The Daisy Picker (28 page)

Lizzie smiles. ‘Yes, and look what you ended up with – whitewashed walls, for goodness’ sake, and red windowsills; how clichéd is that? All you were missing was the
thatched roof and the half-door with the chickens running around.’

She looks at Pete, across from her, for support. The table is littered with colour charts – she can hardly see him.

Wisely, Pete chooses not to get involved. ‘Hey, leave me out of this one.’ He looks at the clock on the wall – he never wears a watch – and stands up. ‘Well, you
guys, I’m off to my bed; see you in the morning, Lizzie.’

He’s going to Seapoint with her to get the paint. ‘I’ll be over about ten,’ Lizzie says. ‘I’m lying in tomorrow.’ The B&B is empty tonight, and
Lizzie and Angela intend to take full advantage.

After Deirdre has gone back upstairs, Angela looks at Lizzie. ‘Seeing as we’ve no breakfasts to get up for, what would you say to a little vino?’

Lizzie grins. ‘I’d say hello, little vino.’

When they’re settled with two glasses, Angela holds hers up. ‘To romance.’

It’s so unexpected that Lizzie bursts out laughing. ‘And just which romance would that be?’ Since he moved into Dominic’s, Pete has been equally friendly to both of them;
he’s shown absolutely no sign that he’s attracted to either of them. And there’s no one else on the scene.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Angela says vaguely. ‘I suppose it’s just me putting two and two together and coming up with seventy-nine. Maths were never my strong point.
Just because you’re going to Seapoint with him in the morning, and just because you’ve been spending time in the kitchen with him every afternoon – ’

Lizzie laughs again. ‘He asked me to teach him how to bake, you know that. I’m only doing him a favour. And you said yourself his scones aren’t half bad.’

She looks sideways at Angela. ‘Anyway, who’s to say Pete’s interested in
me
? He could just as easily fall for you; he sees you nearly as often.’

It’s Angela’s turn to laugh. ‘Me – a divorcée-to-be, saddled with a teenager? Cop yourself on; any man would run a mile.’ She smiles ruefully.
‘It’d be nice, though – an old cuddle at night, a bit of how’s-your-father . . . I miss that.’

Watching her topping up their glasses, Lizzie wonders if Angela is truly over John. How long does it take to recover from a marriage of so many years? Does she ever think about him?

Maybe a fling with Pete is just what she needs. Maybe it’s just what they both need. Lizzie hasn’t laid eyes on Joe McCarthy since the night of the barbecue; she’s avoided Ripe
like the plague, and luckily she hasn’t bumped into him anywhere else.

Yes, a fling would certainly be welcome right now. Maybe they could share Pete; he probably wouldn’t object.

Three days later, Lizzie watches as Pete puts the finishing touches to the front wall of the restaurant. ‘What’s that, Jones?’ She bends her head towards the
giant ball of ginger fur in her arms. ‘He missed a bit? Oh, you’re right – I see it. D’you think we should tell him?’

Pete manages to wave the paintbrush threateningly at them without turning around or falling off his ladder. ‘Careful there, Jones – you might end up a different colour,
buddy.’

He hasn’t missed any bits. On the contrary, he’s making a very good job of the painting – and he’s clean, too: there are very few drops on the plastic sheet he’s
spread on the ground beneath him. He’s dressed in what have to be his oldest jeans – more patches than jeans, and so faded they’re almost white. His light-grey checked flannel
shirt is faded too, and the sleeves are rolled up above his elbows. His feet are in his sandals, even this late in the year, and they’re deeply tanned, like his arms.

Altogether he’s extremely fanciable, up on that ladder. Lizzie wonders whether she fancies him. She’s fond of him – who wouldn’t be? he’s so easygoing and pleasant
– but that’s not the same thing.

Maggie Delaney called around earlier and arranged for Pete to come and see her flat as soon as he’s finished this job; obviously she liked the look of what he was doing here. Seems like
he’ll be around a while. Plenty of time for him to grow on her.

‘Pete, what I really came to say was that dinner’s ready.’ He’s being fed in The Kitchen while he’s doing the painting.

‘Great – I’m starvin’.’ He gives a final dab at the corner, then comes down from the ladder, covers the paint pot carefully and wraps a plastic bag tightly around
the brush. ‘I’ll head home and clean up, and see you guys in a couple minutes, OK?’

Lizzie looks after him as he ambles down the road holding the paint and the brush. So fanciable . . . Then she puts Jones down and they walk around to the back of the restaurant.

‘Anyone home?’

Lizzie drops her bag inside the back door and goes through the kitchen into the hall. It’s just after half seven; Angela’s usually around at this time on a Sunday night, cookery
books and menus spread out on the table in front of her, portable TV on in the corner, getting organised for the week ahead with half an eye on
Coronation Street.

The house seems deserted; the door into the restaurant is locked, there’s no sound from upstairs. Deirdre’s probably out – they hardly see her these days. Lizzie shrugs and
heads back into the kitchen; she’ll unpack and freshen up – Angela’s bound to be back soon. Maybe she ran out of milk and headed down to the shop.

As she dries off after her shower, Lizzie thinks about the weekend she’s just spent with Mammy. She’s still lonely for Daddy, of course – they both are – and she’s
definitely quieter than she was before; but she seems to be coping well enough.

Lizzie called over to Claire next door while Mammy was lying down on Saturday afternoon – something she started to do after Daddy died – and Claire insisted on bringing her in for
coffee.

‘She’s out and about a fair bit, Lizzie; she visits the grave most mornings. She seems in good enough spirits when I meet her. I don’t think you need to worry. It’s early
days yet; it’ll take a while for her.’

They went to the grave on Sunday morning. Lizzie had bought two little variegated holly bushes in pots from Big Maggie, and she positioned them on either side of the O’Grady headstone.

‘They look nice,’ Mammy said. ‘He’d have liked those in the garden.’ Then she bent her head and started whispering words. Lizzie thought about Daddy leading her as
a child around the garden to show her the new plants coming up, teaching her how to say ‘dahlia’ and ‘cyclamen’ and ‘primrose’, marking off a patch for her to
plant bulbs in autumn, rubbing a mint leaf between his hands and letting her sniff it. Bringing her by the hand to join the library when she was barely able to read. Teaching her how to brush her
teeth. Helping her with her homework . . . How lucky she’d been to have him.

Later Mammy stood under an umbrella waving her off, looking small and old and very alone. Rose was due in two days to stay for a week or so. Driving back to Merway, Lizzie decided to phone home
while Rose is there, to see how she thinks Mammy is doing.

She’s just finished dressing when the door of the caravan opens.

‘Lizzie?’ Angela calls. ‘Are you there?’

‘In here – just coming.’ Lizzie opens the bedroom door and nearly collides with her.

‘Dee’s missing.’ Her face is chalk-white; her hands, as they grab Lizzie’s wrists tightly, are icy cold.

‘What? Angela, hang on – she’s probably –’

Angela shakes her head impatiently. ‘No, no, no, she’s gone, she’s been gone all day – I’ve phoned all her friends, she’s not with any of them. I’ve
just come from the McCoys’ – I could only get the answering machine, and I thought maybe – but she’s not there, she’s nowhere, I can’t find her . . .’ Her
words are tumbling over one another; when she stops talking, her lips tremble.

She drops Lizzie’s wrists and puts her hands up to her face. ‘God, where is she? Where is she, Lizzie?’

‘Hang on – have you tried her mobile?’ Lizzie says calmly, taking her by the arm. She’s surprised that Angela has worked herself into such a state; isn’t Deirdre
always off out with her pals?

Angela takes her hands down from her face and blinks. ‘Her phone is switched off. None of her friends have seen her all day . . . Oh God, Lizzie, what’ll I do? What if
something’s happened her? She’s still only fifteen – oh God –’ Tears fill her eyes; she puts a hand back to her mouth.

‘Angela, I’m sure she’s OK.’ As if she could possibly be sure of that, having been away all weekend. But Angela is watching her and nodding, desperate for reassurance,
tears running down her face.

Lizzie speaks firmly. ‘Look, she’s sensible, Angela. She wouldn’t do anything stupid. She’s probably trying to get hold of you right now to tell you she’s fine.
Maybe her mobile is out of credit – did you think of that? I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.’

She racks her brains for something else to say, anything to calm Angela. ‘She might have had a date, not told you because she was afraid you wouldn’t approve . . .’

But Angela is shaking her head rapidly. ‘She wouldn’t do that – she’s no interest in boys yet. Have you ever seen her with one?’

Suddenly Lizzie thinks of Charlie and Deirdre, outside the chip shop in Seapoint, a few weeks ago. She immediately decides not to mention it – the state Angela’s in, she’d
definitely hit the roof if his name came up. And there’s no way Deirdre would be daft enough to have anything to do with someone like him; he was probably just trying to impress her that day,
the creep.

She begins to steer Angela towards the caravan door. ‘Look, let’s go up to the house and try and figure out . . . ’ What? She hasn’t a clue what the next step should be.
But, if nothing else, the house will be warmer – and it’s where Deirdre will surely turn up before long, wherever she is.

In the kitchen, Lizzie sits Angela at the table and takes the chair beside her. Thank goodness there are no meals to cook tonight, and no one staying over. ‘Now, when did you last see
her?’

‘This morning,’ Angela says, sounding distracted. ‘She left here early, about nine – said she was going to spend the day with her pal Judy. She brought a bag with her
– I assumed it was the make-up kit . . . And she’s done that before – gone to Judy’s for the day, I mean – so I thought no more about it . . .’

Suddenly she pushes back her chair and stands. ‘She wasn’t back by six, so I phoned to see if she wanted a lift home –’ She paces the floor, pulling at her hair.
‘– Judy lives about a mile and a half away . . . No answer from her mobile, so I called Judy’s house. She never went there – Judy was there all day, she never saw her . . .
’

She’s starting to get frantic again. ‘Since then I’ve been phoning, and going, and – what’ll I do, Lizzie?’ She paces rapidly, hands balled into fists,
breathing ragged.

Lizzie has to ask. ‘Have you phoned John?’ Maybe Deirdre went to him, for some reason. And if she didn’t, he should be told that she’s missing.

Angela looks at her, blankly at first, then with dawning understanding. ‘You think he’s taken her.’ There’s something new in her voice that makes Lizzie nervous.

‘What? No, of course not – I just thought she might have –’ But Angela is already in the hall. She grabs the phone and punches numbers. She waits, mouth tight; then
– ‘It’s me. Is Deirdre with you?’

Lizzie watches her face as John speaks. It goes from fear to impatience – ‘Obviously I know that; have you seen her since then?’ – to anger – ‘I
wouldn’t be asking you if I knew’ – and back to fear: ‘Not since this morning, about nine – she said she . . .’ Her shoulders slump; after a minute she says,
‘Right,’ in an empty voice and hangs up.

They go back into the kitchen and Angela leans against the worktop. ‘He’s coming over. He hasn’t seen her since Saturday week.’ Lizzie remembers John calling to take
Deirdre out, for the first time in ages. He didn’t come in, like he used to, just sat in the car till she came out to him. But at least he came for her. And she came back from Seapoint with
the new boots that she’d wanted for ages.

Angela is biting her nails – Lizzie doesn’t remember ever seeing her do that before. She takes her hand gently.

‘Have you checked to see if she took anything with her – in that bag, I mean? Let’s go upstairs and see.’ She may as well keep Angela busy doing something –
it’s better than sitting and brooding herself into another state.

Angela nods, and they go up to Deirdre’s room together.

Lizzie has never been inside it; it’s smaller than Angela’s but brighter, at the back of the house. It’s got the usual teenage things: posters of young people who look vaguely
familiar to Lizzie; a dressing-table scattered with make-up and brushes and bits of sponges and cotton-wool balls; clothes hanging over the back of a chair, more thrown in a bundle in a corner,
shoes in an untidy pile beside the half-open wardrobe door; a shabby-looking blue furry rabbit sitting on the pillow; some books stacked on the chest of drawers, more on the floor beside the
bed.

Lizzie takes Angela’s arm and guides her to the wardrobe. ‘Look and see if you can tell what’s missing – any clothes, or shoes maybe . . .’ She glances out the
window – it’s pitch-dark by now – and feels a stirring of panic herself. ‘I’ll go and get some paper and we’ll make a list.’