The Daisy Picker (25 page)

‘Now, tell me all about it.’ Mammy crosses one slippered foot over the other and looks expectantly at Lizzie, who’s just settled herself into the sofa.
Daddy’s chair is still on the other side of the fireplace; every time Lizzie looks at it she feels a stab of sorrow. She doubts that she or Mammy will ever sit in it. Maybe the odd visitor
will.

On the face of it, Mammy seems to be coping well with life on her own. She’s quieter, more inclined to tears than before, but generally she’s managing fairly well – keeping the
house as clean as ever, cooking the dinner in the evening the way Lizzie remembers it and meeting a few friends in town like she always has.

She doesn’t bake her brown bread any more; Lizzie will supply it now. She brought two loaves with her from Merway and put one and a half in the freezer when she arrived. With only Mammy to
eat it, it should last till her next visit. She used Mammy’s recipe, amused at the amount of bran that it calls for; no wonder she was always so regular, with the bread and the Bran
Flakes.

She wishes she could be sure that Mammy is doing as well as she makes out. Rose is going to come up from Cork for a few days every two or three weeks, and she’ll be home often herself, but
still . . .

She imagines Mammy sitting alone in front of the fire every evening, in her slippers, with her crossword book and her marshmallows, turning on the telly to watch the programmes that Daddy always
watched with her. Does she look at the gardening programme that Daddy never missed? Does she light the fire when she’s on her own? Does she bother cooking dinner for herself?

Lizzie wonders, not for the first time, why God has to work in such mysterious ways. What’s wrong with a bit of transparency, for crying out loud? Why can’t they be able to say,
‘Oh, I know what He’s going to do now,’ and be right? She assumes it’ll all be made clear when they meet, and she looks forward to a bloody good explanation.

She looks across at Mammy, sitting with her crossword book closed on her lap and waiting to hear all about Lizzie’s new business arrangement.

‘Mammy, it’s the best thing I ever did,’ she says. ‘I really feel I’m where I should be, you know?’

And she realises with a jolt that it’s probably the first time that what Mammy wants to hear, and what she wants to tell her, are the same.

She talks about the rota they’ve worked out for the breakfasts, and the new specials board for the evening meals, and the painting job they’re planning for the outside. She tells her
about Angela’s idea of occasional live music in the evenings. ‘We’re going to look at a second-hand piano next week, and Angela knows someone who plays the cello; wouldn’t
that be lovely? And we get on so well; there’s never a problem about the work, or who does what. Angela’s baking is definitely improving, and she’s taught me so much, too . .
.’ She trails off – is she going over the top a bit, gushing about her wonderful new circumstances, while Mammy is still trying to cope with the huge change in her life?

But Mammy nods, pleased. ‘That’s great, love – it’s so much better than trying to start a business yourself from scratch.’

She takes a marshmallow and chews it slowly. Lizzie opens the magazine on her lap and glances down at it.

After a minute, Mammy says, ‘Lizzie, there’s something I have to tell you, before you hear it in town tomorrow.’

Lizzie looks up.

Mammy fiddles with her Biro. ‘It’s Tony O’Gorman. Remember I told you he started seeing Pauline Twomey after the two of you . . . well, after you –’

After I dumped him
. ‘Yes?’

Mammy presses the top of the Biro up and down, up and down. ‘Julia told me yesterday that they’ve got engaged.’

‘Engaged?’ Lizzie says blankly. ‘But they’ve only been going out for a few months.’

It took him six years to decide he wanted to marry me. Mind you, they’ll probably take forever to walk down the aisle
.

‘And Lizzie, love, they’re getting married at Christmas.’

‘Christmas?’
Three months away. Nine months from first date to altar; a slight improvement on seventeen years.

Maybe Pauline is pregnant.

Mammy is looking at her as if she’s an invalid. ‘It’s for the best, love; you know ye weren’t suited.’

Is she really worried that I’m upset? Can she actually imagine that this news would come as a disappointment?
Lizzie thinks of Tony – his V-neck jumpers with the crocodiles
or alligators or whatever on them, his golf, his bags of Liquorice Allsorts that gave him a black tongue, his drip-dry shirts.

Then she thinks of Joe, and the grass growing out of the Ripe sign and the silly jokes over tea that had her in stitches and the spicy scent of him that drives her mad, and the way he wrapped
her up in the church and held on to her.
‘Sorry, Lizzie.’ For what, for what? What were you sorry for?

She makes a big effort and smiles brightly. ‘That’s great news, Mammy; I’m happy for them. Julia must be delighted.’ And Mammy’s face relaxes as she reaches for
another marshmallow.

For a second Lizzie considers telling her about Joe – but what would she say?
There’s a man in Merway that I’m mad about, but I don’t think he feels the same way, and
now I’m trying hard to forget about him, when all I want is for him to love me back half as much as I love him . . .

Hardly; Mammy isn’t quite ready for that yet.

And she can’t tell her about Pete, either – Mammy would have them married off before you could say, ‘But he’s a jobbing American who probably doesn’t intend to
settle down for another twenty years.’ No, she’d better not bring up the subject of Pete.

Even if she’s secretly decided that he’s really very cute. Very, very cute indeed.

And funny. The night he came to dinner at The Kitchen, Lizzie nearly choked on her wine at least three times. Pete and Angela were the perfect double act; they seemed to spark each other
off.

‘Hey, I really like this room – got a good karma here,’ he said, walking around the kitchen, taking it all in.

Angela gave him her most innocent look. ‘Karma? Is that something you put petrol into?’

Pete was well able for her. ‘No, honey,’ he said, deadpan, ‘karmas run on diesel – in the States, anyhow.’

Angela turned to Lizzie, frowning. ‘Didn’t Johnny Morris have an old yellow karma that took petrol?’

Over the leek-and-ham pie Angela asked Pete how he’d got there. Of course she meant how he had got to Merway that evening, and of course he knew that; but he pretended to consider, a
forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. ‘Well, it all started when my mom fell in love with my dad . . .’ Angela’s fork clattered onto her plate.

He raved about the food, especially the gooseberry crumble flan. ‘Hey, I haven’t had stuff this good since my mom’s home cookin’ back in the States.’

‘Don’t tell me – pecan pie? Blueberry muffins? Hash browns?’ Angela’s American accent was atrocious.

He gave her a withering look. ‘My mom makes a mean pizza base, lady. I must ask her to write you with the recipe.’

He wore a dark-green T-shirt under a green-and-beige checked flannel shirt, and a slightly less faded pair of jeans – probably his good ones. On his feet were the boots he should have been
wearing in January. There was a nice lemony smell from him – shampoo? aftershave? Not that he shaved too often, by the look of him. His eyes were greenish-brown – was that what hazel
was? Lizzie hadn’t really noticed them before.

Pete caught her studying him and smiled that lazy smile of his. ‘Do I pass?’

She blushed and grinned – ‘Sorry’ – feeling about seventeen, especially with Angela smirking over at her. She ducked her face into her glass and drank. He’d brought
a bottle of Australian wine, darkly woody.

The first time Deirdre put her head round the door – she was waitressing for the night – Angela introduced them.

‘Dee, this is Pete, a strange American gentleman that Lizzie picked up somewhere. Say hello and then leave quickly, for your own safety.’

Deirdre smiled shyly at Pete. ‘Hi. Take no notice of my mother.’ She filled a carafe with water, then took a bread-basket and cut a few slices from the loaves on the table.
‘Mam, one lasagne, one pie, and one red and one white wine.’

‘Hi, there.’ Pete looked at Deirdre in surprise, then back at Angela. ‘I’d no idea you had kids.’

‘Just the one – and if you think I don’t look old enough, you’re dead right; I was a child bride. And anyway, Dee is only ten.’

Deirdre just grinned and raised her eyes to heaven. When she left the room Angela told Pete, very matter-of-factly, that she and Deirdre’s father had split up. Pete didn’t comment,
just nodded.

They managed to have an almost uninterrupted meal – there were only a few customers after Pete arrived, and Angela and Lizzie took it in turns to dish up the meals that Deirdre collected
and brought out.

‘When do
you
get to eat?’ Pete asked her at one stage.

‘Oh, I don’t eat – Mother doesn’t allow it.’ Deirdre looked back at him with Angela’s innocent expression; it was the first time Lizzie had seen a
resemblance. ‘Although if there are any leftovers she might let me finish them in the morning, depending on her mood.’ She made a face. ‘They’re not that nice cold, though
– she doesn’t allow me to heat them up.’

Pete grinned and leant back in his chair. ‘Looks like you’re raisin’ your very own wise guy there, Angela.’

‘Why, thank you, Pete,’ said Angela modestly. ‘I do my best.’ She watched fondly as Deirdre disappeared out the door. ‘And, in case you’re wondering, she had
her usual hearty dinner before any of us.’

Pete told them he’d be working with Donal Harris for another few weeks.

‘What do you do there?’ Angela forked up a piece of flan and held out her glass for Lizzie to refill.

He shrugged. ‘Whatever needs doin’: fix a fence, milk the cows, take a trip to the mart, bring in the hay, go to the bog for peat – I mean turf . . .’ He put on an Irish
accent on ‘turf’.

‘Were you farming in the States?’ Angela asked.

He nodded. ‘Some of my family have farms, so I was brought up in that environment. Farming ain’t that much different over here.’

‘And when you finish up with Donal?’

He shrugged again. ‘Who knows?’

Lizzie loved the way he was so easygoing; living like that must be almost stress-free. Although she wondered if she could handle the not-knowing-where-you-were-going-to-sleep-next bit.

The last of the customers left by ten-thirty, so they helped Deirdre to clear the tables and load the dishwasher. Pete insisted on lending a hand. ‘Hey, we call this bussin’ at home;
I bussed at the local steakhouse all through high school.’

‘By any chance, Pete,’ Angela asked him over a pile of plates, ‘is there anything you haven’t done?’

He narrowed his eyes and pretended to think. ‘Brain surgery, I guess – and I ain’t been to the moon yet.’

Angela looked at Lizzie. ‘He might come in handy around here. What d’you think?’

‘He might.’ Lizzie wasn’t sure how serious Angela was.

Pete looked from one to the other. ‘Guess you’ll let me know if you need me, then.’

Angela said nothing, just winked at Lizzie.

They walked out to the front with him when he was leaving. Lizzie looked up and down the road. ‘Where did you leave the car?’ She assumed he’d borrowed one from Donal
Harris.

‘Car? I ain’t got a car; you know that, Lizzie.’

Lizzie stared at him. ‘You didn’t get a loan of one?’

He shook his head and stuck out his thumb. ‘I used my regular mode of transport to get here.’

They both looked at him in bewilderment. Then Angela said, ‘But how are you going to get home?’ They couldn’t drive him – they’d both been drinking wine all
night.

Pete was amused at her incredulous face. ‘I’ll walk, hon. Can’t be more than five or six miles to Harris’s, right?’

Angela shrugged. ‘Well – yes, I suppose so. In broad daylight it’d be a nice walk, but – now? Nearly midnight?’

He grinned at them. ‘What’s the matter with you Irish guys? Can’t take a little stroll at night?’ He looked up. ‘Clear and starry – perfect walkin’
weather; I’ll be home in a little over an hour.’

‘Pete, you can’t –’

‘Stay in the spare room –’

He laughed. ‘You guys – I’m fine, honest. I love walkin’, specially at night, close to the ocean. It ain’t a problem for me, honest.’

And Lizzie imagined walking along a peaceful country road in the silvery light, hearing the sea across the field, breathing in deep the salty smell, feeling the stars so close, all around you.
It would be a little spooky on your own, though; she wouldn’t fancy hearing a rustle in the silvery bushes. But if she was with someone . . .

Pete’s voice drifted back as they watched him stride off down the street. ‘Sweet dreams, ladies; thanks for a really cool evening.’

When he was out of sight, Lizzie said, ‘Think we’ll see him again?’ They hadn’t made any arrangement, apart from a casual ‘drop in any time’ suggestion.

‘Definitely.’ Angela stood looking down the street for another few seconds. ‘Next time he feels like a good feed.’

As they walked back towards the restaurant, something nudged at Lizzie’s memory. She stopped outside the kitchen door.

‘Angela, you said something the other night – the night of my birthday. I’m only after thinking of it now.’

‘What was that?’

‘You said my real birthday present was on the door of the caravan – but when I went down there was nothing there.’

Angela clapped a hand to her mouth, then linked Lizzie’s arm and began to walk her down the gravel path to the caravan. ‘God, sorry, Lizzie; I’d forgotten all about that. Come
with me and all will be revealed.’

They reached the caravan door. Lizzie looked at it, then at Angela. ‘See? Nothing.’

‘I didn’t say
on
the door, I said
in
it.’ Angela reached over and pulled the little key out of the door. She handed it to Lizzie. ‘Happy birthday;
it’s yours.’

Lizzie looked down at the rusty little key in her palm. It took a few seconds. Then she looked slowly back up at Angela.