The Oyster Catchers
Read The Oyster Catchers Online
Authors: Iris Gower
Emmeline Powell had been born a country girl, in a small, whitewashed cottage on Honey’s Farm. When her father died, Emmeline, bereft and lonely, married Joe Harries, a man much older than herself and one of the fishermen of Oystermouth.
The wives of the oyster catchers were sturdy, stoic women, used to helping their men with the catch, and they didn’t like the frail outsider who had married into their community. Nina Parks especially didn’t like her – Nina was a widow who thought Joe Harries should have been hers. Emmeline – Eline – grew more isolated, more unhappy, trapped into an ill-matched marriage without friends to help her. And then she met Will Davies.
Will was to open new worlds to her, worlds of personal achievement, the unfolding of a talent she never knew she possessed, and the realisation that she knew how to love. As tragedy and passionate feuding began to erupt in the oyster village, so Eline clung to her integrity, her ability to work, and her hopes for the future.
Continuing the compelling Cordwainers series, begun in
The Shoemaker’s Daughter
.
THE OYSTER
CATCHERS
Iris Gower
In memory of my dear friend and
fellow writer Julia Fitzgerald who
pointed me in the right direction
CHAPTER ONE
The seas were rough that morning, washing against the shore in short, angry gusts. The shells rattled furiously, dragged along the beach by the strength of the tide. The wind whipped white foam against the stark rocks.
Eline Harries hauled on the ropes of the open boat, straining to draw it towards the sea, her hands chaffing in the coldness, her back almost breaking.
She glanced over her shoulder at the women who were pulling the boats along the resisting sand so easily and frowned; they were gossiping good-naturedly together as though there was no hardship in putting to sea the small crafts in readiness for the menfolk.
Eline’s arms ached and she paused for a moment to gather her strength, determined not to be defeated by the unresisting wood that seemed to sink into the sand as though in defiance of her efforts.
She envied the strength of the village women. These were wives of the men who were ready to face the elements, to bring in the oysters to the safety of the perches near the shore. And now she must try to be one of them, for she, too, was married to an oyster fisherman.
She sighed, that was possibly the only similarity between them for while the women of the village of Oystermouth were sturdy and stoic, used to the harshness of the sea-faring life, Eline was a country girl, born Emmeline Powell in the small, whitewashed cottage on Honey’s Farm near Swansea. She was different and she was made to feel it.
‘Come on,
merchi
, put your back in to it!’ Carys Morgan was a short but stout woman with shoulders and
arms, bared now as she toiled, like those of a man, strong and well-muscled.
‘Leave the girl alone,’ Annie George shouted, ‘she’s not another Nina Parks and neither is she built like a Welsh dresser like you, Carys!’ There was laughter and though Eline pretended to join in, she felt a sinking despair at the barrenness that her life had become over the past weeks.
At the age of seventeen, Eline had married Joseph Harries, a man older than her by twenty years. Joe was kind, a long-time friend of the family and a vigorous man in the marriage bed. But Eline didn’t love him.
Why, she asked herself, had she married him? Was it because when Dad had fallen sick from working so hard on the hill farm, Joe had been there at her side, supporting and helping her?
When Dad had given in to the lung disease, Eline felt so alone and lost and, as she’d stood at his graveside in
Dan y Graig
cemetery, she felt there was no one left in the world to care about her. No one but Joe.
Joe had taken command then, he had been a tower of strength, taking charge of Eline’s affairs, selling the small farmhouse, Honey’s Farm, that had been in the family for generations because he deemed Eline too young and too frail to manage it alone.
And so she had come with him to the village of Oystermouth, to the gossip and suspicion of the other villagers who considered her an outsider and probably always would. It had been the widow Parks who had always been the one to take Joe’s rowing boat to the water’s edge.
There was no doubt that she resented Eline for taking the task from her and Eline knew that she had made an enemy. But Eline was Joe’s wife, not Nina Parks.
Eline had felt more than a pang of loss when the money from the farm had gone to buy a fine, new skiff, but she realized she must trust her husband
to know best; he was far older and wiser than she was.
The
Oyster Sunrise
was fine, clean and new, and Joe had been convinced that now he had two boats, he would make his fortune. Eline was warmed by his enthusiasm believing that one day, when he had made his fortune, he might take her back to the farmlands to live, back to her roots.
Joe’s first boat was weathered and seasoned, well used and faithful. He had named it for Eline, shortly after her birth, the
Emmeline
he had called it and it was ironic to think that the boat was almost as old as she was.
The
Emmeline
was now bobbing cork-like out on the moorings, the sails were patched and faded, but it seemed they stood up well to the fresh winds that came in off the Bristol Channel.
‘Day-dreaming again,
merchi?
’ Carys leaned over her shoulder. ‘Thinkin’ of that fine man of yours, are you then? And who could blame you? Joe Harries always was a handsome buck, all the village girls fell for him, many would have married him given half a chance, but he was waiting for you to grow up, he always said so.’
Eline laughed. ‘What if I’d been as ugly as sin, wouldn’t he have changed his mind then?’
‘Looks isn’t everything, my girl,’ Carys said sagely. ‘If a man’s got a notion in his head about something there’s not much we women can do to change it.’
The boats were ranged now on the edge of the sea and the men were coming on to the shore drawn by an instinctive sense of time that had more to do with the sky and sea than with any clock. They were shouting to each other in loud jovial tones, bluff hearty men who loved the sea and all its moods.
The fishermen scarcely looked at their wives, engrossed as they were in the province of a wholly masculine domain where a man battled the elements to make a living. The sea was a man’s mistress, his love, his life and she had all the attention on this blustery morning.
‘The weather will be better soon, man.’ Skipper George was a tall, rugged man, his face a startling red against the blue of his cap, his eyes far-seeing and wise. ‘No doubt about it, the wind will die within the hour and we will have a fine haul, our dredges will be overflowing.’
‘
Duw
, you’re like a preacher there, man.’ Joe Harries spoke warmly for George was held in great respect. He was the oldest fisherman in the village who had seen more storms than most of them had lived years and had gathered the oysters from the lanes with an unerring skill, almost as though he could see the trails of oysters along the ocean beds.
Eline sat in the boat with Joe while he rowed towards the
Emmeline
; he was preoccupied, looking beyond her, examining the sky intently. In this light he appeared to be a stranger, far removed from the man who had laboured above her in the marriage bed only a few hours ago.
Eline was aware of the laughter of the other women as she took the oars from Joe, attempting to steady the boat while he climbed aboard the
Emmeline
.
Doggedly, she wielded the oars and awkwardly turned the boat which seemed heavy and unresponsive now, and made her way back to the shore.
The other women, their first task of the day over, retreated back along the shore towards the narrow road that wound through the village. Carys hung back, waiting, and then fell into step beside Eline. Carys was perhaps, being young, more sympathetic than the other women.
‘There’s goin’ to be a new boot and shoe shop in the village,’ she said importantly. ‘You know them Grenfells from Swansea? Well, they’ve had workmen putting shelving and such in empty premises just outside the village.’ She dug a meaty elbow into Eline’s ribs.
‘Should see the young gent who owns the place, real
handsome he is, brother or something to Mrs Hari Grenfell, so the rumour goes.
Duw
, he’s a
cariad
.’
Eline smiled. ‘I suppose you know everything about him, do you?’
‘Right enough!’ Carys agreed immediately. ‘William Davies his name is and he’s in his early twenties, I suppose. Just the age when a man is at his most vigorous, I’d say.’
Eline was silent; Joe had enough vigour to last her a lifetime even though he was twenty years older than she was.
‘Aye,’ Carys continued, ‘I suppose you knew all about Hari Grenfell’s shoemaking when you lived near the
town
.’ Carys said the word ‘town’ with a turning down of her mouth as though it was something sinful.
Eline nodded. ‘Mrs Grenfell’s boots and shoes are known all over the country.’ She looked at Carys drily. ‘Not that I wore fine shoes to work the farm, mind, full of muck is a farmyard on a day like this and hard work enough for anyone.’
Carys rested a plump hand on Eline’s shoulder. ‘I know we tease you,
merchi
, and I suppose some of ’em round here think of you as soft, you not being a village girl but there’s no malice intended, mind.’
‘I know,’ Eline said softly. She stepped from the beach on to the road and stared back at the sea. The skiffs were edging out into the bay, vying for position like children at play, sails bellying in the wind.
‘Let’s hope Skipper George is right and the wind drops soon,’ Eline said worriedly. The boats that had appeared so solid and strong tied up at the moorings now seemed like corks, buoyant and frail, receding into the distance.
‘Aye,’ Carys said, ‘he’s always right is that one, don’t you fret about your man. Joe has fished these waters since he was a boy, knows every inch of the bay from the Mixon to Sker Point and then some.’
‘I know,’ Eline said softly, ‘and I’m not fretting, not really.’
‘Of course you are, all we wives worry when our men go out to sea, it’s only natural. But still,’ she sighed, ‘none of us would change our lives for all the money in the world.’
Eline was silent; she couldn’t tell Carys that she was utterly disenchanted with her lot, pining for the life spent in the open air of the corn fields. She sorely missed the soft breezes and the lowing of the cattle at night, and mostly she missed herding in the cows for milking and staring across the hills on a sunny autumn day with the fruity scent of hay drifting around her.
‘Why don’t you have some little ones?’ Carys said suddenly and Eline felt her heart lurch. ‘Not that I’ve any right to speak, mind, being barren,’ Carys added hastily, afraid she’d given offence.
Eline warmed to the woman’s stark honesty. ‘Come in my kitchen and have a cup of tea with me?’ she asked tentatively and Carys smiled. It was a rare offer for Eline was known for keeping herself to herself.
‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ Carys said. ‘I’ve got to pickle a barrel of oysters for some townsfolk, but that can wait a while, I suppose.’
It was cosy in the kitchen with a good fire roaring in the grate, flames of yellow and blue leaping up the chimney. The brasses gleamed and the hob was black-leaded to within an inch of its life. The rag mats on the slate floor were bright and fresh and the white wood of the table was pale with much scrubbing.
‘You keeps a nice house, mind,’ Carys said almost grudgingly. She glanced through to the parlour where the good furniture gleamed, smelling of beeswax, and the walls were hung with a painting of Honey’s Farm on a summer day.
