Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles

by Phillipa Ashley

Archie grinned. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be here either, but the light is so beautiful. I haven’t painted Petroc from Gull for years and I’m expecting a cracking sunset.’

  ‘Fen decided to stay at home today?’ Maisie asked, enquiring after Archie’s neighbour and, according to some, ‘lady friend’, although no one had any idea exactly what their relationship was before, during or after Archie’s wife had passed away a decade ago.

  ‘She’d be bored watching me paint all day and she has a work of her own to complete. She’s giving the bathroom a lick of paint,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘And have you heard from Jake lately?’

  Archie pulled a face. ‘He Skyped me last week from some far-flung place in the south seas. I can’t recall exactly where. Fen’s the one who uses the computer. She came round and set the call up for me.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll make it home for Christmas?’

  ‘Who knows? My son and daughter-in-law have asked me to go to them, but I’d rather stay here. Jake wasn’t too sure. He’s not too keen on the isles since that terrible business with his fiancée.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Maisie, reminded of the dreadful day when Jake Pendower – Archie’s grandson – had lost his fiancée in a boating accident off St Piran’s treacherous coast.

  ‘Awful thing. He’s never got over it, even though it’s been a good few years now. I don’t think he ever will. I’d hoped he’d take over the Starfish Studio from me one day but I don’t hold out much hope of that.’

  Archie reached into the boat to lift out his easel and workbox.

  ‘Will you be setting up on the beach?’ she asked, holding the easel while Archie shrugged a khaki duffel bag onto his lean shoulders.

  ‘Yes. If I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘Oh no. I’d love to stay and watch you paint, but I ought to scoot back to work. Can I get you the usual?’

  Archie rubbed his hands together. ‘You know me too well, Maisie. Always oils the creative juices.’

  ‘I’ll send someone out with a pint.’

  ‘Put it on my tab,’ said Archie.

  Maisie gave a wry smile. Archie’s tab was as old as the hills but he wasn’t such a frequent visitor to the pub these days so she didn’t mind.

  ‘Are you busy?’ he asked as he set up his easel on a dry patch of sand facing the Petroc channel.

  ‘For today, yes, but things will be a little quieter after the weekend. I doubt I’ll be able to savour this sunset. I’ll be too busy running the inn and making sure everything’s not going to cock in the restaurant.’

  ‘You work too hard.’

  ‘Not as hard as I used to on the mainland. It’s different being your own boss.’

  The reminder of the mass exodus of her small but hardworking team made Maisie’s heart sink again. She’d sorely miss Debbie’s energy and enthusiasm. The pot washer, chef and barman were going too, leaving Maisie and her parents plus a couple of locals who might be able to spare the time to help out occasionally over the quiet season. She didn’t need and couldn’t afford to keep all the staff on over the winter.

  ‘They never stay here these days, the young people,’ said Archie. ‘I was surprised when your mum said you were coming home. Still, some of us old-timers need to stick it out and keep the place limping on, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Some of us,’ said Maisie, half amused and half horrified that Archie counted her as an ‘old-timer’. She hadn’t thought of limping on anywhere when she came back to Gull Island; she’d thought of making improvements and securing the future of the Driftwood and helping out her neighbours too, if she could. Archie meant well but he’d added to her wistful mood. Or was it the prospect of winter and dark nights that dampened her spirits? She didn’t like to think it was the tick tick tick of time and her biological clock. Thirty-nine was still young-ish, whatever Archie thought.

  She was only human and perhaps a fling with a stranger was exactly what she did need. The lean, rangy figure of the Blond loomed in her mind again, with his tousled hair and laid-back charm. Maisie laughed at herself. He was very likely chatting up some other woman in the pubs of Hugh Town now. Well, good luck to him – and her.

  Chapter 4

  Who turned off the sun? Patrick McKinnon opened his eyes onto darkness and wondered where he was. Still in his flat in Melbourne? Had he woken up after another bender? Was he in bed with Tania? He reached out for her warm body.

  ‘Jesus!’

  A drop of cold water hit him smack on the nose.

  Ah, now he remembered. It was Sunday morning.

  The roof of the tent glistened with condensation and another drop fell onto his face. The heavens had opened in the night and wind had started blowing in off the sea. Patrick had thought he’d wake up in three feet of water so he considered himself lucky that the tent, his sleeping bag and all his stuff was only damp, not soaked. He’d have to find somewhere to dry his clothes before he packed away and left Scilly or everything would be rank in no time.

  Patrick rubbed the rain off his nose with the back of his hand and unzipped the sleeping bag. Condensation had formed on the inside of the tent and there was a musty scent that made his nose twitch. Urgh. Was that him? It was no surprise he didn’t smell too great following a day spent playing rugby on the beach with a load of students from the Gull Island campsite, and a night spent under canvas in a one-man tent. That was his agenda for the next hour: a shower, probably a cold one, and then cook a fry-up with his newfound mates. They were fifteen years younger than him and although he’d played Aussie Rules and Rugby Union as a young man, last night’s game and a cramped night under damp canvas had left him stiff in all the wrong places.

  After he’d finished his drink outside the Driftwood the day before, he’d lingered for a while, reading a guidebook and hoping Maisie Samson would come out onto the terrace. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d say to her if she did. He was as surprised at seeing her behind the bar of the Driftwood as she was at seeing him. He’d recalled that she said she worked in a pub but he hadn’t deliberately sought her out, even though he’d wanted to after she’d run away from him on the beach on St Mary’s.

  He’d thought she was better off without him. He didn’t need any romantic entanglements while he was here.

  He guessed she hadn’t planned to kiss him; he certainly hadn’t expected it to happen. They were having a good time and she’d probably let her guard down because of the drinks she’d had. She certainly wasn’t anywhere near drunk though or he’d never have walked away with her that evening … He hadn’t expected that walk to lead to anything so when he’d taken her hand and she’d led him away for the kiss, everything had seemed completely natural.

  Patrick was reminded of how natural right now. His body responded to the memory of Maisie’s body pressed to his. It wasn’t only her body that had kept her at the forefront of his thoughts over the past few days. He’d liked her warmth, her sense of humour, the way she’d made him laugh and the way her eyes lit up when he’d made her laugh.

  He’d tried and failed to clear her from his mind ever since his last sighting of her at the pub the previous afternoon. She’d been balancing an unlikely amount of glass and crockery in her arms as she picked her way across the terrace with a smile and a bit of banter for the customers. She was five foot one at the most, and built like a pixie, her wavy red hair caught up on top of her head in a messy up-do of the kind that he longed to undo and make a hell of a lot messier.

  There was a woman with a mission, he’d thought. A woman who knew what she wanted. A woman who hid what she needed. And, he must admit, a woman with a bloody amazing arse, curves in all the right places and hair that smelled like a country garden. It was probably only some potion or other, but he’d always been a sucker for a woman with a lovely scent. Tania, his ex, had wafted around in clouds of potent fragrance, but Patrick preferred a subtler perfume.

  When she showed no sign of appearing, he’d come to his senses and headed back to the campsi
te. Gull Island obviously wasn’t the place for him. He’d have to come up with a Plan B. Maybe he shouldn’t have even come to Scilly at all … maybe he should just put up, shut up and head back to Melbourne. He would wash his hands of this whole business if he hadn’t made a promise.

  Granted, he’d broken promises before and Greg Warner would never know he’d reneged on their deal because Greg was six feet under. But breaking a promise to a mate was different. As for breaking a promise made to the dying mate who’d practically saved his own life? Patrick would rather have thrown himself off a bridge, so that’s why he was here in Scilly, with no idea of what he was going to do with the rest of his time.

  Towel wrapped around his shoulders, Patrick queued outside the shower block. He wondered if there would be any hot water left by the time it was his turn. It didn’t matter, he’d had plenty of cold showers over the years, at boarding school and in other institutions. He wasn’t afraid of hard work or hard conditions, but he was afraid of what lay ahead, which was one of the reasons he’d flown out of Melbourne a few weeks ago and headed for the UK.

  ‘Bet that’s perked you up, mate?’

  One of the rugby-playing students – Sam, if Patrick remembered rightly – grinned at Patrick as he emerged from the shower, rubbing his damp locks vigorously and shivering in the sharp morning air. It was still misty and the dew clung to the grass of the camping field.

  ‘I needed it. You blokes too by the looks of some of you.’ Patrick flipped a thumb at the group of tents where the students were staying. A couple of them were only just crawling outside, rubbing their eyes. ‘Why aren’t you hard at it studying, anyway?’ he teased.

  ‘Bunked off for a long weekend. We’re all studying at Falmouth, in Cornwall.’ Sam grinned then winced and rubbed his temple. ‘Don’t think I could even think about looking at a book or a screen this morning. We hit the beers hard last night. Now an old guy like you can feel smug for not boozing.’

  ‘Not smug. And not so much of the old. I’m not decrepit yet.’ Patrick knew anyone over thirty-five would be a pensioner in their books and while he wasn’t that far past that number, there was no point arguing. He’d enjoyed his night pretending to be twenty-one again, even without alcohol and notwithstanding the aches and pains this morning. Patrick pulled the towel off his shoulders.

  ‘Um. I was wondering if you fancied a fry-up?’ Sam asked.

  Patrick shook his head. ‘You mean you can handle a full English after last night?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t we?’ Sam looked puzzled. That was another thing about being young, Patrick thought, you could neck a skinful and still devour a plate of bacon and eggs a few hours later.

  ‘If you’re asking if I’ll cook the brekkie if you provide the bacon and eggs, then you’re on,’ he said.

  Sam rubbed his hands together. ‘I’d hoped you’d say that.’

  ‘I’ll be over as soon as I’ve got dressed. Get the stove and a brew on and I might even rustle up some tomatoes and mushrooms to go with it.’

  Patrick pulled on a hoodie, shorts and flip-flops. No boxers or T-shirt but he wasn’t planning on stripping naked, so who’d know? He needed to do some laundry. He took his chance to pile his damp stuff into the washing machine, bought up the tiny camp shop’s stock of mushrooms and tinned tomatoes and headed for the students’ tents.

  More of them were surfacing now, one or two resembling extras from the Living Dead but he guessed they’d cope once they smelled the bacon. With all that hard work on the water and the impromptu rugby, Patrick had soon discovered they were always ravenous. Sam had set up the camp kitchen outside the tents and the sun was rising in the sky as Patrick cracked the eggs and slapped the rashers in the pan. The sizzle of bacon hitting a hot pan made him smile, as did the faces around him. They were like dogs waiting for their bowls to be filled.

  ‘That smells awesome.’

  A lanky ginger youth scratched his boxers and hovered by the pan. You might want to wash your hands first, thought Patrick, but handed over a plastic plate of bacon and eggs anyway. Around a dozen students lined up for their breakfast while Sam piled slices of crusty bread onto the lid of a tin and placed it in the middle of the grass. Finally everyone was served and Patrick made himself a bacon and fried egg sandwich.

  He sat cross-legged on the drying grass, washing his breakfast down with a mug of steaming tea. The sun was rising, as yellow as the yolk oozing between the crusts. It wasn’t as fine a day as yesterday but he supposed it was fair for England. At home, it would have been considered pretty dull and cool. Melbourne had its moments and you could get four seasons in one day almost any time of year, but when the sun shone, man it shone. That had been the hardest thing to take about England: the dull autumn skies. Coming to Scilly had given him a glimpse of the full glory of this strange northern land. It was as if someone upstairs had decided to open the blinds and let the poor sods below have a taste of summer.

  ‘What you doing today?’ ‘Ginger’ asked him. ‘Are you up for some kayaking? We’re paddling round the Eastern Isles to see the seals.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer but I might go over to St Mary’s.’

  ‘For the nightlife?’

  ‘No. I might stay over there and ship out on tomorrow’s ferry.’

  ‘I thought you were staying until the end of the week,’ Sam butted in.

  ‘I thought I was but something’s come up back home,’ Patrick fibbed. ‘Bloody pain in the arse but I suppose I ought to go back.’

  ‘That’ll cost you to change your air ticket.’

  Patrick grimaced. ‘Can’t be helped.’

  Until that moment, Patrick hadn’t known he was going home. He had no idea where the impulse had come from but Sam’s question had tripped a switch inside his brain. What was he doing here? Why had he thought this was a good idea? Greg was dead, and Patrick had done his duty. He’d been to England and he’d fulfilled his promise: he no longer owed anyone a thing, alive or dead.

  He looked around him at the students, fifteen years younger than him, and wanted to laugh at himself. He pushed the plate away with a quarter of the sandwich still uneaten. The yolk had soaked through the bread and the bacon fat had congealed on the plate. The sight and smell of it made him queasy.

  Sam pointed his fork at the leftovers. ‘Don’t tell me you’re leaving that after cooking for us.’

  ‘Yeah. Cooking it ruins your appetite. You have it, mate.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ said Sam.

  Patrick handed the plate over. ‘Get it down you. If you’re heading out on a voyage, you’ll need it.’

  Feeling no obligation to wash up, and wanting to be on his own, Patrick padded back to his tent. He crawled inside intending to pack up, but half an hour later he was still lying on the sleeping bag, staring at the canvas roof. Outside, excited voices chattered away as the students set off on their adventure. Patrick was cold and stiff. He’d never felt so lost in his life. He felt as if he’d been cut adrift in the ocean. Was this loneliness? Or just lack of sleep and perhaps, his rational mind whispered, delayed grief?

  He’d loved Greg, though the two men had never admitted it to each other. You just didn’t say those things, but he had loved him, as a father or an older brother, neither of which he’d ever really known. He even missed Tania, even though she’d left him for her hairdresser shortly after he’d heard that Greg’s illness was terminal. She’d be out to dinner on a yacht in Darling Harbour now, or maybe sipping champagne in some cocktail bar.

  Good luck to her. He was no longer bitter.

  The zip of the tent flap rasped. Sam’s head poked through the flap.

  ‘We’re going. Probably won’t see you again so just wanted to say nice to meet you and have a good journey.’

  Patrick propped himself up on his elbows, hoping to Christ that his eyes weren’t wet. ‘Have a good trip. Watch out for Great Whites,’ he said.

  Sam grinned awkwardly. ‘We will. Er … we wanted you to have this as a thank-you fo
r cooking the breakfast. We know you’re on the wagon and this was all we could find that was alcohol-free but … enjoy, old man.’

  Patrick sat up. Sam thrust a bottle of Vimto at him. It was almost full.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Pleasure. Don’t drink it all at once.’ Sam saluted and was gone.

  A few minutes later, Patrick crawled out of his tent. The campsite was empty of humans. Only the tents stood, gently flapping in the breeze. On three sides, the sea spread out like an inky cloth, speckled with whitecaps. People crawled over the tower of an old fort that looked like it was part of Gull but was actually on the coast of the island opposite. Crows cawed and small birds twittered and darted in and out of the bushes. It was autumn here – spring was on its way in Melbourne. The weather would probably be even worse than here, but on sunny days the skies would be a full-on honest sapphire, not this half-hearted couldn’t-make-its-mind-up blue.

  He took a deep breath and started to pack up his tent.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Bloody hell. He’s keen.’

  Hazel Samson peered through the slatted blinds of the front bar window as Maisie stocked the chiller cabinets with bottled drinks ready for a busy Sunday. It was only ten o’clock and the first ferry from St Mary’s or the off-islands didn’t arrive until eleven, though walkers and guests from the campsite and Gull Island’s handful of holiday cottages would soon be up and about and in need of coffee or something stronger.

  ‘Who is it?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Some young bloke with a bag.’

  Hmm. Maisie was puzzled. The Blond had had a rucksack not a bag, but her mum couldn’t see too well and might have been confused. ‘What does he look like?’ she asked, slotting bottles of ‘posh’ juice into the soft drinks chiller.

  ‘I don’t know. He’s got his back to me. Youngish. Fair hair. Funny, he seems vaguely familiar although I haven’t got my specs on. He looks a bit like that singer you like. Tom O’ Donnell?’

  ‘Tom Odell,’ said Maisie, straightening up and peering over the counter. She picked up a cloth and started to wipe down the bistro menu covers.