The Daisy Picker (24 page)

‘Sure, that’d be great; thanks. See you in a bit.’ He disappears into the crowd at the counter, and Lizzie goes to claim the stools.

Imagine bumping into Pete again out of the blue – just when she could use a bit of diversion, to get her mind off Joe.

It’s one thing to accept that there’s nothing between them, and quite another to get Joe out of her head. She finds him drifting around there every now and again; in the middle of
kneading dough or icing a cake or rolling out pastry, she’ll remember something he said that made her laugh, or how that blue shirt he wears is so exactly the colour of his eyes. Walking
along the beach in the rain, she sees him bent over a piece of wood. Scooping out cat food for Jones, she remembers how good he smells: cotton and spice.

She shakes her head crossly; there he is again.
Enough; get out of my head, Joe McCarthy
. Thankfully, she hasn’t come face to face with him since she’s been back; a few
times she spotted him in the distance, and once she passed him in the car. She hasn’t been into Ripe, either – stupidly, she still can’t bring herself to go in.

‘What are you shaking your head at?’ Angela plonks two gins and a bottle of tonic on the table.

Lizzie picks up the tonic and divides it between the two glasses. ‘Nothing. Hey, you’ll never guess who’s joining us in a minute.’

Angela scans the pub. ‘No one springs to mind. I give up.’

‘Pete.’ Angela looks blank. ‘Remember the American I gave a lift to when I was coming here in January? I told you about him – smoking pot; and the house I brought him to,
that was practically falling down.’

Angela grins, delighted. ‘Oh yeah – he’s here? I bags him.’

‘You’re such a hussy,’ Lizzie laughs. ‘He’s just getting a drink; then he’ll come over. He’s working in Seapoint, would you believe.’ She looks
over at the bar and waves. ‘Here he is.’

Angela watches Pete manoeuvre around the tables towards them, stool in one hand, pint in the other. ‘Yes, I definitely bags him.’

‘Stop that,’ Lizzie shushes her as he arrives, drops the stool and puts the pint on the table. ‘Pete, this is my friend Angela.’

He wipes his hand on his jeans before shaking Angela’s. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey yourself. Welcome to Merway. Lizzie tells me you’re staying in Seapoint.’

‘Yeah – doin’ some work for a farmer there, Donal Harris.’

Angela considers. ‘Harris . . . mm, I think I know where that farm is – a mile or two this side of Seapoint, in off the coast road a bit?’

‘That’s the one,’ Pete says. ‘You from round here, then?’

‘Born and bred.’ She smiles at him. ‘I’d say you’re from a bit further away yourself.’

‘Yeah.’ His face doesn’t change. ‘I come from Tipperary.’

Angela is well able for him; she nods, unsurprised. ‘You’d always know the Tipp accent, wouldn’t you, Lizzie?’ Pete grins at her over his pint.

Over the next half-hour they discover that Pete has been living in the general vicinity of Merway for over a month now; before he started with Donal Harris, he was with a builder about twenty
miles away. His potter friends are still living in Rockford – he hasn’t seen them in a while.

He admires Lizzie’s hair – she forgot it was different when she met him first – and he’s very impressed to hear that she’s living in a caravan now. ‘Cool,
you’re a gypsy.’ He asks if Angela serves pizza in the restaurant, and she tells him it’s much more upmarket than that. He gives her a pitying look. ‘Guess you can’t
manage the base, right?’ She laughs, and Lizzie thinks:
She’s met her match
.

He asks about Jones, and Lizzie says, ‘It took him a while, but he’s settling in fine now.’ They tell him about Lizzie’s new baking career.

‘Actually’ – Angela lifts her almost-empty drink – ‘we’re celebrating tonight. We’ve just become business partners; Lizzie’s decided to invest in
the restaurant.’ No mention of John, of course.

‘Hey.’ Pete turns to Lizzie, raising his eyebrows. ‘No kiddin’? That’s great.’ He clinks his glass against theirs, drains it and stands up. ‘Let me buy
you ladies a drink to congratulate you.’

‘No way,’ Lizzie says. ‘It’s my turn; I insist.’ She gathers up the glasses and turns towards the bar, weaving around the tables, smiling at people she knows.

Dominic is at the counter, with a newspaper open in front of him. She peers over his shoulder; he’s doing the crossword, and he’s filled in about a quarter of it.

‘You look like you need some help.’

He turns and smiles at her over his glasses; she’s seen him a few times in the restaurant since she got back. ‘Lizzie, hello there – are you any good at them?’

‘Not bad; let’s see, now.’ She puts the glasses on the counter and starts to read the clues.

‘Don’t mind her, Dominic – she’s no good. She’ll put you all wrong.’

Lizzie turns and there he is, peeling off a raincoat, looking just as good as she remembered. No, better – he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, and she’s always been a sucker
for a bit of stubble.

She wills her heart to slow down. ‘Hi, Joe.’

He smiles the smile that she thought she’d got over. ‘How are you, Lizzie?’

‘I’m doing OK. It’s good to be back.’
Not to mention seeing you again
.

She looks into the bluest eyes in Merway. He’s wearing her second-favourite shirt – the khaki – and dark-blue jeans she hasn’t seen before. His hair is shorter than she
remembered it; he must be just after a cut. She can smell his scent. How in God’s name is she supposed to get over a man who smells as good as that?

She turns back to Dominic; normal conversation is called for. ‘You must be getting ready for the big American adventure.’ He’s due to leave in a few weeks, for at least two
months.

He nods, folding up his paper. ‘I’m just about getting around to it now; I’m giving Joe a few instructions – he’s going to be on duty while I’m away.’
He catches the barman’s eye and holds up his glass. ‘You’ll have a pint, Joe – and Lizzie?’

‘No, thanks, Dominic; I’m with a few over there.’ She gestures towards the back; they both look over, and Angela spots them and waves.
Have they seen Pete beside her? Of
course they have – good
.

Once Lizzie has ordered, she decides she may as well tell them the news, now that it’s official. ‘Actually, we’re celebrating. Angela and I are going into partnership in the
restaurant.’ It sounds good; she hopes she gets lots of chances to say it.

‘Lizzie, my dear, that’s wonderful,’ Dominic exclaims, beaming. ‘All the very best to you both.’

The drinks he ordered arrive, and he turns around to pay for them. Lizzie makes herself look over at Joe again, and waits for him to speak.

‘So you’re here to stay, then.’ His expression is hard to read – not that it matters, of course; she didn’t come back for him. Still, it would be nice to feel that
he was pleased at the prospect of her living here long-term.

Then he smiles slowly. ‘Good. I’ve got used to you around the place.’ The dimple is still there; the smile still has the power to play havoc with her heart rate.

And then her drinks are there, and she has to pay for them and gather them up; by the time she turns and tells Joe and Dominic that she’ll see them around, she’s nearly calm and
composed again.

When she gets back to the table, Pete is standing. ‘Time to tune up.’ He’s still calling it ‘toon’. The musicians are getting ready. Lizzie hands him his pint and
watches him stride over to them, pulling his tin whistle out of his back pocket.

Yes, I badly need a diversion
.

She looks across at Angela. ‘Well?’

Angela looks blankly back. ‘Well what?’

‘Angela Byrne, do I have to torture it out of you?’ Lizzie demands in exasperation. ‘What do you think of Pete?’

‘He’s lovely.’ Angela looks over at him, settling down beside Johnny Morris. ‘Gorgeous, funny, just younger enough to be interesting . . .’ She looks back at
Lizzie. ‘And I have no intention of getting romantically involved with another man for at least ten years.’

Lizzie shakes her head, laughing. ‘Not for you, silly – for me. Don’t you think it’s high time I had a fling? Haven’t you been telling me that since I arrived in
Merway?’

Angela considers for a minute, smiling faintly. Then the music starts and she leans closer to Lizzie.

‘Did young Joe McCarthy have anything interesting to say for himself?’

Lizzie shakes her head, glad that the music prevents too much chat. She knows exactly what Angela is getting at.

She taps her foot in time to the music and watches Pete as he plays the tin whistle. His hair is slightly longer than it was in January, just tipping his shoulders. He’s got a bit of a
beard now, too – it suits him. His fingers fly over the holes in the tin whistle, his head bobs up and down in time to the lively air they’re playing. Great cheekbones, clear tanned
skin. His legs are crossed; one sandaled foot taps in rhythm.

He looks up and winks at her. Lizzie lifts her glass and grins back, and tries not to wonder whether anyone at the bar noticed the wink.

Not that it would matter, of course. Not at all.

At the end of the night they bring Pete and Denis – a quiet, middle-aged musician from Seapoint who promised Pete a lift home – back to The Kitchen for toasted
cheese sandwiches and tea. Pete plays a few more tunes on the tin whistle, and Denis sings ‘Blackbird’ in a surprisingly strong voice, before Angela hunts the two men out the door
– ‘My partner and I have a business to run in the morning.’

When she comes in from seeing them off, Lizzie is washing up.

‘Pete’s coming back for dinner next Wednesday night,’ Angela says. ‘With any luck it’ll be fairly quiet inside, and I’ll bribe Dee to go on duty –
I’m sure she won’t mind.’

Deirdre has had a lot more time off since the partnership arrangement kicked in; after dinner, she often disappears until quite late. Angela doesn’t seem too bothered –
‘She’s with some pal or other, she’s fine.’ It’s great, the trust she has in her daughter.

‘That’s nice.’ Lizzie’s head is beginning to throb faintly; one too many gin and tonics.

‘Look at her, pretending not to care, when I’m doing my level best to matchmake.’ Angela picks up a tea towel.

‘Are you now?’ Lizzie takes a cup out of the soapy water and puts it on the draining board.

‘Ah, not really; but . . .’

When Angela says nothing else, Lizzie turns around. ‘But what?’ But she knows what.

Angela picks up a plate and starts to dry it. ‘Lizzie, what about Joe?’ she says gently, no laughing now.

Damn
– even his name makes her heart skip a beat, blast it. She feels around in the soapy water and fishes out two teaspoons. Then she empties the basin and wipes her hands on a
towel.

‘I’m still mad about him, of course.’ She can’t lie to Angela. Her mouth feels dry, even after the two cups of tea she’s just had.

Angela says nothing, just goes on drying.

‘But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t feel the same.’ The throbbing is getting stronger. Lizzie rubs her temples. ‘He told me Charlie offered to work in the shop, but
he’s hardly ever there.’

‘Lizzie, that doesn’t prove anything –’

‘He’s never there, Angela. Joe said I had to go because he had to give Charlie a job – and Charlie is never there.’ She stops. ‘Sorry, my head is splitting –
have you any pills?’

‘Here.’ Angela fishes around in a drawer, finds a packet of Panadol and hands two of them to Lizzie.

‘Thanks.’ Lizzie fills a glass with water and swallows them.

Angela watches her. ‘I wish I knew what was going on in that man’s head, and I think you might have it all wrong, but . . . I just don’t know, Lizzie. Joe McCarthy has never
been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so it’s hard to figure out . . . Mind you, I
do
know that he hasn’t been himself these last few weeks, whatever’s wrong.
He’s distracted, he’s – I don’t know . . .’

‘The thing is,’ Lizzie says, putting the glass into the sink, ‘I’ve had my fill of hoping and waiting. I did enough of that with Tony.’ She forces a tiny smile.
‘I think I’ll just move on, like you’re doing.’

Then she glances up at the clock on the wall. ‘And since you’re on breakfasts, you’d better high-tail it to bed.’

Angela groans. ‘Four and a half hours from now, God help me.’

‘Just think of your lie-in on Tuesday.’ They’ve decided to split the breakfasts between them, taking turns, as part of the new arrangement.

‘Night, then,’ Angela says, heading for the hall door. ‘I hope you enjoyed your birthday.’

‘I sure did – it was a great night. Thanks, Angela.’

She’s just about to open the back door when Angela says, ‘Oh, by the way –’

Lizzie turns.

‘I’ve left your birthday present in the door of the caravan. Night.’

‘What – ?’ But she’s gone.

Lizzie walks down the gravel path, breathing in the night air, and stops at the caravan door. There’s nothing there.
Angela said she left it on the door,
didn’t she?
What’s she on about?

She shrugs; no doubt she’ll find out in the morning. She falls asleep a second or two before her head hits the pillow.