The Daisy Picker (14 page)

‘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 of 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.’

Angela looks over at her for a second, then nods firmly. ‘You bet I do – and I’m having lots of little nibbly posh things. And if that birthday cake has more than four candles,
you’ll pay.’

Lizzie smiles and puts a hand on Angela’s arm. ‘I won’t say he’s not worth it, because that’s as useless as saying there are more fish in the sea. I will say that
he must be crazy to have left you for anyone else.’

Angela’s eyes fill up again, and she dabs at them with the towel. ‘Thanks. Of course you’re right.’

‘I’ll come a bit early for today’s shift – I’m putting on a little extra dessert in honour of the day. Can you guess?’

Angela shakes her head. ‘Sorry – not in the mood for guessing.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you, then; it’s sticky toffee pudding. We’ll go on our after-Easter diet tomorrow.’

‘Definitely.’ Her smile is watery. ‘Thanks, Lizzie. See you later.’ As Lizzie goes out, Angela calls after her, ‘Think about who we should ask on Sunday –
apart from the obvious.’

On her way back to the caravan, Lizzie sees Dumbledore under his usual bush, fast asleep. Ten feet away, under a neighbouring bush, Jones sits and watches him. Not spitting or hissing, like he
used to do every time he laid eyes on the poor dog; not even waving his tail. Just watching.

She smiles. ‘Come on, puss.’ And she and Jones walk towards the caravan.