The Daisy Picker (5 page)

Beside the car are her parents, standing close together on the frozen path. Lizzie stamps on the ground to get some feeling back into her toes.

‘Well, I’d better get going, I suppose.’
Before we all solidify
.

‘Did you take the holy water?’ Mammy is still dead against the move, but she’s concerned about her daughter’s immortal soul.

‘I did, yeah.’ It’s sitting on the shelf under the dashboard, a little plastic bottle that Mammy filled at the church the other day.

‘Let us know when you’ve a place to stay,’ Daddy says.

‘Course I will; I’ll ring as soon as I’ve landed somewhere. Don’t worry about me.’

That’s a good one – like asking the spring clematis over the garage not to bloom till September this year because Aunty Kate is coming to visit from America with her new husband and
step-kids and you want the place to look well. Mammy and Daddy have no one else to worry about; in forty-five years of marriage, Lizzie is all they managed to produce. She’s lived under the
same roof as them for forty-one years, apart from the weeks driving around Cork or Kerry or Galway with Tony. Now she’s thrown a backpack into the boot of the car and she’s disappearing
God knows where for God knows how long, and she tells them not to worry. Very funny.

Daddy came home with a book from the Tourist Office the other day. He’d paid seven euros for it – the price was written on the front cover – and he handed it to Lizzie after
dinner, when Mammy had disappeared into the sitting room.

‘Now, you can pick out a nice place and give them a ring.’

Lizzie took it from him and opened it with a sinking heart. It was full of self-catering houses and apartments by the sea, or in towns near golf courses, or just outside villages, all approved
by Bord Fáilte; and she knew that, wherever she ended up living, it wouldn’t be in one of them.

To keep the peace, she promised Daddy she’d take the book with her and be guided by it. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to pick anyplace yet, while I haven’t worked
out where I want to go. I might be travelling around for a while before I find a place that appeals to me.’

He looked at her, trying to understand, and nodded.

The book is sitting in the little pocket in her door, beside her road map of Ireland. She’s planning to give it to the first charity shop she passes.

Mammy puts a hand on her arm. ‘Now, Lizzie, you know you can still just go for a couple of weeks and come back. It’s not too late to change your mind; your bed is always here, and
Julia would have you back in the morning if I had a word with her.’

And I’d last another six months and then throw myself off the tallest building in Kilmorris.
Lizzie smiles and puts her arms around her and knows her bed will always be here, and
knows she’ll never live here again. Mammy smells of rashers and Pledge and hairspray.

‘I’ll remember, Mammy.’

‘You make sure you find someplace nice to stay. Make sure it’s not damp.’

Lizzie nods. ‘I will. And you take care. I’ll give you a ring this evening.’

‘Do that.’

Mammy moves back as Daddy steps forward – after forty-five years together, they’re perfectly synchronised. Daddy puts out his hand, but Lizzie ignores it and puts her arms around
him. She can’t remember when she hugged him last. He feels narrower than she expected.

‘Bye, Daddy.’

‘Bye now, Lizzie. Mind yourself.’ He pats her back twice, then drops his arms and steps back from her.

Lizzie slides into the driver’s seat, pulls the door closed and winds down the window.

‘Drive carefully,’ says Mammy.

‘I will. Bye now. Say bye, Jones. Go in out of the cold now; ye’ll freeze. Talk to ye later. Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck,’ they chorus, standing close together. Mammy tucks her arm into Daddy’s and waves at Lizzie with her other hand. ‘Make sure you wrap up well.’

Lizzie starts the engine and moves off, waving awkwardly out of the window, watching in her mirror as the couple on the path get smaller. They look old and unfamiliar, this white-haired man in
his grey suit and this neat little woman in a brown tweed coat over her blue-and-white flowery apron, not going in out of the cold, just standing there together and waving. Pretending that they
don’t mind her going, that they’ll be just fine without her. From his carrier, Jones mews once.

Wave goodbye, Lizzie. Wave goodbye to forty-one years of waiting for something to happen. Forget O’Gorman’s and Tony and Tuesday-night bacon and cabbage, and rubbing Deep Heat
into Daddy’s bad knee and finding Mammy’s tatty purple slippers that never seem to be where she left them last night. Now pull yourself out of the rut, wind up your window and say hello
to the rest of your life.

Her cheek is itchy; she puts her finger up to scratch it and finds a tear. She doesn’t remember feeling sad.

Lizzie rubs the tear away, blinks and checks the clock on the dashboard. Ten past ten. She never understood why people called it ‘tinker’s time’ until one day
she suddenly realised you were supposed to say ‘tin past tin’.

She’s got the rest of the day to go – where? The absurdity of the fact that she hasn’t a notion where she’s going makes her smile. She pulls over and reaches for the road
map. Imagine if Mammy came along with her shopping trolley; they’d have to say goodbye all over again.

She looks at the map. Kilmorris is right in the midlands, about seventy miles from the west coast. She fancies living near the sea, in a place much smaller than this one – a fairly big
village, or a small market town maybe; big enough that she won’t stand out, small enough that she’ll get to know people fairly easily.

They spent a few holidays by the sea when she was young, staying in rented houses or caravans and having lunch in pubs where old men in tweed caps played fiddles and tin whistles and belted out
rhythms on bodhráns. She remembers the salty tang of the periwinkles Daddy used to buy in little white paper bags and fish out of their shells for her with the pin that came with them, and
the sticky balls of candyfloss she’d pull apart with her hands. She used to love the smell of the seaweed and the noise of the waves in the evening when they’d go walking along the prom
after dinner, Lizzie full of huge yawns after the day of sea air.

Yes, she wants to live by the sea. She’ll take the road going west and head for the coast, and then meander around a bit until she finds somewhere that she likes the look of. And maybe she
should aim to be not too far from a fairly big town, so she can have a bit more of a social life if she feels the need. She folds up the map again and sets off. Through the next lights and left at
the roundabout, and she’ll be headed west.

She’s just past the roundabout when she sees him. Thumb raised, sitting on a backpack twice as big as hers. Longish fair hair, hand-knit baggy jumper, jeans, sandals –
God help
us, sandals in January in Ireland.
He has thick woolly socks on under them, but still. He must be insane.

Lizzie has never hitched a lift, and never given a lift to a hitchhiker, in her life. Tony didn’t believe in it – ‘Let them get the bus, that’s what they’re
for’ – and she’s a bit wary of picking up someone when she’s on her own in the car, especially if he’s a man with long hair who shows definite signs of madness.

And then she remembers the old woman from the hill country of Kentucky wishing she’d taken more chances. Ah, hell – she’s looking for a change, isn’t she? And what can
happen to her at tin past tin on a Monday morning? Jones will mind her. She pulls over, forgetting to indicate – another first – and checks that her handbag is safely under her seat
while she waits for the hitchhiker. Jones will have to move into the back; he won’t mind.

The lunatic hitchhiker hefts his backpack up and lopes on long legs to the car. Lizzie leans across and opens the passenger door, and he sticks his head in, smiling. He has lovely, even white
teeth.

‘Hi, how ya doin’? Happy New Year. Thanks for stoppin’.’

His voice is slow and drawly, and American. That may explain the sandals. And the madness. Lizzie smiles back at him, glad she stopped.
Sorry, Tony.

‘Happy New Year to you. Where’re you headed?’

‘I’m goin’ to Rockford.’

‘Fine; that’s on my way.’ Rockford is about fifteen miles down the road. ‘Help me move Jones into the back.’

He squats down, puts a finger through the wire front of the carrier and scratches Jones’s head. ‘Hey, buddy, sorry ’bout that.’ Jones closes his eyes and purrs
loudly.

Lizzie unbuckles his seat-belt. ‘He doesn’t mind; he’s a real sweetie.’

As she goes to lift the carrier, the hitchhiker takes it from her. ‘Here, I got it.’ He hefts it easily over the front seat and settles it in the back. ‘There you go, Jones;
all safe and sound. Let’s clip you in there.’

Then he picks up his rucksack and hauls it in beside the cat-carrier. ‘Hey, Jones, keep an eye on my stuff, OK?’ He wags a finger at Jones, who blinks back at him.

Lizzie laughs. ‘Shut up and get in before you freeze us out of it.’ She wonders if he’ll mind being told to shut up. Probably not – the free lift will take the sting out
of it. He hops in and pulls the door shut, and she puts the car in gear and drives off. The hitchhiker turns sideways in his seat and pokes a finger in at Jones, who mews at him.

‘I’m Pete, by the way.’

‘I’m Lizzie – and Jones you’ve already met.’ She glances down at his feet. ‘Do you mind my asking why you’re in sandals in the middle of an Irish
winter?’

Pete smiles ruefully. ‘Yeah, looks kinda strange, I guess. My boots are wet through from yesterday, so I had no choice.’
Good, at least he has boots. Not totally insane,
then.

‘You must be frozen; hang on.’ She directs the hot air towards his feet and turns it up full blast. As he begins to feel the warmth, he wriggles his toes and sighs happily.

‘Hey, that feels gooood.’ He manoeuvres out of the sandals and pushes them aside, then wriggles his thick-socked toes again. Lizzie smiles; he reminds her of Jones – slow,
lazy, easy.

‘I presume you’re American.’

He cocks his head at her and puts on a mock-astonished expression. ‘Hey, that’s amazing. How the heck did you know?’

She laughs. ‘Whereabouts in the States?’

‘Tennessee, and upstate New York, but I been livin’ here in Ireland for the past year.’ She loves his drawl; much more attractive than the flat Kilmorris accent.

‘Don’t tell me – you came to find your roots.’

He grins and shakes his head. ‘No, ma’am. Don’t believe I’ve a drop of Irish blood in me, unfortunately. No, I came here to get away from all that US crap. Got tired of
the whole materialism thing there – all those weapons, all that macho stuff, specially after 9-11; I wanted to take some time out and just chill.’

Hmmm – a not-so-typical American.
‘So you came over to holy Catholic Ireland.’ Pete raises his eyebrows at her and smiles, but says nothing. ‘You must like it if
you’re still here.’

He nods. ‘Sure do. Good people, still got some values.’ He looks over at her. ‘So what’s your story?’ He cocks his head at the cat-carrier. ‘Where’re
you and Jones headed?’

Lizzie grins. ‘We’re going on an adventure.’

He raises his eyebrows in delight. ‘No kiddin’ – sort of a Thelma and Louise thing?’

She’s thrilled at the comparison; all she needs is the scarf and the glasses. And the convertible. ‘Exactly – except we don’t intend to kill anyone, and we probably
won’t rob anyplace either.’ She shoots a look over at him. ‘And I should tell you that I have no intention of driving off a cliff.’

‘Well, now, I’m kinda relieved to hear that.’ Pete settles himself more comfortably into his seat, head turned towards her. ‘So tell me more about this
adventure.’

She smiles. ‘God, where do I start? Until today I lived at home with my parents.’

‘No kiddin’? Never left the nest?’ She looks over at him again – is he laughing at her? – but he seems genuinely surprised.

‘Is that unheard of in the States?’

He nods. ‘Pretty much – where I come from, anyway. My buddies and me all moved out after high school. We found apartments to share.’ Then he smiles, shaking his head.
‘Course, some of the places we stayed in . . . even the roaches moved out. And some of the roommates I got weren’t exactly house-trained.’

She laughs. ‘But at least you had independence, did what you wanted. I’ve slept in the same bedroom since I was brought home from the nursing home. My mother cooks all the meals,
same things every week: always a roast on Sunday, lamb chops on Monday, bacon and cabbage on Tuesday . . .’

He grins. ‘Hey, when I lived at home, we always had my mom’s blueberry pancakes for breakfast on Sundays.’

‘Mmm – sounds delicious. Much more interesting than prunes and Bran Flakes.’ Lizzie makes a face. ‘I’m never again going to eat prunes.’

He nods. ‘Good idea. How ’bout the rest of your family – do they all live at home too?’

She’s amused at his assumption that she comes from a good Catholic big Irish family. ‘There’s just me, I’m afraid. Only child.’