The Oyster Catcher, page 2
‘Hey!’ He stops me in my tracks. ‘I thought you’d come about the job?’
Not wanting to be made any more of a spectacle, I turn back.
‘I just don’t think …’
‘Sit yourself down. We won’t know until we’ve talked,’ he says. My shoulders slump as I turn and sit on the little stool in front of him.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asks, gesturing to the barmaid.
‘Could I possibly have a glass of tap water?’ It might help my dry throat and the twisting, sick feeling in my stomach.
‘Sure,’ he looks up and catches the barmaid’s eye. The barmaid gives me a look so icy it could freeze the sea and then goes back behind the bar.
‘So, tell me, what’s your name?’ He slides his glasses back on and looks over them at me, making me feel like the new girl in school all over again, and, God knows, there’d been a lot of new schools.
‘Fi …’ I suddenly stop without finishing my full name. The last thing I need is for anyone to come looking for me. I learnt very early on, when starting another new school, that the best way to get on was to keep your head down and become invisible. And that’s what I need to do right now, I need to become invisible … again.
‘Fi?’ He looks up from writing it down.
‘Hm, just Fi,’ I nod hoping I’ve carried it off.
‘Surname?’ he asks and I’m suddenly stumped.
‘Er …’ There’s a silence which he finally fills.
‘You’re English, right?’ He waves his pen at me.
‘Sort of.’ I don’t want to tell him my name or where I’ve come from. ‘Moved around a lot.’
‘English …’ he writes down.
‘That’s right, Fi English.’ I’m just not great at thinking on my feet.
He looks at me.
‘Fi English,’ he repeats slowly. Tiredness is starting to get the better of me. I just need to get this over and done with and then I have to work out where I’m going to stay tonight.
‘And what skills do you think you could bring to the table?’ He’s looking right at me over his glasses again. It feels like he can see into my soul and knows everything about me. He has a long nose that looks like he’s played sport and wrinkles round his eyes. He pushes back his long curly hair from his face while he waits for my answer.
‘Well, I, um, I …’ My mind has gone completely blank … again. I’d be like this on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. I always go blank when I’m put in the spotlight. I hate pressure. It’s all very well Brian and I shouting the answers at the telly from the comfort of the leather settee but if I was actually there I doubt I’d even be able to get my favourite colour right. I’d probably answer brown instead of lilac. Lilac always reminds me of the garden of a foster home I stayed in once. But this isn’t helping me think about my skills. Come on, brain!
‘Tell you what, how about we start with proper introductions. I’m Sean Thornton and I’ve advertised for an assistant, a Girl Friday so to speak, to help me out on my farm. I’ve got … a lot on and I need extra help.’ He looks over at the rubber-neckers in the corner. The barmaid returns and puts down the water in front of me.
‘And this is Margaret,’ he says with a little laugh as she puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head, ‘our friendly barmaid.’
‘Hey!’ she flicks him playfully with a tea towel. I find a little smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, or maybe it’s just the tension relaxing a little. I really need this job. I’ve got nowhere to stay and no money. There’s a lot to feel tense about.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and sip the water.
‘You’re welcome,’ she replies and turns to go back to the bar.
‘So, do you have any experience in the food production industry?’ he asks as Margaret sashayed away without him really noticing. He’s looking right at me. Suddenly, I can answer this one.
‘Oh yes! I’ve worked in a bakery since I was 15,’ I say, slightly encouraged. ‘And I work answering the phones at a local radio station at the weekends,’ I add, remembering what he’d said earlier. Or should that be ‘worked’?
‘Any other skills, courses you’ve been on?’
‘Well, I did a health and safety course at work,’ I offer and he writes it down and then when I can’t think of anything else I add, ‘and a sailing course once too.’ My mouth dries and I sip the water again.
‘And you see yourself being here for a while?’ He looks at me seriously. I’m not sure what to say. But I do know I need this job. I nod.
‘No family here?’ He’s making notes on his pad. Under the table I feel for my wedding ring. It slides around my finger. I turn my engagement ring into my palm. It’s harder to move. It’s been on there a long time. I slide it up my finger and rub the dent it’s left. I slide it back and shake my head.
‘No, no family.’
‘So you don’t know the area very well?’ he quizzes me.
I shake my head again. I have a feeling this is taking a down turn.
‘And it’s just the bakery work you’re used to, no other food?’
Again, and feeling rather pathetic now, I shake my head. He looks down at his notebook and starts to put it away. Now what am I going to do? I’ll have to go back to the Garda in the Portakabin, if he hasn’t clocked off, and tell him I’m stuck. If I thought today couldn’t get any worse, it just did.
‘Well,’ I give a little cough. ‘Thanks anyway.’ I go to stand, feeling a little choked. Sean suddenly turns back to me with a huge smile on his face.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I take it I’m not what you’re looking for,’ I say, not needing to hear his reply.
‘You’ve no experience and no knowledge of the area,’ he states the obvious. ‘You’re exactly what I’m looking for! When can you start?’ His eyes are wild and excited and his change of tack completely disarms me, like Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, you never really knew what he was going to do or say next.
‘You’re joking, right?’ is all I can think of saying.
He shakes his head, still smiling. There are so many questions I should be asking but I’m so grateful I just say, ‘Thank you,’ and, ‘right away, if that’s OK?’
I should ask the questions of course. But it’s bed, board, and crap pay; exactly what I need right now.
‘Perfect!’ He gathers up his belongings. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He looks over at the group by the fire. ‘Statler and Waldorf have got nothing on this lot.’ He picks up his battered brown brief case and does up his wax jacket.
‘Who?’
He laughs.
‘Let’s get you settled in.’ He looks around. ‘No luggage?’
‘Travelling light,’ I reply quickly. He shrugs, seeming to accept this and I follow him out of the pub and down to the harbour car park where any last links with my past life have all but disappeared. I stare for a moment at the space where the camper van had been, when I was Mrs Brian Goodchild. Now I’m Fi English.
He opens the door to a red transit van and a large sandy-coloured Great Dane jumps out.
‘This is Grace,’ he says as she sniffs around my feet and nudges me with her big black nose. ‘She used to be Gary, according to the tag on her collar, but I think Grace suits her much better.’ He whistles and the dog jumps back in the van. I climb in next to her and stretch to pull the heavy door shut. As we drive away from the harbour I feel I’m leaving my past life behind. Like footprints in the sand, very soon there will be no trace Mrs Brian Goodchild ever existed at all.
Chapter Three
‘How come she used to be Gary?’ I ask, stroking the gentle dog’s head.
‘She was abandoned, down on the beach. Probably a summer surfing crowd; thought she looked cool. They hadn’t even worked out what sex she was.’ He pushes through the gears and we head off out of town along the coast. Grace lies down, her front legs over my lap and I’m grateful for the distraction.
‘So what kind of a farm is it?’ I finally think of something sensible to ask.
‘Sorry?’ He looks from me and then back at the road. He indicates and we veer off the main road up a single-track lane. The van sways from side to side, much like when I was in the camper van only this time there’s a Great Dane in the cab too. Her hair’s whizzing round as the heaters blow warm air at us and it feels like I’m inside a Dyson vacuum cleaner.
‘I mean are you pigs, cows, arable …?’ All of which I know nothing about but as it sounds like the job’s going to be office-based it doesn’t much matter to me. I quite like the idea of looking out on fields of wheat or corn. My new boss laughs which is a little unnerving and actually a little irritating too.
‘This is Galway, you know that much, right?’ He looks from me, to the road and back at me again. I nod. He grips the steering wheel and laughs some more.
‘Look around you.’ He waves towards the scenery. ‘It’s nothing but bog land.’ He points to the one side of the road. ‘Not much good for anything.’
I’m confused. On the other side of the road there’s nothing but the sea. He gives another little laugh, irritating me some more. His dark curls shake. He looks back at me.
‘I’m an oyster farmer. That’s my farm out there.’ He points to the vast expanse of sea. I wonder if he’s joking, but he isn’t. I can tell by his face.
Holy cow! I sink into my seat. Why on earth hadn’t I asked before? What am I going to do now?
The single-track lane comes to an end. There’s a no entry sign and the lane turns into an overgrown track. If I thought the road before was rough, it was nothing in comparison to this. My soup feels like it’s sloshing around in my stomach and for a moment I’m worried it’s going to come back up again. Finally we come to a pair of gates to the right of the track. Sean pulls the van in. There’s another ‘no entry’ sign.
He drives the van down a slope and then yanks on the handbrake, hard. There’s a large green corrugated shed in front of us, behind that a small white cottage. To my right is the ruin of a house, or maybe a barn. It’s an old white stone building with a russet-coloured corrugated roof. It may once have been thatched. It looks tired and abandoned. The irony of that isn’t lost on me. And beyond that … water, lots and lots of water, which is probably as bad as it gets for someone who’s terrified of the stuff.
As I push open the heavy van door and step out the smell hits me as quickly as the wind. Salt and seaweed scratch at a memory and give me the goosebumps. The wind slaps me across the cheeks, even harder than before, stinging this time. It’s like it’s punishing me for being so stupid. Strands of my hair whip my eyeballs like an unruly mob on the rampage. Peeling them back I can see Sean picking his way up some higgledy-piggledy concrete steps to the cottage behind the big green shed. I cling to the door, using it as a shield against the weather. This is supposed to be June!
Grace pushes past me, nearly making my knees buckle as she catapults from the van over to the rocks, sniffing for messages. It’s a bit like texting for dogs I think. She stops and leaves her reply.
I stare out. There’s a stream right in front of me, dodging and tumbling over rocks to the bay beyond it. The bay is surrounded by craggy, rugged hills, their tops shrouded in mist. There’s a stillness and a quiet, apart from the wind and the lapping of the waves, that I’m not used to. I feel like I’ve fallen off the edge of the map.
There are two orange buoys, one each at the furthest points of the bay; like someone’s marked out their patch. But apart from that there’s really nothing to see. No sign of any kind of farming. No big fishing boats or pens. The only sign of any oyster activity is a huge pile of oyster shells just inside the gate, a mountain of them. Maybe he just likes to eat them, a lot. I can’t believe anyone actually lives out here; no shops, no café, no pub, no … I look around, nothing. To say I feel like a fish out of water is exactly how I feel. What do people do out here? How do they make a living?
A rough rocky footpath leads down to the water and another snakes around the edge of the shore, away from the house where Grace is now slowly investigating more messages and sending more replies.
‘You coming?’ my new boss shouts from the front door of the cottage. The wind’s blowing his hair around wildly. I shut the van door with effort. I wonder if I should leave there and then, say I’m not staying, that I’m terrified of water and that I might as well have landed on the moon; it’s all so alien to me. But where would I go? I’ve got no money, no clothes, no transport. I pull out my phone from the front pocket of my hoodie. And no phone signal either. Even if I wanted to call anyone, I couldn’t. But I don’t want to call anyone. I turn the phone off and shove it back in my pocket. No phone, no Facebook, no emails.
I’ll have to take my chances and stay, just for a while, just until I can work out where to go next. I take a deep breath and make my way unsteadily across to the path leading to the cottage. The ground’s uneven, on a slope with lots of tiny stones. I’m still wearing gold mules. I feel ridiculous, cold and very alone.
The cottage is small, white with a grey slate roof. The paint on the red front door is peeling. I take a good look at the place that’s to be my home, maybe for the next few months. At least something was finally going in my favour. No one’s ever going to find me here, no one at all.
A noise like a fog horn makes me jump,
‘Eeee awwwww! Eeeeee awwwww!’ I look out to sea but there’s nothing. I turn back and look the other way, beyond the cottage to the fields behind it. Two small donkeys are standing by a stone wall. One has his head held high and is rolling back his lips, making him look like Mick Jagger. He’s the source of the noise. I wonder if it’s some kind of battle cry, like a guard dog. I grip the neck of my hoodie. Beyond the donkeys, or mules or whatever they are, there’s another field with some kind of wooden hut that’s fenced in. Another noise shatters the silence. A huge bird is stretching its wings and joining the donkey in its chorus with a loud ‘Honk! Honk!’ The closest I’ve ever come to farm animals was a day trip to the city farm when I was a kid. Since then it’s been a chicken wrapped in cellophane at Tesco’s checkout. I hurry on to the cottage door, quickly glancing back at the sea wondering how I on earth I’m going to cope with the fear it fills me with.
I’m desperate to get in out of the wind and to meet Sean’s wife and family. Getting lost in a family could be just what I need right now. I force a smile, run my hands down over my dress and step into the cottage, bracing myself for the fuss that my arrival will inevitably create.
Inside, there’s a dampness in the air. I give a little involuntary shiver. It’s colder than I was expecting. And a lot more quiet.
Sean’s gathering up what appears to be washing hanging on the backs of mismatched chairs. The kitchen table is pushed up against a big window looking out to sea.
‘Sorry. I’m not used to guests.’ He grabs a final T-shirt and adds it to the pile spilling over in his arms.
‘Oops,’ I catch a dark blue woollen jumper before it falls and put it on top of the unruly heap. He heads to a door at the far end of the room leaving me to look round the kitchen-cum-dining-room-cum-living-room-cum-office, by the looks of the paper pile in the corner. To say it’s not what I was expecting is an understatement. There’s a small kitchen area, a red settee, and a black pot-bellied stove. There’s a pile of washing-up in the sink and dog food on the table next to a pile of thick rope. There’s a guitar and a leaning tower of CDs beside the sofa. The big window looks down the stream to the sea beyond, making it feel like you’re on board a ship. It’s cold and unwelcoming.
‘I’ll get a fire going now and we’ll be grand,’ he says busily gathering up sticks and matches and throwing open the doors on the stove. ‘Like I say I’m not used to guests.’ He picks up some more sticks from the basket beside the fire and feeds them into the fire grate. He’s still in his coat and pulls a lighter from his pocket. It makes a few attempts before throwing up a little flame and he holds it to the paper in the fire’s belly. The paper catches and the fire suddenly erupts into life. He shuts the doors letting the orange and yellow flames roar upwards inside. I’m still rooted to the spot, shell-shocked.
‘I’ll show you your room then I’ll rustle up some supper,’ he says taking off his coat and hanging it on the heavily laden hooks by the front door.
‘You’re just through here,’ he says, pointing to a room straight in front of the front door. ‘Bathroom’s to your left. I’m through there,’ he points back through the living room to where he dumped the washing. ‘And that’s Grace’s place.’ There’s a large box filled with blankets by the guitar. The fire’s still pumping out orange flames. In the other corner, by the doorway to Sean’s bedroom, is what I think is a desk, but it’s hard to tell underneath the precarious paper piles that are threatening to spill over. Some look as if they already have.
‘Will your, um, wife be joining us?’ I croak in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
‘My wife?’ He shakes his head and laughs as he feeds turf on to the fire. ‘No. No wife. It’s just me and Grace here.’ He straightens up and turns to me. At that moment Grace barges in through the door letting in a huge rush of cold air. Sean rubs her head as he passes to shut the door.
‘That’s one of the reasons I need some help. I need someone to look after Grace when I’m not here. I’ve got some work, just summer work, but it helps pay the bills, so I need someone to be here for Grace.’ He wipes his hands on a tea towel. ‘And the other animals.’
My eyebrows shoot up. The closest I’ve ever had to a pet was a goldfish called Fred that I won at the fairground and died after three days.
‘Other animals?’ I try to swallow.
‘Yes, there’s the hens. They’re laying pretty well so there’s loads of eggs. And the geese, great guard dogs. And then of course there’s Freddie and Mercury the donkeys. I kinda inherited them from my uncle. They lived here before me. But apart from that it’s just me,’ he nods apologetically round at the mess.
