The Oyster Catcher

The Oyster Catcher

Jo Thomas

When runaway bride Fiona Clutterbuck crashes her honeymoon camper van, she doesn’t know what to do or where to go.

Embarrassed and humiliated, she only knows one thing for sure: she can’t go home. Being thrown a lifeline – a job on an oyster farm – seems to be the answer to her prayers. But nothing could have prepared her for the choppy ride ahead, or for her new boss, the wild and unpredictable Sean Thornton. 

As the oyster season approaches, will Fiona finally come out of her shell? Will there be love amongst the oyster beds of Galway Bay? Or will the circling sharks finally close in?

Chapter One

The sea air hits me like mouthwash for the head. It’s clean, fresh, and smells of salt. I’m standing on the steps of the Garda station; or Portakabin really. The wind blows my hair and I hold my face up to it, letting any tears that may have escaped mingle with the damp air. With my eyes shut and my face held up to the wind I realise two things. One, I’m in a place called Dooleybridge and two; I am absolutely stranded wearing the only dress I have – the one I’d got married in.

I open my eyes, shiver and walk back towards the harbour wall where the camper van had been. There are some scuff marks on the wall and a headlight that had fallen off, but other than that there’s no real trace that it was ever there at all. I bend down and pick up the light. Oh, that’s the other thing I realised while being cautioned. There’s absolutely no way I can go home, no way at all.

I turn round and walk back towards the road; when I say walk, it’s more a hobble. My shoes are killing me and are splashing water up the back of my feet and calves. But then it isn’t really gold mule weather. It’s cold and wet and I couldn’t feel any more miserable than I already do. I head back up the hill and cross the road just below the Garda station and step down into a tiled doorway. I take a deep breath that hurts my chest and makes me cough. I have no other choice. I put my head down. I touch the cold brass panel on the door and with all the determination I can muster, push it open.

The door crashes against the wall as I fall in, making me and everyone else jump. As I land I realise it’s not so much the throng I was expecting but a handful of people. All eyes are on me. A hot rash travels up my chest and into my cheeks making them burn and inside I cringe. I feel like I’ve walked on to the set of a spaghetti western and the piano player has stopped playing.

‘Sorry,’ I mouth and shut the door very gently behind me. My stomach’s churning like a washing machine on spin cycle. I look round the open-plan pub. At one end is a small fireplace and despite it supposedly being summer there’s a fire in the grate giving out a brave, cheery, orange glow against the chilly atmosphere. There’s an unfamiliar smell in the air, earthy yet sweet. In the grate there are lumps of what look like earth burning on the fire. Back home I’d just flick on the central heating but home is a very long way away right now. There’s wood panelling all across the front of the bar, above it, below it and round the walls. When I say wood panelling, it’s tongue and groove pine that’s been stained dark. It’s the sort of place you’d expect to be full of cigarette smoke but isn’t. In the corner by the fire there’s a small group of people, all of them as old as Betty from Betty’s Buns. Or as it’s now known The Coffee House. Betty’s my employer, or should that be ex-employer?

Betty refuses to take retirement and sits on a stall at the end of the counter, looking like Buddha. She’s never been able to give up the reins on the till. She did once ask me to take over as manager but I turned it down. I’m not one for the limelight. I’m happy back in the kitchen. Kimberly, who works the counter, tried for the job but Sandra from TGI Friday’s got it and Kimberly took up jogging and eating fruit. The group by the fire is still staring at me, just like Betty keeping her beady eye on her till.

There are two drinkers at the bar, one in an old tweed cap and jacket with holes in the elbows, the other in a thin zip-up shell suit and a baseball cap. They’ve turned to stare at me too. With burning cheeks and the rash still creeping up my chest, I take a step forward and then another. It feels like a game of grandmother’s footsteps as their eyes follow me too. The barmaid’s wiping glasses and smiles at me. I feel ridiculously grateful to see a friendly face. It’s not her short dyed white hair that makes her stand out or the large white daisy tucked behind one ear. It’s the fact she’s probably in her early twenties I’d say, not like any of her customers.

A couple of dogs come barking at me from behind the bar. I step back. One is black with stubby legs, a long body and a white stripe down its front. The other is fat and looks a bit like a husky crossed with a pot-bellied pig.

I’m not what you’d call brave really. I’ve always thought it was better to try and skirt conflict rather than face it head on. I look for someone or something to hide behind but the barmaid steps in.

‘Hey, settle down,’ she snaps. She might be small but she’s got a mighty bark. Unsurprisingly the dogs return behind the bar, tails between their legs. I think I’d’ve done the same if she told me to.

‘Now then, what can I get you?’ she wipes her hands on a tea towel and smiles again.

‘Um …’ I go to speak but nothing comes out. I clear my dry throat and try again.

‘I’m looking for …’ I look down at the piece of paper in my hand, the back of a parking ticket. ‘Sean Thornton?’ I look back at the barmaid.

The barmaid cocks her head to one side and gives me a little frown. She reaches up on tip-toes and leans over the bar. Unashamedly her eyes travel upwards taking in my shoes and then the torn hem of my dress. I tug at it. Bits of hanging cotton, like tassels, catch round my fingers. Some come away and I shake my hand to flick them off. The rash starts to creep up my chest again.

Finally the barmaid nods over to the opposite side of the bar from where everyone else is sitting. There’s a man sitting on his own. He looks up at me.

‘Over there,’ she nods again, still frowning slightly, keeping her eye on me, as if I’ve got two heads.

‘Thank you.’ I turn to look at the man in the worn wax jacket. He’s got a table to himself. There’s a notebook and pen on it and next to it a white cup and saucer. He beckons to me with a single flick of the wrist.

‘Oh, looks like someone’s beaten you to it,’ says the barmaid stopping me in my tracks as we watch the younger of the two men from the bar, the one in the shell suit, go over and speak to Sean Thornton. ‘Can I get you something while you wait?’ she says a little more cheerily. I can physically feel my spirits plummet even lower and I hadn’t thought that was remotely possible as I look over at the man in the shell suit, sitting on a small green velour-covered stool, opposite Sean Thornton.

‘Do you do tea?’ I sigh rather more loudly than I’d intended to. The group in the corner is still watching me.

‘Tea? Sure.’ The barmaid picks up a pen and pad. ‘Anything to eat?’

I shake my head, thinking about the few euros I’ve got left after paying the fine at the Garda station. ‘Reckless driving,’ he’d said. He was probably right too. My stomach suddenly rumbles loudly, like a lion’s roar. My hand shoots up to cover my stomach and my blushes at the same time.

‘Soup and a sandwich?’ the barmaid tells me rather than asks, with a raised eyebrow.

‘Fine,’ I quickly agree.

The barmaid flicks on the kettle with a flourish. I can’t help but feel she’s still keeping an eye on me. I can see now that she’s moved to the back of the bar, she’s wearing purple leather-look shorts with tights underneath and a red T-shirt saying Drama Queen in sparkles. I look down in contrast at my big grey sweatshirt and nude-coloured tatty dress.

‘On holiday are you?’ she shouts over the noisy kettle, cutting into my thoughts.

‘Um, well, not exactly, well sort of.’ I can’t answer this without going into a long explanation and that’s the last thing I want to do right now.

‘Excuse me,’ I try and change the subject quickly. ‘Could you tell me where the loo is?’ To my surprise she put her hands on her hips and shakes her head. The kettle is still noisily warming up.

‘Daloo?’ She shakes her peroxide head again and then to my bigger surprise says, ‘No, can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.’ She looks genuinely puzzled. For a moment I freeze and then the penny drops. OK, very funny. It’s that Irish humour. I try and join in the joke and laugh good-naturedly.

‘Hey, John Joe,’ the barmaid calls over to the group huddled by the fire. Oh dear God, please don’t tell me this is happening! Don’t tell me this is some prank they pull on holiday-makers looking for the toilet.

‘Any ideas where Daloo is?’

An elderly man in a holey jumper shakes his head.

‘What about you Freda? You’ve got kids living all over the place, any idea where Daloo is?’

Freda’s in an oversized anorak. She turns down her mouth and shakes her head.

‘Frank? Any ideas?’

Frank scratches his spiral curls poking out from under his woollen hat.

‘Grandad? What about you? If anyone knows about this place it’s you.’

Someone nudges Grandad awake and he splutters.

‘Daloo! She’s looking for Daloo!’ Freda shouts at him. He shakes his head and goes back to sleep, resting his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair and letting his head fall forwards.

If there really is a God would he just let the floor open up now and let me fall through it? I look up to the ceiling and shut my eyes in hope. But nothing. Just like my mother; he’s never been around when I’ve needed him either.

‘I think,’ a voice says next to me and makes me jump. My eyes ping open. Sean Thornton is standing beside me. The man in the shell suit is back at the bar picking up his pint and shaking his head.

‘I think,’ he repeats slowly and quietly, ‘that the lady is looking for the bathroom.’ He puts down his cup and saucer on the bar. ‘Through there to the left,’ he points and gratefully I put my head down and scuttle in that direction.

I grab hold of the porcelain sink and splash water over my face and then attempt to dry it with a stiff paper towel which just inflicts pain. I look into the mottled mirror. The person staring back scares me. I hardly recognise myself. My eyes are swollen, my face blotchy and red, and I look as if I’ve aged ten years. A far cry from the blushing bride that left home yesterday.

‘Sean told me to put your food over there,’ the barmaid says a little sulkily as I return from the loo, like someone who’s been told off. She goes back to polishing her glasses.

On a table tucked round the other side of the bar a bowl of steaming orange soup and a huge doorstep sandwich is waiting for me. My stomach roars again in expectation.

‘Thought you might like to eat somewhere a little more private,’ he nods to the group on the other side of the pub.

‘Thank you,’ I say and go to sit down.

‘No problem. I’d like to say they mean well, but  … I can’t,’ he says not looking at me but throwing a look, first to the locals on the other side of the bar and then at the two standing next to it. They pull down their hats and turn in towards each other. I realise I need to seize my opportunity.

‘Actually, are you Sean Thornton?’ I pick up the red paper napkin by my bowl and twist it in my hands. I try and smile but it probably looks more like a grimace.

‘I am,’ he says evenly and stares right back at me, making me feel nervous. There’s no humour in his eyes.

‘Good.’ My throat is drying again. ‘In that case,’ I say really quickly, with what feels like a tennis ball in my throat, ‘I’ve come about the job.’