‘A bunch of blow-ins telling us locals how to do the festival,’ Padraig sniffs. ‘That Sean Thornton and his French partner and his English assistant. Nothing local there,’ he says loudly to Seamus.
‘Hey, I’m doing it and my family’s lived here for … ever!’ Margaret puts her hands on her hips and Grandad agrees angrily. ‘And so’s Dan. He’s a Murphy. Murphys have always lived here.’
Seamus and Padraig shake their heads. They’re not going to be persuaded.
‘It’ll be great to get the media back to Dooleybridge. Show them what we’re made of,’ Margaret gives out to them loudly.
I can’t help but wonder exactly what it is that Margaret thinks Dooleybridge is made of. Seamus and Padraig areright; it’s going to be a marquee on the GAA pitch. Customers will turn up, eat, maybe stay overnight and then leave again, with luck having ordered lots of Sean’s oysters. But apart from that I can’t really join in Margaret’s enthusiasm and see how it will turn Dooleybridge into some kind of oyster lovers’ Mecca. Not when they have County Clare on the other side of the bay. But one thing’s for sure, I’m going to give it a damn good try; I owe Sean that at least. And what’s more, I’m determined to prove Seamus and Padraig wrong.
‘So, can I put you two down for car parking duties?’ I hold up my pad and pen. They practically spit their beer out with laughter and I squirm with embarrassment.
‘No you can’t,’ Padraig answers flatly.
‘How about you, Seamus?’ I persist, despite feeling a right fool.
‘Not for me.’ He shakes his head. ‘Surprised you have time to do all this, what with your boss being away so much. Must be lonely up there on that farm on your own,’ he says, as though I won’t work out what he’s implying. But I have. I just haven’t worked out how to prove it yet.
‘It’s fine,’ I reply quickly. I am so going to make them laugh on the other sides of their faces.
‘What about you, Evelyn, John Joe? Could you help at the oyster festival?’ I hold my pen over my pad. ‘Cloakroom?’
Evelyn thinks for a minute. ‘I could make some scones if you like,’ she says with a sniff.
‘Ah, OK, well, thanks for that, Evelyn. I’ll get back to you once the chef has told us his menu,’ I say, wondering how on earth I’m going to let her down gently. I don’t dare turn to look at Margaret or I’d giggle again. But really it isn’t funny. Unless I can rustle up some interest, this event will be dead in the water before we’ve even started.
Chapter Twenty-seven
There’s an early morning mist across the water the next day. The sun is barely up, but the tide is out and I can hear the tractor. I jump out of bed and look out. Sean is driving the tractor up from the oyster beds. The heron is hopping from rock to rock, following him.
He pulls up the stony bank and reverses the trailer round to the sheds. The doors at the back of the van are open. I pull on some clothes and go out to join him. He doesn’t ask about the festival meeting. On the one hand I’m irritated that he hasn’t asked; he could take an interest, at least. On the other hand I’m grateful because without a bit of local support it will be just another one of my embarrassing failures.
‘Where are you going with this lot?’ I ask, looking into the back of the van. There are a few crates of oysters with dark, wet seaweed hanging from them, a garden table from the shed and four plastic chairs.
‘Farmers’ market.’ He pulls the bags of oysters from the trailer. ‘Switch on the washer,’ he instructs, and I do. ‘Had a word with a mate and managed to get a pitch in Galway this morning. I’ll go on to the sailing school after lunch.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Now I can’t get the big orders out, thought I’d sell these direct to the customers. Six at a time and throw in a glass of white wine,’ he’s telling me as he puts more oysters through the washer and I put them into crates the other side. ‘Should bring in a bit of money. Won’t be a fortune, but it’ll all help. We’ll load up and grab a coffee on the way.’
We load the crates and layer wet seaweed in between the oysters to keep them fresh.
‘Always put them in with the cup down like this.’ He holds one in his hand and it nestles into his palm. ‘That way they stay in their own juices and don’t dry up,’ he says, and I swallow hard for some reason.
We finish loading and close the van doors, then head off into the city. Sean parks up and finds our pitch. It’s early and still chilly, and stallholders are setting up all around us. Sean sets up the table and then hands me a knife. In front of me he puts down three oysters and a tea towel.
‘Pick up your oyster,’ he tells me as he does the same. ‘Then put it on the tea towel and wrap the tea towel around it.’
I watch him and follow his lead.
‘There’s only two ways you can hurt yourself. You can miss and cut yourself, or, and I think this is the most painful, you can get shell under your nail. It feckin’ hurts, I can tell you.’ He wraps the towel around his oyster, although I know he’s only doing it to show me. ‘Then put the tip of the knife into the hinge, here.’ He taps the pointed end.
I put the tip in. ‘Grip the oyster hard and push the blade in, really hard,’ he says encouragingly. I do but it won’t go in. I push again and the tip disappears into the shell. ‘Good, now push it in as far as it will go,’ he tells me. His blade has disappeared. Mine won’t budge.
‘It won’t go in,’ I say, pushing but terrified it’s going to slide out and slice my hand. I grip the tea towel tighter.
‘Don’t be scared of it,’ he says.
That’s easy for him to say. I am terrified of slicing my fingers off.
