I look out to sea. It seems fairly flat tonight, apart from the waves crashing against the rocks in the distance. Sean too sits staring out at the bay. I try to think of something to talk about, but my mind is blank. Part of me is wishing I’d taken the offer of going to bed, but that wouldn’t have been fair. I’d worked hard for the inspection and I didn’t want it sabotaged by some measly oyster pirate. The silence goes on but for the occasional lapping of the water, the wind whistling through the poorly fitted window frames, the fire occasionally fizzing, and Grace’s snoring. This could be a long night.
‘I’d put some music on,’ Sean’s obviously feeling my awkwardness, ‘but it’s best we listen out for that car coming back.’
‘Of course, yes,’ I say. He doesn’t take his eyes away from the binoculars. I try playing I-spy with myself but it doesn’t work. Then counting seagulls – anything to stop my mind wandering back to home and what Brian and Adrian would be doing now. Hours pass. The sun finally sets and darkness draws in.
‘Tell you what, how about a drink? Just something to sharpen us up,’ Sean says, standing up. The tiredness is coming in waves. ‘Call it a leaving drink,’ he smiles.
‘OK,’ I say, grateful for the distraction.
‘You hold these.’ He hands me the binoculars like a baton in a relay. I hold them up to my eyes. There’s just the odd light on the other side of the bay. He takes a large step over Grace and me. I lean back against the settee as far as I can. Perhaps a cup of tea is just what I need. Suddenly the lights in the room go out. My eyes take time adjusting. I turn and can just about see Sean by the light switch.
‘Thought it would help us see out.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ I look back at the dark outside. The moon is throwing a dim light on the ripples. It makes me shiver. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be out on the water tonight. Whoever he is, the oyster pirate, he must be a madman, wild, impetuous. I look at Sean’s reflection in the window, lit up by the lamp on the work surface. I’m thinking about the oyster pirate I remind myself, not Sean!
He comes back and hands me a glass with a small amount of golden liquid in the bottom: whiskey. I take it in surprise. The smell alone makes my eyes smart. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk whiskey. I know it sounds daft, but I really don’t think I have. Sean reaches over me again and sits down, taking the binoculars back.
‘At least now we should be able to see any lights,’ he nods out to the dark sea. He turns to me, raises his glass. ‘Slàinte,’ he says, and sips.
‘Do you speak Irish?’ I hold the glass near my mouth. My eyes are still burning from the fumes.
Sean takes another sip and shakes his head. ‘This area hasn’t been Irish-speaking for years. Besides which I’m a blow-in. My uncle was born and bred here. But he was married to my aunt, my mother’s sister. I grewup in Dublin, in a manner of speaking.’ He takes another sip of his drink and I put the family tree together in my head. He doesn’t elaborate any more.
I blink a lot as I hold the glass to my lips. It would be rude not to try it. I take my first burning sip. I can feel Sean watching me as the liquid fire slides all the way down. I blink even more and then try to speak. It comes out like a croak.
‘So did you always want to be an oyster farmer?’ I cough.
He sips from his glass then shakes his head, ignoring the croak.
‘Not really. I mean, I always loved this place, but I didn’t have any big plans, not really.’ He doesn’t look as if he’s going to expand. But then he takes another sip and says, ‘I loved coming here when I was younger. Then, when I was travelling, I spent some time in France, with Nancy’s family, working for her dad. My uncle and her dad go way back, competing in shucking competitions together.’
I look at him blankly and he gives a little laugh.
‘Opening oysters,’ he explains. ‘It’s an art form and a sport all in one. There are competitions all over the world. You use a little knife to open them and the winner is the person who can do it the fastest and the neatest.’
‘Ah,’ I say, understanding, sort of. ‘So you and Nancy have known each other a long time?’
‘Since we were teenagers.’ He takes another sip. ‘I was there just before my uncle got sick. All the other cousins had either moved abroad or had jobs in other areas. I came back to live here with him, and so the farm came to me.’ He sips and so do I. It burns just the same. I grimace just the same and Sean smiles, just the same. ‘It came at the right time for me. What about you?’ Sean picks up the binoculars and looks out before resting them in his lap and looking back at me.
‘No.’ I twist the glass. I tuck my legs up further, as if curling myself into a sort of ball. ‘I never had any big plans, other than …’
‘What?’ He looks at me with interest.
A tiny little dream bubble pops up and then disappears. I look back into the drink.
‘Just to get through it, I suppose.’
‘That’s a bit pathetic,’ Sean tuts. ‘You must have wanted to do something when you were younger.’
‘No, not really. I liked cooking for people. I liked how it made people feel better.’ Ever since my mum left me weeks before my sixteenth birthday and went to Malta on holiday with her much younger boyfriend and ended up staying, I’d been at Betty’s coffee shop. I was happy there, I think, tucked away in the kitchen, seeing the empty plates that came back.
‘Did your mum ever cook, or your dad?’ Sean asks, and I shake my head as the hole from the missing piece of jigsaw inside me opens up.
‘Mum didn’t cook. I don’t know if my dad did. I never knew him,’ I surprise myself by saying.
‘Never?’
I shake my head.
