told some Austrian tourists that she was the great-great-great-granddaughter of Henry VIII. She said he really wanted to be a priest but was refused permission by the pope, so he married all those women to spite him. If you heard half the stories she makes up for the tourists – and they swallow every word, God help us . . .’
No, Maggie definitely doesn’t need to know about the tea breaks. Or the crossword races, or the dimple in Joe’s right cheek when he smiles. Or his habit of stretching his long legs out under the little square table and planting them on either side of Lizzie’s while they have tea. Does he even know he’s doing it? She feels deliciously trapped.
The Daisy Picker Page 12
