The Oyster Catcher (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

‘Here’s your tea, sorry for the wait.’

I jump like I’ve been caught red-handed. The café owner is standing beside me, tea in hand. I quickly minimize Brian’s page, promising not look at Facebook again, ever! I brush away the wetness from my boiling cheeks with the palm of my hand. I sniff, hoping he thinks it’s a cold, and try not to look directly at him.

‘Good on that are you?’ He uses the hand holding the tea to gesture at the computer. ‘I haven’t a clue about the world wide web. It’s all passed me by.’ He shakes his head. ‘Now then, a scone to go with your tea?’ He puts his free hand on his waist and his belly, covered in a big white wrap-around apron, sticks out even more.

I shake my head. He’s being kind but I can’t trust myself to speak without my voice cracking and making a total fool of myself … again. It wasn’t long ago I was standing on the steps of the Garda station in nothing but a cut-down wedding dress. Blubbing now would really give the waiting audience something to talk about. In fact I feel like a guest waiting in the wings to go on the Jeremy Kyle show.

‘That’s two euro then, for the tea,’ he says putting my tea on the corner of the table and turning towards the till. I stand up and rummage in the big pocket of my waterproof jacket and take out my last note. I could try and draw some cash from our joint bank account but that would be a sure-fire way of Brian tracking me down.

I follow the café owner to the till, carrying my hot take-out tea. All eyes follow me and I find it hard to swallow or breathe. I stand at the counter and focus on a plastic plant that appears to be for sale for 20 cents, while the café owner rummages for change for a fifty.

‘Won’t be a mo’,’ he says cheerily and goes off into the back room. Oh no, not again! How hard can it be just to get a tea and leave? I focus hard on the photos on the walls. They’re of the café owner with a woman, neither of them smiling. My eyes are stinging but looking up at the pictures stops more tears from rolling out of them. Finally, the café owner reappears, just like in Mr Benn. I take my change without looking at it and pour it into my pocket, only my blurred vision makes my aim a bit off and some of the coins fall to the floor. I bob down quickly, chasing them as they spin round. As I’m peeling the last one off the floor a shadow falls over me and someone hands me a coin.

‘Here,’ says a young woman’s voice.

I look up. It’s the barmaid from the pub.

‘Thanks.’ I take the coin, straighten myself up and dust myself down. The barmaid is staring boldly at me with an interested smile. Grace peers round the open door. There’s a shaft of sunlight pushing though the watery path the rain’s left behind on the pavement outside. I stick my head down and attempt to side-step her hoping she doesn’t want to make small talk.

‘Grandad, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she says and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been let off the small talk.

‘So you’re the joy-rider they’re all talking about?’ she says as boldly as she looks at me.

The café goes silent.

Slowly I turn to look at her. The joy rider! Wasn’t it bad enough the camper-van company representative had referred to me as ‘the jilted bride’ when he’d turned up to reclaim it. The Garda said I’d stolen the camper van, but I thought it was still rented to me. I didn’t know Brian had called the company to tell them of ‘a change of plan’. Typical Brian, always organised. So now I’m the jilted bride and a joy-rider. I just want to be left alone!

‘I’m not a joy-rider. It was a misunderstanding,’ I say quietly.

There’s a murmur around the café.

‘She says she’s not a joy-rider, it was a misunderstanding!’ Freda shouts into John Joe’s whistling hearing aid.

‘And is it true you’ve moved in with Sean Thornton?’ She folds her arms like the bully in the school yard.

I take a deep breath. I’m shaking. I can’t bear being the centre of attention, singled out.

‘Yes,’ I say quietly again, hoping this will clear everything up. ‘I’m working for him. Now if you’ll excuse me please.’ I try to get round her again. Again she shifts in front of me.

‘So, you’re not staying with him as in staying with him then?’ she continues.

I want to say ‘Who I stay with and where is none of your business.’ But I don’t. That’s not my style. Head-on conflict was never my thing.

‘Two-timer!’ Grandad pipes up.

‘No, that’s not his girlfriend in the car, it’s his dealer!’ Mad Frank corrects him.

‘Is it? A dealer? In the black BMW?’ Freda reels off the number plate.

I go to make a quick escape. She side-steps me again, just moving Grandad’s wheelchair a tad so I’m wrong-footed. Only this time I’m so determined to make it that I crash straight into her, my tea plunges to the floor, soaking me and forming a great big puddle around me.

‘Lift, Maire,’ Freda instructs and her and her friend lift their feet with precision timing looking like two scared meerkats. I notice Maire is wearing floral wellies. Tepid tea drips from my hands and down my front. The barmaid’s hands fly to her mouth and in all fairness she looks horrified by her actions.

‘Oh God! I’m so sorry,’ she says, grabbing a cloth from the café owner’s waistband. He’s arrived with a mop and bucket and starts swilling the tea around. The barmaid is trying to mop me down. My eyes may have shown a rare flash of fury.

‘I really am sorry’ she says. ‘Let me get you another. Here sit down,’ she points to an empty seat. The café begins to empty as the café owner cleans up. The smell of bleach is too much for some.

‘No, really I’m fine.’ I brush away the barmaid’s dabbing hands in my attempt to leave.

‘No, you can’t go, not like that. Here, Gerald, get another tea there and a bun,’ she instructs.

‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, but  no one seems to be listening to me.

‘But not one of Freda’s scones,’ she calls to Gerald and then, checking that Freda has actually left, says more quietly to me, ‘They taste of fish,’ and smiles. I look at her for a moment and wonder if I’ve heard her right and then, I can’t help it, I laugh. Maybe it’s some kind of nervous reaction, an emotional release but Freda’s scones tasting of fish just makes me laugh. The barmaid joins in too, suddenly all her confrontation seems to have disappeared like the rain.

‘That’s better,’ she smiles, showing her neat white teeth. ‘Now, bring the tea over Gerald. I’m sooooo sorry,’ she repeats in her husky voice, like she’s been smoking roll-up cigarettes all her life.

She guides me to a seat and I realise resistance is futile. Apart from anything, I still haven’t had a cup of tea this morning! I look at the clock. I have to be back soon. Sean will be home and the tide will be out. Strange, I think, how quickly my life is being led by the tides. The barmaid sidles in opposite me.

‘Sorry,’ she repeats again only this time I don’t think she’s talking about the tea. ‘I didn’t mean to come on so strong there. It’s just not often we get blow-ins and young ones at that.’

‘Don’t worry, love, I was the last blow in, came from Dublin 20 years ago,’ Gerald joins in with a whoosh from the urn, ‘they still think I’m the newcomer.’ He comes over and sets down the tea. ‘They’ll find something new to interest them soon enough. Just tell them your name and where you’ve come from and how long you’re planning to stay and they’ll leave you alone after that.’ He gives the table a swift wipe and adjusts a pair of reading glasses on the shelf next to me. ‘Now then, scone?’ he asks and I look at the barmaid and we both laugh. I shake my head and he wanders back behind the counter looking puzzled.

‘Jeez, Gerald. We keep telling you, they taste of fish!’ the girl shouts after him playfully. Gerald picks up a scone and sniffs it.

‘It’s you! It’s your tastebuds!’ he bats back.

I smile at the banter and take a sip of the tea. It’s fabulous. Not like the tea at home which is usually just wet and warm. This really tastes of tea.

‘You look like you needed that. I’m Margaret, remember? We met in the pub.’ She sticks out a hand; her nails are painted bright blue. I remember what Gerald said, tell them your name, where you’re from, and how long you’re staying, and then they’ll leave you alone.

‘I’m Fi, Fi English. I’m from the UK. Just staying for a month or so,’ I say hoping that will be enough.

‘Any you and Sean, you’re not …?’

I shake my head.

‘Great!’ she says. ‘Just like to know the competition, if you know what I mean,’ she’s grinning broadly, clearly besotted with my prickly boss.

I knock back the rest of my tea feeling surprisingly revived. ‘Thanks for the tea.’ I start to stand up. ‘And the scone advice,’ I smile and Gerald gives us a scowl quickly followed by a smile.

‘Working with Sean then?’ Margaret persists.

‘That’s right.’ Grace is whining impatiently now.

‘Oyster farmer, are you?’ She stirs her tea with a plastic spoon.

‘No, I’m more of a Girl Friday. Doing a bit of everything.’ Having given the locals all they wanted I do up my coat. Now I can go back to the farm and get on with my work.

‘What’s your star sign?’ she asks cheerily.

I shrug.

‘I’m not sure.’

She sighs good-naturedly.

‘Well, when’s your birthday?’

‘August 21st.’ This is a bit more than my name and where I’m from.

‘Leo! Brilliant!’ Margaret bangs the table. ‘Just what we need around here. A leader. Someone who can take charge. You can be on our committee,’ she beams at me.

‘Com – committee? What committee?’

‘The Dooleybridge Events Committee. This used to be a popular holiday stop. Couldn’t move for traffic in the summer. Now the traffic’s all one way, out of here. We want to put Dooleybridge back on the map. Something to bring the crowds, like the Volvo Yacht Race or Band Aid. Only trouble is we haven’t actually come up with any events yet. But we will,’ she beams again.

‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ I stutter. ‘I’m not really the committee type, besides I really won’t be here that long.’

‘Oh just come along. We’re a friendly bunch and we meet every week. Come to the pub, next Monday, 7 o’clock. Bring some ideas! You might as well be there while they talk about you, instead of them talking behind your back.’ She sips her tea with a smile. I do up my coat and hurry for the door. ‘I’ll let the others know,’ Margaret calls after me.

Chapter Twelve

Sean’s waiting for me and he’s not happy.

‘Come on, tides won’t wait y’know,’ he barks and I run to get my boots with Grace following close behind.

‘Thought you’d run out on me again,’ Sean says as we march towards the water. He gives me a sideways glance from under his scowling eyebrows, like he doesn’t trust me.

‘Just went to the café for tea,’ I try and keep up. ‘Got the third degree.’

‘Ah.’ He rolls back his head, understanding.

We reach the tractor.

‘Don’t take any notice of the nosy beggars. Don’t tell them anything either,’ he says his eyebrows lifting a little. He tosses the keys up in the air and catches them. ‘Suppose they wanted to know your life story?’

I think about Margaret. It wasn’t so much my life story she was after, but more his. She’s obviously in love with him. She seemed quite harmless in the end. And she really wants do something for her town. That didn’t seem like such a bad thing to want to do. I’ve never been in one place long enough to feel strongly about its future. I quite liked that about her. She’s obviously a girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, not tucked in the back of the wardrobe like me.

‘Actually they asked me to join their committee,’ I say defending Margaret.

‘A committee? What kind of a committee?’ Sean is doing up his waterproof jacket.

‘The Dooleybridge Events Committee,’ I say, suddenly wishing I hadn’t.

‘An events committee? Here in Dooleybridge?’ Sean throws back his head and laughs. ‘I’ve heard it all now. That’s like saying we need a committee to deal with our drought conditions!’ He looks up at the drizzling sky and then starts up the tractor and the noise of the engine seems to join in his loud laughter.

He gestures for me to get on the back of the trailer,

‘You’re not going to are you?’ he shouts over the engine noise

‘Not sure,’ I say evasively. Of course I’m not going to go. I’m sure I couldn’t think of any ideas. But, in a funny way, it felt good to be asked. And I don’t like being told what to do. Sean Thornton might be my boss, but he’s not my keeper.

‘Good. I find it better to keep my personal life away from the town, you might find that too. Hold on!’ Sean tells me.

If I want to go to the committee meeting, I think firmly, I will.

For the following week I’m a slave to the pattern of the tides. Some nights Sean is there, others he isn’t. But it’s the same every morning, I get up, feed the donkeys, open the hen house, and try and put the food in the feeder before they tip it over, and each morning I try to out-run Brenda the goose who’s desperate to have a piece of my backside. I’m now clearing the gate in one swift movement. Oh and I’ve named her Brenda after Brian’s mother, who was also beady-eyed and vicious.

The only variety here comes in the different ways in which it can rain; sideways, straight down, drizzle, wispy flecks, icy pellets, and whooshing down and up again. The only other variety is the mornings when Freddie has broken out of the field and I have to run down the lane to get him back with a bucket of pony nuts. Sometimes Mercury is with him, sometimes he stays in the field. But he’s always in the same place, with his lady love.

After sorting the animals we either work in the sheds, cleaning mesh bags and equipment, or in the yard, fitting in the chores around the pattern of the tide. Everything must be spotless for the inspector’s visit. Sean’s cutting the grass with a big old petrol lawnmower and mending fences. I’m painting the window sills and door of the old barn, and we’re ruthlessly clearing any trace of debris.

Then, every day I stand ankle deep in the water while Sean puts back the bags we’ve graded on trestle tables. The area with oysters ready to go to the co-operative is getting fuller by the day. They’ll be collected just after the inspection, at the end of my month’s trial. Once Sean’s put the bags back in the water, he collects more. I stand around trying to look useful but really I’m barely keeping the panic attacks at bay. Then I travel back on the tractor and work my socks off washing and grading them. It’s cold, wet, and makes me ache and I hate every minute of it.

It’s Monday morning and Sean is dressed, drinking coffee, and reading the tide times from a chart laid out on the kitchen table.

I’ve just outrun Brenda the goose and am puffing for breath. He gives me a puzzled look but doesn’t ask.

‘It’s the neap tide,’ he tells me. ‘We won’t get to the oysters this week; the tide won’t go out far enough. I’m at the sailing school. The last lesson finishes at 5, so I’ll be home after that, but there’s not much we can do when the tide’s like this. Just keep an eye on things. We don’t want anything going wrong with the inspection just round the corner, so make sure  no one comes near the place.’

I slide the kettle onto the stove, nodding and rubbing my hands together to warm them up. The front door closes, the empty coffee cup is on the table, and I’m all alone. I put the radio on. It’s Hector. I’m starting to like Hector’s cheery voice.

I throw some more turf on the fire and wonder what to do next. I could walk into town and go to the café. It’s stopped raining and it’s just windy out there. I saw Sean sailing this morning before he went to work, flying along he was.

Just then Grace pushes open the door and with her comes a huge gust of wind and the paper piles on the desk swirl up like the hurricane in the
Wizard of Oz
. I spin around trying to catch them. They dance round me as I run to the door and slam it shut. The papers flutter to the ground and all over Grace, standing in the middle of the mess. There’s only one thing for it. I clear the table of the tide charts, spare rope, and old newspapers. I put the newspapers by the fire in the basket and the rope outside the front door, ready to take to the shed. I’m a bit worried about touching the charts. I look around for something useful to keep them in. When I first moved into my bedsit above Betty’s Buns, I had to make do for everything. But I was used to it. Whenever I moved anywhere new with my mum I always had to make what I could from the boxes we’d used to move. I’d put boxes on top of each other to create a chest of drawers and a crate with towel over it for a bedside table. Now I needed to do something similar for these charts. Then of course I moved into our show-home flat with Brian where everything was new. In a funny way although I didn’t miss having cardboard boxes as a chest of drawers I did miss not being able to make the flat into my home.

After a bit of rummaging around in the kitchen I’ve made a little organiser out of a cereal box and a milk carton. I roll the charts into it and put the whole thing on the window sill. The table is clear. Grace is watching me with a look of interest and puzzlement. I brush my hands together with satisfaction and then turn my attention to all the papers scattered all over the floor, some with large muddy paw prints on them.

I gather them all up on the table. Hector has handed over to Ryan Tubridy on the radio and I find I’m smiling at the banter and chat, as though they have become my friends, only I don’t have to explain anything about my life to them. With all the papers from the floor picked up I look at the desk. I might as well have a go at it all, so I  carry the precarious piles over to the kitchen table as well. I push back the sleeves on my baggy sweat shirt and set about putting them in some kind of order.

I create piles all over the kitchen table. Occasionally I look up, out to sea. The heron is there, as usual, on its rock. It’s such an ungainly bird and yet it seems like part of the landscape now, not out of place like I’d first thought. The rain changes in its ferocity against the window pane and every now and again the sun attempts to push through, until the clouds outnumber it, bullying it away.

I think this job might take up the morning, but I’m nowhere near finished as the sun has one final go at pushing through the clouds as it starts to sink in the sky; but I’m beginning to get a good idea of how Sean’s business is looking. There’s more red ink on these bills than black. There’s income tax and levies, animal feed and generator repairs. There are papers all over the table, the settee, the chairs; some are sorted, some not. I stand up straight and stretch out my stiff back. Sean and I may not have much in common, or even particularly like each other, but for now anyway it looks as if we both at least need each other.

I go out and feed Freddie and Mercury and I’m delighted to find they’re actually in their field. It’s just a small thing but it puts a spring in my step. I give them an extra handful of pony nuts for good behaviour. Perhaps Freddie is finally starting to give up on his lady love.

The chickens have taken themselves off to bed and I slide down their wooden door. Just the geese to go. I grab my stick. I’m keeping my eye on Brenda and she’s keeping her yellow eyes on me.

I crouch down and slowly herd them towards their old stone shed with my stick in one hand. I feel like the bird man, hoping to take off at any minute. I’ve just about got them to the shed when Grace lets out a huge joyous bark and runs towards the lane. There’s a beep of the horn and I turn to see Sean’s red van pulling in through the front gates. As I do Brenda takes her opportunity to launch herself at me, pecking at my shins. I drop my stick and run to gate, mistiming my leap and throwing myself painfully against its bars. I look up to see Sean and Nancy standing watching me. Sean is shaking his head in disbelief and Nancy looks thoroughly amused. I clutch my bruised ribs. I can’t decide which will be worse, staying out here and trying to get Brenda into her shed or going into the cottage where Nancy and Sean will no doubt be laughing at my goosing. Then I remember the paperwork and clutching my sides, run to the cottage after them hoping I can get there before Sean does.