The Daisy Picker (10 page)

Angela shrugs, looking down into her coffee. ‘Yeah, I suppose it was some achievement, all right. We had the mother of all hooleys on the opening night – dinner on the house for all
the helpers, and my parents arrived with a few bottles of champagne. Dee was roped in as my kitchen skivvy – but she didn’t mind; she’s great. My mother moved in here for the
first month, as well, to get things up and running. Poor old Dad was left to his own devices.’

She picks up her cup and sips. ‘Mind you, it was bloody hard work; I might be making it sound easy now, but let me tell you, I cried myself to sleep many a night – I was sure that I
was taking on too much, that I hadn’t a hope in hell of making it work . . .’

She puts her head to one side. ‘You know, I’m not sure what kept me going, really. Maybe I felt I had something to prove – I know I was determined that I wouldn’t let
John ruin me. And, of course, I had to keep going for Dee.’

She smiles again, looking off into the distance. ‘I know I could have found a dozen easier ways to make ends meet; but my mother always told me I was a stubborn little thing, and she was
right. I got it into my head that I’d open a restaurant, and by God I was determined. Nothing was going to stop me.’

Lizzie opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again, not sure what she wants to say. Then she opens it again: she’ll say what’s on her mind. It’s high time she started doing
that.

‘I wish I had your determination. I’ve been dreaming about a career in baking since I left school over twenty years ago.’

Angela looks back at her, intrigued. ‘Have you really? Did you ever try and get a job in a bakery?’

Lizzie shrugs, beginning to be sorry she brought it up. ‘I made a half-hearted attempt, and when that got me nowhere, I gave up. I got a summer job in a restaurant the year I left school,
and . . . I just stayed on there.’

Angela is silent for a second. Then she says slowly, ‘You had a summer job for twenty years?’

Lizzie nods. ‘And for eleven of them I was engaged to someone I didn’t love.’ The words pop out of nowhere. As she hears them, she feels something bubbling up inside her; a
giggle escapes.

She looks over at Angela and sees her trying desperately to control a twitch in one corner of her mouth. Their eyes meet and they both burst out laughing. As the full absurdity of Lizzie’s
confession sinks in, they roar and guffaw and slap the table in merriment.

After a minute, Angela gasps, ‘Dear God – you’d get into the – Guinness Book of Records – no problem; I must see if – they’re in the phone
book.’

Lizzie is off again, holding her sides and trying to breathe. ‘Stop – I’m going to rupture something . . .’ She tries to control the laughter, but it keeps bubbling up
and flowing out of her – and, with it, all the loneliness and frustration of the past. She feels like she’s sliding out of something heavy and clammy and skipping away, lighter and
happier.

Finally Angela wipes her eyes with her sleeve. ‘God, I needed that. I haven’t had a good laugh in ages.’ She looks over at Lizzie, who’s still giggling quietly.
‘Did your poor fiancé have any idea you wanted to be a baker?’

Lizzie nods, feeling the laughter ebb out of her as she hears Tony telling her that it was one thing being able to bake, and quite another knowing how to run a business. Angela would have shoved
his patronising opinions down his throat; why the heck hadn’t
she
?

She picks up her coffee cup. ‘He wasn’t very supportive. Wanted to keep me as a waitress – it was his family restaurant I worked in.’

‘Ah, it’s all becoming clear.’ Angela nods. ‘So you’re making a fresh start now, like I did.’

‘God, yeah . . . I suppose I am doing the same thing you did.’ It hadn’t occurred to Lizzie how similar their situations were. Each of them had come to a point in her life
where radical change was called for – even if they’d come to that point from very different positions. And if Angela could turn
her
life around, with a young daughter to cope
with too . . .

Lizzie thinks about Deirdre, having her whole life changed at a time when she’d have been pretty fragile, just starting into her teens. ‘Deirdre must have found it tough, when your
husband left.’

Angela nods. ‘Yeah, she was very upset at the time; but I have to say that John’s been pretty good about keeping in contact with her. They’re always on the phone – he got
her a mobile soon after he moved out, probably so he wouldn’t have to talk to me when he rang her – and every few weeks he comes and takes her out to Seapoint for the day and spoils her
rotten. She’s coped very well with the break-up, poor old thing. And she’s a great help to me – I’d never manage without her.’

She glances up at the clock on the wall and stands. ‘Right, enough of all this chit-chat. I’ll go up now and change those sheets, and you can get started on your packing after your
breakfast.’

Lizzie takes a deep breath: now or never. ‘Actually, Angela –’ How to put this without sounding like a lunatic ‘– I know it might seem a bit strange, but –
well, the caravan is the first place I’ve had all to myself – and I really don’t find it a bit cramped; and it’s not cold at all – the gas fire is brilliant –
and I’m sleeping like a log out there, honest . . .’ She’s babbling;
Get to the point.
‘So I’d really like to stay out there instead of coming in here, if
that would be OK.’

Then she stops and waits.
Please say yes. Please say yes
.

Angela turns with her hand on the doorknob and stares back at Lizzie. ‘Are you telling me that you’d rather live in a teeny little caravan by yourself, in the middle of winter, than
in a nice warm house with a charming woman and her equally charming daughter?’

But she’s smiling. Lizzie takes heart from that and plunges on. ‘Well, when you put it that way . . . But, Angela, honest to God, I love the little caravan. It’s like my very
first flat, where I can come and go as I please, and not be answerable to anyone, and not have to be in at six for dinner every evening, and not have to explain why I’ll be gone all afternoon
tomorrow . . .’ Babbling again;
Shut up, Lizzie
.

‘Well, I suppose if you’d really like to try it . . .’ Angela looks highly amused, and with a surge of relief Lizzie realises that she’s going to agree.

She beams. ‘Oh, great – thanks a million. You can work out a weekly rate – whatever you think is fair; and if you’d prefer me to eat in the restaurant, rather than in the
caravan, that’s fine.’ She had the vegetarian lasagne yesterday evening, and wasn’t disappointed – but it might be nice to do her own thing sometimes, too.

Angela shakes her head, still amused. ‘Actually, I don’t mind a bit where you eat – good luck trying to produce anything fancy on that teensy cooker, though. No, you suit
yourself – we can make it totally self-catering, if that’s what you want. It might have to be a casual arrangement, though, if you know what I mean; I’m not sure the Bord
Fáilte people would understand.’

‘Fine.’ Lizzie nods, delighted. If Angela told her she’d have to have her breakfast up a tree with Jones, she’d agree.

Jones. Oh, God, she’d better come clean about Jones.

She stands and picks up her empty plate and cup. ‘There’s one other thing.’
God, I hope this doesn’t scupper all my plans
.

‘Stop.’ Angela grins and puts her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t think I can take any more surprises this morning.’

Lizzie smiles apologetically. ‘It’s just that I have a cat. He’s in the caravan right now. I meant to tell you the first night, but I forgot . . . He’s house-trained,
though, and no trouble really; I have a litter tray . . .’ She trails off, waiting nervously.

To her dismay, a horrified expression appears on Angela’s face. ‘A cat? Oh, no – sorry, Lizzie.’ She shakes her head firmly. ‘Absolutely no way; I’m highly
allergic. You’ll have to get rid of it, or leave, straightaway. Sorry, out of the question.’

Lizzie can’t believe it. Just when she thought she’d found a home she could be happy in, it’s about to be snatched away. Serve her right for not confessing the first night. Her
heart sinks, but she nods. ‘Right – sorry . . . I’ll go and –’

‘Lizzie.’

She looks back.

‘Just kidding.’ Angela’s grinning widely. ‘Actually, Dee loves cats; she’ll be thrilled. I’ll send her down to you when she gets up, to check him out. Mind
you, I’m not so sure how Dumbledore feels about them, but we’ll get around him.’

Lizzie feels a surge of relief. She smiles back at Angela. ‘Phew – thanks again. And I promise I’ve nothing else hidden up my sleeve; that’s it.’ She puts her
crockery into the dishwasher.

Angela opens the door into the hall. ‘Right, then; see you later. You can decide yourself whether you want to eat in the restaurant, or’ – she smirks – ‘in your
caravan. And we’ll sort out the money side later, too; I’ll do a few sums.’

She goes out the door, leaving Lizzie standing in the kitchen pinching herself.

Two days since she left Kilmorris, and already she’s found a place for herself and Jones to live. What’s more, she’s by the sea, just like she wanted. And Angela seems
lovely.

Not bad for a start. She crunches happily over the gravel back to her caravan.

The days pass; Lizzie fills them with wrapped-up walks along the beach, and her book and her crosswords, and dipping into the shops, and driving into Seapoint to the pictures,
and planning her meals, and writing the odd letter home, and being hauled into the kitchen now and again for coffee and a chat with Angela.

She’s starting to meet people. The elderly man who was eating alone in the restaurant on her first night turns out to be an artist; she sees him every time she walks along the beach. He
stands before a rickety-looking easel on the lawn of a house just up from the pebbles, and he waves whenever Lizzie passes. She’s dying to have a look at what he’s doing, but
she’s shy about approaching him. Maybe she’ll meet him in the supermarket and get chatting. She wonders if he ever paints anything but the sea.

She asks Angela about him. ‘Oh, that’s Dominic – wasn’t he here the night you arrived? He’s a regular, comes in for his dinner about once a week. Lives by himself
– I don’t think he was ever married – in that gorgeous little stone house that’s practically on the beach. You must have passed it in your wanderings – it’s on
the road down from the square, on its own, dark-blue door. I’ve got two of his paintings in the restaurant, actually; you might have noticed them. He always paints the sea – says
it’s different every time he looks at it.’

Angela says that Dominic’s work is on display in a few galleries and craft shops around the county, and until a few years ago he sold mainly to tourists over the summer months. ‘Then
one day – I suppose it’d be about five or six years ago now – he got a call from some gallery owner in the States, whose sister or wife or something had bought one of
Dominic’s paintings when she was over here on holidays. They made some deal together, and now a lot of Dominic’s stuff goes straight over there. I’d say he’s not short of a
few bob, and I’m very glad we bought our two when we did – they’d probably cost a bomb now.’

Lizzie goes into the restaurant the next day to look at the paintings. She’s struck by the way he’s captured the power of the Atlantic – looking at the turquoises and greens
and blue-whites and greys colliding on the canvas, she can almost feel the spray. She can understand how someone from a desert-y place like Arizona might be drawn to paintings like these.
They’d hang them on white walls in hot dry rooms, and look at them and hear the rush of the waves and smell the salt.

She looks at the little clown on the mantelpiece again. There seem to be quite a few talented folk in Merway. Maybe it’s catching – she might be composing symphonies before the year
is out.

When Lizzie drops into Merway’s only laundrette with her bundle of washing, she gets to know Rory and Aisling, the owners. Aisling tells Lizzie one day that, given the choice, Rory would
much rather be out fishing than handing out change at the laundrette or looking after their two small children. ‘I suppose I’m what’s known as a fishing widow – he’s
never here when I want him. Although he does bring home the dinner most times, so I forgive him.’

Rory grins and confesses that it’s all true. ‘Any time you fancy getting up at half past four and joining me, Lizzie, you’re welcome. I’ll make sure you bring Angela home
a few mackerel.’ Lizzie laughs and tells him not to hold his breath.

She’s tasted some of Rory’s catches. Angela buys anything he doesn’t keep for himself, and adds it to that evening’s menu as a special. Her fisherman’s pie is in
big demand when it appears, brimming with chunks of fish and vegetables and hard-boiled eggs, and smothered in a rich creamy sauce topped with bubbling melted cheese. Mammy rarely cooks fish
– Daddy isn’t gone on it – and when she does, it’s steamed and served with soft cauliflower, or mashed carrots and parsnips, and no sauce. No wonder Daddy isn’t too
keen. Lizzie is willing to bet that he’d go mad for a big helping of fisherman’s pie.