Read Online The Oyster Catcher by Jo Thomas - Free Book Online

he’s doing the same. I jump down and grab a couple more bags from his side and sieve them. It’s absolutely lashing down by the time we’ve finished them all.
    Then Sean finally says the most welcome two words: ‘Coffee break.’
    I put the last little oysters that haven’t grown into their bag and look up. I catch my breath. The sea has crept up even further.
    ‘Then we’ll move into the sheds,’ Sean shouts from under his big hood. ‘This lot will have to stay back after school and learn to grow,’ he smiles, pushing back his hood and looking at the baby oysters. Droplets of water run off his wet hair which has sprung into spirals.
    I hand Sean the bags and he lowers them gently into the shallow water. Waves are hitting his legs and I jump back with each one. He doesn’t, of course. When the last one is in he points to the cottage.
    Inside the warmth from the little pot-bellied stove is lovely and welcoming. I stand and let the water roll off me. Having had the last teabag that morning Sean has a coffee and I have hot water with a slice of lemon. We sit at the scrubbed pine table, me at the end so I don’t have to look out to sea.
    ‘With the inspection coming up we need to get everything scrubbed. By the end of the week the spring tide will be over. Then we’ll start cleaning, every bit of equipment, everything. I’ll be working in town in the day so I’ll organise jobs for you to do and be back in the evenings, unless I’m in town with Nancy.’ He tips back his mug and slugs back his coffee.
    ‘Right, to the sheds.’ He stands up. I finish my drink and stand up too, showing him I’m ready to work. He hands me my coat. It’s wet and cold, as are my dungarees when I pull them back on. There are puddles of water all over the floor. I pull out my wet woollen hat from my pocket. It’s cold and soggy, much like I feel.

Chapter Nine
    ‘You stand here and put one oyster in each of these little compartments on the belt.’ He points to the conveyor belt in front of me. At least here, in the shed, it’s not raining. Just wet, cold, and dark.
    ‘This is where we wash and grade them.’ He turns on a noisy generator and then a water pump at the bottom of a conveyor belt. More water!
    ‘This machine will weigh them and sort them into size, ready for market, or if they’re not big enough, they go back in the water. Look out for dead ones; open ones. We should hear a dead one coming through, they make a knocking noise, or you can smell them. But you’ll learn all that in time. Ready?’ he has his hand over a red button.
    I nod without a clue as to how I’m going to spot dead one that makes a knocking noise or how I’ll smell one. It’s all smelly to me. The conveyor belt suddenly judders into life. Outside the rain is getting even heavier, the day even darker, if possible. Sean presses the on-switch of an old battered radio. Beside it there is a large blackboard on the wall with what looks like a plan of trestle tables on it. The crackly sound of RTE 2 plays out. Then he picks up a bag of oysters. There’s a rush of shells being tipped into the washer and suddenly knobbly, seaweed covered oysters begin to appear through the plastic flap at the end of the conveyor belt on their way to me. When the conveyor belt is full he stops it moving.
    ‘Like this!’ He shows me, picking up oysters, quickly checking them to see if they’re open, and putting them into the sections on the conveyor belt. I follow his lead, soon developing a two-handed technique. I’m moving through them swiftly and feeling confident when suddenly a fast-moving creature makes me jump back with my hands in the air.
    ‘Just a crab. You’ll see a lot of them. Just pick them up and put them in the bucket,’ he shouts over the noise in the shed. I know it’s a crab. I just don’t think I’ve ever had to handle one up close and personal before. Sean scoops it up and drops it into a bucket beside me as if it’s as easy as flicking