two little pots, one of basil, one of mint. ‘To get you going; you can start your own off later.’
And every night, in a small act of rebellion, Lizzie has a glass or two of wine with her dinner.
Another local she’s come across on her travels is Maggie Delaney, the middle-aged widow who owns Blooming Miracles, Merway’s small but well-stocked garden centre. Maggie is barely
five feet tall but for some reason everyone around Merway calls her Big Maggie.
Angela has told Lizzie that Tom Delaney, eight years older than Maggie, dropped dead of a massive heart attack three years to the day after walking her down the aisle. ‘They were having
dinner in the hotel to celebrate their anniversary, and Tom was dead before they got to the main course; just dropped like a stone into his soup, the creature.’ He was thirty-nine; Maggie
never remarried.
Lizzie often goes into Blooming Miracles; she loves fresh flowers, and keeps the caravan well stocked. She adores the moist, scented air that rushes to meet her as soon as she opens the door and
steps down into the shop, past the pot plants and seed-packets and buckets of whatever flowers are on sale. She watches Maggie’s hands wrapping her selection in pale-blue tissue paper.
‘You must love being in this atmosphere, Maggie, surrounded by gorgeous scents all day.’
Big Maggie looks up from the flowers. ‘Oh, indeed I do, Lizzie; I couldn’t live without my greenery. I’d just curl up and die if I was hemmed in by brick walls and nothing
growing.’
Angela has warned Lizzie not to be too chatty in Blooming Miracles. ‘If you think I’m a gossip, you ain’t heard nothing yet. Anything you say to Maggie will be all over Merway
in the morning, you can be sure. Just watch what you tell her.’
So Lizzie answers all Maggie’s questions cautiously – she’s not sure how long she’ll be around, really; no, it was nothing major that made her move here, just looking for
a change; no, she didn’t know anyone here before she came; yes, the B&B is very cosy altogether, lovely. Yes, she’ll probably look around for a job if she decides to stay.
She doesn’t mention the caravan to Big Maggie, although she doesn’t imagine that it’ll stay a secret for long in Merway. Someone is bound to see her coming and going from it at
some stage.
She meets Nuala and Ríodhna, the farming sisters who deliver their organic produce to Angela and to Ripe, the fruit-and-veg shop with the gorgeous carving over the door. They always have
time for a few words as they unload their deliveries.
‘Where did you get that lovely scarf, Lizzie? . . . Ah no, don’t tell me that came from a charity shop, I can’t believe it; you have such an eye for these things . . .
Ríodhna, look at Lizzie’s scarf – isn’t it just like the one you were raving about in that place in Seapoint the other day? You won’t believe what Lizzie paid for it.
Go on, guess – you won’t believe it. You’ll be sick when you hear.’
On the Tuesday of her second week in Merway, Lizzie opens the door of Ripe. A man comes out from the back and smiles at her. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi – I’m looking for lemons.’ She’s decided to go for it and try making a lemon tart in the caravan. Might as well see what that oven is capable of. Mind you, if
she’s planning to bake for a living she’ll need one a lot bigger. She might have to have a little word with Angela about using her kitchen when it’s free. It’s either that
or move somewhere else; and the longer she lives in the caravan, the more she loves it. Surely they’ll be able to come to some arrangement – Angela is so easy-going about everything
else.
‘Lemons – just over there.’ His eyes are very blue; vivid, you’d call them. Nice smile, too. There’s no one else in the shop, and Lizzie feels she should say
something as she puts a few lemons into a bag.
She thinks of the name over the door; that’ll do. ‘I love the sign outside, by
And every night, in a small act of rebellion, Lizzie has a glass or two of wine with her dinner.
Another local she’s come across on her travels is Maggie Delaney, the middle-aged widow who owns Blooming Miracles, Merway’s small but well-stocked garden centre. Maggie is barely
five feet tall but for some reason everyone around Merway calls her Big Maggie.
Angela has told Lizzie that Tom Delaney, eight years older than Maggie, dropped dead of a massive heart attack three years to the day after walking her down the aisle. ‘They were having
dinner in the hotel to celebrate their anniversary, and Tom was dead before they got to the main course; just dropped like a stone into his soup, the creature.’ He was thirty-nine; Maggie
never remarried.
Lizzie often goes into Blooming Miracles; she loves fresh flowers, and keeps the caravan well stocked. She adores the moist, scented air that rushes to meet her as soon as she opens the door and
steps down into the shop, past the pot plants and seed-packets and buckets of whatever flowers are on sale. She watches Maggie’s hands wrapping her selection in pale-blue tissue paper.
‘You must love being in this atmosphere, Maggie, surrounded by gorgeous scents all day.’
Big Maggie looks up from the flowers. ‘Oh, indeed I do, Lizzie; I couldn’t live without my greenery. I’d just curl up and die if I was hemmed in by brick walls and nothing
growing.’
Angela has warned Lizzie not to be too chatty in Blooming Miracles. ‘If you think I’m a gossip, you ain’t heard nothing yet. Anything you say to Maggie will be all over Merway
in the morning, you can be sure. Just watch what you tell her.’
So Lizzie answers all Maggie’s questions cautiously – she’s not sure how long she’ll be around, really; no, it was nothing major that made her move here, just looking for
a change; no, she didn’t know anyone here before she came; yes, the B&B is very cosy altogether, lovely. Yes, she’ll probably look around for a job if she decides to stay.
She doesn’t mention the caravan to Big Maggie, although she doesn’t imagine that it’ll stay a secret for long in Merway. Someone is bound to see her coming and going from it at
some stage.
She meets Nuala and Ríodhna, the farming sisters who deliver their organic produce to Angela and to Ripe, the fruit-and-veg shop with the gorgeous carving over the door. They always have
time for a few words as they unload their deliveries.
‘Where did you get that lovely scarf, Lizzie? . . . Ah no, don’t tell me that came from a charity shop, I can’t believe it; you have such an eye for these things . . .
Ríodhna, look at Lizzie’s scarf – isn’t it just like the one you were raving about in that place in Seapoint the other day? You won’t believe what Lizzie paid for it.
Go on, guess – you won’t believe it. You’ll be sick when you hear.’
On the Tuesday of her second week in Merway, Lizzie opens the door of Ripe. A man comes out from the back and smiles at her. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi – I’m looking for lemons.’ She’s decided to go for it and try making a lemon tart in the caravan. Might as well see what that oven is capable of. Mind you, if
she’s planning to bake for a living she’ll need one a lot bigger. She might have to have a little word with Angela about using her kitchen when it’s free. It’s either that
or move somewhere else; and the longer she lives in the caravan, the more she loves it. Surely they’ll be able to come to some arrangement – Angela is so easy-going about everything
else.
‘Lemons – just over there.’ His eyes are very blue; vivid, you’d call them. Nice smile, too. There’s no one else in the shop, and Lizzie feels she should say
something as she puts a few lemons into a bag.
She thinks of the name over the door; that’ll do. ‘I love the sign outside, by
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