The Oyster Catcher (15 page)

Not only do I have to work out how we’re going to pull off this festival in eight weeks, but I also have to put right any misunderstanding between me and Dan. I’d hate to think he was going to miss his flight tomorrow because he thought I fancied him. I am strictly off romance of any description.

Nancy looks me up and down as I climb into the passenger seat of her clean car, and at the muddy footprints I make in the footwell.

‘No Sean?’ she says by way of a greeting.

I shake my head. ‘He’s watching out for the oyster pirates.’ Although I suspect he’s glad to have the excuse.

She sniffs and then starts up the engine and heads for town, just missing Freddie and Mercury who are standing by the white donkey’s gate. I think I should get out and take them home but she’s careering down the road firing out instructions to me as we go.

‘Marquee; it’s got to be classy; make sure you organise it from the city, not some hill farmer out here. Tickets, promotions, newspapers …’

‘I was thinking we should try and make it as close to how the festival used to be as possible. The locals seemed to be a big part of it. Grandad was telling me all about it. The whole town would turn out. I was thinking we could have a local band, activities for the children,’ I offer up.

‘Good God, no! We may be using local oysters but that’s about as parochial as it’s going to get. It’s got to be classy. It’s got to compete with the festival in Galway and over in Clarenbridge. It’s got to be bigger and better.’

I think to myself: we obviously have totally different ideas about how the festival should be run.

‘You do know we’ve only got eight weeks to get this together, don’t you?’ I tell her.

‘I’m sure you’ll manage it.’ She turns to me and gives me a big smile. ‘Anyone who can get Sean Thornton’s cottage as sorted as you have is capable of rising to a challenge.’

I think she’s giving me a compliment but there’s a look in her brown eyes that just unnerves me.

‘Besides, you don’t want to let Sean down now, do you?’ she adds much more quietly. 

Chapter Twenty-six

‘So it’s official, we’re bringing back the oyster festival. For real!’ Margaret is telling anyone who’ll listen from behind the bar. ‘It’s brilliant. I mean that’s exactly what we need. Fame, right here in Dooleybridge. I knew it would happen. It said so in my horoscope today.’ She pulls out a well-thumbed copy of a magazine from under the bar. The paper’s so thin it crackles as she thumbs to the page she knows off by heart.

‘Prepare for your world to take centre stage …’ she starts reading with dramatic projection.

‘Margaret,’ I interrupt her.

‘Oh hi! Dan’s on his way. He’s moved into Rose’s chalet. Should be here any minute.’ She looks like she’s won the golden ticket. ‘My horoscope is just brilliant.’ She holds up the magazine again. Nancy gives an impatient little cough.

‘Oh, Margaret this is Nancy Dubois,’ I swallow. ‘Sean’s …’

‘Oyster broker,’ Nancy finishes firmly for me.

Margaret takes in Nancy, in much the same way she did me when we first met. Her eyebrows arch.

‘He’ll be here any minute. I told him we wanted to talk,’ Margaret says.

Bang on cue the door swings back with its usual crash. Dan smiles and marches in with Mary Jo behind him.

‘Hey,’ Margaret gives him a wave. Nancy’s head spins round.

‘Dan Murphy? I’m Nancy Dubois, festival organiser,’ Nancy says with a smooth smile and flicks back her hair. Again Margaret’s eyebrows shoot up. Nancy’s hand shoots out to shake Dan’s.

‘Festival organiser? I hadn’t realised. I thought these two ladies were behind all this.’ Dan looks from me to Margaret and is probably wondering if we’re a bunch of screwballs.

‘I’m in charge of media,’ Margaret quickly appoints herself. ‘Unless you wanted to do that?’ she turns to me.

‘No, no, you go ahead. I’m happy doing the behind-the-scenes stuff.’

‘This festival is going to be a huge affair. We’re going to have restaurateurs and buyers from Dublin, Galway, and France. It’s going to be a very prestigious event and we’d love it if you’d open it. Your family are from here, I gather,’ Nancy turns to me to confirm this and I nod quickly. ‘You’re the perfect choice,’ she smiles a stunning smile again, tinged with a little flirtation.

‘Happy to oblige,’ Dan says. Nancy turns triumphantly to Margaret and I as if she’s just got him to agree to it, despite our hard work earlier. ‘I feel drawn to here. It’s in my blood. I’d be happy to help my homeland.’

I can see Margaret out of the corner of my eye. She’s putting a finger down her throat making a gagging gesture behind their backs. I look away quickly, fighting to suppress the giggles.

‘We’ll organise some media stuff straight away, get the festival launched, won’t we Maureen?’ Nancy turns round to Margaret who quickly stops making the gagging motion and pretends to be scratching her nose instead.

‘Yes, of course,’ she smiles. ‘And it’s Margaret,’ she corrects, but Nancy doesn’t seem to notice or, if she does, she doesn’t care.

‘And you can judge the Pearl Queen competition,’ Margaret tells Dan, ‘that should get even more coverage.’

‘The what?’ Nancy looks irritated at Margaret’s interruption.

‘You know, like a beauty queen. Someone to be the beautiful face of the festival, no offence like, Dan, not that you’re not beautiful, but you need a glamorous girl on your arm,’ Margaret explains, making me smile.

‘If we must,’ Nancy barely gives it a thought.

‘Great,’ he grins. ‘And will you be entering, Fi?’ He turns to me and my cheeks burn bright red practically instantly.

‘Oh no, like I say, I’m strictly behind the scenes,’ I manage to say.

‘But I will,’ Margaret butts in.

‘Fi here will be organising the festival itself. If you have any questions just ask her and she can ask me,’ Nancy tells Dan and Dan nods appreciatively in my direction.

‘I’ll be heading home like we planned, tomorrow,’ Mary Jo says to me. ‘Need to get back to the office, and the family,’ she says with a slightly watery smile. ‘Lovely as it’s been, I can’t wait to get home. My little boy will be missing me. I can leave my husband home alone only so long.’

‘Yes, I need you to go and hold the fort. Tell the publishers I’m on to it, not to panic,’ he pats Mary Jo on the shoulder. ‘I’ll have the book ready to tie in with the new TV series.’ I’m staring at Mary Jo and then I realise I’m pushing down my feelings of envy. She’s getting on a plane and going back to her home, family, and friends. I wonder if I’ll ever have half of what she’s got. I know that’s why I’ve got to stay and throw myself into this, until these feelings go away. A sharp nudge in the ribs brings me back to earth.

‘So? It’s going to be just like it used to be?’ Rose asks. ‘Grandad can tell you everything you need to know.’ She points her Bacardi Breezer at him. Grandad sits up straight in his wheelchair.

‘When I was a boy you couldn’t move for oysters here. Native oysters …’ He’s spreading out his fingers seeing the beds in front of him.

‘Not now Grandad,’ chorus back the group that’s gathered around us.

‘Excuse me,’ Nancy says over their chatter. ‘This is supposed to be a private meeting.’ For a moment  no one says anything. Then Mad Frank laughs showing his missing front tooth, ‘No such thing round here,’ he says and the others chuckle in agreement.

‘This is going to be a professional affair. Obviously we’ll need waiters and waitresses, cloakroom staff, that kind of thing. But it’ll be a dinner and dance. I’ll be bringing in a chef from my new restaurant and I’ll be organising the oysters, obviously. A seafood extravaganza!’ Nancy announces and stands up to leave. She smooths down her dress and puts out a strong hand for Dan to shake.

‘Great to have you on board, Dan. Fi will sort you out from here, if you need anything, just call her.’

‘I will,’ he says with a wink. Then Nancy flicks out any hair that has caught under her handbag strap on her shoulder and we watch as she sweeps out of the pub into the rain.

‘How do you think it’s going down with the rest of the locals?’ I say quietly to Margaret. Margaret looks around and rocks her hand from side to side.

‘Excited, I think. Like you say, time to forgive and forget.’

I look around. I’m desperately trying to see a trace of excitement.

Sean and Padraig are finishing their pints and Seamus pulls out a wad of notes from inside his jacket pocket. They’re chuckling and then look straight at me.

‘No Sean tonight?’ Seamus asks.

‘No, he’s at the farm in case the oyster pirates come back,’ I say narrowing my eyes.

‘Shame, would’ve liked to buy him a pint; had a little wind fall,’ Seamus chuckles a tobacco-filled rattle and Padraig joins him and I feel my hackles rise.

‘So, that’s settled then, Fi,’ Margaret interrupts my thought. ‘You’ll organise the venue, I’m doing marketing, and Dan you’ll do a publicity launch. Oh, it’s going to be fabulous. I can’t wait!’ Margaret’s face is glowing like a child on Christmas Eve.

‘Only trouble is, I need to contact suppliers and things. There’s no reception up at the farm. How are we going to organise a festival without internet access?’ I look at Margaret.

‘And I have emails I need to send,’ Dan says.

‘Gerald’s café! Let’s call it Festival HQ! Keep it local.’ Margaret goes back behind the bar to serve Seamus and Padraig. I can’t help but keep looking at them. If they did take the oysters I can’t let them get away with it. But what can I do?

‘Sounds like there won’t be anything local about it,’ says Seamus gruffly.

‘A couple of blow-ins telling us locals how to do the oyster 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 hips feistily and Grandad angrily agrees. ‘And so’s Dan. He’s a Murphy. Murphys have always lived here.’

Seamus and Padraig shake their heads. They’re not going to agree.

‘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 are right; 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 saying. 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 get them laughing on the other sides of the faces.

‘What about you Freda, John Joe? Could you help at the oyster festival?’ I hold my pen over my pad. ‘Cloakroom?’

Freda thinks for a minute.

‘I could make some scones if you like,’ she says with a sniff.

‘Ah, OK, well thanks for that, Freda. 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. 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. There’s 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 the 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 his hand. 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 and head off into the city. Sean parks up and finds our pitch. It’s early and chilly. Stallholders are setting up 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.

‘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 just 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 scared of slicing my fingers off.

‘Look, like this …’ He comes round to my side of the table and is now standing behind me. He suddenly puts his large hand over mine holding the knife. My heart starts to quicken as does my breathing. His fingers wrap around mine and heart and my breathing quickens again. There’s a fizz of excitement in my stomach, like a passing crowd of butterflies have just done a red arrows fly-by in there, zooming in and out. I grip the oyster harder and push, his arms around me tense up and he pushes too and the shell starts to move. He wraps his other arm around me, his fingers cupping my other hand and I can feel his warm breath on my neck. I think I may have stopped breathing all together. Oh God, here comes the butterfly fly-by again.

Suddenly the knife slides into the oyster.

‘Great,’ he says and his words dance on the skin of my neck.

‘Now, twist it to and fro, until it pops.’ He loosens his grip on my hands but doesn’t leave me. I twist, rocking it this way and that and then, it pops.

‘As a champion shell-shucker once said, in order to open the oyster you have to first work out what’s keeping it closed,’ he says quietly. ‘There’s a muscle on the top and on the bottom. Slide the knife along the top edge of the oyster. He guides me and I feel the oyster muscle. He pushes my hand forward and I cut at it. Clear juice starts to dribble out all over our hands and onto the table but we don’t move.

‘There, pull away the top of the oyster shell,’ he says, and I do. I’ve taken off the top shell and inside is the soft, layered, fleshy, plump oyster.

‘We’re not finished yet,’ he says. ‘Now, slice under the oyster, there’s another muscle that needs to be cut before the oyster’s free and can come out of the shell.’

I slice.

‘Good, now flip the oyster over in its shell and it will start to produce brand new liquor.’ I flip over the creamy oyster and it does just as he says. He lets go of my hands and I may have started to breathe again in short bursts but my heart is still racing.

‘Now, all you have to do,’ he cups my right hand again and lifts it up, ‘is eat it.’ He holds it to my lips. The butterflies rush in and do a much more impressive fly-by, making my whole body shudder. I look at him then down at the oyster and then bottle it. I shake my head. He gives a half smile and puts the oyster to his own lips, tips it back, chews and swallows. I watch his throat muscles squeeze and move up and down, my own moving involuntarily at the same time. I’m staring at his throat and the oyster has gone. I’m breathing again, heavily. My face is so close to his I can smell the salt on his skin. I can see his lips are wet. He bites at them, sucking in the last of the juice.

‘Now, you’re on your own,’ he says suddenly stepping back and returning to his side of the table. I feel like I’ve been blindfolded, spun around, and then told to walk in a straight line. I wonder if he’s done it on purpose, if he knows the effect it’s had on me. I pick up an oyster, flustered and cross. I hold the oyster in the towel and force the knife in. I twist and pop. I slice, open, slice, flip, and the juice runs free again.

‘Very good,’ he smiles and I’m blushing, possibly glowing. It must be the exertion, I tell myself as I stand back from the table to admire my first shucked oyster just as our first customers roll up. But I don’t shuck. I spend the day seating customers, taking the money, and serving them wine, leaving the actual shucking to Sean. It reminds me of being back in The Coffee House back home, which gives me an idea. That evening, with the radio playing and the fire dancing merrily, I set to work making lots and lots of chocolate brownies.

The next morning Freddie is halfway down the lane, again. We’ll have to rename him Romeo and the white one Juliet at this rate. They’re obviously very much in love. I get him home and let out the hens, letting them mingle around my legs as I put down the food. Then it’s Brenda and her gang’s turn. I outrun her easily. I double-check Freddie’s gate tie and then take Grace on the path around the bay to the rocky headland that leads to the second bay where the native oysters are nestling in their beds. You can’t get any further on foot. But it looks quiet and undisturbed and that’s the most I can hope for. A shiny black head pops up from the water. The seals! I sit down on a rock, pull my hood up against the drizzle and watch as  two, four, six seals bob around playing in the water in front of me.

Eventually I pull myself away from then and make the walk into town with Grace at my side and a large Tupperware box under my arm.

I hesitate as I approach the café but when I step inside it’s empty and I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘What can I get you?’ Gerald smiles broadly and the urn makes an enthusiastic rumble behind him.

‘Actually Gerald,’ I say gathering confidence as I speak, ‘I was wondering if I could do something for you.’

‘Really?’ he wipes his hands, shows me to a table and sits down opposite me.

‘If it’s about a job, I’m afraid I just haven’t got anything,’ he looks around at the empty café. I shake my head. I decide to let the brownies do the talking. I open the big Tupperware box. The smell of warm chocolate wraps itself around me like a hug and fills the little café. Gerald’s enjoying the same feeling by the look on his face. He looks into the box.

‘I’ll get some tea,’ he says.

When he’s back with the mugs he hovers his hand over the Tupperware box. ‘May I?’

I nod and he reaches in and pulls out a fat, gooey brownie. He looks at it like a jeweller studying a diamond. Then he bites. I watch his face. At first he doesn’t react but then his eyes close, his head rolls back and finally he opens his eyes again and smiles the widest smile.

‘My dear, they’re marvellous, but I’m not sure I can afford to buy them from you. You can see how business is.’ He looks around again. ‘Thursdays are busy because it’s court day in the local library, but other than that, this is the worst summer I’ve ever had. Between you and me, if things don’t pick up this will be my last season.’

I feel for Gerald. It’s a lovely café, well it would be if he’d get rid of his ex-wife’s belongings.

‘Actually Gerald, I was wondering if I could give you these to sell in exchange for me using the computer. I don’t want any money, just a straight swap for computer time.’

‘Really?’

‘I can make more if you don’t think there’s enough,’ I look at his gobsmacked face.

‘No!’

‘No?’

‘No, I mean, no, there’s plenty. That would be great. Let’s see how these sell and I’ll let you know if I need any more. And you work away. Use the computer as much as you like. You’re the only one round here who does, apart from Margaret of course, but she’s got her own hand-held thingy. Delighted to do business with you.’ Gerald stands up and takes the brownies. I go straight to the computer and start looking up local marquee companies and sending out emails about public liability insurance. It’s lovely sitting in the corner of the café, watching Gerald and the occasional customer. I like it here.