‘Hi,’ I say, peeling back the hair that’s flying across my eyes. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Shells, any shells.’ She’s scouring the beach. ‘Thought I’d have a go at some picture frames. Not going to get very far with this little lot though.’ She holds up a bag with her few finds. I turn around, looking where I’m standing, and see a small shell in a little rock pool. I put my hand into the cold water and hand it to her. She holds open the flapping bag for me to drop it in.
‘Thank you.’ She smiles and we fall into step together, scouring the shoreline.
‘So you’re moving on then,’ Maire says, bending for another shell.
‘Yes.’ I skirt a large rock.
Maire picks something up and holds it out tome. ‘Looks like that one’s got lost,’ she says. It’s a starfish. It feels weird on my skin, cold, wet and rough. ‘Put it into one of the pools.’ She points to a large rock with little pools around it. I look at it again and then slide it back into the water, feeling like I’ve helped it come in from the wilderness.
‘So, you going anywhere nice?’ Maire opens her bag for me to drop another small shell into.
‘Not really. Probably go on and stay with my mother for a bit. She’s in Malta. Unless another job comes up before then, preferably somewhere hot and not near water,’ I laugh gently, and so does Maire.
‘Doing the ski chalets is a nice job, but that’s not for another few months. Or there’s grape harvest in France,’ she offers.
‘You sound like you’ve travelled yourself.’ Grace is now in the water, splashing around.
‘Yes, but nothing beats coming home. It may not be the town it used to be, but it’s home.’ She stops, having found a patch of tiny shells, and I help collect them. ‘Probably seems pretty dead to someone from the city,’ she puffs a little.
‘Well,’ I shrug, not wanting to be rude, ‘it is pretty quiet.’
‘No one comes any more. They used to. This place was heaving. Businesses thrived, it was fabulous. Especially at the oyster festival. There were stalls, bunting, Tom Thornton even brought the donkeys down and the kids rode them on the beach. Brilliant days, they were.’
‘So why did it stop?’ I decide to ask. I’d like to know before I leave.
She sighs. ‘It was Tom, Sean Thornton’s uncle. There’d been a lot of rumours. The waters weren’t coming up to standard. Everyone was pointing the finger at everyone else. Farmers were going out of business. Everyone was finding it hard. Tom blamed the Murphy brothers for theirbuilding work just down from his farm. Anyway, one night over the oyster festival they got into a row. Sean had just arrived. Rumours were rife …’ She stops and stands up straight. ‘People round here didn’t wait to ask,’ Maire carries on. ‘The waters were bad and everyone was looking for someone to blame. Tom was ill. There was an argument the night of the shell-shucking contest. The Murphys said that Sean should be disqualified for being a blow-in, said it was for local people only. Well, everything got out of hand. There was a scuffle and Tom … Tom had a heart attack and died there and then, God rest his soul.’ Neither of us said anything for a moment. The sky got a little darker.
‘Sean took over the farm, causing mutterings amongst the other locals who said he wasn’t really Tom’s blood relative and didn’t deserve it.’
‘But his other cousins weren’t interested. He was the only one.’ I don’t know why I feel I should defend him, but I do. ‘They’d all moved abroad.’
Maire shrugs and we walk on, searching for shells. When we reach the end of the beach we turn and walk back the other way, letting the wind fill the silences between us.
‘I thought you coming here might’ve changed all that,’ Maire suddenly says sadly.
‘Me? How could I change things?’ We reach the end of the beach and I look up at the stone steps.
‘Sometimes it takes someone from outside to … see things from a new perspective. No one ever mentions the oyster festival, until the other night.’
‘I didn’t realise—’
‘Oh, it wasn’t your fault, dear. It’s this lot. It’s time they all learnt to forgive and forget, to move on and leave the past behind. For just a minute I saw a glimmer of hope,’ she smiles. ‘What this town needs is someone to put it back on the map.’ She rummages in her bag and pulls out alarge shell.
‘Here, a souvenir,’ she says. I’m touched.
‘Thank you.’ I take the curled cream shell and look at it. ‘I’m sorry it couldn’t be me,’ I say apologetically.
‘Don’t worry, dear. Hope you find what you’re looking for.’ We walk up the steps together with Grace following behind.
‘I hope so too,’ I say into the wind.
I head for the petrol station, still looking at the shell in my hand.
‘It’s promised rain,’ Rosie says scanning my bottle of white wine and large bag of Doritos into the till.
‘Yes,’ I look out of the window. ‘I think you’re right, Rosie.’
