‘I put oysters in yours,’ I nod at his soup.
‘But not in yours?’ He smiles at me and I shake my head.
‘Let’s not get carried away.’ I smile back.
‘No, let’s not,’ he says quietly, and my explosions fizzle out, hissing and spitting as they go. He picks up his spoon the wrong way up and goes to eat his soup, then rights itagain quickly.
‘So how’s the festival shaping up?’
Now this is a surprise, Sean taking an interest in the festival.
‘Good, thank you. Still won’t change your mind about entering the shucking competition?’ I sip at my soup.
Sean shakes his head. ‘I just don’t think I’d be welcome.’
I want to argue with him but think better of it.
‘Margaret’s been doing great work on the publicity,’ I carry on brightly. ‘We’ve got a website and everything. She’s been out with me taking photographs of the customers eating oysters, and of the town. She wants to do a whole gallery of “then and now” pictures. In fact, she’s left Dan’s camera in the van. I’ll have to get it back to her.’
He says nothing for a moment and then puts his spoon down next to the empty bowl.
‘There’s a box,’ he says, ‘with photos in it. Would you bring it to me?’
I know exactly the one he means: the one over the coat rack that I knocked down on my first day.
I sit next to him on the bed and we go through the black-and-white pictures of his uncle and the colour ones of him. Underneath the pictures Sean tugs at something.
‘What is it?’
He pulls it out triumphantly.
‘My old shucking knife. My uncle bought it for me when I was eighteen.’ He holds it in his hand, enjoying its feel, as if he were slipping on a pair of handmade shoes. I sigh.
‘What’s the matter?’ He puts down the knife.
‘It’s just … our festival isn’t going to be anything like this. This is what the locals want; they want it how it used to be.’
‘Here, have these. Tell Margaret she can have them for her website as long as I get them back,’ he hands me thepictures and puts the knife beside him on the table.
‘I will,’ I yawn, and clear away the bowls.
‘You’re shattered. Get some rest. Take the camera and photos in the morning,’ he says.
I decide to do just that. Tomorrow will be the last day of this spring tide, which means tonight is high tide. It’s calm and bright as I fetch the camera in from the van.
It’s dark when I hear the familiar sound of the outboard motor. I jump up. The moon is clear and bright. I can see the boat from my window. Sean is fast asleep. I look around and grab the camera from beside my bed. This time I’ll get them to stop.
I pick my way along the familiar path round the bay, skirting the deep mud and tackling the little stone steps with ease. I reach the end of the path where I watched the seals and from where I can see the boat all too clearly.
‘Oi!’ I shout, throwing a stone into the water. This time when they look up I press the button on the camera.
Flash! Its bright light bounces off the water and their two surprised faces.
Flash! It goes again and I hear their voices low and arguing.
Splash! The bag of oysters is dropped back into the water.
Flash! I hear the engine start up and the men swearing under their breath.
