Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles

by Phillipa Ashley

  It was never going to be the right time for her and Patrick and she could never let anything like that happen again.

  She could never let anyone get as close as Keegan had, especially not a man who’d actually signed in writing that he was leaving in April. From now on, she and Patrick McKinnon would be colleagues and nothing more.

  Maisie’s phone buzzed from the bedside table. She threw the pillow on the floor and her pulse rocketed. It was probably her mother from the hospital.

  She grabbed at her phone. Oh no. Hugo Scorrier. She should ignore it, she really should, but she couldn’t help herself. She opened the text.

  ‘Heard your father’s having tests.’

  How had Hugo found out about the tests? Bloody island grapevine.

  ‘Chin up.’

  Chin up? What was this? 1943?

  ‘He’s in good hands. If there’s anything I can do, you know where I am. I’m on your side, Maisie. H.’

  So. Her dad was in hospital, she’d made a pass at Patrick and been rejected and Hugo was on her side. And just think, eight weeks from today, it would be New Year’s Eve and her fortieth birthday and then things would really start to go downhill.

  Chapter 16

  Later that day, Maisie carried a large box of sweet treats from the Fudge Pantry into the kitchen. She put it with other gifts from the locals including several golden bunches of narcissi and garden flowers that had been delivered by hand or by boat since she’d woken up. A homemade sponge in a tin was next to a bottle of homemade damson gin from Una and Phyllis. It was comforting to know that their friends and neighbours were thinking about them and the sight of the gifts gathered together brought a tear to her eye again.

  Despite her churning state of mind, exhaustion had eventually taken its toll after breakfast and she’d fallen asleep on the bed in her clothes. By the time she’d woken and had a quick shower, it was early afternoon. She found Patrick tidying away the tools after he’d been working in the garden. Still embarrassed after her pass at him earlier, she gave him the briefest of instructions about the evening opening schedule and scooted off as fast as she could. If he’d wanted to discuss her lunge at him, she hadn’t even given him the chance and had almost run out of the garden, saying that Jess Godrevy was waiting for her at the jetty to give her a lift to St Mary’s. Thank heaven for Jess who tried to reassure her about her dad and distract her with gossip about Will and his latest ‘fan’, one of the seasonal workers who’d come to help with the pre-Christmas harvest.

  ‘Of course, Will’s not interested because this woman works for us and he doesn’t want to put everyone in an awkward spot,’ Jess said, shouting above the noise of the engine and the slap of the waves on the hull. The wind had got up as they bounced over the waves on the lagoon between Gull and St Mary’s. Maisie and Jess huddled in the shelter of the wheelhouse cabin. The wipers flapped frantically, clearing the salty spray from the motorboat’s windscreen.

  Maisie tried to focus on her friend’s chat but she was torn between how she’d find her father and her blunder with Patrick, and then she was annoyed with herself for not thinking about her father solely.

  ‘Does Will fancy her?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s very pretty and in her late twenties and doing a gap year after her PhD. She’s quite posh, really, and she’s definitely crazy about Will but I don’t think he’s interested. We’re both thirty-five in February and there’s still no sign of either of us “settling down”. Mum despairs of us, to be honest.’

  Maisie didn’t know why Jess and Will weren’t happily settled down either. The twins were both very attractive, with dark, thick unruly hair and green eyes. Their breezy personalities too had gone a long way to making the Flower Farm a success and hiding their worries at having to take over the business so young.

  Will had also started at the island school on the same day as his sister, but he hadn’t suffered with homesickness like Jess, at least as far as Maisie could remember. It was a long time ago although she seemed to recall that Will had seemed glad to get away from the Flower Farm. When you were twelve, even St Mary’s used to seem big after life on a tiny off-island and Maisie knew that the atmosphere at home had affected both of the twins in different ways.

  They reached the harbour at St Mary’s and puttered onto the shore in the boat’s tiny RIB. Maisie had managed to calm down ready to present a cheerful face to her parents. Jess went to buy some food while Maisie headed for the hospital.

  With the help of some injections, her father was looking much brighter, his colour was returning and he was joking with the nurses. They were hoping to discharge him the next morning, with luck, and he could see his GP for the results of the tests.

  After reassurance from her parents, Maisie had felt able to return to the Driftwood by late afternoon on the Gull Island ferry. It was already dark by the time she walked through the back door of the pub. Patrick asked after Ray, and Maisie replied as politely and pleasantly as she could, hoping they could both pretend the earlier incident hadn’t happened. She needn’t have worried. He was as friendly and cheerful as ever, but obviously as keen to forget the whole thing as her.

  Now she was back doing what she did best: her job. If there was anything positive to be taken from her horrible past twenty-four hours, it was that the Driftwood was busier than it had ever been on a damp November evening. Almost every Gull Islander had turned up since opening time, even Naomi Savage from the tiny cottage next to the church who, as far as Maisie knew, hadn’t been in the Inn since Maisie had left to work on the mainland so many years before.

  Maisie was almost hoarse from telling the tale, answering concerned enquiries and thanking people for offers of help. People hadn’t only flocked to the Driftwood for the latest news on Ray, they’d come to support the Samsons in their hour of need, and she was grateful.

  ‘Busy again tonight,’ said Patrick as they met briefly in the passageway between kitchen and cellar.

  ‘Everyone wants to see how we’re getting on. This is one of the biggest things that’s happened on Gull for months.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I know how it is in a small community.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought Melbourne was a small community. I heard it was bigger than Birmingham now.’

  ‘It is, but I’ve lived and worked in tight-knit places too, and then there was boarding school. And prison of course.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Still. Can’t stand here gossiping, I’ll get that bar restocked, shall I, boss?’

  Ignoring the ‘boss’ comment, Maisie nodded. She desperately wanted things to return to normal between them, although she’d barely had time to discover what normal was with Patrick. Perhaps there would never be a ‘normal’ while he was here. Perhaps she should never have agreed that he could work there in the first place and in fact, she still wasn’t entirely convinced by his reasons for ending up on their tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Atlantic. She’d love to know more about him but was worried any attempts at personal probing would look like she was trying to chat him up.

  Gradually the bar quietened down as people went back to their homes, satisfied to have heard first-hand how Ray was and to have shown their support.

  Maisie started to collect glasses but was waylaid by Archie Pendower, sitting in his favourite corner chair, nursing a pint.

  ‘Now you’ve got a moment, I want to show you something,’ he said, tapping a large canvas bag by his side. The square shape was a dead giveaway.

  ‘Oh, you didn’t need to do that, Archie.’

  ‘I don’t need to do anything, my dear, but I wanted you and your mum and dad to have this.’ Archie pulled the canvas from the bag. It wasn’t that large, about twelve inches square, but the subject was instantly recognisable. It was the view from the top of the little hill behind the pub, looking down on the Driftwood, with its gardens behind and the Petroc channel in front.

  ‘Wow, that’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a painting of the pub from that angle before. Are
you sure it’s for us? Let me pay you for it.’

  ‘Now, don’t insult me, madam,’ Archie chided. ‘It’s a get-well gift for Ray.’

  The old man propped the edge of the canvas on the table as Maisie leaned down for a closer look. Behind her she could hear approving noises as customers also admired the picture.

  The colours were perfect: the Driftwood on a balmy autumn afternoon in mellow light. Cornflower blue sky, shades of green and turquoise in the sea and the off-white walls of the pub basking under the slowly sinking sun. And the detail … just enough to give the picture life and soul without overcrowding it.

  ‘Recognise anyone?’ Archie said, proudly.

  Maisie peered closer at the figures. There were two in the garden behind the pub. Although small, one was obviously her dad with his iron-grey hair and bottle-green overalls, digging the potato patch. Hazel Samson was by his side, in her favourite mustard sweater, holding a watering can.

  ‘That’s Mum and Dad.’

  Archie winked. ‘Of course.’

  Maisie turned her attention to the bustling scene on the terrace where Archie had painted people lolling in shirtsleeves in the sun, drinking pints.

  ‘Wow, is that me?’ she said, spotting the small figure with a tray of drinks, chatting to a group of kayakers by the entrance to the terrace.

  ‘Yes,’ said Archie as customers crowded around the picture for a better look. Some murmured as they thought they’d spotted themselves.

  ‘And Will and Jess …’ She pointed to two figures carrying armfuls of narcissi at the edge of the picture. ‘And Adam …’ Maisie looked harder, recognising the island regulars Archie had captured with a few deft strokes and choice features. It reminded her of how much she loved her parents – and friends – and how awful it would be to lose any of them.

  ‘The painting’s not meant to be a photograph of one moment in time. It’s my impression of the Driftwood and how I feel about it … Why? Don’t you like it, love?’

  ‘Of course I like it. It’s wonderful. I love it.’ Maisie smacked a kiss on his papery cheek, acutely conscious that a dozen faces were focused on her and the painting. ‘I can’t wait to show it to Mum and Dad when they’re back. You’re so lovely to let us have it.’

  ‘It’s only one of my daubs, love. It’s not the Mona Lisa. It won’t be worth anything.’

  Maisie laughed at the typical Archie bluntness. ‘It’s priceless to me, and I know Mum and Dad will feel the same. Thanks.’

  Archie rubbed his hands together. ‘Good. Now we’ve got that over with, you can get Crocodile Dundee to pull me a nice pint of Guinness if he can manage it.’

  ‘Is someone taking my name in vain?’

  Patrick became visible at the rear of the group as people went back to their seats and pints.

  ‘It’s a very fine picture,’ he said. ‘If an Aussie can be allowed to have an opinion.’

  Archie’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Of course you can. I’m not one of those Brits who think the only difference between yoghurt and an Australian is that the yoghurt has some culture.’

  Maisie rolled her eyes but Patrick laughed.

  ‘I’ll take it up to the flat ready for when Mum and Dad get home,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe Crocodile Dundee here can help you hang it,’ he suggested.

  ‘I might be too busy wrangling crocs,’ Patrick said good-humouredly as Maisie allowed herself a little smirk at Archie’s nickname for him. It was sure to stick with the other regulars and Patrick would never hear the last of it.

  ‘Thanks again,’ she said. ‘Mum and Dad will be touched and hopefully they can thank you themselves soon.’

  Maisie took the painting upstairs, grateful to have an excuse for a few moments to herself. She propped it up against the back of the sofa in her parents’ sitting room so that it would be almost the first thing that greeted them when they walked through the door. She sat on the chair opposite and took the chance to check her phone again, to make sure there was no news, good or bad. There was a text from her mum, telling her that she was staying over with a friend on St Mary’s while her father had another night’s rest and waited for some more test results. If all was well in the morning, they’d probably be home for lunch.

  Maisie took a few deep breaths of relief, rested her head on the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. Pernicious anaemia wasn’t a good thing to have, obviously, but her father could be treated for it and at least any underlying problems – and his general health – were now being taken care of.

  She woke – God knows how much later – but the first thing that struck her was that someone had covered her in a coat and that the flat, and the whole building, was almost silent. Almost silent apart from someone speaking. She could only catch snatches of conversation, and from one side, naturally, but it was obvious that it was Patrick talking to someone. The clock showed it was past one a.m. and her pulse fluttered momentarily as she wondered if something was wrong with her father and the hospital had called the landline. Then she realised that Patrick was laughing and that while everyone was tucked up in their beds on Scilly, it was a busy sunny morning on the other side of the world.

  Maisie pulled off the coat and stretched her stiff neck and limbs. Patrick must have covered her up. Damn, she hadn’t meant to doze off and let him clear away and lock up … She got up and went onto the landing. His voice was clearer to her now and she stopped to listen, kidding herself she didn’t want to interrupt his conversation but feeling a guilty fascination at this illicit peek into his other life.

  ‘I’m fine. No, they haven’t driven me nuts yet. They’re not a bad bunch … for Poms, naturally.’

  ‘She’s OK. A fair boss, from what I can see so far. Not sure what she thinks of me but you’d like her.’

  ‘What? Shit. Why are they writing to me at the Fingle? I told them I needed time. I haven’t made my mind up yet. No. Don’t forward it … why can’t they email? Jesus. Why not? It’s the twenty-first century.’

  By the sound of his footsteps on the flagstones, he was pacing up and down.

  ‘I’ll email and phone them when I can. Don’t worry, Judy, you’ve enough on your plate without dealing with this. I’ll sort it. Right. It’s past my bedtime here so I’d better get some shut-eye.’ A pause then he laughed again. ‘No. It’s my day off soon. She won’t be cracking the whip over me then. I might hit the bright lights of the big island … What? Er, no, it’s not quite like the Gold Coast. Speak soon … love you too.’

  There was a brief moment of quiet then footsteps, the chink of glasses and the sound of the dishwasher firing up. Finally Maisie heard the back door shut and the house was left in silence.

  Maisie went back to the sitting room to turn off the lights before she went to bed properly, wondering if she could sleep. She picked the coat off the carpet and uncovered a white A4 envelope that must have slid off the coffee table or arm of the chair when she got up to listen to Patrick.

  It was addressed to her and had been delivered by hand. She’d open it in the morning although from the stiff card inside, it looked like an invitation … Changing her mind, she slid her finger under the flap and pulled out a piece of paper folded in two.

  And wished she hadn’t bothered. It was from Hugo.

  Dear Maisie,

  You are invited to Scorrier House to view Scorrier Holdings’ exciting new plans to make The Petroc Resort & Estate a global destination. Join us for a sumptuous champagne afternoon tea and a tour of the grounds while discovering how our latest development opportunities can benefit you and your business …

  Nada, nada, nada.

  Maisie’s name was scrawled in by hand – by Hugo, Maisie thought – and at the bottom he’d added:

  Hope you can come. NO pressure. Do bring your parents if they’re up to it – I didn’t want to include them in the current circs. H x

  H? x? A smiley?

  Maisie dropped the invite onto the sofa in horror. Hugo doing a smiley and a kiss. Was it
a tactic or did he actually fancy her?

  Groaning, Maisie covered her face with her hands. She was deluding herself. First assuming Patrick fancied her and now Hugo, when in reality neither of them saw her as anything more than a soon-to-be-middle-aged pub landlady who needed careful handling. And her mum and dad would definitely freak out at the prospect of afternoon tea and soft soap from Hugo.

  Maisie picked up the invite again and took it with her into her bedroom. She didn’t want her parents coming home to a shock like that. It might be enough to finish her dad off.

  Not really, she thought, as she brushed her teeth viciously – trying to brush Hugo away – but she’d let them settle in at home again before she mentioned it. And she wouldn’t show them Hugo’s note at all.

  Chapter 17

  Maisie made it to well over a week before she found her resolve to not fancy Patrick weakening. It had wavered on several occasions over the past ten days but this morning it was seriously crumbling.

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help admiring his rear view as he set a match to the bundle of firelighters and wood in the hearth. It was the second week in November and the nights and days were growing chilly so Patrick had volunteered to light the fire. The flames crackled as they licked the wood. Patrick had fetched it from the woodstore earlier that day and then chopped some more to replenish it. The pops and hisses and the sweet tang of wood smoke reminded Maisie of her childhood at the Driftwood and she knew the fire would cheer her dad up. Ray had been home from hospital for a week now and was looking and feeling much better, although being driven mad at having to rest.