‘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 it doesn’t reach her eyes. 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. 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 with a sinking heart. The thought of starting over again now is thoroughly depressing. So, I grab my waterproof instead, find another two sticks and this time get the geese into bed.
‘That’s one-all, Brenda!’ I call to her as I march off, swinging my arms, towards the town.
I stand outside the pub, wondering whetherto go in. I mean, I know Margaret said for me to come, but I’m sure they wouldn’t miss me if I didn’t. It’s not like I could really help them with their committee meeting. Margaret’ll have forgotten she even invited me. I’ve had my walk and calmed down. I could just go, 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 straightaway.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she beams. She’s changed her hair. It’s smoothed to one side tonight, and her Dayglo earrings are 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 a 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. It’s probably best if I just have the one drink, tell them my name, where I’m from, 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 so uptight.
‘Great, so we’re all here,’ Margaret says with great authority as the ladies from the petrol station arrive.
‘Rosie,this is Fi. This is Rosie and her sister Lily,’ Margaret says. ‘Fi’s working for Sean Thornton.’ Her voice is loaded with excitement.
‘Yes, we’ve met. And how long are you here?’ Rosie 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 after all. ‘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.’ Rosie sips her pint of cider. ‘Some new ideas is what we need,’ she says, and her sister agrees, taking a big swig of hers.
‘Fi is an all-rounder, a multi-tasker, isn’t that right, Fi?’ Margaret announces to everyone.
‘Oh, well, um …’
‘Is that right?’ Rosie 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 again.
‘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 it so firmly that I almost feel I should take up painting. But I smile and shake my head. I can just about manage a stick man.
‘Haven’t had a single student all summer,’ says Maire, picking up her knitting.
For a moment they lose interestin me, and Rosie and Maire discuss the lack of holiday-makers and tourists. I have to say, it’s not your ideal holiday destination. The whole town 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 tablecloths with bunting above them. Before I have a chance to look closer I get a dig on the arm. It’s Grandad. No one’s told me his real name, just ‘Grandad’.
‘When I was young you couldn’t move in this pub on a Monday night. Monday night was always music night,’ he tells me, reaching for his pint with shaking hands. I lean forward to pass it to him. He takes it 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,’ 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.
