‘Who’s this?’ She smiles widely.
‘Nancy, this is Fi, my new assistant,’Sean says charmingly. He holds out his arm, inviting me to step forward. I do, but I can’t shake her hand because of the waterproof gloves, so I wave instead, just like Mr Blobby.
‘Nancy is my oyster broker. I grow them, she sells them.’ His eyes wrinkle just under the corners.
Nancy holds up a well-manicured hand to say hello back. ‘Brilliant! Finally he’s taken my advice and got some help. You’re very welcome. I’m delighted you’re here. Now perhaps Sean can stop spending quite so much time out in this God-forsaken place and more time with me in town,’ she says. She looks around as if monsters might jump on her from behind every rock and bush and I know how she feels.
But I’m sure Sean’s smile has slipped, just a bit. He bangs his gloved hands together. ‘Right, time and tide wait for no man! We need to get on,’ he chivvies me along, reminding me I’m staff.
Nancy tuts. ‘Just remember we’re having dinner tonight. Chef has some recipes he wants to try out for me.’ But Sean is on his way down to the shore and I feel I should follow. ‘And iron a shirt!’ she calls after him. He raises a hand in the air but his attention is focused on the sea in front of him.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Nancy, and pull my hat down further.
‘That man is obsessed.’ She rolls her eyes before pulling down her sunglasses.
I say nothing and follow him. I pull up my hood. With my hat firmly down, coat and dungarees on, stumbling over the rough stones, I feel hidden from the world. And being hidden from the world is exactly what I want right now. I’m invisible again.
Chapter Eight
‘OK, I’ll drive the tractor and trailer down to the oysters.’ Sean points towards the sea which is creeping backwards like a scolded puppy. Poles dripping with seaweed are sticking up from the water, looking like creatures from the deep from a sci-fi movie. Despite the constant drizzle and damp in the air, I’m starting to feel hot.
‘I have a big order that needs to go out at the end of the week; my share of the co-operative which Nancy runs. We’ll grab some bags, bring them up, and I’ll show you the sheds where we’ll grade them. Then they’ll all need cleaning and weighing and the bags they’re in will need cleaning. When we’ve done that I can show you round the rest of the farm.’ He pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket, dangling from a hooker keyring.
‘Let’s go and grab some oysters! You follow the path round.’ He points to the small worn footpath round the edge of the bay. I sigh with relief. I’m taking the dry land route. He climbs on to the blue tractor, swinging his leg effortlessly over the seat, and starts her up. The tractor roars into life, like a dozing understudy suddenly being called to take centre stage. ‘Grace’ll show you the way,’ he shouts. He grins and pushes the gear stick forwards. The old tractor rumbles down into the shallow water, tossing its passenger this way and that. Sean holds the steering wheel firmly with one hand then turns back to look at the trailer. I watch him drive down the stream towards the sea, his curly hair being lifted by the wind, holding his face up to the sea air.
I put my head down andbegin to pick my way along the uneven path. Grace follows me, sniffing all the way. The path is just a footstep wide, weaving its way round tufts of grass and rocks. What started out as drizzle on the shore seems much wetter the further I follow the path round the bay. Everything seems wetter. My feet begin to sink into the grey mud. Wading my way through it, a smell comes with it. I squelch on. I may well be a townie and feeling a bit useless and pathetic at the moment, but I’m not going to let Sean see that.
‘Come on, English!’ Sean’s off the tractor and standing thigh-deep in the water. Oh dear God, I do hope he doesn’t want me to go in that deep.
I’m level with him now. He’s pulling two mesh bags behind him, one in each hand, towards the trailer. Slosh, slosh, slosh. Every time he takes a step my heartbeat gathers pace.
‘Come on, the tide’ll be turning if we don’t get a move on,’ he shouts over to me. A sharp blast of wind throws cold rain in my face and whips off my hood. I grapple for the hood while tentatively trying to dip a toe in the water. I misjudge the grassy edge and stumble forwards, landing with a splash. I freeze. Then I look down. At least I can see the bottom, see what’s lying beneath the surface. I stand stock-still in the ankle-deep water. Sean lifts the two bags onto the back of the trailer and then starts to slosh his way over to me. I’m shivering.
‘OK …’ He rips off his gloves and wipes some of the rain from his face with his sleeve. ‘These are the oyster beds.’ He points to the rows of mesh bags, solid sacks with little holes in them, on trestle tables now just visible above the water. All I can think about is the fact I’m ankle deep in the Atlantic. I dab my top lip with the end of my flapping sleeve, trying not to let on how terrified I am.
‘Right, fine.’ I pull in my lips, trying to look like I’m in control and taking it all in, even though I’m not.
‘These bags here are all ready to go to market, they’ve been graded and washed and are ready to go off for bed and breakfast at the co-operative before going to the supermarkets.’ He waves his hands, like he’s talking about young ones flying the nest.
‘Bed and breakfast?’ I suddenly tune in.
He grins that same lopsided smile as he begins to explain with clear delight. His whole body language has changed from the uptight, scowling character I met in the pub. ‘They go through a purification process at the co-operative plant before being sent on. I could put them through that process in the shed, but the co-operative takes care of all that. It’s basically a water tank with ultraviolet lights. Makes sure they are as clean as can be before they get sent out. But as we’re grade A waters it’s a formality really. I’ll show you later.’ He’s clearly in his element, sharing his world with me. He starts to lead the way further into the bay. I follow, concentrating as hard as I can on the shoreline and mountains on the other side. My arms are outstretched like I’m walking a tightrope, and that’s a little how I feel – walking a tightrope without a safety net.
‘These here,’ he points to a row of bags on a trestle table, draped with brown, glistening seaweed, ‘these with the yellow bands.’ There’s a coloured band threaded through the end of the bags to code them. ‘These are the baby oysters, or spat. As they get bigger we change their band colour accordingly, green and then blue.’ He points again to blue coded bags but I feel I’m barely taking anything in. I’m concentrating so hard on not turning and running back to dry land.
‘We’re going to take some of the spat up and grade it and hopefully, if they’ve grown, we’ll move them up into bags with wider mesh, bigger holes in them. And we’ll get some of the blue bags ready for market too. Later on in the week we’ll check on the other bags, turn them, and makesure they’re doing well. Happy?’
‘Hmm, what? Sorry? Oh yes.’ I nod overenthusiastically. Not happy, no, but I can’t say that.
Suddenly Grace lets out one of her war cries and starts jumping around in the water, splashing around like a baby in the bath. The water showers me.
‘Argh!’
Too late I realise I’ve grabbed his upper arm and am clinging to it. He looks at me with something close to despair and shakes his head. I’m not sure if it’s aimed at me or Grace.
‘Oystercatchers,’ he gestures to a group of black and white birds with orange beaks which have just landed by the oyster beds. He peels my hand off his arm so I’m adrift again. ‘Do you know they can get their beaks through some of the wider mesh bags and actually eat the oysters and leave an empty shell? You’ll have to watch out for them. Send Grace out if you see any.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Really?’
