The Daisy Picker (30 page)

‘Oh, God.’ Lizzie thinks of Deirdre, sitting there waiting for him; watching the time go by, becoming more and more anxious, telling herself that he’ll be back . . . and slowly
realising that he’s gone. ‘The poor thing.’

Angela nods. ‘He left her penniless in a strange city – in a foreign country. Thank God she had enough sense to go to the police.’

‘How did they meet?’ Lizzie thinks again of the scene outside the chip shop, and wonders guiltily if she should have mentioned it at the time; could all this have been avoided?

‘She was at a bus stop in Seapoint, and he drove up in Joe’s car and offered her a lift – she knew him to see, knew he was staying with Joe, so she got in. Can you imagine him
holding any kind of conversation, that moron?’ Angela’s face twists again. ‘She says she wanted to tell me about him, but he insisted she shouldn’t. Of course he did. He
knew fine well I’d have put a stop to it.’

She takes a gulp of wine. ‘He was taking money from her, Lizzie, telling her he was putting it away for them. She had over a thousand euros saved from what I gave her for working here;
it’s practically all gone. He even made her take out that two hundred pounds in Birmingham – told her that the money she’d given him was in a bank account in London, that they
couldn’t touch it till they got there. Not that I care about the money – but if I had him . . .’

She pours more wine for them both, then looks over at Lizzie. ‘Did you know he was Joe’s son?’

Lizzie knew she’d ask at some stage. ‘He told me, the night of the barbecue – but I didn’t feel it was my place to repeat it.’

After a minute, Angela says, ‘I suppose it wouldn’t have made any difference . . . we’d still have had no idea that they even knew each other . . .’ She looks up at
Lizzie again. ‘I saw Joe following you down to the beach – I wondered what that was all about.’

Lizzie shrugs. The memory of that night is too raw – she can see herself flinging back his jacket, telling him to leave her alone . . . She looks down into her glass. ‘I’d
rather not go into it – we had a bit of a falling-out.’

‘Oh, Lizzie; I thought you were down in the dumps lately.’

They’re both quiet for a while. Then Angela says, ‘I said some terrible things to him last night. D’you think he’ll ever forgive me?’

‘Of course he will. You were out of your mind with worry; anyone could see that. He knew you didn’t mean a word of it.’

Angela still looks worried. ‘I hope you’re right . . . It’s just that I went down to the shop earlier, to apologise to him, and it was closed.’

Lizzie looks up quickly. ‘Was it?’

Angela nods. ‘I suppose he needed to take a bit of time out . . . I’ll go down again tomorrow.’

She pauses, then starts to speak again, more quickly. ‘Lizzie, I’d like to take Dee away for a break somewhere – maybe up around Connemara; she loves it there. I think she
needs to go someplace where no one knows her for a while. D’you think you and Trish Daly could manage the restaurant for a few days? You could close the B&B till we got back, and
you’d only have the evening meals to do.’

‘Of course – that’s no problem. When were you thinking of going?’

Angela considers. ‘Tomorrow’s Tuesday . . . If I got myself sorted, we could go on Wednesday maybe, till the weekend.’ She twirls the stem of her glass. ‘Pete might be
good to have on standby, if you need extra help; I’ll call around to him at some stage tomorrow and ask him, if you like.’

As she says his name, a slight blush creeps into her cheeks. Lizzie decides to ignore it – they’ve had more than enough intrigue and drama for one day. Besides, she’s not
altogether sure she’s comfortable with the notion of Pete and Angela disappearing off into the sunset. What about
her
?

When Angela eventually leaves, Lizzie changes into her pyjamas and goes back to bed, because it’s what you do when night comes. After an hour of counting sheep, she reaches up and cranks
the window open an inch; maybe the sound of the sea will soothe her. The cold, salty air drifts in – at least it’s stopped raining – and she pulls the duvet up around her ears. At
her feet, Jones gives a soft mew. She can just make out the faint rattle of the water on the pebbles. She breathes in deeply, letting her thoughts drift.

I suppose we’ll be open for business again tomorrow evening – just as if nothing has happened. I’ll head into Seapoint to do the shopping in the morning . . . I’ll
need to get together with Trish, too; I could call to her on my way home . . . Wonder what Pete thinks of us all now, after the high drama – probably wishes he was back in the States . . . I
hope Mammy remembers to bring back those library books – she’s been getting very absent-minded lately. I’d be happier if she had an electric cooker; that gas could be dangerous .
. .

And, inevitably, her thoughts veer towards Joe.
It was good of him not to say that I was the one who’d seen Charlie and Deirdre together . . . considerate, even in the middle of that
mess . . . Wonder how he’s feeling now . . . I wish I hadn’t shouted at him . . .

When she closes her eyes, she sees Angela draping an arm around his shoulders in Doherty’s one night and saying, ‘Lizzie, did you ever see such a hunk in your life?’ and Joe
grinning up at her and threatening to have her arrested for harassment. She thinks of the little wooden fuchsia on a silver chain that he gave Angela for her birthday, and how she threw her arms
around him and kissed his cheek. She sees him in the back room of the shop, head bent over a piece of wood, sensing her there and looking up and smiling at her.

She remembers his face last night as he stood and listened to Angela pouring all her fear out on him. And today the shop was closed.

Eventually, towards dawn, sleep returns.

Two days later, Angela and Deirdre head off in Angela’s old Opel. Deirdre is pale and subdued, avoiding Lizzie’s eye as she walks out to the car with her canvas
bag. Lizzie pretends not to see her – Deirdre spent most of the previous day in her room, obviously not wanting to meet anyone.

Angela appears in the doorway with two much bigger bags. ‘Give us a hand, Lizzie.’

The weight of one bag takes Lizzie by surprise. ‘Hey, I thought you were only going for a few days – this feels like you’ve packed for six months.’

Angela winks at her. ‘Well, we thought if we liked the look of the place we just might stay there altogether – didn’t we, love?’

Deirdre smiles faintly, still not looking at Lizzie. They load the bags into the boot, and Angela gets into the car and rolls down the window.

‘Now, you’ve everything you need, haven’t you?’ Lizzie nods. ‘Remember to say it to Trish about using the lettuce in the fridge first – she’s a terror
for not checking what’s there. And you have my mobile number – and Nuala and Ríodhna will be around in the –’

Lizzie flaps a hand at her. ‘Look, would you ever get going? I’m tired of reminding you that I’m a full partner now, and any disasters will affect me just as much as you. To
tell the truth, it’ll be great to have the place to myself – I’m planning all sorts of changes.’ She bends down and grins in the window, conscious of Deirdre staring
straight ahead in the passenger seat. ‘I always thought you could fit a few more tables in the restaurant – and a bit of Indian food would be nice for the next few nights.’

Angela gives Lizzie a dangerous look. ‘You move one thing in that restaurant, change one ingredient of my menu –’

But Deirdre ignores them; she’s not interested in being humoured. Lizzie gives up – it’s probably too soon for her to laugh at anything – and moves away from the car.
‘OK, OK, I’ll do as I’m told. Have a lovely time, and give me a ring when you get a chance, to let me know how ye’re getting on.’

She waves them off and walks around to the back of the restaurant. She’s quite excited about being in charge for the first time – and Trish is well used to how things are run. They
shouldn’t have any problems.

She wonders briefly if she should have mentioned to Angela that Pete is coming around tonight. But Angela herself suggested that Lizzie use him as a backup; and that’s all she’s
doing, really. Trish will go home around nine, and Lizzie and Pete will finish up, and then sit down and have dinner. And maybe some wine. She’s not trying to seduce him, for God’s
sake. She’s just decided that she needs a bit of distraction.

Especially as Ripe is still closed – or it was when Angela called around yesterday afternoon.

‘Maybe he’s gone to England – you know, to be with . . .’ Angela couldn’t bring herself to say Charlie’s name.

Lizzie nodded, and tried to shove away the feeling of dread. Is Joe gone for good? Has he decided to leave the place where his son has done such damage, and make a start somewhere else? For the
rest of the day she can’t get him out of her head.

So she needs some distraction. She heads into the kitchen to get organised for the day.

Pete arrives in the evening; when everyone has gone home, he and Lizzie have a late dinner and drink a bottle of wine and talk for a long time. And when they finish talking, Pete hugs her
tightly and kisses her cheek and goes back to Dominic’s house, and Lizzie heads down to the caravan and goes to bed.

Early the next morning, before any shops in Merway are open, there’s a knock at her door.

He looks terrible; pale and unshaven and desolate.

She leans against the door-frame and looks at him.

It’s as if someone has lifted a veil, or rubbed away a patch on a misty mirror. Lizzie looks at him standing there on the caravan steps and knows, as clearly as she knows
her own name, that she will love him till the day she dies. Whatever he does.

‘Come in.’ She steps back to let him through.

Joe steps past her into the caravan, shrugs off his jacket and slumps into the nearest seat. He rests his elbows on the table and rubs a hand over his chin; she hears the rasp of his stubble.
The skin under his eyes looks blue-white.

She pulls the cord tighter around her dressing-gown and puts the kettle on, then takes out cups and sugar and milk and spoons. He doesn’t say a word, just watches her with weary eyes. When
the tea is made, she puts the pot on the table and sits opposite him.

‘Lizzie, I have to talk to you.’

Lizzie says nothing, just holds on to the empty cup in front of her and wonders if she’d manage to pour tea without spilling it.

‘I just got back from England.’

When he says nothing more, she finds her voice. ‘What happened?’ She’s surprised at how normal she sounds.

He plants his hands on the table and looks at them. ‘He’s being remanded in custody; they wouldn’t agree to bail. And he may be extradited; no one’s sure yet.’

He looks back up at her. ‘Lizzie, he was responsible for the break-ins here – the cinema and the newsagent’s; they identified his fingerprints . . . Not only did he take what
he could from me, he stole from my friends – and then Dee . . .’

Lizzie reaches over and pours his tea. Then she puts down the pot and covers one of his hands with hers.

As soon as her hand touches his, he slowly laces his fingers through hers and pulls her hand to his chest. It’s as if he needs something to hold on to. She feels the heat of him through
his shirt, feels his heart thumping.

‘Lizzie . . .’ He presses her hand against his chest. Her name, when he murmurs it, sounds different. He lifts his eyes again and looks at her. Such intensely blue eyes. She waits,
afraid to speak.

He takes a deep breath. ‘Lizzie, I know I’ve messed up . . .’ He holds tightly to her hand. ‘I’ve been a total idiot.’ The ghost of a smile flashes over his
face.

Her eyes travel from his face to her hand, trapped under his, pressed into him. ‘You have.’ If her heart goes any faster it’ll take off.

Joe nods, still looking at her. Then he takes her hand away from his chest and cradles it between both of his on the table. ‘You know I’m mad about you, don’t you?’

Lizzie can’t talk; all she can do is look dumbly at him and pray that she doesn’t break into hysterical laughter. His palms are warm; her hand is on fire. Joe’s eyes never
leave her face as he talks. ‘When you worked in the shop, you were like . . . a breath of fresh air coming in in the mornings. I forgot to worry about him while you were around . . .’
One of his thumbs strokes the inside of her wrist softly, back and forth, back and forth; something behind her knees responds.