Chapter 12 Muddied Waters
Muddied Waters
Brandon
We park by the low shed, the air thick with the sharp mineral scent of salt and brine.
“So, this is the farm?” Lily-Anne asks as we get out.
“This is the farm,” I confirm.
The flats stretch out like a vast grey-brown table, slick with shallow water and mud. Rows of metal trestles run far into the distance, each holding wire baskets thick with seaweed and shell.
“It looks a bit like a vineyard,” she observes.
“A drowned one, perhaps.”
I give her a brief tour.
“There’s a lot to do in the summer months,” I explain. “We take the seed oysters from the hatcheries out to the trestles. The tide brings in nutrients so they can grow naturally, and we have to flip the bags every week or two.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It’s a little technical.”
She gasps when I pull the tarp off the quad bike. “What’s that for?”
“It’s too far to walk where we’re going. And the flats are too soft for anything heavier.”
Her eyes widen. “You mean we’ll be driving through the water?”
“Yes.” I swing a leg over and turn the key. The engine roars to life like an old beast impatient for work. “Hop on.”
A spark of delight flashes across her face as she swings on behind me, her fingers settling lightly at my sides. I don’t point out that she could simply grip the bars behind her.
A few seconds later, we’re cutting across the shallow gleam of the retreating tide, tyres hissing through the water. Spray kisses her cheeks, but instead of flinching, she leans into the wind, mouth open on a laugh.
If joy had a sound, it would be this. I’m too aware of the warmth of her body at my back, her loose waves brushing my shoulder as we turn.
When I cut the engine and hand her a set of orange rubber gloves, she dons them without question.
I find her enthusiasm oddly refreshing. Lily-Anne accepted the bright overalls without hesitation. I offered her more muted options in her size, yet she chose a yellow pair like mine instead, commenting, “We look like rubber ducks.”
I steal another glance at her. She looks just as comfortable in gaudy oilskins and mud-spattered wellies as she did last night in her red dress. Something flares, warm and deep.
I unclip one of the wire bags and pull out a couple of oysters, the rough shells streaked with brown and white. “These have been sitting a while—see how the shells have gone brown with weed? Flipping the bag lets the tide scrub them clean again.” I hold one out to her.
“What’s this one called?”
“Called?”
“Yes.” She turns glinting eyes on me. “Don’t you ever name them?”
“Not if I want to eat them for dinner.”
“Oh, right.” She slips the oyster back into the bag. “Take care, Chucky.”
We spend the next hour walking along the row flipping the bags, settling into the rhythm of work. We talk a little, her melodic laugh carrying across the flats, and minutes flit by.
“Gosh, these are heavy,” she pants, stopping to stretch her back.
“Why don’t you take a break on the quad? We’ll have to head back soon anyway—the tide’s coming in.”
“Just one more? This one’s stuck.”
I step beside her and grip the far corner. “Very well. On three. One, two—”
We heave, but the bag doesn’t budge.
“Ah.” I point to the trestle’s edge, where the mesh has caught on a barnacle. “Let’s try from this angle—”
But as I shuffle around her, she tugs hard. The bag comes free with a wet lurch, and she tumbles back against me. For a dizzying second, the world hangs in balance, her weight pressed to mine, the sudden slack of the net between us.
Then we both pitch backwards into the shallows.
I land on my back, her on top, a tangle of limbs as cold, brackish water closes over me, flooding my collar and my boots, freezing water rushing along my scalp.
I push myself up onto one elbow and surface, sputtering and blinking.
She’s sprawled across me, the damp ends of her hair tickling my face, her palm braced against my chest. We exchange a mortified look.
Her laugh bubbles out first, half-gasp, half-disbelief, and I can’t help joining in.
She scrambles off me, dragging me with her, and for a breathless moment, we cling to each other as we struggle to stand, boots slipping in sand and mud.
“Are you alright?” I ask as we draw apart.
“Me? Fine. An Englishman broke my fall. Are you alright?”
“Yes. The ground broke mine.”
We look for the bag. It sits nearby smugly. I scoop it up, relieved the contents haven’t spilled out.
“Well, that went well,” I comment, pushing dripping hair from my eyes. At least her clothes are relatively dry.
She looks me up and down. “I’m so sorry! That was completely my fault.”
“Not at all. Occupational hazard.”
The quad bike growls as we skim back across the shallows, the tide creeping in. Lily-Anne is flushed, mud splattered on her cheek, blonde waves rippling in the wind.
Radiant, especially compared to me, although emerging from the sea like this, with waterlogged boots and sodden clothes, may be the highlight of my year.
Back at the shed, I pull on a mismatched change of clothes, glad to be dry again. We share the sandwich I made, and Lily-Anne gives no indication that the ham and mustard might not be up to snuff with holiday fare.
I spend the next few hours grading and boxing in the shed, our conversation flowing easily. By mid-afternoon, the sun has come out, and the day feels well-spent.
We drive back to the cottage, lingering at the front door to remove our damp socks. It’s turning into a nice day, so I ask, “Shall we eat on the patio?”
“As long as we get to eat—I’m starving,” she replies, hopping on one foot as she wrestles a sock free.
I hide a smile. “Why don’t you head upstairs and warm up with a hot shower?
I’ll get the oysters in the oven.” I hesitate, key in the lock.
“Afterwards, if you’ve still got the energy, I thought we could swing by the music shop and replace that string.
I went through my old string packets last night, but I mostly have ones for electric. ”
She halts mid-wobble, glancing up at me. “You have an electric guitar?”
“Yes.”
“I was hoping you might have a guitar hidden away somewhere!”
I smile. “Not hidden. Just there.”
She looks at me differently now, recalibrating. I half-expect her to ask to see it. If so, I’ll fetch it.
Instead, she straightens, socks balled in her hand. “The music shop after dinner would be amazing.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She raises her arms to stretch, the movement lifting her damp shirt, and I drop my gaze a fraction too late as she asks, “Will there be time before it closes?”
“Should be…Doesn’t close until six,” I say distractedly. Without the overalls, her wet leggings outline the shape of her legs. I drag my gaze up to her face, noticing a streak of dirt on her cheek.
She tilts her head in puzzlement, and I realise I’ve been staring.
A booming shout resounds over the fence.
“Oi! Brandon!”
I wince, turning slowly as Rupert barrels around the fence line in his wheelchair—stocky and broad-shouldered, his buzz cut sharp, face ruddy and triumphant, a wide grin already fixed on me as he hurtles closer.
Barbara follows at her usual stately pace, tall and thin beside her husband, pearls around her neck gleaming, violet curls bobbing as she carries a tray piled high with scones.
“Been hiding her from us, eh, Brandon?” Rupert grins, waggling a meaty finger at me. “Not to worry, we’re here to welcome her now. And look—we didn’t come empty-handed.”
I already know there’s no escaping them. I shoot Lily-Anne an apologetic look and mutter, “Change of plan.” I stow the oysters in the fridge, hoping Rupert didn’t spot them.
“You must be Lily-Anne,” Barbara says unnecessarily, pressing the scones into Lily-Anne’s hands with a kind smile.
“Come, come, love birds—to the patio!” Rupert calls, spinning to face the back garden. “Brandon, open the bloody gate, will you? Before the scones get cold.”
I oblige with a quiet sigh, and Rupert’s laughter follows us as I lead the way down the side path to my back patio.
It’s impossible not to be fond of the old couple. I don’t mind them making sport of me, but I worry their antics will make Lily-Anne uncomfortable.
As they settle at the patio table, I rescue the sea-blue ceramic bowl that lives there before it gets knocked over, nearly dropping it myself when Rupert elbows me and says in a stage whisper, “You’re smitten already, aren’t you, old boy?”
I say nothing, praying Lily-Anne didn’t hear his question, and determined not to dwell on it myself—or on what my answer might be.