The Oyster Catcher (5 page)

‘Right, to the sheds.’ He stands up. I finish my drink and stand up too, showing him I’m ready to work. He hands me my coat. It’s wet and cold, as are my dungarees when I pull them back on. There are puddles of water all over the floor. I pull out my wet woollen hat from my pocket. It’s cold and soggy, much like I feel.

Chapter Nine

‘You stand here and put one oyster in each of these little compartments on the belt.’ He points to the conveyor belt in front of me. At least here, in the shed, it’s not raining. Just wet, cold, and dark.

‘This is where we wash and grade them.’ He turns on a noisy generator and then a water pump at the bottom of a conveyor belt. More water!

‘This machine will weigh them and sort them into size, ready for market, or if they’re not big enough, they go back in the water. Look out for dead ones; open ones. We should hear a dead one coming through, they make a knocking noise, or you can smell them. But you’ll learn all that in time. Ready?’ he has his hand over a red button.

I nod without a clue as to how I’m going to spot dead one that makes a knocking noise or how I’ll smell one. It’s all smelly to me. The conveyor belt suddenly judders into life. Outside the rain is getting even heavier, the day even darker, if possible. Sean presses the on-switch of an old battered radio. Beside it there is a large blackboard on the wall with what looks like a plan of trestle tables on it. The crackly sound of RTE 2 plays out. Then he picks up a bag of oysters. There’s a rush of shells being tipped into the washer and suddenly knobbly, seaweed covered oysters begin to appear through the plastic flap at the end of the conveyor belt on their way to me. When the conveyor belt is full he stops it moving.

‘Like this!’ He shows me, picking up oysters, quickly checking them to see if they’re open, and putting them into the sections on the conveyor belt. I follow his lead, soon developing a two-handed technique. I’m moving through them swiftly and feeling confident when suddenly a fast-moving creature makes me jump back with my hands in the air.

‘Just a crab. You’ll see a lot of them. Just pick them up and put them in the bucket,’ he shouts over the noise in the shed. I know it’s a crab. I just don’t think I’ve ever had to handle one up close and personal before. Sean scoops it up and drops it into a bucket beside me as if it’s as easy as flicking away a fly. It scuttles round inside the bucket. I’m irritated at myself and at him. This is very different for someone who’s grown up in the city. I’d like to see him negotiate the knock-down-price aisle in Morrison’s at 5 p.m. or city-centre rush hour in a Ford Ka.

I go back to putting the oysters in their compartments as Sean loads on some more. I don’t have to wait long for the next crab to come along. It’s only small and I decide to just do it; but they’re fast, wriggly, and hard to pick up when you’re wearing big red rubber gloves. It runs this way and that and I bite my bottom lip and grab it. I want to drop it straight way. But I don’t. I plop it in the bucket and feel chuffed to bits with myself. I picked up a crab! I’m grinning like an idiot. I turn to Sean, but he’s deep in his own thoughts, and I feel like he’s popped my party balloon.

We stand side by side at the conveyor belt for what seems like hours. It probably has been hours in actual fact. Sean works hard and I’m determined to keep pace with him, no matter how much my back is aching.

‘Last bag!’ Sean finally shouts and I look up to see him smiling as he tips the last bag of oysters into the washer and they begin to make their way up the conveyor belt.

When the noise from the machine finally goes off it seems like I’ve taken root. My feet are like blocks of ice.

‘Just going to put these back into the water then we’ll hose down and call it a day,’ Sean says, picking up the bags and heading out of the shed. Relief floods through me. I’m exhausted, my hands are stiff, and I’m cold, really cold. Then a thought suddenly strikes me. For just those few hours, I haven’t thought about Brian at all.

The final hosing down seems to be like pouring water onto water. Little runaway crabs that have found their way into the corners of the shed are caught and then the generator, radio, and lights are switched off and the doors pulled shut.

‘OK, now for a tour of our other residences,’ he says pulling off his gloves as we step out into the wind and drizzle. We walk towards the fields behind the cottage.

‘This is Fre … Ah shite!’ He throws down his gloves and puts his hands on his hips.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask. All I can see is a field surrounded by what looks like a precarious stone wall.

‘That is where Freddie and Mercury usually live,’ Sean says with a sigh. ‘Looks like they’ve gone, again!’ He turns back to the sheds and goes into the nearest one. He comes out carrying a bucket.

‘Here, grab this and shake it.’ He hands over a bucket of pony nuts, picks up two head collars and lead-ropes and puts them over his shoulder. We head out on to the lane, him calling and me shaking.

‘Freddie, he’s always breaking out,’ he tells me in between shakes of the bucket. I’m half-walking, half-running to keep up with his long strides. ‘Think he’s in love,’ he says without a smile. ‘Must’ve snuck past us when we were in the sheds. Ah, there they are.’ We’ve gone a long way down the lane. Two donkeys are standing in the road. One, brown and black, has his head over a gate, nose to nose with a little white donkey. The other grey donkey is looking away, like a gooseberry. Sean strides up to them, slipping the two head-collars off his shoulder. He begins to put one on the canoodling donkey and throws me the other.

‘Here, stick this on Mercury.’ I catch the head-collar and try and work out which way up it should go. I keep looking over at Sean who’s trying to stop Freddie slipping his clutches. Freddie is dodging left and right trying to make a break for it. Mercury is standing there obligingly while I try and put a head collar on him upside down. He’s nibbling at the pony nuts in my bucket. Finally I get it on, again I feel chuffed to bits by my achievement but Sean is too busy in a tug of war with Freddie, trying to persuade him to leave his lady love.

‘Shake the bucket, he might follow.’ Sean nods up the lane and I turn Mercury and to my surprise he falls into step beside me. Behind me, Sean is pushing and pulling, cajoling and swearing as Freddie refuses to budge. He drops the lead rope in frustration.

‘Shake the bucket!’ he shouts. I’m walking backwards and give it a really good shake. Suddenly Freddie decides it’s dinner time and chases up the road towards me. Sean’s chasing Freddie and I’m running with Mercury. In no time at all we’re back at the farm and Freddie and Mercury are back in their field. Sean secures the gate, really tightly this time. I hold my knees trying to catch my breath. When I stand up Freddie has his head over the gate and Sean is rubbing him along his long ears. ‘You have to watch for that. They’re master escapologists. I’ve tried all sorts to keep them in, but nothing seems to work,’ is all he says. I’m still catching my breath.

‘And these are the girls,’ he points towards the hen house in the next field and beyond that a gaggle of white geese. ‘They have to be put away before the fox comes round looking for his dinner.’ Sean vaults over the gate. The light is fading and the hens follow him to their shed, climbing up a ladder and into their bedroom where he shuts them in for the night. He does the same with the geese but they don’t seem quite so obliging and he has to herd them, arms spread out to get them into their pen. An obliging donkey I may have been able to handle, but these look like a different kettle of fish all together.

‘You’ll be OK to feed them in the morning?’

‘Yes,’ I say with more confidence than I’m feeling.

Just as Sean is switching off the lights in the feed shed, Nancy’s BMW turns into the drive.

I give a little wave and Sean gives an apologetic shrug. She sticks her head out of the car window.

‘You’re not ready! Hurry up!’ she calls and the window whirrs shuts.

‘Right …’ He shuts the feed shed firmly and jogs round to the cottage steps, whereas I can hardly walk.

In my room I peel off my clothes. Despite the waterproofs I’m wet through to my undies. I decide to brave the erratic shower to warm up. By the time I’ve finished and dressed in my bedroom in more clothes that Sean’s found for me, the fire is cheerily flickering away, Grace is eating and Sean’s in the bathroom. Nancy is pacing up and down the living room in her coat, her black high heels clipping across the floor. She shivers.

‘So, you’re English?’ she enquires.

‘Yes,’ is all I can think of saying. I can’t tell her I ended up living in Cardiff, too complicated.

‘What brings you out to Galway?’ She looks around like this is the last place she wants to be.

‘Oh y’know. It was time for a change,’ I say, not wanting to say that my new husband ran out on me and I’m stuck here.

‘Hmmm, you should’ve gone to France. The weather is so much better. Oh, where is he? Sean! I’m waiting in the car!’ she shouts.

‘Have a nice evening,’ I say as she heads out of the door. I turn to the kitchen and wonder what to do about supper.

‘Don’t look round if you’re easily offended,’ Sean says. I can hear wet footsteps behind me and he’s making his way through the living room to his bedroom. My God, was he actually naked? I fling open the refrigerator and stick my head in it, looking for something to eat and keep it there until I hear his door click shut. He really is too much. Nancy beeps her horn outside.

‘I won’t be back tonight,’ Sean announces as he comes back into the living room, pulling on his battered wax jacket. He’s wearing a crumpled cream shirt.

Nancy leans on the horn again. He ignores it. Sean Thornton is obviously not a man who likes taking orders.

‘You shouldn’t have any problems. I’ll leave the tractor keys just in case.’ He puts a small set of keys on the table and heads for the door saying, ‘Right, have fun,’ over his shoulder.

I hear tyres spin and then the car roars off down towards the road. And then there was … silence. I look around hopefully but there’s no television, no computer, no nothing.

I sit down on the settee and eat bread and cheese. Every bone in my body is aching. My cheeks are burning with tiredness and exercise. I long to sit in front of the TV and tell Brian about the things I’ve done. For the first time that day I get a pang of homesickness. It’s a physical longing and a sick feeling. I decide to go to bed.

I can’t sleep. There isn’t any noise at all. The homesickness grows, like an aching in the pit of my stomach. The silence is terrifying. No people, no cars, no music. I get out of bed and switch on the lamp. Then I pull on my sweatshirt. It smells of Brian. I call Grace. She trots in and lies down by my bed. I pull the sweatshirt over my nose and finally fall asleep with the light on and Grace snoring by my side, trying to imagine I’m at home in my bed with Brian by my side. 

Chapter Ten

I’m armed with a large stick and hen pellets. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the stick but it’s making me feel braver. I’ve managed to feed Freddie and Mercury by hanging over the gate to put buckets down with outstretched arms. The hens flew at me to get to their food and I ended up dropping most of it, but they seem happy pecking it up off the ground. But now … it’s the turn of the geese.

I open the gate into their field. I can hear them stomping around, demanding to be let out. If I let them out they’ll run at me. I remember their yellow staring eyes from yesterday. I have my arms wide, my hat pulled down, and I feel like I’m staking out the enemy. My heart is pounding. What if they all fly at me at once? They have huge wings and I remember reading somewhere they can break your arm with one beat. With a huge deep breath I pull back the latch. Out they rush. I drop the bucket and run. The gate is in reach but as soon as I stop a goose is going to goose me. There’s only one way out. I focus and then practically throw myself over the gate in a gymnastic move I wasn’t able to master in my school days. I land in a heap. It makes my aching body cry out in pain, but I’ve cleared the gate. A goose is eyeballing me, strutting up and down in frustration. Its wings are still out-stretched, its beak open; seeing me off. I stand up stiffly and stare. It’s not coming beyond the fence. I did it!

I turn back towards the cottage. My body aches with every step I take but on the plus side, it’s stopped raining. I try and avoid looking at the sea, like I’m avoiding eye-contact with it. I find it helps.

Apart from the house being empty, the cupboard’s empty too. No tea. I can’t function without tea. I have no idea when Sean will be back and by the looks of it we can’t start work with the oysters until the tide’s out. I’m going to go and track down some tea.

‘Grace!’ I call and she catapults back into the house, her legs flaying around in all directions. Her tail knocks over the stack of CDs and a leaning paper pile.

I ache between my shoulders, my feet, and my back with every step. Grace gambols along behind me. When we get to the end of the lane I put her on the lead and we follow the road, squeezing into the low stone walls when a car passes.

The petrol station is a surprise. Downstairs is a small supermarket and upstairs a range of cheap clothing and outdoor wear, in amongst buckets, spades, and pony nuts. I gather up some joggers, T-shirts, a hoodie, tennis socks, and pants.

‘It’s promised rain,’ says the big-busted woman behind the counter as she rings up my clothes, teabags and milk.

‘Sorry?’ I ask, pulling out a note from my coat pocket.

‘It’s promised rain,’ she repeats with a smile.

‘Oh yes,’ I reply realising she’s making polite weather chat.

‘You on holiday?’ She holds out her hand for the note.

‘No, I’m er, I’m working here.’ I hand over the money.

‘Oh, where?’ She taps the money into the till and it opens.

‘At the oyster farm, with Sean Thornton,’ I reply. Her eyebrows shoot up and she cocks her head to one side.

‘Well, welcome and good luck,’ she says handing me my change. But her eyebrows haven’t come down to meet the rest of her face yet. ‘I’m Rose, by the way. Me and my sister Lily run this place. Give us a yell if there’s anything you need. What’s your name?’

‘Fi,’ I say gathering up my tea and milk.

‘Well Fi, like I say if there’s anything you need …’

I look down at my change. The last of my money is going quickly. I skirt round the man in the queue behind me.

‘Hello Seamus, it’s promised rain,’ she says as she rings in his goods.

‘Aye it is.’

I hear but I know they’re both looking at me.

I step out through the sliding doors and the promised rain hits me horizontally in the face. I grab Grace’s lead and put my head down. I’m making my way back out of town when I practically fall over a sign in the road for The Tasty Loaf café. There’s an awning outside the little shop that was once red and white. The need for tea gets the better of me. It’s a long walk home and this way I can avoid a soaking at least once today. I tie up Grace under the awning and dive in for a quick cuppa while the worst of the rain passes.

The warm café is full of steam and the windows are misted up with condensation. The steam’s coming from a big silver urn behind the counter. I feel like The Doctor stepping out of the TARDIS waiting to discover if he’s landed somewhere hostile or friendly. There’s a ripple of gossip. It’s practically tangible. The café’s warm but the atmosphere is frosty. I shouldn’t have come in, I should have headed straight back to the cottage. I thought it was going to be like The Coffee House back home. No one takes a blind bit of notice of each other in there.

‘Is that her?’ someone whispers. I turn to see a chubby woman in a delphinium blue crocheted hat with a large pink and blue flower on the side, a poncho and fingerless gloves, all in matching blue. She’s also knitting. I recognise the woman next to her as Freda from the pub. She has sharp, small features, like a ferret. She gives me a stern stare and leans into her friend as if I can’t hear her.

‘Yes, crashed a camper and is now living with Sean Thornton up at Tom’s farm.’

There’s a round of tutting. I wasn’t living with Sean Thornton! I look around at the others shaking their heads. I recognise some of them from the pub. The one Sean referred to as Mad Frank is there, tucking into a sorry-looking cooked breakfast. And there’s one of the barflies, in the shell suit and baseball cap. He’s drinking from a mug that looks like it’s been sitting there some time, judging by the dried drips down the side. They both nod in my direction.

John Joe, Freda’s husband, leans over and adjusts his hearing aid.

‘Wassat, my love?’ The hearing aid makes a high-pitched whistling noise.

‘Shh,’ Freda says in unison with the woman in the blue ensemble. The crocheted woman smiles at me and nods and carries on knitting with her eyes on me and her ears on Freda.

‘It was never like that in my day,’ John Joe says in a loud voice but with a look that says he thinks he’s whispering. ‘Families and communities stuck together. You didn’t go bringing in outsiders to work for you. Typical of that young Thornton,’ he tuts. My cheeks begin to burn and my eyes start to smart. That familiar feeling of death by embarrassment is creeping round the back of neck and into the pit of my stomach.

‘In my day this place was the oyster capital of the world, the very best …’ says a man in a wheelchair waving his hands around expansively.

‘Yes, yes, Grandad,’ Freda silences him with flapping hands. I look around the café, it’s full of bits and pieces and they look to be for sale, a pair of slippers, worn, 50 cents, the little white label says. A make-up bag, very worn, 50 cents again. There’s even a dressing gown, faded pink velour, hanging on the door into the toilets, 2 euro.

‘Urn’s been playing up.’ A big man appears from behind the counter in a puff of steam and points a thick thumb behind him. He’s got a Marilyn Monroe tattoo on his forearm and a triangular beard. ‘What can I get you?’ He rubs his hands together.

‘Er, tea, to take away please,’ I add, desperate to get out of there. He turns to the steaming urn and over one shoulder says loudly, ‘So, you’re the new girl they’re all talking about. How do you like things?’

Stunned that I’m the focus of so much unwanted attention, I don’t know whether to nod or shake my head and sort of do both by rolling my head in a circle. I manage a quick glance over my shoulder to see all eyes staring back at me. I just need to get out of the gossip coliseum as quickly as possible without being rude.

Suddenly there’s a thump.

‘Ah, feckin’ urn.’ The café owner gives it another thump as it makes a whining, dying sound and the steam disappears. Looks like my quick exit had just become a slow and painful one.

‘Won’t be a tick. Just need to boil the kettle. Take a seat.’ He points to the tables covered in wipe down tablecloths. I don’t feel I can tell him I really don’t want the tea any more. He’s going to so much effort. There’s a wall of interested faces looking at me as I turn and try and work out where to sit. Seats are shuffled and I’ll have to share a table with someone. Then, I spot a lifeline.

‘Could I use the internet?’ I point to the computer at a table in the corner.

‘Help yourself. It’s a euro for half an hour. It’s all gobbledygook to me but work away, work away,’ he says dropping tea bags into a stainless steel pot.

‘Thanks.’ I put my head down and slide in behind the computer which is now acting like a screen between me and the rest of the café. I skulk down as low as I can in the chair. I don’t even know what I am going to do on it. It’s not like I’m going to update my Facebook status with ‘Having a crackin’ time in Galway. Rain, rain, rain.’ I’m avoiding all Facebook and emails, I remind myself. I don’t want anyone to know where I am.

I look up the weather forecast back home. Sunny with some cloud. Then I Google some jobs pages but don’t know where to put in as a location. My fingers hover over the keys. I can’t help myself. I type in my password and find my fingers instinctively leading me to Brian’s Facebook page, just to see how he’s doing.

I look over the top of the computer. The interrogation committee are still waiting. I take a deep breath and click on Brian’s profile.

Everything seems as it always did. He still likes Status Quo and The Coffee House. He’s still in Cardiff. He still works at Western Radio FM. Then I spot it. My eyeballs start to burn with humiliation and anger. I feel faint, light-headed. The words swirl on the page in front of me.

‘In a relationship with …’

Hot angry tears feel like acid rain as they slide down my face. I feel like writing on his wall, ‘I’m so glad you’re happy! You’ve ruined my life!’ But I won’t. I’m too ashamed. He has it all and I have nothing, absolutely nothing. Not for the first time in my life my mooring has been cut and the rope is flapping around and I’m drifting directionless.

I read it and re-read it.

‘In a relationship with  … Adrian Polsey! Our best man!’ I think we can safely say Brian has moved on.