The Daisy Picker (31 page)

‘But – and I know how daft this must sound, believe me – I felt I couldn’t make any move towards you while he was here, acting the way he was. I needed to sort that out
before I . . . started to get involved with anyone.’ Another bashful smile flies across his face, his eyes crinkling slightly.

Before I started to get involved.
Every word he says is music. Lizzie realises that she’s holding her breath, and lets it out slowly. Damn and blast that table between them; only
for it, she’d be all over him. On second thoughts, maybe it’s just as well that it’s there.

For the moment, anyway.

The heat in her hand is travelling up her arm; she feels her neck begin to get hot. She wills him to get to the point before it gets all red and blotchy.

Joe takes a hand away from hers to rub his face again. He looks exhausted; she wonders when was the last time he got any sleep.

‘And now . . . ’ He drops his eyes; she holds her breath again. ‘Well, with everything that’s happened in the last few days . . .’

He pauses again; and suddenly Lizzie decides that she can’t wait any longer.

‘Joe McCarthy – are you or are you not asking me out?’ God, what is it about him that turns her into such a brazen hussy?

He looks at her in amazement. ‘No, Lizzie, of course I’m not asking you out.’

No, you’re not asking me out? Have I made some massive, gigantic mistake here?
She looks at him blankly, heart plummeting.

Then he lifts her hand to his mouth and presses his lips against her palm. ‘Lizzie O’Grady, do you think for one minute I’d be happy with just a date?’

He watches her face as it softens and clears, and he sees the smile begin. ‘I knew the minute I laid eyes on you, that first day you came into Ripe and admired the sign and asked me where
the woodcarver’s shop was – I knew that day that if anything ever happened between us . . . ’ He kisses her palm again, so softly, eyes never leaving her face. ‘. . . it
would be quite . . . momentous.’

Her whole body is melting. His voice is curling around her, wrapping her up. ‘That ridiculous April Fool was worth it just to see your face . . . When you said you’d take the job, I
couldn’t believe my luck . . . Every time you walked into that back room and put on the kettle, I wanted to grab hold of you . . . When you picked up the pieces I was working on, I watched
your hands . . . I couldn’t get your face out of my head; I could hear you laughing when you weren’t there . . . You have no idea what your smile does to me . . .’

And as he speaks she comes around and sits beside him and curls up in his arms and slides her hand between his shirt buttons and feels his chest tighten as she touches it, and shudders at his
mouth on the back of her neck. And then she opens his shirt and tastes his skin and hears him say, ‘Darling Lizzie . . .’

And later, much later, Jones leaves his spot at the bottom of the duvet and pads out of the bedroom, looking for someplace quieter to sleep . . .

And in Dominic’s house Pete dreams of Angela . . .

And in Connemara Deirdre sleeps peacefully, and Angela lies awake in the other bed and watches her . . .

And Mammy sits at the kitchen table in Kilmorris and drinks tea and watches the dawn breaking . . .

And the sea laps up on the pebbles at Merway like it always has, as if nothing at all had happened.

‘Lizzie, would you ever hold still? I can’t stick these feckin’ flowers in your hair if you keep turning your head.’ Angela flaps a white rosebud in
exasperation.

‘Sorry – I’m just admiring Deirdre’s handiwork; she’s brilliant.’ Lizzie flutters her eyelashes – her longer, darker, curlier eyelashes – and puts
a hand up to stroke her smooth, freckle-free cheek. Angela instantly slaps it away – ‘Get off; stop pawing it’ – and rapidly clips another rosebud into the side of
Lizzie’s hair.

Then she stands back and puts her head to one side. ‘Right, I think that’ll do. Stand up till I see you properly.’

But Lizzie stays sitting, watching her in the mirror. ‘Angela – did you ever think you’d see the day? Really, now?’

Angela grins back at her. ‘Listen, girl, didn’t I always tell you I’d fix you up in Merway? You should have listened to Auntie Angela.’

Lizzie laughs. ‘Hey, you didn’t have anything to do with it; I got him all by myself.’

‘No way.’ Angela shakes her head firmly. ‘I had a quiet little word with him, told him what a good catch you were – a wife who’d bake for her husband all day long
– not to mention the novenas I sent up to Saint Jude on your behalf.’

Wife. Husband.
The words sound unreal, as if they belong to another language – one that Lizzie has never learnt to speak fluently. But today she’s becoming a wife –
and getting a husband.

She turns and looks out the window. The wind rattles the glass, the rain lashes against the panes.

Perfect. Everything’s perfect.

‘But seriously, Lizzie . . . are you really sure you know what you’re doing? I mean’ – Angela puts up a hand as Lizzie starts to speak – ‘some people might
say you’re rushing into it; it’s not as if you’ve known him a long time, really.’

Lizzie looks at her in the mirror – is she pulling her leg? ‘I know him well over a year.’

Angela sighs. ‘Yes, dear, but remember your last relationship. How many years was it again?’ She’s as good as Joe with the poker face.

Lizzie swivels in her chair and gives her a dig in the ribs. ‘Drink your champagne and shut up.’

‘All right, dear.’ Angela blinks innocently back at her before picking up her champagne glass from the dressing-table and draining it. ‘Yum.’

‘Here’s to lucky escapes, and short engagements,’ Lizzie says. She tips back her glass and swallows the cold, delicious bubbles; then she stands up.

Angela divides the last of the champagne between their glasses, then puts out a hand and tweaks at Lizzie’s dress. ‘Aren’t you glad I made you buy it?’

It’s white, with giant splashes of mauve and turquoise flowers, and it falls gently from the deep V of the neckline to just above her ankles. It’s not too fitted, not too full, with
sheer sleeves that hug her arms and end just below her elbows. She feels like a bride in it.

Around her neck she wears Granny’s single pearl, on a thin gold chain, that Mammy wore on her wedding day. She has little white kitten-heeled shoes on her feet, and five tiny white
rosebuds from Big Maggie in her hair.

There’s a rap on the bedroom door. ‘Lizzie, are you ready?’ Mammy puts her head around the door; she’s unfamiliar in her pale-peach suit and little pillbox hat, and
lipstick, which she rarely wears.

‘Mrs O’Grady, you look absolutely gorgeous,’ Angela says, hugging Mammy. ‘And what do you think of the bride?’

‘I think she’s beautiful.’ Mammy smiles as her eyes fill with tears, and Lizzie pulls a tissue from the box on the dressing-table and hands it to her. Mammy’s been
tearful all morning, since she handed over Granny’s pearl at breakfast.

She’s not the only one who keeps remembering Daddy; Lizzie would have loved him to walk her up the aisle – or, in this case, up the passage between the chairs in the sitting
room.

When Lizzie found the courage to tell Mammy they wanted to get married in the house, Mammy looked at her in disbelief.

‘What – you don’t want a church wedding?’ Her expression wasn’t encouraging.

Lizzie hastened to explain that of course she wanted Father Lehane to marry them – it wasn’t the religious ceremony she was avoiding. ‘But it would be so much more . . .
meaningful, here where I grew up – and where . . .’ She spoke carefully, not wanting to upset Mammy any more. ‘. . . I feel Daddy is still here, in a way . . . And we could suit
ourselves about the day, and the time – provided Father Lehane is free, of course – and maybe do a little sherry reception beforehand?’ That might sway her – Mammy loved her
Bristol Cream.

And she finally agreed, if a little doubtfully. Julia O’Gorman was sent an invitation – Tony and his new wife were not, of course – and so were Claire and Peter from next door,
and Aunt Rose and a few other uncles and aunts, and one cousin who lived three streets away, and of course a group from Merway, who all booked into the Kilmorris House Hotel for the night.

Lizzie made the cake – a rich, rum-soaked fruitcake, just one tier – and she and Angela spent yesterday morning walloping pots in the kitchen, stopping only to call Mammy in for
ham-and-cream-cheese rolls at lunchtime. Then Angela shooed them both out of the kitchen for the afternoon, and they spent it cleaning the rest of the house and borrowing chairs and glasses from
the neighbours. Then they all went out for dinner to a new steak restaurant – Mammy’s choice. Lizzie was just happy that she hadn’t chosen O’Gorman’s.

Now the fridge is full of food, the dining-room table is covered with borrowed bowls and plates and dishes and platters, Angela and Lizzie are finishing off a bottle of champagne in the bedroom,
and eighteen people full of Bristol Cream are down in the sitting room waiting for Lizzie to come and get married.

Mammy has disappeared again, after being assured that they’ll be right down, when there’s another tap on the door. Angela goes over and opens it.

‘Lizzie, it’s time.’ She fusses for a minute with Lizzie’s hair, then hands her the little bouquet of lilac and white freesias. ‘Right – knock ’em
dead.’

Lizzie takes a last sip of champagne and goes out to Pete on the landing.

He’s dressed in a shirt that looks blue-white against his tan, and chinos that she hasn’t seen before. He’s shaved and cut his hair for the occasion; but Lizzie knows, by the
look she gave it when she saw it, that Mammy still considers it too long.

He looks at Lizzie and whistles. ‘Hey, you look great.’ Then he puts out his arm. ‘Ready?’

She nods – ‘Ready’ – and takes his arm.

Angela comes out of the bedroom. ‘Hey, what about me?’

Pete puts his other arm around her shoulders and kisses her. ‘You look beautiful too, honey.’ Angela smiles, and steps back to let them walk downstairs ahead of her.

At the door into the sitting room they pause. Deirdre presses a button on the CD player; ‘Here Comes the Bride’ begins to play, and everyone turns and looks at Lizzie and smiles. She
and Pete walk slowly towards the other side of the room, and the scent of the flowers Maggie Delaney brought mixes with perfumes and sherry, and Julia O’Gorman puts an arm around Mammy, and
Aunt Rose takes a photo.

And there, standing between Father Lehane and Mammy’s china cabinet, Joe McCarthy is waiting for her.

‘Blast.’ The handful of confetti that Angela has thrown is scooped up by the wind and carried high into the sky. Pete takes the box from her – ‘Hey, do
it right, lady’ – and empties what’s left of it over the heads of Joe and Lizzie McCarthy, as they stand brazenly kissing on the side of the road in Kilmorris for everyone to
see.

They draw apart, laughing and shaking the tiny coloured horseshoes and crescent moons and hearts from their hair, but Joe keeps an arm around Lizzie’s waist. Angela looks at him and
thinks,
He can’t bear to let her go
, and prays that it’ll always be like that.

She drapes an arm over Joe’s shoulder like she always used to – how could she ever have thought he wouldn’t forgive her? – and wags a finger across him at Lizzie.

‘You do realise, don’t you, that you’re making off with the only eligible bachelor that Merway had to offer?’

The smile that’s been on Lizzie’s face for the last hour widens. ‘I don’t see why that should bother you,’ she says, looking significantly at Pete, who’s just
said something to make Mammy and Rose laugh; such a charmer.

Angela follows her gaze and watches him fondly for a minute. ‘Yeah, I’m not complaining.’ Then she turns back to Joe and Lizzie. ‘Now remember, you two – no
disappearing off into the sunset forever. You have two weeks, then it’s back to work.’

Lizzie salutes with the hand that’s not pressed against Joe’s side. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

They’re going to Greece, because Joe remembered her saying she’d always wanted to see it. They’ve found a travel company that sends people to some of the tiny islands, and
they’ve got a house on the tiniest they could find. Lizzie imagines them sitting on a whitewashed balcony, surrounded by bougainvillea and jasmine, eating fat olives and feta cheese and
sipping ouzo and watching the sun staining the sky red as it sinks slowly over the sea. And she knows that, even if it isn’t a bit like that, she’ll still love every minute.