The Daisy Picker by Roisin Meaney Read Free Book Online Page B

sent in to practise. She lasted eight weeks, never getting past a stumbling ‘Blue Danube’. Eventually Mammy gave in and stopped the lessons. Now Lizzie
would give anything to be able to play the piano. Or to play anything at all.
    She sees the sign announcing Rockford, and feels disappointed; Pete’s been good company. ‘Here we are. You’ll have to direct me to your friends’ house.’
    He turns back from his rucksack and shakes his head. ‘Hey, no way. The main street’ll be fine. You’ve done enough by bringin’ me here, honest.’
    She looks sternly at him. ‘You’re not exactly dragging me across New York. It’ll take about thirty seconds to bring you wherever it is.’ Rockford straggles along half a
main street and meanders down two little lanes off it. ‘Tell me which way to go – I insist.’
    He grins. ‘OK, thanks a lot. I gotta look out for a store on a corner and go right.’
    They find it and turn; after a hundred yards or so, Pete says, ‘Guess this is it; they said the one with the pump.’
    Lizzie stops and looks at the abandoned cottage he’s pointing at, with the rusty pump at the side.
    ‘No, it can’t be this one.’ He’s got the directions mixed up, or his pals must have moved. Waist-high weeds tumble over themselves in what was probably the front garden
fifty years ago. The roof was once thatched – now it’s more holes than roof. The front door, blue paint peeling away, hangs half off its hinges, leaning outwards. The flaking
whitewashed walls look pretty solid, but that’s about it. A condemned building – no doubt about it. Lizzie pulls in, thinking that they’ll have to go back to the bit of a main
street and enquire.
    But suddenly, incredibly, she notices a wisp of smoke coming from the remains of the chimney – and Pete has already stepped out and is hauling out his backpack. ‘I’m pretty
sure this is it.’
    She sits speechless; how can someone live like this? Then, from behind the house, a man about Pete’s age comes sauntering; one of the potters, presumably. He’s equally skinny and
hairy, with identical jeans and a green army jacket, striding towards the car in big, solid-looking boots – sandals are obviously not the thing in falling-down houses.
    ‘Hey, man, you made it.’
    Pete lets his rucksack drop and they bear-hug, slapping each other’s back. Then they separate and Pete gestures towards Lizzie, still sitting dumbstruck in the car.
    ‘Sure did, thanks to Lizzie, my chauffeur. Lizzie, this is Brett.’
    His pal gives her a ‘Hey’ and lifts his hand. Lizzie says, ‘Hi there,’ and waves back as she starts the engine.
    Pete leans in the car window. ‘Hey, you’ve got no place you gotta be – why don’t you take a few days here in Rockford?’ He turns to Brett. ‘OK if Lizzie stays
a while?’
    Brett smiles the same slow, lazy smile as Pete. ‘No problem.’ He’d probably take in the Irish soccer team if they turned up looking for a few beds for the night.
    Lizzie can imagine the inside of Brett the potter’s house: blankets on the floor, everyone grouped round the fire, looking up at the stars through the hole in the roof. A six-month supply
of pot somewhere handy. Probably all the mice Jones could catch, if he were in any state to run after them.
    For a second she hesitates – Pete strumming his guitar in the firelight
is
pretty tempting – but then forty-one years of four walls and a bed at night kick in. Too much; and
much too soon.
    She smiles at them. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll keep going.’
    Pete leans in and hauls Jones back into the front seat. ‘Hey, big guy, you’d like to stay, wouldn’t you?’ Jones blinks out at him from behind his wire. Pete looks back at
Lizzie.
    ‘You sure we can’t tempt you?’
    No. Not a bit sure. Not at all convinced that I’m doing the right thing. One thing I
am
sure of, though – that old Kentucky woman would stay in a minute. She’d be
out of this car