Greer’s mother looked almost offended. ‘Whatever for?’
‘It looks fun.’
Her father sauntered up, carrying three dripping 99s. ‘’Ere you go, my beauties.’
‘Can I have a go at crabbing, Daddy?’
He looked at her sideways. ‘What does your mother say?’
‘I say she’s in her best dress and I have quite enough laundry to do,’ said her mother.
‘She can take it off,’ replied her father, Bryn, winking at Greer. ‘Lovely day like today.’ He ignored his wife’s horrified stare. ‘Eat up your ice cream and we’ll nip to the shop and get you a crab line.’
‘And a fish head.’
‘Yeah, and a fish head.’
‘And a bucket.’
‘Of course, can’t go crabbing without a bucket.’
The sun was warm on her bare shoulders as she sat, in just her vest and pants, on the gritty, granite sea wall, just a few feet from the boy. She dangled her legs, thrillingly and dangerously, over the sea wall, just as the boy was doing.
She had seen him pull in several crabs and drop them in his bucket and was desperate for the same success.
‘Right. There you go. Mind that hook, it’s sharp.’ Her father passed her the baited line.
She looked at the lump of fish stabbed through with the large hook and nodded solemnly. ‘I will, Daddy.’
‘Do you want me to show you how to feed the line out?’
‘I can do it.’
‘Well, keep it close to the wall. The crabs like it in the dark. The tides comin’ in so they’ll be washed in with it. ’Tis no good crabbing on an outgoing tide.’
Greer was getting impatient. All the crabs would be in that boy’s bucket if she didn’t hurry up.
‘Let me do it, Daddy.’
She took the square plastic reel from her father and slowly let the line out. She leant her head as far forward over the edge of the wall as she dared.
‘It’s landed, Daddy.’
‘Good girl. Now sit on the reel and it won’t fall in. If you lose it, I ain’t buying you another.’
She lifted her thigh, already growing pink from the sun, and wedged the sharp plastic of the reel firmly under her buttock.
‘Can I pull it up now?’
‘Give it a couple of minutes.’
She looked over at the boy who was again wrinkling his eyes and staring at the horizon. Her father surprised her by talking to him. ‘’Ello. You’re young Jesse Behenna, aren’t you?’
The boy reluctantly turned his gaze to the man talking to him. ‘Yeah.’
‘Watching for your dad’s boat, are you?’
‘Yeah. ’E’s been out three days.’
‘Has he? That’ll be a good catch he’s bringing in then.’
‘Yeah. As long as the bastard at the market gives them a good price.’
Greer’s father laughed. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ve got one!’ Greer was pulling up her line and, as it broke water, her father and the boy could see that she had three fat, black, glittering crabs clinging greedily to the bait.
‘Bring ’em in slow, Greer.’
‘Get the bucket, Daddy!’ she called excitedly.
‘That’s it. Nice and slow. Now drop ’em in.’
Greer watched as the three crabs plopped into her bucket.
‘Mummy! I got three in one go!’
‘Did you?’ responded her mother from the safety of the bench; she was still not looking up from her magazine. ‘Well done, darling.’
‘Do you want to feed them a chip?’ The boy passed over the bag.
She picked up the fattest chip she could see and dropped it into her bucket.
‘Thank you.’
The crabs, which had been scrapping with each other, now started scrapping with the chip.
‘Want one yerself?’ asked Jesse.
Greer darted a glance at her mother, who shook her head. ‘You’ve already had an ice cream, Greer. You don’t want to get fat.’
Greer looked back at Jesse. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, shovelling a handful into his mouth.
‘What bait you using?’ he mumbled, standing up and wiping his hands on his cotton shorts. He ambled over, with his hands in his pockets, to look at her catch.
‘Fish,’ said Greer.
‘What sort of fish?’
Greer’s father replied, ‘Mackerel, boy. But I reckon ’tis bacon that’s the best. When I were a nipper, I always used bacon.’
The boy looked at him, nodding his head slowly, weighing up the pros and cons of mackerel versus bacon. ‘I prefer mackerel. It’s what Dad says is best and he’s the best fisherman in Trevay.’
‘Then he must be right,’ smiled Greer’s father.
The emptying of the crabs back into the water was a serious business. One by one they were counted and Greer had a pleasing sixty-four to Jesse’s eighty-one.
‘Not bad. For a beginner,’ he told her.
‘Bryn,’ called Greer’s mother, impatient to get home to a cooling shower. ‘It’s time to get Greer back.’
‘Stop your nagging, woman. We’m ’aving a good time.’
‘I’ve got to get tea on and it’s getting late.’
‘I told you to stop nagging,’ he said, and silenced her with a look.
The children said their goodbyes and Greer’s father said, ‘Send my regards to your dad.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Jesse.
‘I’m the bastard at the market who never gives him a good price.’
*
