12
Muddied Waters
Brandon
We park by the low shed, the air thick with the sharp mineral scent of salt and brine.
“So, this is the farm?” Lily-Anne asks as we get out.
“This is the farm,” I confirm.
The flats stretch out like a vast grey-brown table, slick with shallow water and mud. Rows of metal trestles run far into the distance, each holding wire baskets thick with seaweed and shell.
“It looks a bit like a vineyard,” she observes.
“A drowned one, perhaps.”
I give her a brief tour.
“There’s a lot to do in the summer months,” I explain. “We take the seed oysters from the hatcheries out to the trestles. The tide brings in nutrients so they can grow naturally, and we have to flip the bags every week or two.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It’s a little technical.”
She gasps when I pull the tarp off the quad bike. “What’s that for?”
“It’s too far to walk where we’re going. And the flats are too soft for anything heavier.”
Her eyes widen. “You mean we’ll be drivingthroughthe water?”
“Yes.” I swing a leg over and turn the key. The engine roars to life like an old beast impatient for work. “Hop on.”
A spark of delight flashes across her face as she swings on behind me, her fingers settling lightly at my sides. I don’t point out that she could simply grip the bars behind her.
A few seconds later, we’re cutting across the shallow gleam of the retreating tide, tyres hissing through the water. Spray kisses her cheeks, butinstead of flinching, she leans into the wind, mouth open on a laugh.
If joy had a sound, it would be this. I’m too aware of the warmth of her body at my back, her loose waves brushing my shoulder as we turn.
When I cut the engine and hand her a set of orange rubber gloves, she dons them without question.
I find her enthusiasm oddly refreshing. Lily-Anne accepted the bright overalls without hesitation. I offered her more muted options in her size, yet she chose a yellow pair like mine instead, commenting, “We look like rubber ducks.”
I steal another glance at her. She looks just as comfortable in gaudy oilskins and mud-spattered wellies as she did last night in her red dress. Something flares, warm and deep.
I unclip one of the wire bags and pull out a couple of oysters, the rough shells streaked with brown and white. “These have been sitting a while—see how the shells have gone brown with weed? Flipping the bag lets the tide scrub them clean again.” I hold one out to her.
“What’s this one called?”
“Called?”
“Yes.” She turns glinting eyes on me. “Don’t you ever name them?”
“Not if I want to eat them for dinner.”
“Oh, right.” She slips the oyster back into the bag. “Take care, Chucky.”
We spend the next hour walking along the row flipping the bags, settling into the rhythm of work. We talk a little, her melodic laugh carrying across the flats, and minutes flit by.
