Golddigger by McCollum Hilary

Author:McCollum, Hilary [McCollum, Hilary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781594934421
Publisher: Bella Books
Published: 2015-05-12T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

The sea is roaring today, waves battering the beach. The tide’s on its way out, leaving behind fierce, black rocks. And clinging to the rocks are the mussels that have brought us down to Coumeenoole Strand.

“Are you sure we can eat these?” Mary says, looking warily at the blue-black shells, still gleaming from the sea.

“They’re really tasty,” I say, “if you know how to cook them. Mussels in beer or with butter and onions, or mussel chowder.”

“We never ate anything like this. It was always potatoes.”

“My ma never fully trusted the potatoes. There were problems before, thirty years ago.”

“I’ll never trust them again either.” Her voice is bitter.

“No, I don’t think any of us will.”

“I suppose we should make a start,” Mary says.

“It’s easy enough. First, you choose your mussel. Not too small—they’re still growing. And not the ones that are half open, they’re already dead and gone bad.” I point to a shell about an inch and a half long. “This one’s perfect,” I say, taking hold of the shell a little more than halfway down its length. “You get a firm grip of it, then twist sharply and—pull.” I tug hard and the shell comes away from the rock.

“Your turn,” I say, dropping it into my bucket.

Mary approaches the rock cautiously, pausing to peer at the shells. I realise I’m staring and get on with finding my next shell. I’m on to my third one when I see Mary staggering backwards.

“Oh, I think I pulled a bit hard,” she says, laughing as she recovers her balance. Soon she is picking her way across the rocks. It is not difficult work but it’s hard on the hands, the bitter wind biting through the flesh to the bone.

“That’s probably enough,” I say, once she has half a bucketful. “They don’t keep long so there’s no point getting too many. Come on, let’s go back up to the house and I’ll show you how to cook them.”

The shells click-clack together as we walk up the steep hill from the beach towards Mary’s cabin. Her mother is sitting in the kitchen, Dominic sleeping in the wooden crib, Malachy shuffling around the floor on his bottom. He holds his arms up to Mary, who scoops him into a hug.

“How’s my baba?” she says. He squeals as she blows a raspberry into his neck.

“Good afternoon, Missus Begley,” I say.

“Afternoon Frances.”

“Frances has been showing me how to gather mussels,” Mary says.

“It’s a terrible day to be reduced to eating the likes of them,” Missus Begley answers.

“Ah, Mammy, it’s not so bad. Frances is going to teach me how to cook them up nice and tasty.”

Missus Begley shakes her head, then gets up from her seat without another word and goes out the door of the house. I exchange a glance with Mary.

“She thinks it’s paupers’ food,” Mary says quietly.

“Would it be better if I took them with me?”

“No, no, Frances. We need to learn to manage on things besides potatoes.”

“I didn’t mean to be upsetting your mother.

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