She Sells Seashells
She sits on an ample bum in her usual place – on the grass, side of the main street in the small beachside town. Tourists may puzzle at the wild-haired shell seller’s story. Bess neither begs nor seeks help. There is no upturned hat inviting cash deposits. Locals sometimes leave steaming coffee or soup in a takeaway cup for her, sometimes food, but overall Bess is harmless and blends unobtrusively into the streetscape. A perennial presence in the beachside village, she and her posse of gulls, her constant wingmen, maintain an outdoor vigil during dry days. She only trundles her steel supermarket trolley beneath a shop awning in wet weather and at nights. Her entire possessions live inside the jumble of that trolley – blankets, stained pillow, towel, toiletries, rudimentary clothing. The public toilet in the park nearby is her ensuite. At age sixty, Bess has substantially downsized her material needs.
Arriving in the village at least twenty-five years ago, Bess quickly gravitated towards the beachfront and became a quirky fixture. She didn’t actively engage in conversation but would occasionally smile at passers-by through dead eyes and sun-cracked lips revealing a gummy mouth. Local theories arose about the absence of her front teeth. Poor oral hygiene? Vehicle accident? Maybe assault? But nobody really knew, nor would they. Bess chose that her story remains in a dark recess of her head and refuses to allow any light to be shone upon it. Offers to replace torn and stained clothing are rebuffed in the politest possible way. Similarly, attempts to seek out safer accommodation for her are refused. Home is where the heart is, and Bess’ heart is by the side of Beach Road.
Although locals had tagged Bess as “the shell seller,” she doesn’t actually sell shells. Collected from the high tide mark on the other side of Beach Road, she keeps an array of thirty to forty shells. They’re laid out beside her on a stained handtowel where she sits each day on the verge of the street. Bland in colour, similar in size, the shells are unremarkable and quite common. To outward appearances, Bess’ daily raison d’être is to polish her shells with a soft cloth and arrange them on the handtowel from smallest to largest. She is often seen holding up, at arm’s length, a shell in each hand while squinting her eyes and agonising over which shell is larger than the other. She gently rearranges them on the towel, stares intently and contemplates their position in the array. Sometimes she strokes the wispy beard beneath her chin, mutters quietly, shakes her head disapprovingly, and rearranges the order. On alternate days she re-sorts from largest to smallest. There are very few idle days. Most people have jobs; sorting and polishing seashells is Bess’ occupation. It’s an important task, perhaps not growing the economy in a material, measurable sense, but, for Bess, a valuable contribution nonetheless. Australia’s shells need to be polished.
On occasions, Bess has been the object of ridicule from out-of-towners. In their defence, it’s possible that tourists unknowingly think she sells her seashells by the seashore. When people have attempted to pick up her polished shells, Bess becomes agitated to the point of incoherent shrieking. Shopkeepers or locals have intermittently stepped between an enraged Bess and a shocked tourist. It’s a positive that the locals generally keep a lookout for Bess.
Seldom moving from the security of her patch of turf, Bess occasionally wanders short distances along the beach seeking new shells to replace the old. She rarely leaves her shopping trolley or shells for more than a few minutes at a time and is usually accompanied by a committee of screeching silver gulls. The gulls are her daily companions. Given a sandwich, burger or slice of pizza from the nearby takeaway store, she usually saves a generous chunk of pastry or bread roll to feed the feathery flock. The gulls instinctively sense Bess is an easy touch, strutting around her expectantly on skinny red legs until she tears off and scatters small morsels. The ensuing chaos, shrieks, and flurry of silver wings delivers a sense of the absurd to Bess who chuckles quietly to herself through a gummy half smile. It’s in these moments, that Bess’ dead eyes fleetingly flicker into life. With a seemingly innate sense of social justice, Bess attempts to distribute crumbs equally amongst each of her committee members. She has very little time for any bossy alpha gulls on Beach Road.
Only a handful of people know Bess’ back-story. Few could possibly know of her dark years in rural Tasmania. Or her subsequent descent into painkillers, illicit drugs and alcohol after the accident in her late twenties. The car crash that claimed her husband and two toddlers. Left her with a brain injury. Nobody knew her whereabouts as she drifted away from relatives and fell over the precipice, disappearing from the radar. Until eight years ago when I holidayed in a quiet NSW fishing village. The village where my siblings and I had spent a memorable family holiday during our childhoods. The village where I finally rediscovered my lost little sister. My job these days is to keep a familial and protective eye out for Bess. Her job is polishing seashells. They’re rewarding tasks and full-time employment for us both.
