Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking her mug with his. ‘Here’s to our working relationship.’

  Maisie smiled. ‘Back at you, and here’s to you doing as you’re told from now on.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  His eyes gleamed with mischief. Maisie caught the open door through the corner of her eye. Anything could happen: whether she wanted it to or not. She’d brought this stranger into her family’s home and she knew almost nothing of him. Apart from, that is, the word of a woman who was eleven thousand miles away. Except … Judy Warner had seemed genuine. She was obviously a blunt, kind woman who thought the world of Patrick McKinnon and spoke of him like he was her own son.

  ‘I spoke to a friend of yours while you were playing Mrs Mopp,’ she said.

  Patrick’s cup stopped half to his lips. ‘Who might that be?’

  ‘Judy at the Fingle.’

  ‘You spoke to Judy while I was in here? It’s the early hours in Melbourne.’

  ‘She was just closing up after a late shift when the email came through so she called me.’

  ‘And?’

  Maisie enjoyed teasing him.

  ‘She told me on no account to let you cross the threshold and to call the island bobby immediately.’

  ‘Well, I am armed and dangerous.’ He nodded at the Marigolds and bucket of cleaning stuff. ‘Did I pass muster?’

  ‘She said you hadn’t had your hands in the till, or started any brawls – in fact, you were quite handy at stopping them, and, in short, she said, “as long as you keep an eye on him, he’ll probably do”.’ Maisie tried an impression of Judy’s accent.

  ‘Keep an eye on me? Judy would never say that, and by the way, you should be shot for that accent. She’s not Dame Edna Everage.’

  Maisie tried hard not to smile, delighted to have wound him up and shifted the focus back onto him. She wished she hadn’t shared her concerns about her dad: that was the problem with this claustrophobic life. It was hard to find anyone to share your troubles with who didn’t already know every intimate detail of your life.

  Maisie laughed. ‘Be warned, I’m going to drop you in at the deep end because we’ve a very busy evening tomorrow. If you hadn’t noticed the posters in the pub already, it’s our Hallowe’en Karaoke Party. We should have lots of people from the off-islands – that’s the smaller ones like Gull – and you can get to know loads of locals all in one go. They can give me their verdict on your performance.’

  ‘Great,’ said Patrick. ‘Trial by jury.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem, will it?’ said Maisie, slapping her mug back on the table. ‘After all, it’s not as if it’s your first time.’

  He made a little bow. ‘Touché.’

  Maisie stood up. ‘Oh, and by the way, you’ll need a costume and everyone’s expected to join in, so I hope you can sing.’

  Chapter 11

  31 October

  On the morning of Hallowe’en, Maisie was waiting at Gull Island’s lower jetty when her friend Jess Godrevy puttered in to the stone quay. The tides dictated which of the two jetties were used, but the lower was also the most convenient for Jess who had brought her little motor dinghy from St Saviour’s for the day and evening. From this side of the island, you couldn’t see Petroc but you did have a magnificent vista over most of the other islands: the four larger inhabited ones and the scores of abandoned isles, tiny islets and rocky skerries that only appeared when the tide was out.

  Clouds hung low on the horizon and the sky was a muted blue, as if someone had turned the dimmer switch down on it. However, the waters were as dazzling in their myriad turquoise and azure hues, and the sandbars gleamed silver as the clouds scudded overhead. While most of the UK was savouring its first frost of the autumn, Gull Island was basking in clear skies and double figure temperatures. OK, it wasn’t tropical, but it was better than shivering at some bus stop or scraping the ice off your car window.

  Maisie stayed on the jetty to help Jess tie up her boat. A couple of islanders chatted as they waited for the Gull Island service boat to arrive with morning deliveries or to take them to the main island for shopping, visits or appointments. Adam Pengelly, the off-island postman, arrived just as Maisie and Jess had secured the boat. He backed his Royal Mail van with its open metal trailer, to the bottom of the slipway and climbed out of the cab. He was wearing a navy fleece gilet over his red polo shirt and regulation shorts that showed off a strong pair of tanned calves. Maisie didn’t think she’d ever seen him in trousers.

  When he caught sight of them both his face lit up. Maisie didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know why he was smiling.

  ‘Hello, Maisie. Hi, Jess,’ said Adam, walking the few yards to the steps and gazing down at them. His smile had faded and they couldn’t see his eyes because of his shades.

  ‘Hi, Adam.’ Jess flashed him a brief smile. Her greeting was pleasant enough but Maisie wasn’t too sure how happy she was to see him. They had recent history but Maisie suspected she only knew part of the story. Adam was a relative newcomer to Scilly and had moved into a rented flat on St Saviour’s island a couple of years before.

  As one of the only island postmen, inevitably Adam had got to know Jess and her brother, Will, on his rounds, and he’d joined Will’s rugby team and rowed for the St Saviour’s gig crew. After circling round each other for a while, Adam had finally asked Jess out. They’d dated for a couple of months but by late August, things had fizzled out. Maisie still hadn’t got to the bottom of why yet, but as Jess had been moping around ever since, Maisie could only assume Adam had ended things. Until (and unless) Jess enlightened her, she couldn’t blame Adam outright, but her loyalty lay firmly with her friend either way. They climbed up the steps and joined Adam on the stone jetty where there was a brief but very awkward silence before Adam spoke.

  ‘Need a hand with the mail?’ Maisie asked him, just for something to say.

  Adam pushed a pair of dark Ray-Bans off his face and shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I can manage today.’ He seemed relieved that Maisie had broken the ice.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she teased.

  ‘Well, I am feeling a bit weak.’ He deliberated for a few seconds. ‘But I’ll try to cope. There’s nothing too heavy today, hopefully.’

  This was an in joke with Maisie. Adam was six foot four, spent his days lugging parcels and his spare time playing rugby, rowing or training for the island’s part-time fire service. Maisie was five foot one in her boots but whenever they met, they’d share the same banter about Adam being a wimp. The Gull Island supply boat, the Merlin, could just be seen making its way from St Mary’s towards them, bearing any heavy deliveries and the mail. Adam left them and unhooked the trailer from the van and pushed it onto the damp sand. The Merlin crew would help him unload the mail and parcels into his trailer, but it was up to Adam to haul it up the sand to the van. It was hard work. No wonder Adam had muscles like an Olympic rower. If the Royal Mail did a firemen-style calendar, Adam would definitely make Mr January, thought Maisie. And possibly every other month too.

  All the more reason not to get involved with an islander, thought Maisie, although that meant either moving away or not getting involved with anyone at all.

  Adam was busy loading mail into his van. Jess showed no sign of wanting to leave the quayside so Maisie waited with her, watching the supply boat crew offloading goods into the back of one of the other islander’s battered pick-up truck.

  Jess and Will ran the Flower Farm on St Saviour’s, one of the other off-islands, growing scented yellow narcissi through the winter and spring and pretty pinks for the summer. They were slowly taking over the business from their mother, who, like Maisie’s parents, was looking to retire. Maisie, Jess and Will had been to school together on St Mary’s and, like all the off-island children, had had to board during the week because the boat journey between the islands was too unreliable and too disruptive to their education. Five years younger than Maisie, Jess had been horribly homesick for the
first term but Maisie had taken her under her wing and acted as a big sister.

  At the time, Jess and Will’s parents had been going through a rocky time in their marriage and although they’d patched things up for a bit, they were now divorced. It was hard to go through rough times in the cauldron of a tiny community. Mr Godrevy had had an affair with a local nurse and people had taken sides, causing broken friendships that persisted to this day.

  ‘I’m really glad you could come over. I fancy a chat,’ said Maisie, wondering what Jess’s reaction would be when she met Patrick.

  ‘We’re so busy harvesting the early narcissi, but Will can manage without me for a day. We’ve only just started picking the crop and I already need a holiday. Sometimes I wonder why I do it at all.’

  ‘You’d go nuts without the Flower Farm keeping you busy.’

  ‘True. I must admit I can’t imagine doing anything else. I’m not so sure about Will though. I think it gets him down. He was all set to go to university before Dad buggered off and left us in charge.’

  ‘That was tough, hun.’

  Jess smiled. ‘But I love running the farm really, even though it hasn’t been all plain sailing. It’s relentless at this time of year, or any time. No wonder I don’t have time for a love life,’ she said. It was such a pointed remark that Maisie didn’t know what to reply, even though Jess was a close friend.

  Adam closed the doors of the van with a clang. Maisie wasn’t sure if he’d overheard them chatting or not. He hovered by the van and finally came back over.

  ‘How’s things?’ he said in their general direction, but Maisie was sure he was talking to Jess.

  She shrugged. ‘The same as usual. Busy time at the farm, as you know, Adam.’

  Adam nodded. ‘You work hard … you and Will.’

  Jess pursed her lips. Maisie wanted the stone to open up and swallow her. She felt like she shouldn’t be there but she also wanted to support her mate.

  ‘Shall we get going?’ Jess said.

  ‘Sure. Bye, Adam,’ Maisie said cheerfully.

  ‘Bye. Goodbye, Jess.’

  Jess muttered a ‘bye’ and started to walk off along the path that led over the field to the pub. It was obvious to Maisie that she didn’t want to even share the same road with him. Maisie caught up with her, keeping an eye on Adam’s van as it drove off on the road that led to the Post Office.

  As they walked along the road back to the Driftwood, Jess seemed to have brightened up, or at least was determined not to discuss or dwell on the awkward encounter with Adam. She shared the latest gossip from St Saviour’s – which didn’t take long – and news of a new gig, which one of the island teams had managed to get hold of. She and Jess had moved on to plans for Christmas celebrations in the various island communities by the time they reached the hillock above the pub. It was a time of year when many of the islanders who lived away from Scilly came home to see their families. Most people celebrated in their own quiet way with low-key events, and there was a popular nativity parade through the main street of St Mary’s.

  There would be some visitors too, of course, staying throughout the islands and in the chic apartments and holiday homes on Petroc. They would be booked by families getting away from it all and seeking a little winter warmth. Maisie didn’t begrudge Hugo his festive bonanza: God knows his guests spent their money in the Driftwood Inn and bistro and helped keep the islands’ economy ticking over.

  ‘I had a visit from Hugo the other day,’ Maisie said, knowing Jess would be intrigued.

  ‘How nice for you. Not a social call, was it?’

  ‘No, although you never know with Hugo. He tried to persuade me to sell the Driftwood again.’

  ‘Oh God. He never stops trying, does he? What did he offer this time?’

  ‘The opportunity’ – Maisie bracketed her fingers around the word while sticking out her tongue – ‘to be a tenant and manage the place.’’

  ‘No way! Don’t give in, Maisie.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Hell will freeze over first. I just wish so much of what he says didn’t make sense. We’re getting by – just – but Dad’s not well and Mum’s obviously not up to the long hours and stress that she used to take in her stride. Which is another reason why I came home, aside from the obvious one. With the summer staff leaving and with winter to face, I sometimes wonder why we all do it.’

  Jess gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I know. We’ve been through some tough times at the Flower Farm. Remember those years of frost when we were at school and then the wholesale flower market collapsed? That period almost finished Mum and Dad. They were so close to losing everything and having to leave St Piran’s. I don’t think Will and I realised how bad things were, but we do now we run the business … but who could ever leave here to work in a city? You tried it.’

  Maisie smiled. ‘St Austell’s hardly a city, but I worked in London briefly after I’d finished college. It was great for a few months but I couldn’t go back now. Mind you, not everyone feels that way. Hugo says that the Fudge Pantry and Una and Phyllis have also agreed to sell to Petroc Holdings.’

  Jess grabbed Maisie’s arm. She looked horrified. ‘You’re joking? Una and Phyllis? The Jenkins? I’m gobsmacked.’

  ‘Business hasn’t been too great after the summer we had last year and I guess Mr Jenkins wants to try life on the mainland since their kids moved to Truro. There won’t be many of us left to resist at this rate. Hugo already owns a couple of properties on Gull and I suppose he could buy the businesses piecemeal, but what he really wants is to make us all lose hope and buy the whole of Gull Island, complete, so he can turn it into a mini Petroc.’

  ‘He’s a megalomaniac,’ Jess said, curling her lip. ‘I’m so glad he’s not interested in St Saviour’s too.’

  ‘If it was over the water from Petroc, he might be. Gull is just too close to Petroc for comfort. I wouldn’t put it past him to try and build a bridge between the two islands if he can get his hands on most of the land.’

  ‘If there’s anything Will and I can do, shout up. Help you rally the islanders, dump a pile of manure in Hugo’s gardens … anything at all, you know we’re here.’

  ‘Thanks, hun,’ said Maisie, feeling the thrill of resistance flood her veins. ‘Nothing and no one – and definitely not Hugo Scorrier – will hound me out of the Driftwood or off Gull Island.’

  They reached the top of the gentle rise as the clouds parted and a weak but very welcome sun shone through. The sun shone bravely. The thermometer hadn’t budged between nine p.m. last night and this morning. It was still T-shirt weather outside – if you were active, that is.

  Maisie wasn’t superstitious but it felt like a good omen, and Jess’s support had renewed her determination to fight the Scorriers. She would visit the Fudge Pantry and Hell Cove House and organise a meeting, but for now, she had more pressing concerns.

  The garden behind the pub was clearly visible, as were the people working in it. Jess grabbed Maisie’s arm. ‘Oh my God. Who is that?’

  She sounded as if she’d seen a leprechaun working in the garden of the Driftwood, not a fully grown Australian. Patrick and Ray were repairing the wall that separated the vegetable garden at the rear of the pub from the rough farmland behind it.

  ‘Looks like my dad, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Jess sighed in exasperation and pointed a finger. ‘Not your dad, him.’

  Both men had their backs to Maisie, standing in the field next to a wheelbarrow and a pile of grey granite. Patrick was bending down to lift a rock from the ground. He placed it in a gap in the wall and repositioned it as Ray looked on. Ray bent down next to him. The contrast was both funny and disturbing. Maisie had no desire to see the waistband of her dad’s ancient briefs but Patrick was a different story. His faded jeans had slipped down, revealing half an arse’s worth of dark-blue boxers stretched taut over his muscly cheeks. The tan line between his lower back and his bottom was clearly visible.

  ‘Well, you don’t see t
hat every day. Who is it? A guest? Friend of your dad’s?’

  ‘Neither. That’s our new barman.’

  Maisie shaded her eyes. Her dad stood aside as Patrick picked up a heavy rock and dropped it in the barrow with a clunk. Ray wiped his brow with his handkerchief, but made no attempt to help Patrick with the next, even bigger rock. Fair enough, Ray was sixty-seven and Patrick was a full thirty years younger, but there was a time when her father would never have let another man outdo him in the work stakes, even if his back had been breaking.

  Jess let out an audible gasp. ‘Bloody hell. You’re joking. He looks like a Greek god.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met a Greek god. He’s an Aussie, actually.’

  ‘You mean as in a genuine Bondi Beach-type surf dude Aussie?’

  ‘He’s from Melbourne. I’ve no idea if he surfs, but he’s experienced.’

  Jess squeaked in delight. ‘I bet he is!’

  ‘What are you like? He’s experienced as a barman and his references checked out.’

  Jess was grinning so hard Maisie thought her face might actually crack. ‘I’m sure they did,’ she said, still giggling.

  Maisie sighed. If this was Jess’s reaction to Patrick from a distance, what would she be like when she experienced the full force of his charms close up? And why did Maisie feel faintly annoyed that Jess had homed in on her new barman so quickly?

  Jess broke into her thoughts. ‘Your dad must like having him around.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes. He seems to, but he’s only here until Easter,’ she said.

  They started walking again, talking while keeping an eye on the progress of the wall. ‘If he has your dad’s seal of approval, he must be OK. What about your mum?’

  ‘She’s reserving judgement,’ said Maisie.

  Jess sighed. ‘What a bum.’

  Maisie too found it impossible to tear her eyes away from the flex of Patrick’s glutes in his worn Levi’s. ‘Mmm …’ she said wistfully, before giving herself a mental slap and leading Jess the back way into the pub. It was mild enough to sit outside so Maisie left Jess in the garden admiring the wall-building while she made tea and tried to remind herself that Patrick was here to work. After emerging with two steaming mugs, she and Jess sat there enjoying the view of the garden – and the gardeners.