The Daisy Picker (27 page)

Angela goes off to get a fresh plate of chicken, and comes back with news. ‘Hey, Pete, I just told our biggest gossip about you, knowing that she’d spread the word quicker than
anyone. Of course she already knew that you were moving in here – but guess what? When I told her about the painting you’re going to do, she said she’s looking for someone to
paint her place. I told her to hang on and see what kind of a job you do for us first, just in case you mess it up.’

‘Relax, lady,’ Pete says, waving a lazy hand in Angela’s direction. ‘You’re talkin’ to a true professional here; see, they’re already linin’ up to
get me.’

Angela snorts and picks up a drumstick. ‘I’ll reserve judgement till I see your work.’

Lizzie stands up; she’s stiff from sitting. ‘I’m just going to stretch my legs for a while – see you later.’ She wanders down to the water’s edge, then turns
to walk along beside it.

The night is still dry, but after a few minutes she notices the first hint of a nip in the air – she’s sorry she left her shawl sitting on the rug. She considers going back, but then
decides to chance it; it’s not that chilly. Her head is buzzing pleasantly from the wine. She walks quickly, rubbing her arms every now and again, keeping about a foot away from the little
ripples of water that run up the pebbles. She breathes in deeply and smells seaweed. The sky is dotted with stars that get brighter as she leaves the lights behind. The moon is barely there, just a
curving sliver.

When she’s nearly out of range of the party noise, she stops and looks out to sea, slightly out of breath. Then she realises that someone is crunching along behind her. She turns and sees
a dark shape approaching.

‘Hello?’ They’re totally isolated, and suddenly Lizzie wonders if anyone would hear a scream. Her heart quickens.

The shape comes closer – someone tall. Pete? No – the build is wrong; Pete is slimmer.

‘Lizzie, it’s me.’

Joe stops beside her, close enough to touch – but she can hardly make out his expression in the dark. He must have followed her from Dominic’s house.

‘I hope I didn’t scare you. I’ve been wanting to have a word, but we never seem to meet any more. Can we walk a bit?’

Lizzie nods, then realises that he probably didn’t see it. ‘Yes.’ She starts walking again, and he falls into step beside her. She wonders what’s coming, forces her mind
to go blank and just wait.

She hasn’t seen him since her birthday, the night in the pub. She still can’t bring herself to go into Ripe, which she fully realises is ridiculous. Every day she tells herself,
Tomorrow I’ll go in and chat away
; but so far tomorrow hasn’t come, and she buys her fruit and veg in the supermarket, or in Seapoint.

Every time she walks down the street, she wonders if she’ll meet him. You wouldn’t think you could go over a month in a place the size of Merway without seeing everyone at least
once. But you can. You can pass a window ten times a day and never glimpse the one face you’re dying to see.

‘Lizzie, there’s something I need to tell you.’

She wishes she could see his face now, but, even with the millions of stars, it’s still just a shadowy outline. Where’s that full moon when you need it?

Suddenly she’s nervous of what’s coming. She senses that it’s not good.

‘It’s about Charlie.’

No, she definitely doesn’t want to hear whatever he has to say. ‘Joe, it’s none of my –’

‘Hang on.’ He stops and faces her, forcing her to stop too, and still she can’t see him properly. ‘I want you to know – I want to tell you that Charlie . . .
he’s my son.’

Now she’s glad she can’t see his face, because it means he can’t see hers. She probably looks like a fish who’s suddenly been pulled out of the water, all goggle-eyed and
open-mouthed.

Charlie – surly, sulky Charlie – is Joe’s son. Not his nephew, his son. He’s got a son. He’s a father.
Whichever way she puts it, it still sounds
wrong.

She breathes out slowly. ‘My God.’ She starts to walk again, rapidly, and Joe falls into step with her. Their feet crunch on the pebbles. Lizzie’s head is bursting with
questions, but she doesn’t know where to begin.

After a few seconds, Joe says, ‘It’s not something I’m proud of – a moment of stupidity in London, years ago – but I’m not ashamed of him, either. It’s
not something I’ve deliberately tried to hide.’

But he
has
hidden it. ‘Joe, you told everyone he was your nephew –’

He shakes his head – she can barely make out the movement in the faint starlight. ‘No, I didn’t. When he turned up here, I told whoever asked that he was family from England.
Everyone assumed he was my brother Tom’s son – Tom’s been living there for years – and . . . I just let them go on thinking that.’

There’s something hard in his voice that Lizzie hasn’t heard before. ‘It’s nobody’s business but mine whose son he is, but I wouldn’t lie about him – I
never did that.’

You didn’t exactly tell the truth, either.
Lizzie remembers Angela saying how private Joe was, how hard to figure out. Suddenly she feels that she doesn’t know him at all.
Can this possibly be the same man who joked and teased and laughed with her in the shop? Who made her read
McCarthy’s Bar
– ‘The funniest book you’ll ever pick up,
I promise’ – who raced her to finish a crossword, who got up early to climb up a ladder and stick grass behind a sign with masking tape? Who held her as she cried in a church?

They crunch over the pebbles – they’ve left the barbecue well behind; the only sound is the sea. A stiff breeze is starting up, and Lizzie shivers involuntarily; her flowery top is
definitely too light now.

Joe takes off his jacket and puts it around her shoulders. ‘Here.’

She’s wrapped in his warm spicy scent; she pulls the jacket around her, drinking it in. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this now.’

She stops again; she can’t concentrate while they’re walking. ‘Yes, I am.’ Thank goodness for the sound of the sea; if it weren’t for that, he’d surely hear
her heart thudding.

They’ve walked past the outskirts of Merway, about a quarter of a mile from the backs of the first cottages, and the beach is petering out. Joe gestures towards a low stone wall.
‘Here, sit for a minute; I won’t keep you long.’

He won’t keep her long. Part of her wants to bombard him with questions; another part just wants to stay wrapped up in his jacket, here on this dark beach.

When they’re sitting, Joe says, ‘I’m telling you because I feel bad about the way things went with you in the shop. I felt terrible, letting you go just like that –
especially when Angela told me about your father.’

Lizzie nods in the dark. ‘Yes, the timing was bad – but you weren’t to know that.’ She watches the blackness that is the sea, and holds the edges of his jacket tightly
around her.

Then she turns to face him. ‘Who raised Charlie?’

‘My brother Tom and his wife. They adopted him when he was a baby.’

So technically he is Tom’s son – but Joe is his father.
The waves wash up and drag the pebbles back.

Joe’s face is turned away; he looks out towards the sea. ‘I kept in touch, of course – supported him and what-have-you. His mother moved to Australia when he was still a baby,
and we lost contact. Then, last year, he . . . decided to come over and get to know me. He always knew he was adopted, and that I was his real father; we never hid that from him.’

The breeze is getting stronger. Joe must be cold in his shirt, but he shows no sign.

‘He’s a handful – you can see that yourself. Since he arrived here, he’s caused me nothing but grief. He spends every cent I give him, makes no effort to find any kind of
work. I suggested that he help me out in the shop, when I was asked to supply the carvings, and he made some feeble excuse – said he didn’t know how long he’d be staying around,
it might be better to get someone local in. So I . . . thought of you.’

She remembers the mornings in the shop, listening to the radio in the back room, knowing he was there. Watching the clock till the tea break.

‘The more he used me, the madder I got. Finally I decided I’d had enough – he was milking me dry, making a fool out of me. So I told him he’d have to shape up, or get
out. That was when I let you go. I told him if he wanted to stay he’d have to work, even though I knew I was wasting my time – and I was right. He didn’t even last a morning
before I told him to forget it; he was more of a hindrance than a help. I just didn’t know what else to do.’

So it wasn’t anything to do with me.
Suddenly Lizzie feels a stab of anger. All the time she spent beating herself up about why he’d let her go . . .

Joe’s face is close to hers, but she can’t read his expression. ‘You might have told me at the time, Joe, instead of spinning some yarn about him wanting to work there.’
She looks out to sea again, planting her hands on the wall on either side of her. ‘You could have told me the truth, Joe; it wouldn’t have gone any further. I didn’t know what to
think when you let me go just like that.’

‘I know, I know – I’m sorry . . .’ He sighs deeply; she can feel his eyes on her, but she keeps looking out to sea. ‘I’ve made a mess of things; I can see
that now. I’ve treated you badly, and that’s the last thing I’d want to do –’

She senses a small movement, and then feels his hand resting lightly on hers. Her heart leaps in her chest.

‘Lizzie, I have to confess that . . . when I asked you to come and work for me, my motives . . . weren’t the purest.’ His fingers stroke the back of her hand, so gently they
barely touch it, but she feels the heat that comes from them.

She turns back to him, heart thudding, anger fading. ‘They weren’t?’

He takes the edges of the jacket that’s thrown over her shoulders and gently draws her towards him. ‘No.’ His face is almost touching hers. She closes her eyes, reaches for his
hands . . .

Then, abruptly, he pulls away. ‘Sorry – I can’t do this.’ He stands up.

Lizzie can’t believe it. What just happened there? Is the man trying his utmost to find the best way to humiliate her? The anger rises in her again, stronger now, blazing. She whips his
jacket off her shoulders and flings it at him.

‘Would you ever go and sort yourself out, Joe McCarthy – and in the meantime, kindly leave me alone.’ She whirls away from him, nearly losing her balance on the pebbles, and
stalks back the way they came. The anger warms her – she can feel her face blazing.

She doesn’t care whether he follows her or not. Her thoughts tumble over one another. How dare he treat her like this, playing havoc with her feelings? He must know that she’s
– but she shoves that thought away as soon as it pops into her head. She’s finished with him, that’s what she is; him and his stupid, ignorant lout of a son. She’s well rid
of him. To think that she wasted so much time . . .

Suddenly, with another lurch of her heart, she sees someone coming down the beach towards her.

‘Lizzie?’

Thank goodness; a bit of normality. ‘Pete, I was just on my way back; I walked further than I meant to.’ Hopefully he’ll put her breathlessness down to the fast walking.

Pete holds out her shawl. ‘Angela thought you might be cold, so she sent me to find you.’

‘Great – thanks. It has turned chilly, hasn’t it?’ She wraps it around her, then puts her arm through his. ‘Come on; we’d better get back, or tongues will be
wagging. Have you discovered how gossipy Irish villages are yet?’

She’s amazed that she can chatter away to him on the way back, as if nothing has happened. The food was great tonight, wasn’t it? She loves eating outdoors – of course, he must
be used to that from the States. And where did he say he’d learnt to play the guitar, again, and what kind of songs does he like to play? Oh, she loves Neil Young too, played
Harvest
till she’d worn it out – wasn’t ‘The Needle and the Damage Done’ brilliant? Yes, Eric Clapton as well – but doesn’t Pete think ‘Layla’ is so
much better with an acoustic guitar? And has he come across Christy Moore’s music at all? Or Van Morrison? And has he ever heard of Paul Brady?

Slowly her thoughts calm down; her breathing returns to normal, and the fire in her face dies away.
That’s it – no more of that.
No one follows them back; Joe must have
decided to go home by the road.

Back at Dominic’s house, Angela is helping to clear the tables and gather up the rugs; and Lizzie probably imagines the searching look she gives her as she and Pete walk up from the
beach.

‘There you are – just in time for the sing-song; but it’ll have to be inside, unless we all want to end up with frostbite.’

And the half-dozen who are left gather around Dominic’s fire and Pete plays songs that everyone knows, and Lizzie looks into the fire and pretends to join in.

The Kitchen is being transformed.

After hours of deliberating and negotiating and trawling through colour charts and rejecting umpteen of each other’s ideas, Lizzie and Angela finally agree on a rich terracotta for the
walls and a warm yellowy-cream for the windowsills. When they come to their decision, Angela sits back in relief. ‘Thank goodness for that; I have to say it was a lot easier last time round,
when I only had myself to please –’ She spots Deirdre coming into the room and adds hastily, ‘And you, of course, pet.’ Deirdre makes a face at her and crosses to the
sink.