Saturday 31 July 2010

On the mudflats

It's nearly dusk, but  there is no sun on the horizon. There hasn't been one for days. Just grumpy skies filled with low, grey clouds, indistinguishable from the sea that meets the end of the mudflats. Growing up inland, the first time she saw the broad expanse, she felt dizzy as if she might fall off the edge. She'd struggled to walk through the soft sands down to the muddy cockle banks. The only sand she'd seen before was in her father's time turner. He used to let her play with it while he read engineering reports. She'd loved turning it up and down, seeing the sand shift and slide, shift and slide - watching as time ran out.

Each day at low tide, the path through the soft sand marks the passing of her days. On the way out, her boots are clean, her tray empty. On the way back, she is mud-spattered, cold, wet, carrying a full tray back to the Collector waiting on the shore. There is no room for slacking. Only a full tray will do. And her father needs the money, so a full tray is what she will collect. Though her back is sore with the constant stooping, her arms ache, with the raking of the shellfish beds. Rake, sift, rake, sift - the pattern of her days

The shift is nearly over, the day is nearly done, but her tray is not full enough. These beds have been over-harvested, there are slim pickings to be had. Her fellow workers have moved towards the edge of the mudflats, closer to the incoming tide. She can see by their increased activity they have struck lucky. She squelches towards them, every footprint filling with water the moment she raises her boots. They will have to be quick.

On the seashore, the Collector looks down at the workers crouched over the shifting sands. Sky and sea meet in a dark grey huddle, it is hard to distinguish where the water's edge is. It is beginning to rain again. He cannot call the cockle-pickers - they will not be able to hear him. He could raise his arm, but it is unlikely they will look up from their labours. He considers his losses and turns towards his van.

On the mudflats, the workers have completed their haul. They stand up and begin the long march back to the beach. The sand shifts and slides beneath their feet. Shift, slide, shift, slide  - time is running out.

9 comments:

Sulci Collective said...

What I love about this piece apart from its dark resonances with what happened in Morecambe, is the truly sumptuous sensation of it all you convey, I could almost feel the slimy wet sand around my feet as I read. That was fantastic to conjure that up!

mazzz in Leeds said...

Wonderfully written. Loved the "time running out" in both places.
You convey the sense of foreboding so calmly too, which heightens it IMO. Great stuff

Laura Eno said...

You left me with an ache, all the while writing with such calm. Bravo!

Linda said...

Very sensual story. Felt the menace from the beginning with 'grumpy skies'. I am totally there, getting swallowed in the muck. Perfetto! Peace...

pegjet said...

The others said sensuous and I have to agree. Your understated style intensifies the despair. Well-done.

Lou Freshwater said...

Oh, I believe this might be my favorite thing of yours so far. Really sensual and tense, and fantastic. Well done!

Virginia Moffatt said...

Oh thank you so much. Yes I did haave those poor folk in Morecambe in mind. It started off a bit more optimistic, but this is what I ended up with!

Lyn Thorne-Alder said...

Beautiful, well-paced, well-phrased, the imagery strong enough that I really felt *there*.

Tomara Armstrong said...

I could hear the tide and their feet in the sticky sand. Such a great piece.

~2