The Daisy Picker (12 page)

Lizzie remembers wishing for a hunk of bread to mop up the shepherd’s-pie sauce on her first night in Merway. And she’d given up desserts, so she couldn’t judge them.
‘Well, now that you mention it –’

Angela spreads her hands out, palms up. ‘See? And then you come along, and you can bake, and you want to feck off to Furlong’s. There’s gratitude to me for putting a roof over
your head.’

Lizzie smiles. ‘And do you mean it about me working here with you?’

‘Do I what? I can cook, and you can bake.’ She lifts her cup. ‘Are we a match made in heaven, or what?’

Lizzie can’t believe it. A baking job, right under her nose. Working with Angela. Here in this kitchen, two seconds from where she lives.

‘Well – what do you say?’ Angela is waiting.

Lizzie picks up her cup and clinks it against Angela’s. ‘I say you’ve got yourself a baker.’

And so it begins.

Lizzie joins Angela in the kitchen every afternoon and chooses three different loaves of bread from her many recipes – cheese and black pepper, garlic and herb, sun-dried tomato, lemon
poppyseed, pumpkin, rye, potato. Sometimes she makes rolls for a change – sesame seed, olive, five grain, ciabatta – or breadsticks, or savoury scones.

While the yeast is rising she makes three desserts, which she changes every week. She and Angela sit down every Sunday night and choose the three for the following week. It can take quite a
while.

‘Ooh, sticky toffee pudding – yes, please.’

‘That’s very heavy with your main courses; aren’t you doing a carbonara next week? And the goulash is very rich too. What about this one, razzleberry crisp? It’s full of
fruit, and really light. Or a mousse – I’ve a lovely brandy-and-ginger recipe.’

‘OK – but I want the sticky toffee pudding next week, or you’re evicted. And that orange-and-carrot cake, too, or I start charging Jones rent.’

‘Yes, boss.’ There’s no doubt about it: Lizzie has died and gone to heaven.

She can’t believe that two restaurants can be so different. The cosiness of The Kitchen, with its roaring fire and candles and mellow wooden floor; the simple, delicious meals that Angela
changes every week; the friendliness of the customers, who often chat away to one another across the room and who don’t mind waiting twenty minutes for their herby chicken with fragrant rice;
the soft jazz of Ella Fitzgerald or Nina Simone in the background . . . It’s all light years away from the dreariness of O’Gorman’s, with its patterned carpet and people who sit
silently at tables with plastic flowers in china vases while they chew the same old food, day in, day out, listening to someone they know playing a request for Aunty Pauline who’s just had a
hysterectomy.

At night Lizzie lies in her big double bed under her feathery duvet and listens to the sea fourteen steps away, and tells God that she’s very, very grateful. And she wonders if
there’s any chance that Tony could meet some nice girl who loves being engaged, and who isn’t too pushed about getting married. And she knows she’s asking a lot, but maybe
Daddy’s bad leg could be sorted out too – it’s been at him for ages.

And if there’s the smallest possibility of her meeting someone nice who likes fresh-baked bread and fat ginger cats, she’d be even more grateful.

‘Lizzie, if you had to think up a business name, what would it be?’ She and Angela are in the kitchen one afternoon, just starting on the preparations for that evening’s
meal.

Lizzie considers. ‘For my baking, you mean? If I had my own range of products?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, let’s see . . . what about Daily Bread?’

‘God, no – too religious; it would put all the atheists off.’ Angela looks at the ceiling. ‘Sorry, God, but I have to be honest; you can understand that.’

Lizzie grins at her. ‘OK, then, what about Pat-a-Cakes?’

‘Absolutely not – too babyish. They’d think all you made was fairy cakes and Rice Krispie cookies.’

‘Right then . . . Mrs Bun the Baker?’

‘Nah, sounds a bit housewifey. And you’re not, anyway, are you? You’re Ms Bun; and that just doesn’t have the same ring.’

Lizzie laughs. ‘God, you’re hard to please – and I’m running out of ideas . . . What about Bun in the Oven?’

Angela doesn’t even bother to look up from the chopping board. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’ Then she stops and points half a carrot at Lizzie. ‘Maybe
you could go into partnership with Big Maggie and be Baking Miracles.’

Lizzie giggles. ‘Or Blooming Bakery.’

‘Or what about Lizzie’s Loaves? Hey, that’s not bad.’ Angela chops carrots thoughtfully.

Lizzie grins as she kneads the dough for that evening’s caraway-and-rye bread. ‘But that sounds as if I only do bread, when we all know that I can bake just about anything –
apart from the lemon tart I attempted in the caravan a while back. I told you about that, didn’t I?’

It turned out flat and soggy – clearly the miniscule cooker hadn’t been designed with a delicate touch. Such a waste of those lovely lemons. ‘Hey, that reminds me – the
guy who owns the fruit-and-veg shop down the street . . .’

‘Joe? What about him?’

‘What’s he like?’ She remembers the gorgeous blue eyes, and the very pleasant smile. And the fact that he knew exactly where Angela’s wood carvings were.
Let’s
see if she gets embarrassed
.

Angela picks up a potato and starts to peel it, not looking in the least embarrassed. ‘Joe? He’s a pet. He’s the one who made Deirdre’s clown, and my cook – very
talented.’

Lizzie shakes her head. ‘No, not the woodcarver, the fruit-and-veg man.’

Angela peels on, nodding. ‘Yeah; they’re one and the same.’

‘What?
He’s
the one who made them? But hang on, he sells fruit and veg – and you said the woodcarver has his own shop.’ This isn’t making sense.

Angela turns, amused at Lizzie’s confusion. ‘Yes, he has, but he doesn’t sell carvings in it – he sells fruit and veg. He just carves the wood in his spare
time.’

‘I see.’ Or does she? Lizzie brushes the hair out of her eyes with a floury hand. What did he say, when she admired the sign outside the shop? Something about it being made by a
master craftsman who lived in the area . . . but that was himself he was talking about. So he was just being funny.

And of course he knew where the wooden cook was, if he made it. And Lizzie remembers asking him if the woodcarver had a shop, and he said something like ‘He does and he
doesn’t’ – and sent her around looking into the shop windows for surprises. And not a hint of a smile on his face.

He seems like a bit of a joker. She smiles down at the dough and begins to pound it again. ‘So the clown belongs to Deirdre.’

Angela nods. ‘Yeah, he made it for her when John left – I thought it was really sweet of him. She put it in the restaurant so everyone could see it.’

Lizzie wonders again if there’s anything going on between Angela and Joe. She’s as good as single now, and he . . . ‘Is he married?’ She remembers noticing no ring.

‘No.’ Angela shakes her head. ‘Though not for the want of trying by half the eligible females of Merway. He’s had his moments, like the rest of us, but no one’s
managed to drag him up the aisle yet. As far as I know he’s unattached at the moment.’

She puts the peeled potatoes into a saucepan and narrows her eyes at Lizzie. ‘Why all the questions about our Joe, young lady? Are you keen?’

Lizzie laughs and squashes the dough into the baking tin. ‘Actually, I was wondering if
you
two had anything going on – you know, the cook, the clown . . .’

Angela shakes her head, smiling. ‘No, we’re great pals but that’s as far as it goes. I didn’t know him all that well growing up – he’s about ten years older
than me. It’s only really since John left and I started my own business that we’ve got friendly. He was a great help at the start – sold me veg for next to nothing till I got set
up with Nuala and Ríodhna. And you needn’t read anything into the carvings; Joe carves for everyone – practically every shop in town has a piece in the window.’

‘I know – I saw them. In fact, he was the one who told me about them – without telling me they were his. And when I admired the sign over his door he told me about the master
craftsman who’d made it.’

Angela laughs. ‘Typical Joe; the man has a wicked sense of humour – just comes out of nowhere and surprises you.’ She looks at Lizzie, and her smile fades. ‘You
haven’t come across Charlie, have you?’

Lizzie thinks of the men she’s met in Merway; the name doesn’t ring a bell. ‘Don’t think so. Who’s he?’

‘Joe’s nephew from London; arrived out of the blue a few months back and just moved in.’ Angela makes a face. ‘He hasn’t exactly endeared himself to the folk around
here – spends his time in the pub, or swanning around the place in Joe’s car. I don’t know why Joe doesn’t just tell him to get lost; he’s not exactly a help to him
– I’ve never seen him working in the shop, and he’s probably eating Joe out of house and home. And I’d bet anything he’s not paying a cent towards his keep.’

Lizzie remembers the young man she passed when she was leaving Ripe, the same one who’d been in Dignam’s. ‘Is he mid-twenties, longish brown hair, thin face?’

Angela nods. ‘That’s him – shifty-looking.’ She covers the potatoes and glances at the clock. ‘God, we’d better get a move on.’

Later that evening, on her way back to the caravan for the night, Lizzie pauses with her hand on the door handle. Then she walks on to the bottom of the garden. She stands by the rickety old
wooden fence that Angela keeps threatening to replace.

On a clear, frosty night like this, she can see a million stars and one moon, or a bit of a moon. She breathes in the pure, salty air and gazes up, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. The
waves rattle the pebbles, pulling them out to sea. The stars are amazing. She loves how visible the night sky is, here in Angela’s back garden. The bit of a poem that she always thinks of
when she looks at the stars is rattling around in her head:

Looking up at the stars,

I know quite well

That for all they care

I can go to hell.

She loves those lines – the way they turn around and surprise you at the end; she’s always loved surprises. Tony was never much of a one for them, though – always so
predictable, with his vouchers and chocolates . . .

And now she’s living in a place that has a surprise in every shop window.

She turns back and walks towards the caravan.

Lizzie can’t believe she’s been three months in Merway, but there it is in black and white. Tomorrow morning she’ll be tearing March off the calendar and
crumpling it into the bin. April already; imagine.

She goes out to make her weekly phone call home. For once Mammy has real news for her.

‘I was talking to Julia today.’ Pause. Lizzie’s heart sinks – Mammy is slowly coming round to the fact that Lizzie has made the break, but still . . . ‘Tony has a
new girlfriend: Pauline Twomey. I think you knew her sister in school – Maeve, was it?’

Pauline Twomey; three years younger than Lizzie – and about three stone lighter. Hardly anything there to put his arms around. Hasn’t taken him long to get over Lizzie.

But she’s happy for him – she really is.

‘Lizzie, are you there?’

No, Mother, I’ve gone off to slit my wrists
. ‘Yes, I’m still here. That’s good news about Tony; I hope he’s happy. How’s Daddy’s
leg?’

A sigh from Mammy’s end. ‘Sure, not too good, really, Lizzie. I keep telling him he should go to Dr Cronin, but I might as well talk to the wall. That old Deep Heat isn’t
making a blind bit of difference.’ Pause. ‘Hang on, he wants a word.’

‘Hello, love.’ He sounds the same as ever – Lizzie can see the grey Fair Isle cardigan that he’s worn forever; or is he wearing the one Mammy got him at Christmas? The
grey is a bit darker on the new one.

‘Daddy, how are you?’

‘Fine, love; can’t complain.’ Not a word about the knee. ‘How’s it going there with you? Any plans to come back and see us?’