The Oyster Catcher (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

‘What the hell has been going on here?!’ I hear Sean roaring before I’m even at the cottage.

‘I can explain!’ I say throwing myself in through the door. Nancy is blocking my path. I wonder if I should start with ‘you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelette’. But I don’t think he’s in a listening mood. But then Sean doesn’t listen, he just roars.

‘I pay you to work on my farm, not to go through my personal things. You’re here to help with the oysters, get ready for the inspection, and look after the animals, although by the looks of it, you’re not doing a very good job of that.’

Incensed, I start trying to tell him that I’m doing a perfectly good job, thank you very much, but my tongue ties itself in knots and my mouth just opens and closes. In fact, I’m so furious, I’m speechless.

‘Well, we can’t stay here tonight,’ says Nancy. ‘We’ll have to go back to mine.’ There is a tight smile in the corner of her mouth that tells me she’s relieved. Sean tuts loudly and goes to make a fuss of Grace. Then he turns back to the paperwork.

‘I thought I might be able to put it into your computer for you,’ I finally manage to spit out.

‘Computer?’ he says with a scoff. ‘Never used one. Never needed one and I’ve managed perfectly well until now.’

I’d love to beg to differ.

Nancy just looks amused and folds her arms.

‘Looks like you’re doing a great job of sorting things out,’ she says. I feel a little bit of my tension ease. At least someone can see what I’m trying to do, even if Sean can’t.

‘Now we can go to O’Grady’s tonight,’ Nancy links her arm through his. He doesn’t budge and looks at the piles of papers and me again. He is simmering under his big black cloud.

‘Sean, we can’t stay here and it looks like your assistant has got it all in hand.’ She tugs gently as him.

‘I wanted to get out in the boat,’ he says to Nancy without looking at her, narrowing his eyes at some of the paperwork. I hold my breath. The last thing I want is him standing over me while I finish putting all these papers into some kind of order.

‘Sean, will you just get back in the van? You can go out on the boat anytime. Besides, you’ve been out on boats all day!’

He looks around anxiously.

‘Where are my charts?’

‘On the window sill.’ I point to their new container and he relaxes slightly.

‘See, all in hand,’ Nancy tells him.

There’s an uncomfortable silence before he finally says, ‘Just make sure it’s all back where it was by the morning,’ and turns and stalks out.

‘Don’t mind him. He’s not used to help,’ says Nancy. ‘I think you’re doing a great job.’ She smiles; well, her face does but her eyes don’t. The van engine is already running. Nancy throws her head back so her long shiny dark hair swings and her hand trails elegantly behind her as she sweeps out, leaving the door open and the papers fly up all over again. I sigh … deeply. It’s going to be a long night. Or, I think, still furious, I could just leave it all. Like he says I’m not paid to look after his paperwork. I look around at it all with a sinking heart. The thought of starting over again now is thoroughly depressing. So, instead, I grab my waterproof, find another two sticks and this time get the geese into bed.

‘That’s one all, Brenda!’ I call to her and then march off, swinging my arms, towards the town.

I stand outside the pub, wondering whether to go in. I’ve had my walk and calmed down. I could just walk back to the cottage. But the thought of another long night with only Sean’s paperwork and my own thoughts for company makes me push open the door. Then I do what I always do, put my head down, say nothing, and hope no one notices I’m there.

Margaret’s by the bar and spots me straight away.

‘I knew you’d come,’ she beams. She’s changed her hair colour. It’s light pink and the daisy behind her ear is purple. ‘It’s great to see you. I got a bottle,’ she leans over the bar and grabs a glass, pours me a white wine, and hands it to me. I’m usually a vodka and Coke girl but it’s very kind of her and I take the drink.

‘Here Grandad, there’s pint for you,’ she puts a pint of Guinness down in front of Grandad who’s in his wheelchair next to the fire.

‘Come and sit down and see who you haven’t met,’ she calls for me to follow her. So much for keeping my head down. But Margaret makes me smile. She’s the sort of person who takes life by the horns, it seems. She puts her drink on the table and bounces along the bench seat, making room for me by the fire. In my heart I know I’ve only come to spite Sean because I’m cross with him being grumpy. It’s probably best if I just have the one drink, tell them my name, where I’m from, and how long I’m planning to stay, and then leave. I’ve made my point. Just because I’m working for Sean, it doesn’t give him the right to be quite so uptight.

‘Great, so we’re all here,’ Margaret says with great authority as the ladies from the petrol station arrive.

‘Rose, this is Fi. This is Rose and her sister Lily,’ Margaret says. ‘Fi’s working for Sean Thornton,’ her voice is loaded with excitement.

‘And how long are you here?’ Rose says pulling up a stool, as does Lily. Their large chests take up more than two seats and we all shuffle round a bit.

‘Just until after …’ I check myself. Best not mention the inspection. I don’t know why but I don’t want to do anything else to get on the wrong side of Sean. We still have to work together for the next couple of weeks. ‘Just for another couple of weeks,’ I say, thinking the end of my trial period can’t come soon enough, even if I haven’t worked out where I’m going to go next.

‘Shame. Good to have some fresh blood here,’ Rose sips her pint of cider. ‘Some new ideas is what we need,’ she says and her sister agrees, sipping her lemonade.

‘Fi is an all-rounder, a multi tasker, isn’t that right Fi?’ Margaret announces to everyone.

‘Oh well, um …’

‘Is that right?’ Rose asks. ‘What do you do back home?’

‘Well, I um …’ I take a sip of my drink as my mouth goes dry. ‘I work in a coffee shop and at a local radio station.’ I’m suddenly feeling in the spotlight and under pressure.

‘Really, oh, that’s fab. You’re just what we need,’ says the woman in the crocheted blue hat. I recognise her from the café.

‘That’s Maire, Maire runs The Artbox. She’s an artist and runs painting lessons if you’re interested,’ Margaret says so firmly I almost feel I should take up painting. But I smile and shake my head. I can just about manage a stickman.

‘Haven’t had a single student all summer,’ says Maire, picking up her knitting.

For a moment they’ve lost interest in me and Rose and Maire are discussing the lack of holidaymakers and tourists. I have to say, it’s not your ideal holiday destination. The whole town looks like it could do with a facelift. I look around the pub. I hadn’t really taken it in when I was in there before. There are pictures on the walls, a lot of them in black and white. Men in aprons are holding cups, standing in front of tables covered in white table cloths with bunting above them. Before I have a chance to look closer I get a dig the arm. It’s Grandad. No one’s told me his actual name, just ‘Grandad’.

‘When I was young you couldn’t move in this pub on a Monday night. Monday night was always music night,’ Grandad tells me and then reaches for his pint with shaking hands. I lean forward to pass it to him. He takes the pint with a nod and sips.

‘All the lads would be in here after a day on the oyster beds.’ He’s talking to me but his eyes are seeing scenes from days gone by. Everyone else is talking to each other and I sit quietly and listen, still looking at the photos.

‘Families stayed together. They had glue. Now there’s nothing for them,’ he says. ‘All that’s left is the memories,’ he turns back to look at me. ‘So you have to make them good ones,’ and he chuckles into his shaking pint.

‘What are the pictures of?’ I ask.

‘Ah, those were the days, the Dooleybridge oyster festival. People came from miles away …’

‘Right,’ Margaret bangs the table with her glass and makes me jump. Grandad is back enjoying the memories as Margaret silences the group.

‘Couldn’t hear yerself think in here in those days.’

Margaret goes round the group for my benefit. There’s Rose and her sister Lily, Maire from The Artbox, Freda and John Joe, Margaret, Patsy the landlord and his wife Sínead, Grandad, Tina from the hairdressers, David the Postman, Gerald from the café, Darragh who owns the souvenir shop and is landlord to Maire, Tina, and Gerald.

‘Thanks for coming,’ says Margaret. ‘This meeting has been called because … well, look around you. What do you see?’ Everyone, including Margaret and - me, looks around. Patsy the barman is standing with us with a tea towel over his shoulder. No one is waiting for drinks. The two bar-flies Padraig and Seamus are nursing pints but other than that it’s just them and us.

‘Nothing,’ Rose keeps looking, ‘what am I looking for?’

‘Nothing. That’s exactly it, Rose,’ Margaret slaps her clipboard on the table.

There’s a communal intake of breath.

‘It’s June. The older kids have been off school for nearly a month. In a couple of weeks the national schools will be off for the summer too. And  no one is coming here.’

‘Might as well shut up shop.’ Maire shakes her head while knitting.

‘We need something to bring in the crowds. Show them what we’ve got. I grew up here, I don’t want to leave like everyone else. I want people to come and see what a brilliant place Dooleybridge is,’ Margaret says passionately.

‘What have we got?’ asks Tina through her long fringe.

‘Well, there’s …’

‘This place for starters,’ Patsy cuts across Margaret. ‘If I don’t get some good summer trade now I’ll be forced to shut my doors.’ Patsy looks around at the few drinks he’s sold. ‘It costs me more to run the place.’

‘Ah no, don’t say that,’ Rose takes a big slug of her cider and Patsy’s wife Sínead puts an arm around him.

‘That’s how it is,’ Patsy shrugs and pats Sínead’s hand.

‘There’s this place!’ Margaret says, trying to inject some enthusiasm into proceedings.

‘And mine!’ Gerald joins in with a smile, holding his pint on his belly. ‘And there’s the beach,’ Freda joins in. ‘My kids spent hours on the beach when they were little. Rain or … whatever the weather.’

‘Yes, but kids want more than that these days,’ Rose speaks as the voice of authority on the matter and everyone listens. ‘They want funfairs, water parks, wi-fi everywhere they go …’

Maire puts her knitting into her lap thoughtfully.

‘I’ve got the world wide web,’ Gerald looks like he’s watching a deflating balloon.

‘We need ideas to bring the holiday-makers back. That’s why we’re here,’ Margaret pushes on valiantly. Grandad leans towards me.

‘In my day you couldn’t get on the beach for holiday-makers …’

‘Yes, Grandad,’ they all chorus. Margaret rolls her eyes and lets her blank clipboard and pen fall heavily to her side, like she’s fighting a losing battle. I wish I could help but I don’t really know the area and I certainly wouldn’t have any ideas. I just made cakes when I worked at Betty’s, that’s all I’ve ever done. Now I just scrub oysters.

‘I fancy a night at the dogs,’ Rose nudges her sister, who smiles in agreement.

‘Oh yes, a night at the dogs always goes down well. A family night like,’ says Freda.

‘It’s supposed to be something to bring the punters here, not go for a night out in Galway,’ Margaret looks exasperated.

‘We could do a table quiz,’ says Rose, getting excited again.

‘Oh yes, I’m great on geography questions,’ says Maire picking up her knitting again.

‘And you could do celebrity ones, Lily,’ Rose nudges Lily.

‘Oh yes and I could do cookery questions,’ Freda joins in and everyone looks down at their drinks.

‘Only trouble is we need other teams to take part,’ Patsy says and spirits dip again.

‘What about a good old music night,’ Grandad suddenly pipes up. ‘When I were a lad you couldn’t move in here on a Monday night, all the boys from the oyster beds would come in,’ he was pointing to the pub and the town beyond. ‘On oyster festival weekends, this place was jam-packed.’

‘Yes, Grandad,’ everyone choruses.

‘What about you Fi? You’re the expert in media, what do you think we should do?’

‘I think …’ Everyone turns to look at me. I struggle to think of anything, anything at all. My mind goes totally blank and I blush bright red. I wish I could help Margaret, I really do. She’s waiting. I have to say something.

‘I … I … I think Grandad’s right. If you want this place jumping again, why not just bring back the oyster festival,’ I say. At least I’ve offered something and now perhaps Margaret will ignore me and they can all go back to what they were talking about before. The pub falls silent and they all stare at me and I have no idea why.

After that the group starts to break up. Patsy goes back behind the bar and Mad Frank and John Joe get out the draughts. Margaret tops up our drinks from the bottle.

‘It’s complicated,’ she tells me. ‘It’s not just the memories it would bring back, opening old wounds. There’s no one here to take part any more. It just wouldn’t work.’

‘No, it’s a shame. They were the days all right …’ Maire says.

‘But it wouldn’t work,’ Freda does up her coat.

‘No, no.’ Rose shakes her head. ‘It would never work. Not unless we had someone who knew about the media and things like that. Someone to run the festival.’ They all look at me.

‘Oh sorry, I just won’t be here to help out. I’d love to but I’m not staying around.’ I have no intention of opening up any old wounds. Besides, my only media experience is answering the phones on a Saturday afternoon radio show. I pull on my waterproof, do it up to the neck so I’m hiding in it, make my excuses and leave.

‘See you next week,’ Margaret calls after me. But I won’t be coming back to put my foot in it all over again; from now on I’ll keep my head down. 

Chapter Fourteen

It isn’t just the permanent rain that’s making the atmosphere in the cottage frosty. All the papers were tidied away by the time Sean got back the following day and I’ve even created a filing system of sorts from more boxes that I got from Rose’s shop. But Sean’s still marching around complaining he can’t find anything and I’m silently fuming that he hasn’t even said ‘thank you’.

This next week promises a spring tide and Sean’s back working on the farm. There’s just two weeks until the inspection, until I can take what little money I’ve earned and leave.

We work practically in silence, only speaking when we need to. There’s no idle chit-chat. Sean didn’t really do chit-chat in the first place. I still can’t bring myself to be much use in the water but I do work like stink when it comes to washing and grading the oysters. I’m also a demon with the hosepipe, washing down the sheds. The harder I work in the day, the easier it is to sleep at night. The harder I work the more distance I seem to be putting between me and Brian. Physical exhaustion seems to numb the pain.

It’s the end of my fourth week on the farm, a month after I first arrived. I feel like I’ve scrubbed everything in sight and that I’ve had a hosepipe permanently welded to my right hand. It’s the night before the inspection.

I ache from the very top of my head to the tips of my toes. Even my earlobes ache from the cold. I’m wet and my cheeks are red from the wind and rain. I have never been so happy to see the inside of the cottage. I peel off my waterproofs and Sean does the same. We don’t speak. There is a strange solidarity in our weariness though.

‘Let’s eat,’ Sean says hanging his waterproofs by the door. He puts a bag of oysters on the table with a clatter and then heads to the kitchen.

‘You did well today, English,’ he says with his head inside the fridge so I nearly miss what he’s saying. He surprises me and I smile. At least, by the sounds of it, we’re going to part on friendly terms.

‘You take the bathroom first if you like, I’ll get some food on the go.’ He pulls out some carrots, celery, an onion, and a large white chipped pie dish.

I’d like to be polite and offer him first go in the bathroom or suggest I cook, but my aching, freezing joints won’t let me. If it was left to me tonight it would be a couple of slices of toast and bed.

‘We need an early night. Big day tomorrow,’ he says with the tiniest of winks and I get the stupidest flush of embarrassment. He puts his hand in the red sack of oysters, pulls one out, taps it, then puts his knife in and opens it.

‘Quality control,’ he says with a smile, then holds it to his nose, sniffs, and puts the shell to his lips and tips his head back.

‘Whoa,’ he says looking like an addict who’s just had his fix, shaking his curly head.

He offers one to me. ‘Sure?’ But I shake my head. I just can’t see the pleasure.

‘I’m going to grab that shower if you don’t mind.’ I’m still holding up my hand to refuse the oyster. I shan’t be sorry if I never see another oyster again after this month.

‘You go ahead. I’ll rustle up some food. Like I say, you’ve done well, English.’ He opens another oyster and tips his head back again. A silly shiver of excitement runs through me. ‘Hey, English,’ he calls me back as I’m heading to the bathroom.

‘I’m er … I’m sorry about … before. I’ve been meaning to say, y’know, the other week, with the desk. I shouldn’t have shouted. You did a great job. I’m just not used to y’know, sharing my private stuff.’

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. So it wasn’t all a waste of time then. I feel like a peacock, proudly puffing myself up. Then, I have no idea what makes me boldly ask, ‘Does Nancy know?’ I’m talking about his money problems of course, but I don’t need to spell it out.

He stops opening oysters for a moment. I tense up wishing I hadn’t asked! I want the words to go back where they came from. But when he just shakes his head I find myself breathing again.

‘I just need to get through tomorrow. That lot waiting to go to market,’ he nods in the direction of the bagged and prepared oysters, ‘will pay the licence and get me some more spat. Then I can start sorting out some of the other bills.’ He smiles and grabs a tin of Guinness from the fridge and cracks it open. ‘Once tomorrow’s out the way I can start moving forward. It’ll be fine. You go and shower.’ I don’t need telling twice and disappear to the bathroom.

I turn the shower on full whack and wait for it to heat up. Suddenly there’s music playing loudly from the kitchen. It’s U2.

‘And I still haven’t found what I’m looking for …’

I can hear Sean singing along. He obviously feels life is on the up. I step tentatively into the shower. Maybe it’s time things got better for both of us. I smile. There’s warm water for starters.

When I’m warm and clean I switch off the shower and step out onto the wooden bath mat on the floor. There are lots of towels spilling over the towel rail. I do something I’ve wanted to do since I got here and pull them all off. Then I fold and straighten them with a little feeling of satisfaction. You never know, the inspector might need to come in here too!

I can still hear Sean’s music blaring out and realise I’m nodding along to it myself. The water drips off me. It feels like tomorrow is going to be a new start for both of us. Outside the rain has stopped. The sun is attempting to finally show me how pretty it can be, throwing a yellow pathway down the sea towards me; a bit like Dorothy’s yellow brick road. If only I had a pair of ruby slippers! A soft, blurry rainbow reaches across the bay. I take watery steps towards my towel on the tidy rail and then hold it to my face. It smells of washing powder and peat smoke. But not like my washing powder at home. It smells soapier and not so floral. Brian liked the one with ylang-ylang in it.

I walk to the sink, naked, and look in the mirror. A lot has changed in four weeks, the way I look for starters. Thinner. More tired. But there’s colour in my cheeks. In fact my face looks quite healthy. My neat bob is curling at the ends. I stand on tiptoes to see more of myself in the mirror. I’m still hippy but I’ve lost weight off my chest. Brian and I didn’t spend much time naked. We took it in turns in the bathroom and sex was a lights-off, under–the-covers affair. I look at myself again. I wonder if he ever really loved me? Or was I always just a decoy, throwing people off the scent? I don’t expect I’ll ever know now. But at least that explains him never wanting to see me naked.

I start to dry myself. My rings slip around my fingers. I slide them off for the first time since I said ‘I do’ and Brian said, ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ after signing the register, and ran out. I hold them in my hand. It’s time to move on. And these rings are my ticket out of here. I turn them over in my hand and then clench them tightly. It’s the end of my trial period. Tomorrow Sean will be through his inspection. I’m going to sell them and move on; even if it’s just to my mother’s in Malta and her lumpy sofa. All I have to do now is tell Sean. I know we’ll never be in touch again. But he wasn’t so bad. I can say that now I won’t have to work for him again. Like I say, with luck we’ll part as friends.

The floor’s cold and my bones still ache. At least it should be hot in Malta. I turn back to the sink to do my teeth and just as I’m reaching for the Colgate on the window sill, a dark shadow falls across my hand. I freeze.