Chapter Thirty
But this birthday is different. I’m in the middle of nowhere, on my own. There are no presents or cards or mid-week takeaway. Today, I’m thirty. At twenty-nine I thought I had it all: fiancé, flat, job. Today I don’t even own the clothes I’m standing up in. Well, not all of them.
But it’s no good lying in bed dwelling on it. That’s the way to lunacy. Grace nudges my elbow again. I throw back the covers, pull on my clothes, and Grace and I go out to the shed. I can hear the hens clucking, desperate to get out and about and on with the day’s work.
‘Morning, ladies!’ I put down their food and watch as they strut out of the hen house.
Martha, Sarah Jane, Amelia Pond. I decided to name them after various Doctor Who assistants.
Mind you, it’s been that long since I’ve watched television there could be another six assistants by now.
They peck away happily around my feet. I put down the goose feed and jog my way back to the gate with Brenda half-heartedly chasing me.
Freddie is pushing open his gate. ‘Oh, no you don’t.
’ I catch hold of his head collar just as he’s trying to make a break for it.
‘What you need is something to occupy you, a job,’ I tell him firmly.
I turn his head back towards the field and give him a push from behind.
‘All that energy should be put to good use.’ I start retying the rope and pat Mercury, who is looking away from Freddie, as if embarrassed.
Grace has her breakfast and I have mine: tea, soda bread and some of Frank’s honey.
There’s no way I’m going to spend the day moping, I decide, lifting my chin. I need to keep busy. I know, I’ll tackle the old barn where the tables and chairs are kept, see if there’s anything else that might be useful for the festival.
I make myself another cup of tea and then pick up the bunch of keys from the hook by the door.
Slipping on my wellies and hat, I make my way down to the old barn.
I use the rusty key and open the stiff door, pushing it open as wide as I can.
My eyes have to adjust to the dark. There’s piles of old benches and long wooden tables, a big old oil drum barbecue and boxes of junk.
I push back my sleeves, take a slug of my tea, and decide to start by taking everything out and seeing what’s there.
Sean couldn’t be cross with me for tidying up in here.
And if he is, I don’t care. I’m going to do it anyway.
It’s my birthday and this is how I’m choosing to spend it.
In France, Sean was feeling … unsettled.
Which was a ridiculous way to be feeling.
The sun was shining, he was in beautiful Arcachon with a beautiful woman, enjoying a wonderful lunch, sipping a red wine laid on by his good friend Jean Francois, Nancy’s father.
Sean had bought spat from Jean Francois when he was starting out, as his uncle had before him.
Jean Francois had been more than happy to cut Sean some slack when it came to settling up, keen for him to get established and carry on his uncle’s tradition. The two older men went way back.
‘You deserve a break, chéri,’ Nancy told Sean.
Nancy’s French accent always got stronger when she was actually in France.
‘You have been working very hard, and now you have a new assistant we should be able to spend more time together.’ She sat with one long leg crossed over the other and stroked his arm.
She was right; he had needed to get away.
He had been feeling … confused. He and Fi had spent a lot of time together and there was no denying how he’d felt the day he’d taught her to shuck oysters.
He had come to care about Fi. She worked hard.
But she was his employee. He had come close to wanting to step over that fine line the other morning, and he’d promised her that that would never happen, and it mustn’t.
Maybe it was a good thing he and Nancy were spending time together, with her family.
Jean Francois was topping up their glasses while his wife Monique laid out paté, bread and cornichons.
‘How are the oysters, Jean Francois?’
Nancy’s father took some bread and bit into it, shaking his head. ‘The spat is fine. No problem. I rear it from seed in the sheds, but as soon as we put it in the water,’ he shook his head again, ‘pah! They die. It is happening all over the place. No one knows why.’ He cut off a corner of paté.
‘Papa, it’s time you retired anyway. The business has been dead for years. Sit back, take it easy,’ Nancy scolded him.
‘Pah! An oyster farmer never retires,’ he said, and laughed chestily.
‘Isn’t that right, Sean? Once oyster farming is in your heart, it’s in your veins too.’
Sean nodded and they clinked glasses and ate their starter. Nancy sniffed.
Sean felt bad about leaving Fi on her own, especially with the oyster pirates around.
He was hardly giving her any wages right now, and he couldn’t give more until the native oysters were ready to sell to Nancy.
To be honest he hadn’t believed she would stay.
But true to her word she was trying to help him put things right at the farm.
It had been a lucky day when she’d arrived in Dooleybridge.
Admittedly, she’d been a bit of a disaster at first, what with her not telling him she was afraid of water, and then there was the cock-up with the stock going missing, but she really had proved herself as a worker.
And the fact that she was prepared to work for next to nothing until the oysters were sold showed how honest she was.
He’d take her back something from France, he decided.
A small gift to show his appreciation. He’d look round the town after lunch.
‘Sean?’
‘What?’ Sean realised Nancy was talking to him.
‘Where is your head? I was talking about the festival. It’ll be good for business.
’ She cut into her very rare steak, letting the blood run across her plate, colouring the frites she was never going to eat.
Fi would have eaten them, he found himself thinking.
What was wrong with him? They’d spent too long working with each other up at the farm.
He needed to focus on selling his oysters.
After a glorious lunch with Nancy’s parents, they said their goodbyes.
‘Au revoir, Maman, Papa,’ Nancy barely hugged them.
Sean hugged them both warmly. Then they drove the small hire car back to St Emilion.
Nancy went for her manicure and pedicure and Sean strolled up the little cobbled streets of the hilltop town.
He sat down to enjoy a beer, watching the tourists move slowly up the steep hill, en masse, towards the church.
He opened his wallet to pay the waiter and saw the tiny pearl he’d found the day he’d shown Fi the native oysters.
It was misshapen and probably worthless, not perfect at all, but it meant something to him, and to Fi too, he hoped.
Finishing his beer, he took a stroll to the jeweller’s on the hill and went in.
With the pearl set into a silver setting and on a black leather cord, he tucked the little gold bag into his pocket.
He held his face up to the sun out on the French street.
In a nearby café where he’d arranged to meet Nancy he ordered ‘un café’.
He slipped the necklace out of its bag and looked at it again.
It was just right, he thought. Simple. Not too much that it gave the wrong idea, just enough of a memento of the work she’d done at the farm.
It was August now. The festival was in four weeks and then Fi would move on, her debt paid. He just hoped he’d be able to pay his.
‘What’s this?’ A red-manicured hand slipped round his neck and down his chest.
By the time they reached the drinks party that evening at the nearby chateau, Sean and Nancy were barely speaking.
She’d seen the necklace and demanded to know who it was for.
Sean had tried to explain, but there was no stopping her raging jealousy.
At the party she flirted with each of the restaurateurs and vineyard owners who’d come together for the soirée, in particular the chateau owner and Nancy’s childhood friend, Henri Chevalier.
Sean failed to make polite conversation with the other guests and stood scowling out over the vineyards and sunflowers from the terrace.
He was worried what would happen if the oyster pirates returned and he wasn’t there.
Nancy got increasingly annoyed at his inability to network and socialise.
‘Just talk about oysters, for God’s sake.’ She took another gin and tonic from a passing waitress.
Nancy was describing the festival, using her charm on every male guest, making it sound like the event of the year.
Sean couldn’t help but think it didn’t sound like anything he’d want to go to.
She swished her hair, tilted her head, giggled and ate strawberries from Henri’s champagne.
Sean didn’t mind that so much, but he did want to go home.