Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles

by Phillipa Ashley

  Patrick turned over the packet in his large hand, laying it flat on his palm. ‘It’s not very big.’

  Maisie rubbed her hands together in frustration. He was prolonging her agony, the devil.

  With a sigh, he pulled at the raffia string and the tissue opened. ‘Whoops.’

  The gift fell onto the beach. Maisie looked down. It didn’t look much, lying on the sand among the shells and pebbles, but Patrick reached down and scooped it up. It was a pendant. A shiny tiny starfish on a leather cord. When she’d seen it, she’d loved it immediately but agonised over whether to get it and had gone back twice before asking Archie to bring it over to the bar on Christmas Eve.

  ‘It’s from Archie’s gallery,’ she explained. ‘The Starfish Studio, on St Piran’s. He sells stuff from other makers and artists as well as his own paintings.’

  Patrick held the leather cord between his fingers and the starfish glinted in the rays of the dying sun.

  ‘It’s not silver,’ she continued. ‘It’s tin from the last working tin streamers in Cornwall. I didn’t know what to get you but I wanted to give you something … personal to remember me by, something local – or almost local.’

  Patrick didn’t reply, causing Maisie more moments of exquisite tension. Then he lifted it over his head and put it round his neck and smiled. ‘It’s grand,’ he said, echoing her dad. ‘In fact, it’s perfect.’

  Her shoulders slumped in relief. His quiet reaction seemed to say a lot more than any gushing, not that Patrick ever gushed. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you like it, but you can’t possibly wear it today. Mum and Dad will notice. Wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Then you can say it was from someone else. Judy maybe. Or Will.’

  ‘Will? They really will be worried if I say he gave me a necklace.’

  ‘Probably not as worried as if you say I did.’

  Patrick leaned in and kissed her. A long, slow kiss that made the tension ebb away and a dreamy languor fill her veins like rich red wine.

  ‘I think it’s time you had your “secret” present.’ He pulled a small square cardboard box from his pocket.

  ‘I’d wondered what the bulge in your jeans was.’

  ‘I’d have thought the shape and position of it might have worried you.’

  Maisie laughed, fizzing with anticipation. So far, Christmas Day had been a weird and wonderful mix of childlike excitement and very grown-up thrills.

  ‘Great minds think alike,’ said Patrick as she eased the lid off the blue box and saw what was inside. She pulled it out and rested it on her palm, hardly daring to breathe let alone speak. She didn’t know what she’d expected – a jokey present, maybe – and she’d feared and hoped for a token of affection. This was definitely not a joke. It was a small round silver disc enclosing an iridescent gemstone, the colours of which shifted constantly as Maisie turned it this way and that, flashing with an inner fire almost like the setting sun. Turquoise, mint, sky blue … hues that were impossible to pin down, they kept changing all the time.

  ‘It’s an opal,’ Patrick said. ‘From Australia, of course.’

  ‘It’s amazing. Beautiful. Thanks, but …’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t say “you shouldn’t have”.’

  She stroked the opal, which was smooth and cool under her fingers.

  ‘I was going to say that I’ll have to say it was from Jess …’

  ‘I don’t mind who you say it’s from. As long as it’s not Hugo.’

  ‘We don’t need Hugo,’ said Maisie, feeling as if she could take on the whole world. ‘We’ve shown him that Gull Islanders can pull together without the likes of him. We don’t need his bribes. We can take care of our own.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s not only Judy who’s an amazing woman,’ said Patrick.

  She put her finger on his lips. ‘No. I’m not amazing at all. Just a woman. Patrick. I need to say something. These gifts cost a lot of money on top of the building stuff. I appreciate you helping us – I’m really grateful – but this isn’t your battle to fight. Lending a hand at the site is one thing but using your own money, that’s different. You must have used up most of your earnings here plus savings and you hardly know us …’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘You’ve only been here a couple of months and I know what’s happened between us changes things. I know you – we know each other – in some ways, but in others we hardly know a thing about one another.’

  She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Why was it that she was never shy or ashamed when she was in bed with him but couldn’t talk about their relationship when she was in his normal company? It was like waking up with a sex hangover. She’d indulge her every passion while they were in bed but afterwards she felt awkward.

  ‘We know the things that matter,’ he said.

  She’d had too much Prosecco, shiraz and Bailey’s and Patrick, damn him, was still sober. But she couldn’t stop herself and she didn’t really think the alcohol had loosened her tongue. She had this urge to tell him, God knows where it had come from. She wanted him to know everything about her.

  ‘I don’t know … I just … think … I lied about last Christmas. I wasn’t working.’

  He held her hands and looked into her face. ‘Tell me, Maisie. Don’t hold back. I guessed that things haven’t been easy for you.’

  ‘Hasn’t Mum already told you what happened to me?’

  ‘No, but I can see you’re hiding some deep pain. Your mother’s spoken to me but only to warn me not to hurt you.’

  ‘Jesus. When? Today?’

  ‘No. The day you gave me the job.’

  Maisie moaned. ‘Bloody hell, Mum. How could she? I’d only known you two days and she decided to assume you were after me. I’m sorry,’ she said in exasperation. ‘I’m not seventeen.’

  ‘But she loves you and she was right. I am after you.’

  And you will hurt me. It will hurt when you go. I can’t deny that any longer. It will hurt like hell, at least as much as Keegan leaving and probably – definitely – more. Even after a few months. Why, oh, why have I done this to myself again?

  Patrick broke into her thoughts. ‘You said you lied about last Christmas …’

  Maisie tugged the blanket round her shoulders. It was too late to stop now, even if this was the moment where Patrick, like most other blokes, started to turn pale and run a mile at the double whammy of women’s problems and emotional catastrophe. Not that he could run anywhere.

  ‘I wasn’t at work. I was at hospital. I lost my baby. My baby and Keegan’s baby.’

  Chapter 32

  She had never shared how she felt – how she really felt – about her loss since she’d talked to Keegan in those early hours after. Not even with her mum, or father or Jess. She hadn’t been able to find the words to express how she felt. The emptiness, the raw and gaping wound. Some people told her she could try again, they meant it kindly and they were right.

  Patrick’s arms tightened around her. His silence was more encouraging than any words.

  ‘I was thirteen weeks pregnant and working in the pub. It was Christmas evening and we were just quietening down after serving the lunches when I felt unwell and went to the loo. I knew exactly what was happening and they called me an ambulance and contacted Keegan. He was at his parents, spending the day with them. They owned the brewery and pub chain, you see, and Keegan worked in the business. He was a director and I met him on one of his visits to the pub. I suppose you could say he was my boss although he worked at the head office, acquiring and getting rid of failing pubs.’ She hesitated, knowing she was coming to the worst part.

  Patrick stroked her hair and kissed her neck. He whispered: ‘Go on.’

  ‘The medics tried to help me but it was too late. I’d lost the baby. Nothing to be done, not my fault. The consultant said all those things but I have a condition that makes it hard for me to fall pregnant in the first place so it was a double blow. Everything was going right f
or me. In a great relationship, or so I thought, job I loved, baby on the way. I was going to take time off and maybe go back part-time after the baby arrived. I had it all planned out, but just like that, everything ended.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Why did he leave?’

  ‘He couldn’t handle it. Not the loss or the baby. He made sympathetic noises and was kind, but a few weeks later, he told me it was over. Blamed himself for not being able to handle the responsibility: said he obviously wasn’t ready for a “grown-up” relationship yet, not with a woman who wanted a family … then he confessed he didn’t actually want children after all.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I was devastated at the time … I hated him for a while. For leaving me when I needed him most and for being a coward, or so I thought. But it was for the best. Better that I found out then than years later when we’d got married. I don’t blame him now. Mum and Jess, friends from the pub, all said I was better off without him and now I agree.’

  She twisted round. Patrick bit his lip. For the first time since she’d known him, he looked angry. He’d been so laid back until now but there was a fire in his expression: anger and hurt.

  She didn’t want Patrick to think she was asking for sympathy or wanted anything more from him than for him to simply listen.

  ‘Why did you split up with your girlfriend?’ she asked.

  He blew out a breath. ‘Similar sort of thing. She ran out on me when I needed her … but nothing compared to your loss. Like you I don’t blame her any more, though I admit I was cut up at the time. Tania and I wanted different things from life too.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘She wanted me to aim for more than being a humble bar bum. She said she wouldn’t have minded if I’d even decided to run my own place, but I seemed content to drift along as the bar manager. I wasn’t the high-flier she’d hoped. I think when we got together she thought I’d amount to more and discover some deep-rooted ambition and when it became clear I was happy to remain in the same place, she rightly told me she was off.’

  ‘Rightly? You don’t sound as if you thought she was right at the time.’

  ‘No. Well, I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d just heard that Greg’s illness was terminal and Tania hit me with the news she was leaving all on the same day, not that she knew about his diagnosis at the time.’

  ‘Ouch. That’s awful. What happened after she told you?’

  ‘I fell off the wagon big style. Went on a three-day bender and woke up on the floor of an empty flat. She’d shifted most of our stuff while I’d been hitting the bars or passed out in the flat.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Patrick, for your loss and Tania walking out. That must have been a bloody awful time in your life.’

  ‘Who could blame her? I was a loser and a drunk.’

  ‘You were an alcoholic. I doubt you were ever the loser you think you were. You’re way too hard on yourself.’ Maisie’s heart went out to him. What a double loss to suffer.

  ‘I haven’t touched a drop since I woke up with the mother of all headaches and an empty flat. Not even after Greg died. I was on Kool-Aid at the wake, probably the only sober one in the whole place. I served behind the bar of the Fingle while everyone raised a glass to Greg.’

  ‘You said you lost your father and mother. Was Greg a substitute?’

  ‘Of course. He and Judy were.’

  ‘It must be hard to be so far from her.’

  ‘She has a wicked sense of humour but doesn’t suffer fools … a bit like someone else I could mention.’ His eyes twinkled and Maisie felt herself reddening. ‘But she’s solid gold under the no-nonsense exterior. I do miss her, but I’ll be home in the spring and maybe I’ll bring her back one day.’

  ‘To see where Greg’s ancestors lived?’

  I’ll be home in the spring. It was a throwaway line that seemed to have no impact on Patrick but delivered a sharp pang of disappointment to Maisie. He was going, then. Keeping to his word that this was a fling. She told herself not to be so surprised and to grow up. That was what she wanted too, wasn’t it?

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’ His voice trailed off.

  She lightened the atmosphere. ‘I’ve plenty here for you to do in the meantime.’

  ‘I hope so.’ His smile was crooked. She sensed a change in his mood. Perhaps she’d shared too much too soon. Perhaps they both had, but this had seemed the right moment, and anyway, they didn’t have time. His awkwardness was momentary or could have been imagined because now he was kissing her and folding her against him, into him. Despite the size difference, she felt as if she fitted perfectly. As if his body had been made to be alongside hers. Even while he was kissing her, a soft, slow kiss that seemed to pull out her soul, she was telling herself not to get in any deeper than she had. To hold back as much of herself as she could still cling on to. As he made love to her on the sand, Patrick didn’t seem to be holding back. Maybe because he didn’t want to or didn’t need to.

  Perhaps being with her was merely a physical fling to him, though Maisie didn’t think so. She thought that Patrick genuinely liked her and liked spending time with her. He must fancy her and perhaps he found solace in her arms while he worked out whatever demons and grief he was harbouring since his surrogate father had died in such cruel circumstances. Grief that had followed on from an early loss and a troubled, tough boyhood.

  Maisie knew that grief didn’t last forever. Although it never left you completely, and you always bore the scars, you learned to live with it eventually and you moved on.

  Which was what Patrick would do, one day. One day soon.

  The sex was tender and glorious, even though they were both covered in sand and their exposed flesh was chilled by the wind. After it was over, and with the greatest reluctance, Maisie started to get dressed.

  ‘We’d better get back. Mum and Dad can’t still be asleep,’ said Maisie, zipping up her jeans before scrambling to her feet. Patrick stayed where he was, looking at her intently. She brushed sand off her top and then caught sight of the man watching them.

  Ray must have popped out for some fresh air and was standing on the shoreline parallel with them but directly in front of the Driftwood. He was looking straight at them. Maisie didn’t know how long he’d been there and even though it was dark, with the moonlight and the fire, he’d have had to be blind not to see them and to put two and two together. He might even have seen them making love. Maisie’s stomach did a double back flip.

  ‘Oh God, no. Dad’s seen us.’

  Patrick followed her line of sight.

  ‘He knows,’ said Maisie. ‘And now Mum will too.’ She tried to get up off the sand but Patrick pulled her back.

  ‘They had guessed already,’ he said softly. ‘And there’s no point pretending otherwise now. No point locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

  Ray had turned away and was hurrying back to the pub. ‘I know but … oh, no, I didn’t want them to find out about us like this.’

  ‘Is it so bad that they know? We’re all grown-ups.’

  ‘You think so? That’s not what my mum and dad feel, I’m sure. I’ll get the third degree from Mum the first chance she gets.’ Maisie threw up her hands in frustration. ‘Shit and double shit.’

  ‘Do you honestly think they’ll disapprove that much?’ he said, keeping hold of her hand.

  ‘You know they will. You’re right. I’m being very naïve to think they hadn’t already guessed about us and I had thought about going public, but on our terms, when we decide, not like this.’ She pulled away from him. ‘I think we should go back.’

  ‘OK. If that’s what you really want, but there’s no point rushing off now.’

  ‘I know. Are you coming?’

  ‘It might be best if you and your parents had some time on your own? You probably need to talk about this – us.’

  Maisie bit her lip, then nodded, not looking forward to the conversation with her mum and dad. Why did life have to be so complica
ted? Why did people have to make it so complex? Or perhaps it was simple: just tell them about her and Patrick.

  Wrapping her arms around herself for comfort, Maisie strode back to the pub but glanced behind as she clambered up from the sand to the road. Patrick was crouched down scooping sand over the last embers of the fire. In seconds the beach was dark and he was nothing but a half-imagined ghost somewhere on the sand.

  Chapter 33

  Patrick sloped off to the Piggery, saying he wanted to catch up with some mates on Skype, leaving Maisie no choice but to face Ray and Hazel. At any moment, Maisie expected them to confront her about Patrick but nothing was said. In fact, they acted as if nothing had happened, but Maisie spent the whole of Christmas evening on edge, waiting for the moment when one of them mentioned ‘it’. She loved them dearly but for the first time since she’d come home, sitting in front of the festive edition of Strictly, EastEnders and the premiere of a Bond film, she wished she didn’t live at the Driftwood with her parents.

  When Patrick went home to Oz, she would have to think about renting a cottage elsewhere on the island, to give herself space. Yet she could hardly afford to do that; she was living rent free at the Driftwood. Maybe if she moved into Patrick’s studio after he was gone, that would be better than nothing, though they would need the Piggery over the summer for the seasonal staff.

  Boxing Day came and went and still no one said a word, but she had the feeling that the pressure was building hour by hour and Ray and Hazel were only waiting for her to tell them about Patrick before they broached the subject. As the hours ticked by, she wondered if her father hadn’t actually seen them and wasn’t even sure what he’d interrupted. He may have assumed that she and Patrick were just chatting, or more realistically, that they’d got together for a quick Christmas snog after Maisie had had too much to drink.

  Days went by and the clock ran down towards ‘The Birthday’, and Maisie decided to leave well alone. If Jess, Patrick or her parents were planning any kind of ‘celebration’ during the day, she definitely hadn’t got wind of it, and anyway, they knew she was working at the Driftwood so that ruled out a surprise party.