Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn

Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn Phillipa Ashley For Maisie Samson, this Christmas is going to be different. After years working in a busy Cornish pub, she’s moved back to quiet Gull Island where she grew up, to help her parents run the family inn.But even though she can’t wait for the festive season to arrive, Maisie cannot shake the memories of what happened to her last Christmas – the day she lost everything. She keeps herself busy, setting up the tree and hanging mistletoe ready for her first proper family Christmas in years.Until a new arrival to the island walks into her bar and changes everything. Australian backpacker Patrick is looking for a job for the low season. When Maisie takes him on, she doesn’t expect him to last the week, but to her surprise Patrick is the perfect fit. Charming and handsome, could Maisie allow herself to hope that she and Patrick could be more than just colleagues?As Christmas approaches, Maisie finds herself dreading the spring, when Patrick is due to leave. With the help of a little Christmas magic, can Maisie get the happily ever after she always dreamed of?Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles is the first in a stunning new series from Phillipa Ashley. The perfect book to snuggle up with this Christmas.Praise for Phillipa Ashley’s bestselling Cornish books:‘Warm and funny and feel-good. The best sort of holiday read.’ Katie Fforde‘Filled with warm and likeable characters. Great fun!’ Jill Mansell‘A glorious, tantalising taste of Cornwall, I could almost taste the salt of the sea air as I read it.’ Jules Wake‘The perfect read for wherever you take your holiday but chances are if you read this first you’ll want to be heading to Cornwall!’ Bella Osborne‘An utterly glorious, escapist read from a one of the freshest voices to emerge in women's fiction today. I loved every gorgeous page.’ Claudia Carroll Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles The Driftwood Inn Phillipa Ashley HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017 Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2017 Cover illustration © Robyn Neild Cover design © Alison Groom Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008259792 Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008257309 Version: 2017-08-23 For my wonderful mum and dad Table of Contents Cover (#u7d52fd3b-2ac5-5722-ac9c-53a488329a9b) Title Page (#uc3f6e1cc-607d-566a-9287-af9e6bab2682) Copyright (#ue2ecc38f-9c13-5991-8c14-af640480c820) Dedication (#uba392dab-2da2-5f5f-b7ac-79643d8f03c6) Author Note: Where Are the ‘Little Cornish Isles’? (#ucf9eedd6-cfd6-542e-bf31-f1faad2c1239) Prologue (#ub5bf3904-b3ab-5f83-befe-c20abc9e6b62) Chapter 1 (#u3c1d6f13-c11e-51fb-baab-92b61d3059a8) Chapter 2 (#u755123d4-6157-5532-967a-c89b662d9db9) Chapter 3 (#ubb00999c-6a4f-50a5-9b25-587c49a03631) Chapter 4 (#ud754969a-97b9-57cb-81a7-21795af65474) Chapter 5 (#uf55bf3c8-508c-5263-9f6c-c575bdfc4c6c) Chapter 6 (#u398f6349-0dd7-5a44-9ca9-2b071083af74) Chapter 7 (#u87a3c9c0-a996-5453-a583-63891e159101) Chapter 8 (#u1ffe2b8c-425c-59e6-a827-cb17725e103e) Chapter 9 (#uc86c4442-61cc-5d83-970c-1289820b2266) Chapter 10 (#u3781f638-97f9-51af-aea2-fefd867a30b2) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Phillipa Ashley (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Author Note: Where are the ‘Little Cornish Isles’? (#u864c15e2-c39d-586e-bf75-1b37fe7ef1cf) The Isles of Scilly are one of my favourite places in the world – not that I’ve travelled that much of the world but I’ve been lucky enough to visit a few locations renowned for their stunning coastlines, including Grenada, St Lucia, Sardinia, Corsica and Southern Australia. There are some beautiful beaches in all of these places but I think the white sands and jewel-like seas of St Mary’s, St Martin’s, St Agnes, Tresco and Bryher are equally, if not more, breathtaking than any of those exotic hotspots. From the moment I first glimpsed Scilly from a tiny Skybus aircraft in September 2014, I was smitten. From the air, the isles look like a necklace of emerald gems fringed by sparkling sands, set in a turquoise, jade and sapphire lagoon. (Just remember that we’re in the chilly Atlantic, thirty miles west of Cornwall and that it can rain and the fog can roll in. Take your wellies, walking boots and umbrella as well as your bikini!) Within half an hour of setting foot on the ‘Main Island’, St Mary’s, I knew that one day I had to set a novel there. However, if you go looking for Gull Island, St Piran’s, St Saviour’s, Petroc or any of the people, pubs or businesses featured in this series, I’m afraid you won’t find them. They’re all products of my imagination. While I’ve set some of the scenes on St Mary’s, almost all of the organisations mentioned in the series are completely fictional and I’ve had to change aspects of the ‘real’ Scilly to suit my stories. On saying that, if you visit Scilly I hope you will find stunning landscapes, welcoming pubs and caf?s, pretty flower farms and warm, hardworking communities very like the ones you’ll read about in these books. I’ll leave it to you, the reader, to decide where Scilly ends and the Little Cornish Isles begin. Phillipa x Prologue (#ulink_14647e3e-ec8b-5912-974a-1194a6985ed6) 18 October Maisie Samson was the only living soul on Gull Island. At least, that’s how it felt as she padded over the sand towards the silver-smooth waters of the Petroc channel that morning. Behind her, the Driftwood Inn basked in the first rays of autumn sunlight at the top of the beach. The rising sun brought out the pink in the granite walls of the pub that Maisie had returned home to eight months previously. A cormorant dried its wings on a sandbar in the middle of the narrow channel that separated Gull Island from its neighbour, Petroc Island. Rubbing her arms to warm herself, Maisie picked her way between the bleached sticks of driftwood that gave the inn its name. In the damp sand, tiny shells glimmered in the sunlight, uncovered by the retreating tide. Letting the chilly wavelets nibble at her toes, she turned back to look at the inn. The curtains were still drawn in the windows of the flat over the pub. Last night, the bar was rocking with a folk band, and Ray and Hazel Samson were having a well-earned lie-in. Despite falling into her bed at half-past midnight, Maisie had woken early and decided to go for a swim while she had the beach to herself. Hers were the only footprints leading down the beach and probably the first ones to be made on any beach on the whole of Gull Island today. That was something, wasn’t it? To be alone for a few minutes in a busy overcrowded world? No matter what had happened over the past year, she wouldn’t swap places with anyone this morning. She poked a toe into the water, took a deep breath and waded in, huffing and cursing. The sea might look like the Caribbean, but this was still the Atlantic. Ignoring the chilly bite of water at her waist, Maisie took a deep breath, splashed water over herself. Bloody hell … One. Two. Three. Argh. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. Oh God, why did she do this? And why was it always so much colder than she expected? As the initial shock subsided, Maisie switched from a frantic doggy paddle to a steady breaststroke. She didn’t bother with goggles; she was no Rebecca Adlington, and goggles would have defeated the object of her swim, which was to take in her surroundings. To have a few precious moments of peace before a frantic Saturday running the Driftwood. It was hard to believe that Christmas was only two months away. How different this one would be: the first in eight years that she’d spend with her family. Relatively relaxed compared to being rushed off her feet running the big chain pub near St Austell where she’d been manager until the start of the year. Not that she’d minded working hard. In fact, she’d always loved her job, but last Christmas Day had been the worst she’d ever known. Which made Maisie even more determined to enjoy Christmas Day with her own family. Unlike the mainland pub, the Driftwood would be closed on the 25th. Hazel Samson was dying to share the traditional full-on turkey dinner with all the trimmings, and Ray was itching to drag the tree and decorations out of his shed at the back of the pub. Her parents were treating the coming festive season as if Maisie was fourteen, not coming up for forty, but Maisie didn’t mind. She knew they were eager to give her a proper Samson Christmas after spending nearly a decade with just a snatched phone or Skype call while Maisie lay exhausted in her flat after making everyone else’s day special. The raw pain of her last Christmas Day had faded a little, but it reared up at unexpected times. She tried to focus on her swim and the good things in her life now … friends and family, the Driftwood and the beautiful place she lived in. As Maisie swam up and down parallel to the shore, she spotted a young black Labrador romping out of the grassy dunes and onto the sand on the opposite side of the Petroc channel. Even from a hundred metres away, she could tell the excitable hound was Hugo Scorrier’s dog, Basil. Seconds later, Hugo himself appeared, in his trademark green wellies and a waxed jacket. He threw a large stick for the dog and Maisie caught a snatch of him shouting, ‘Fetch, Basil!’ above the gentle swoosh of the waves. Basil scampered around, obviously having no intention of getting his paws wet. He shot off along the shoreline towards Petroc Island’s tiny harbour where Hugo’s gleaming motor yacht, the Kraken, was berthed alongside the quay. The Samsons kept a motorboat too, an old sixteen-footer that kept them from relying completely on the ferries between the islands. However, the Puffin was nothing like the smart vessels moored off Petroc’s quayside. The quay was lined with chic pastel fishermen’s ‘cottages’ that no real fishermen had lived in for decades. Petroc Island was now a resort run by the Scorrier family and the cottages had long been converted into plush holiday villas, galleries and eateries. Maisie turned back towards the shore, feeling a current of slightly warmer water pushing against her and the breeze quickening against her face. The Driftwood was opposite her again, with its terrace still in deep shadow. Throughout the spring and summer, gig boat racers, yachties, tourists and locals alike flocked to the isles and the Driftwood itself. Even now, in late October, Gull Island was still buzzing with day-trippers, holidaymakers and bird watchers hoping to catch a glimpse of the rare birds that were often blown off course to Scilly on their way to Africa. Soon the sun would rise higher and the terrace would be filled with people in shirt-sleeves enjoying their last taste of late-autumn sun before heading back to the mainland and all its pre-Christmas mayhem. Maisie was still far enough out to see around the small rocky headland to the east of the pub, towards the Gull Island jetty. The sturdy quay had been there for a century and was recently refurbished thanks to a generous donation from Hugo, damn him. Without the two jetties – one near the Driftwood and the other on the far side of the island – the tripper boats and Gull Island ferries wouldn’t be able to land, and as they brought vital customers and supplies to the residents, perhaps she should thank Hugo for that. The swell lifted her gently and snatches of Basil’s joyful barks reached her ears as she turned again and swam parallel with the shore. A clock chimed from the tiny church on the north side of Gull. Eight-thirty. Maisie was suddenly aware of how cold she was. She’d been out for twenty minutes, which was surely enough for anyone in these chilly waters, even Rebecca Adlington. She lingered for a moment and trod water, taking one last glance at Petroc and at Basil chasing into the waves to retrieve Hugo’s stick before dropping it at his master’s feet. At least someone loved Hugo … Basil shook himself and Hugo leapt back as he got a soaking. Maisie smiled to herself. The day had started well and who knew what it had in store. Maybe a tall, dark, handsome stranger might walk into the pub and sweep her off her feet. The trouble was, a tall, dark – or any other type of – handsome stranger was the last person she wanted to walk into her life again. Chapter 1 (#ulink_033b93cd-51cc-5cb2-a690-329ff614a3e8) ‘Another day in paradise, eh? You are so lucky to live here.’ It was almost lunchtime and Maisie’s customer-friendly smile was firmly in place as she handed a large G&T to the customer waiting at the bar. Maisie guessed the woman was in her early fifties, but her designer skinny jeans, Converses and butter-soft leather jacket made her look ten years younger. With her carefully downplayed cut-glass accent and expensive ‘off-duty’ outfit, Maisie could guess where she was staying. ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, pulling a pint of bitter for the woman’s partner, who, she assumed, was enjoying the midday warmth on the Driftwood’s terrace. The woman let out a sigh of pleasure. ‘Look at that amazing sky, and the colours in the sea are just to die for. Harry and I were only just saying how much Scilly reminds us of Sardinia or Antigua. Honestly, you could absolutely be in the Grenadines and who would possibly believe it was only eight weeks to Christmas?’ ‘It is hard to believe,’ said Maisie, stopping the tap at just the right moment when the glass was full and topped with a thin layer of froth. ‘Although I expect it can get terribly claustrophobic if you have to live here full-time.’ The woman lowered her voice. ‘I expect you all know each other’s business.’ Maisie placed the beer on the drip mat next to the G&T and adopted the same conspiratorial tone. ‘That’s so true. There are no secrets on Gull Island, no matter how much we’d like to keep them.’ The posh woman was right: nothing and no one escaped notice in such a small and tight-knit community. People tended to know if you went to the loo before you’d even locked the bathroom door, but Maisie had had this conversation a hundred times before. With a knowing smile, the woman nodded as if she’d been let in on a secret too and tapped the side of her nose. Maisie deposited notes in the till and handed over some change. ‘Oh, no, keep that,’ the customer protested, waving her G&T airily. ‘Thank you. I’ll add it to the staff tips box. How are you enjoying your break on Petroc?’ Maisie asked. ‘How clever of you to guess we’re on Petroc. Yes, we are enjoying it. It’s half term and we’ve rented the sweetest cottage for our daughter and the grandchildren. Well, I say it’s a cottage but there are five bedrooms.’ She laughed. ‘Hubby and I are on babysitting duty tonight while Phoebe and her husband have dinner in the pub.’ The woman laughed. ‘Not that the Rose and Crab is just a pub these days of course, now it’s been awarded its Michelin star. My husband and I tried it last night. Gosh, it was a-mazing. The turbot was incredible and don’t get me started on that brill. Of course, I don’t mind sharing cheesy pasta with the little ones tonight. It’s just so lovely to spend some quality time together with Saffron and baby Tom. They live so far away.’ Maisie mustered all her patience, aware that a small queue was forming behind the woman. ‘I hope you all have a lovely time,’ she said. ‘You’ll stay for lunch with us hopefully?’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘You do lunch here?’ ‘Yes. We can’t match up to the gourmet food at the Rose and Crab, of course, but we have local lobster salad on special today and we can rustle up some fresh crab sandwiches. You could eat them in the upstairs bistro or outside if it stays warm.’ ‘Yum. Local seafood, you say? How lovely. We’ll check out the menu.’ With a happy smile on her face, the holidaymaker picked up the drinks and turned away. Through the open front door, the sunlight danced on the turquoise water of the channel and the white sand flats. The woman sighed dreamily. ‘Gosh, this view is just divine.’ With a polite smile, Maisie turned to her next punter as the woman carried the drinks out to the terrace. He was a bearded sixty-something in a cycling helmet and eye-wateringly tight Lycra shorts. ‘And what can I get you, sir?’ she asked, trying not to laugh, very glad that the counter hid the lower half of his body. For the next half an hour, Maisie handed over glasses of wine and foamy pints of the local brew, relieved to see the inn so busy this late in the year. She’d taken over the Driftwood in February when her parents had decided to semi-retire. Hazel and Ray Samson could still be found behind the bar sometimes, or helping in the upstairs bistro, but Maisie was now in charge. She made the decisions and did the hiring and firing – mostly hiring, thank God. She set the prices, broke up the arguments (also rare) and presided over the Driftwood with a smile on her face, even when her feet were killing her and her heart was breaking. Always a smile. No one wanted a gloomy hostess; the customers were there to enjoy themselves and enjoy the glorious view, whether they were tourists or locals. Fewer than a hundred people lived on the island year round and most of them at some time popped into the pub. Some had been born and bred on Scilly, while a few were ‘incomers’ who’d moved to this isolated corner of Britain in search of a more peaceful life. While she helped to clear glasses and serve drinks, Maisie chatted to Will Godrevy from the Flower Farm on St Saviour’s island who had popped in for a half a Guinness while he was visiting Javid, who ran the Gull Island campsite. Will’s sister, Jess, was Maisie’s best mate, but Jess was busy today, helping her team send out the first crop of narcissi to customers on the mainland. Maisie expected to see Javid at some point when he came to collect his sandwich or pasty from the bistro. Maisie had already had a quick word with Una and Phyllis Barton, the sisters who owned the aptly named Hell Cove Cottages on the rugged western coast of Gull Island, which was open to the full brunt of the Atlantic storms. They’d sat on the terrace with a coffee while they waited for the island ferry to St Mary’s. Every Saturday morning, come hell or high water, they did their shopping in Hugh Town after they’d finished the breakfast service at Hell Cove. Then there was Archie Pendower, an elderly artist from St Piran’s island to the north of Gull. If the weather was as good as it was today, and Archie was feeling inspired, he might sail across to the Driftwood. Thinking of the growing gallery of paintings that adorned the first floor bistro, Maisie smiled to herself. Sooner or later, Archie might settle his bill – but not in cash. The Driftwood already had a dozen of his paintings and Maisie reckoned they were worth a lot more, financially and creatively, than a few quid. Such bartering would never have been allowed in the big pub where she used to work, which was another reason why Maisie loved the Driftwood, even if its lax and quirky ways would never make her family rich. Time flew by while Maisie made her ‘figure of eight’ between the bistro, bar, kitchen and terrace, checking that everything was running smoothly and helping out where needed. With only a handful of seasonal staff compared to the big pub she had managed, she was used to mucking in on any task and loved it despite the long hours. She was halfway through serving pints to some kayakers when a new customer blocked the doorway, obviously deciding whether he could be bothered to queue up. He shone out from among the khaki-clad twitchers like an exotic toucan among a group of sparrows. Dark-blond hair brushed the collar of his faded blue-and-yellow hooped polo shirt. His navy cargo shorts showed off a pair of muscular calves the colour of tea and he wore olive Goretex hiking boots. The frame of his red rucksack brushed the door lintel and blocked out the view of the terrace and sea completely. He ducked under the wooden door beam and stepped into the shade of the bar. Maisie’s breath caught in her throat. For a few seconds she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Now she was certain. It was him. So what was he doing on Gull Island? Chapter 2 (#ulink_23eb71d0-5ef8-5708-87c2-559741c3ac57) With most people she’d met before, Maisie might have called out a ‘hello’ or waved a greeting. The problem was she didn’t know this man’s name nor did she want to draw attention to herself – she was still flustered and shocked at his appearance in her pub. She might not know the exotic guy’s name but she could never forget how amazing his lips had felt on hers when they’d shared a passionate kiss outside the Galleon Inn on St Mary’s the previous week. She’d nicknamed him ‘The Blond’ in her mind and tried to forget about him, knowing she’d been tipsy and that she’d never see him again. Her hands fumbled with the change she’d just taken off the previous customer, but she shut the till drawer and tried to concentrate on serving the person in the queue in front of him. Who had she been kidding? She hadn’t forgotten about him. How could she? They’d bumped into each other at a food festival being held at the pub. She’d gone along on her own, really to check out how the event was going with a view to running one at the Driftwood. She’d meant to stay for a couple of drinks, make mental notes and then leave, but the Blond had struck up a conversation with her. Or maybe she’d spoken to him? Her memory of how it had all started was fuzzy, especially as a couple of drinks had turned into more. Somehow, they’d ended up walking away from the pub up the beach. She didn’t remembering exchanging names – bloody hell, she must have been tiddly – but she did know that names hadn’t seemed to matter as they’d wandered away from the pub towards the headland at Porthmellon. Apart from a brief word about him travelling around the UK on holiday and her working in a bar, neither of them had seemed to care about pasts or futures. They’d sat for a while on the rocks by the headland, watching the sun sinking and making the odd comment about the festival before the conversation had trailed off. He’d taken her hand and it had happened. She didn’t know who’d instigated the kiss. She only knew that their lips had come together and that it had been amazing. Too amazing. The feelings it had aroused had scared her. She’d backed away, laughing and mumbling about having had too much to drink. Without a goodbye, she’d almost run back up the beach and joined the tourists in the streets of Hugh Town. She’d bought a black coffee from the deli-caf? and found a quiet corner in which to drink it, dreading he’d walk in and find her. She’d sobered up fast. If she’d been herself – watchful and on guard – she’d never have kissed a stranger whose name she didn’t even know … and never have let herself respond so rashly, holding on to his waist, pressing against him, drinking in that kiss. ‘Thanks.’ Smile fixed in place, Maisie watched the customer turn away, pint in hand, and the Blond approach the bar. He shrugged off his backpack, and dug out his phone. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised her. He was next in line after a kayaker who ordered several pints of beer. Maisie tried to focus on pulling the pints. There was too much head on the last one and the foamy beer overflowed onto the drip tray. She gave an apologetic grimace at the kayaker. ‘Sorry.’ He sipped the excess froth. ‘No problem.’ She gave him his change and he joined his mates outside. The Blond was next. Maisie flashed her customer smile. ‘Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?’ He smiled back. ‘Coke, please.’ ‘Pint or half. Diet or full-fat?’ ‘I don’t do diet anything and a pint will do nicely. I’m dry as a drover’s dog.’ That accent. It struck her again, as it had the day at the food festival. He was every bit as sexy as she remembered: and she’d tried very hard to forget him over the past few days. ‘Ice?’ she asked. ‘What do you think?’ His blue eyes, not far off the colour of the deepest part of the Petroc channel, sparkled with amusement and mischief. Maisie could have done with some ice herself to cool her down. Maisie scooped the cubes into a pint glass. ‘Where’s the accent from? Sydney?’ she teased. He pulled a face. ‘You have to be joking. Wouldn’t be seen dead within a hundred miles of the place.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Try again.’ ‘Adelaide?’ said Maisie, testing him to see how much of their conversation he remembered. She’d joked that her knowledge of Aussie cities was confined to having to listen to endless hours of Test Match Special droning out from her dad’s radio. He winced. ‘Too hot for me and I’m not impressed by the wine. I’m from Melbourne. Sunshine, penguins and tennis.’ ‘And Fosters,’ Maisie shot back. ‘Hey, there has to be a downside to every dream location.’ Maisie rested his glass on the drip mat but he didn’t pick it up. Their eyes met over the top of the bar. The look was at his instigation so she felt duty bound, as the hostess, to return it, even if gazing into those roguish blue eyes had the same effect on her as it had the first time. ‘I bet no one gets the better of you, Maisie Samson,’ he said so quietly that even she could barely hear. She snapped out of her momentary trance. ‘How do you know my name? Has the Gull Island grapevine been at it again?’ she said, wondering if he’d made enquiries about her after she’d hurried away from him. She knew now why she’d run away. Having him here in the flesh in front of her brought all those emotions flooding back: desire, lust, longing. Those feelings had overwhelmed her. It was too soon to feel so strongly attracted to a man again … Too soon after losing Keegan. Too soon after losing everything. The Blond was cool as a cucumber. He grinned and flipped his thumb over his shoulder. ‘No grapevine. It’s over the door.’ ‘That could have been my mum’s name.’ In fact, her father’s name had hung there until she’d taken over the new licence earlier in the year. ‘What’s your mum’s name?’ ‘Hazel.’ ‘Nah. You’re no Hazel.’ ‘What do you mean, “I’m no Hazel”?’ said Maisie, fascinated despite the fact that a couple of the regulars had started to pay attention to her conversation with the Blond. Almost as if he sensed they were being watched, he lowered his voice but still made no move to pick up his drink. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Hazel. Sure it’s a very nice name and your mother is a lovely woman, but Maisie … hints at mischief. Trouble.’ Maisie rolled her eyes while her heart thumped. ‘Trouble for you if you keep on with the cheesy lines.’ ‘Cheesy?’ He laughed out loud. ‘I’m the customer here. Aren’t I always right?’ ‘You’re forgetting the other sign.’ ‘And what sign would that be?’ She pointed to a small plaque hanging off a nail on the brickwork next to her. ‘The landlady’s never wrong.’ The smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Close up, she could see a few more lines on his face, around the eyes and on his forehead. She reckoned he was about her own age, or a couple of years younger. Maisie heard the nerves in her laugh, and inwardly cursed herself.What the hell had got into her, flirting with him again and reacting like a schoolgirl? He’d probably be gone in five minutes, five seconds, in fact, when he took the Coke outside onto the terrace. She didn’t dare assume he’d sought her out and she didn’t want him to have come looking for her. She wasn’t interested in a man and definitely not one charming enough to tempt her into a passionate kiss on half an hour’s acquaintance.She felt suddenly embarrassed for appearing to fall for his blarney, so she told him the price of the drink and nodded at the door. ‘I expect you’ll want to take it outside, sir, and enjoy the last of the sunshine while you can.’ She glanced over his shoulder as if she’d seen more customers enter, signalling politely but firmly she wasn’t interested in anything beyond the cash for his Coke – saving herself from rejection, even of the smallest kind, because she’d had it up to here with types like the Blond. She’d met plenty of men like him before, and that included her ex, Keegan. She didn’t even want to know this one’s name. The Blond handed over some coins and took his drink. ‘Keep the change,’ he said cheerfully, obviously fine at being passed over for an imaginary customer. ‘Thanks. Enjoy your day, sir.’ Maisie popped the coins in the RNLI tin in full view of him and turned her back to polish some glasses that didn’t need it. The buzz of chatter rose as more customers walked through the front door. She turned back ready to greet them, joking about the late ‘heat wave’ that had hit Scilly. When she finally made it out onto the terrace again to take a break, the Blond had gone. The disappointment was like being plunged into cold water on a sweltering day but Maisie told herself to get a grip. She should be relieved he’d walked away this time and that she wouldn’t have to see him again. She wasn’t sure she would be so strong the next time he came across her path. Fortunately she was kept busy as the pre-ferry rush started. Maisie’s parents and her seasonal barman joined her behind the bar and they served up a constant stream of cold drinks, coffees and teas. Restaurant customers from the bistro ordered after-lunch liqueurs and took them onto the terrace. Maisie was pinned behind the bar, the flood of people never letting up until finally she heard the warning toot of the ferry as it moored at the jetty. Five minutes later, the Driftwood was as deserted as the Mary Celeste. Chapter 3 (#ulink_78d3c061-9222-5acb-b42a-4949032d9ebe) Abandoned glasses, bottles, packets of crisps and dirty plates littered the tables in the bar area. Maisie wiped her forehead. Her feet throbbed and her arms ached. It had been non-stop pretty much all day apart from the few minutes she’d spent sparring with the Blond. ‘I need a breath of air,’ she told Debbie, the Kiwi bistro manager who was setting off on her long journey home later that week now that the season was almost over. Maisie was already wondering how she was going to manage once the staff had all left. It might be the quiet season but there was still a ton of essential maintenance work to get through on top of opening the pub over the weekends and for special events – not to mention Christmas. She’d already resigned herself to being just as busy in the off-season unless she could get some of the locals to lend a hand with the repair work and some shifts behind the bar. Grabbing a bottle of spring water, she slipped out of the side door for a breather after the rush, and to give herself time to think after her encounter with the Blond. The terrace still held a few people, the odd local and a party of students from the campsite finishing pints and eating their own picnics. A couple of middle-aged yachties and a few clients from a local holiday home lingered over their G&Ts. She recognised some of them and nodded. She considered having a sneaky fag, as she had every day at around this time since she’d given up ten years before. Then decided, again, that she could manage without one today and walked across the narrow road to the beach in front of the inn. She’d quit long ago but had lapsed back for a few weeks after Keegan had left. She’d got a grip on it again now, fingers crossed. As the afternoon drew to a close, the sun sank lower over the sea. Rocks glistening with bright green seaweed cast long shadows over the shell-pink sand. Maisie selected a dry perch on her favourite rock, which was tucked away out of sight of the inn but had a great view of the Petroc channel. She kicked off her Skechers and buried her toes in the cool sand. Yachts glided past, or bobbed at anchor over sandbars. On a spring tide, you could wade right across to Petroc Island, where people stood on the battlements of a ruined fort, looking down at the Driftwood. Petroc had been owned by the Scorrier family for centuries and all of its original buildings had been converted to luxury holiday homes, unlike Gull Island, where most of the buildings were still largely owned by the families who lived there. Most people on Gull just about made enough to get them through the winter, but that was the price of living in paradise, she reminded herself, and the Driftwood provided a living for her and her family, and jobs for a few seasonal staff. Maisie rested her gaze on the fortified tower across the channel, telling herself to get a grip. She’d accepted that with her fortieth birthday coming up on New Year’s Eve, some things probably weren’t going to happen for her and she should be content with the life she had. She should have known better than to fall for a good-looking smoothie who’d promised her the moon but legged it faster than Usain Bolt just when she needed him. Her, Maisie Samson, of all people. Streetwise, on-the-ball Maisie who had an answer for everyone and everything. How had she let herself need someone – something – so very badly? How had she been left with a heart that resembled a smashed bag of crisps? The memories were still painful, even now she’d physically recovered. On Christmas Day the previous year she’d had everything to look forward to. She was happy living with Keegan, her boyfriend and boss at the brewery, and she was looking forward to the birth of her baby – Little Scrap – in the summer. She’d been thinking about what colour to paint the nursery while she worked in the pub that Christmas Day, and how she could combine her job with looking after the baby once she’d returned from maternity leave. She’d even thought she’d felt him or her kick, though it was too early according to the textbooks. Within the hour, she was on her way to hospital and, sadly, there had been nothing that could be done to save her baby. As it was Christmas, her parents hadn’t been able to get a flight over until it was all over. Maisie had told them not to come, and that she’d be fine. Keegan would look after her, she’d told them, thinking that although the pain of grief was agonising, her partner was by her side to comfort her. A couple of weeks later, Keegan had told her he wanted to end their relationship. Her parents had been horrified. Her mum had flown in to care for her and her father had immediately asked her to take over at the Driftwood, if she wanted to. They said they would stay on as part-owners and help out when required but Maisie would manage the place and have full responsibility and control of the pub. Maisie didn’t hesitate to say ‘yes’. She wanted a new start and to leave the unhappy associations behind her, but they hadn’t all been so easy to shake off. Maybe that was why she’d been so reckless in taking a chance with the Blond on the beach: she’d wanted a moment of escape – a moment of abandon – even if it wasn’t like her. Who knew? She stayed a few minutes longer, finishing her water, when she spotted something guaranteed to make her smile. A small and elderly yacht had dropped anchor off shore and a man with a long grey beard was rowing a small RIB towards the shore. Maisie grinned. She’d recognised the yacht as it had sailed into the channel. She slipped off the rock and hurried forward as the old man reached the shore and jumped into the shallows with a splash. Archie Pendower was as much a part of the landscape of the isles as any rock or tree. He was well over eighty and his work had won a reputation that spread beyond the isles, although you wouldn’t know it to look at the sorry state of the Starfish Studio these days. Like many islanders and many artists, even he found making a living tough. Not that Archie cared about money. Water soaked the ragged hems of his denim dungarees as Maisie paddled into the water to help him haul out the RIB. He wore a salt-encrusted fisherman’s cap and a chunky jersey with patches on the elbows. Funnily enough, Maisie couldn’t recall ever seeing him wearing any other clothes, although he smelled fresh enough apart from a faint tang of cigars. ‘Hi, Archie. I wasn’t expecting you today,’ she said as they hauled the RIB onto the sand. 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 fianc?e.’ ‘I can understand that,’ said Maisie, reminded of the dreadful day when Jake Pendower – Archie’s grandson – had lost his fianc?e 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 (#ulink_a04cecdd-9053-5785-aaf6-c4df6fb1c18c) 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 campsite. 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 for 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 (#ulink_e70ec447-e1dd-5525-ab33-d98e689a7ecf) ‘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. ‘What’s he doing?’ ‘Just hanging about, I think … oh, wait, he’s going now. Running towards the jetty … no idea why.’ ‘Right,’ said Maisie, feeling guilty for losing interest in her mother’s mystery man. She hadn’t slept well, and her insomnia had nothing to do with the Blond. She’d heard her father up and about several times and muted voices coming from her parents’ room down the hallway from hers. It wasn’t easy living in such close proximity, for her or them, but in general, they all got along pretty well. However, living in the same premises had brought home to her that all wasn’t rosy with his health. Maisie was convinced that the stress of running the pub was a contributor to his problems. She needed to find someone reliable to help out, if only part-time. She stacked the menus neatly at the end of the bar. Hazel was still peering through the blinds. ‘What’s up?’ Maisie asked. ‘He just ran along the beach the other way. I’ve no idea what he’s doing.’ ‘Well, if he wants to come in here, we don’t open until half-past so he can wait. Mum, would you mind checking we’ve enough vegetables for the Sunday lunches? I can get Dad to dig up some more if not, and I want to make sure we’re stocked up before Helmut comes in to do the prep.’ Helmut was the chef. He and the seasonal barman lived in the tiny staff studios behind the pub. Debbie, the bistro manager, had been lodging in a caravan at the campsite. They would all be gone on the ferry to the mainland the next morning. Hazel closed the slats. ‘No problem.’ Hazel went into the kitchen while Maisie gave the bar another wipe down and checked the float in the till. Could they manage without any help at all over the winter? she wondered. It would be a lot more cost-effective but it meant having no time off. She could handle that, somehow, by closing an extra day, but it would also mean relying more and more on her parents. They were in their late sixties and they’d had enough. Her dad wasn’t too well, though he tried to hide the fact and claimed he was just tired. Maisie could see he struggled to get his breath sometimes and he was pale under his year-round tan. Maisie heard a scuffle outside on the terrace and angry shouts. She risked a discreet glance through the bottle-glass pane in the pub door. There was a figure out there, but it was so distorted, it could have been anyone. She glanced at the big clock above the bar. It was twenty past ten. Sharp raps on the door made her jump. Winter was coming and she needed every penny of revenue, didn’t she? She could open ten minutes early. She drew the bolts on the top and bottom as carefully as she could, then turned the key and lifted the latch. ‘Jesus Christ!’ ‘Sorry to startle you.’ A handsome man about her own age, with blond, almost white hair, stood in the porch. He must have been waiting right in front of the door and Maisie had almost knocked him flying. ‘Hugo? What do you want?’ Hugo Scorrier held his laptop bag protectively in front of his privates. ‘Apologies for the early visit but I wanted a quick word before the inn opened. Basil! Bad dog! Stop that!’ At Hugo’s shout, Basil pulled his snout out of a patch of weeds topped by the remains of a rotting seagull. The Labrador’s coat glistened like wet coal and there was a green strand of weed stuck to his tail. Hugo flashed an apologetic smile at Maisie. ‘Sorry, he may whiff a bit. He goes his own way, never listens to a word I tell him. I’ve been chasing the devil up and down the beach for ages.’ Clever Basil, thought Maisie, but answered Hugo as civilly as she could. ‘We open in ten minutes and I’m afraid I’m rather busy.’ ‘I would have been here at ten,’ he said as Basil sniffed around the tables on the terrace, ‘if Basil hadn’t had other ideas involving seagulls and going AWOL.’ ‘You should have phoned me to make an appointment.’ ‘Well, I hadn’t planned on calling assuch,’ said Hugo. ‘Not on you specifically, but I’ve been to the morning service at the chapel and had a coffee with a few of your neighbours afterwards. I thought I’d drop in on my way back to my boat.’ Maisie shivered in the cool morning air. Hugo wore olive cords, a waxed jacket and shiny brogues on his feet. He was like an apparition from another era. A very unwelcome one at that. ‘Can you spare five minutes?’ he asked. ‘Who’s that, love?’ Hazel shouted from the bar. ‘It’s Hugo Scorrier, Mum. We’re just having a very quick chat.’ ‘Oh, shit.’ Worried that Hugo had heard her mum’s curse, Maisie cringed and quickly pulled the door to behind her. ‘I can spare a few minutes.’ She ushered Hugo to a table near the beach. People were already wandering along the path, eyeing up the inn. Basil ran off to investigate some old lobster pots. Hugo perched on the edge of a bench, looking for a spot without any seagull poo. ‘I know you’re a busy woman so I’ll get to the point. Have you thought any more about our offer to take the Driftwood off your hands?’ ‘“Take it off my hands”? Hugo, I think I’ve made it quite clear that I don’t want to sell the Driftwood at this time. Or any time. I’ve only recently taken over here.’ Hugo placed his bag on the table. ‘Yes, I know. You came from a very senior role with a successful pub chain. I’m sure that your experience has thrown the – um – limitations of the Driftwood into stark reality.’ ‘Yes, it has, and my experience has also shown me how it could be more profitable and successful. I hope you’re not suggesting that my parents haven’t worked incredibly hard to keep the place viable. We turn a reasonable profit, enough to give us all a basic living and allow us to stay here on Gull.’ ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything like that. Your parents are troupers. They’ve stuck it out far longer than anyone could have expected them to. All I’m saying is that, if you accepted our offer, which is a generous one, you could still live and work at the Driftwood without the worries of living hand to mouth. Let’s face it, the Driftwood could do with a makeover.’ Maisie sat her on hands, resisting the urge to throw Hugo off the terrace. She’d tried hard to put herself in his shoes when she’d first come home and she did feel sorry about his father’s illness. It must be tough having to run the business while seeing his dad suffering from Alzheimer’s at such a young age. Hugo was a year younger than her and his father, Graydon Scorrier, had had to hand over the reins to his son five years previously. He was now in a nursing home on St Mary’s. Hugo’s parents had split up when Hugo was still a teenager and his mother now lived in London and as far as Maisie knew, had never come back to visit her ex. ‘Firstly, we don’t live hand to mouth,’ she said. ‘And secondly, why would we want to be tenants here when we can be owners?’ She hated Hugo in that moment, not because what he was saying was wrong or insulting but because actually his offer did make some sense. The Driftwood was only just holding together and probably did need a lot of work doing. It could do with a repaint over the winter, and the window frames needed varnishing and the roof needed repairing at the very least. The cost of re-slating it was unthinkable. Then there were the toilets: they could do with a total refit. In fact, in her dreams, it would be a lot smarter than it looked now and she’d love to expand the bistro and terrace too. They were pipe dreams, however: the basics needed tackling first. Hugo opened his mouth to speak. He had a beige moustache of sorts clinging for dear life to his upper lip. Maisie cut him off before he could get any words out. ‘Before you say any more, I have seriously considered your offer and yes, there are advantages …’ Hugo broke into a smile. ‘I thought you’d see it that way.’ ‘But on balance, I – and my parents – have decided that we’re going to decline it.’ There, thought Maisie, I’ll use the type of business language he can understand. She was really rather proud of herself. Hugo was silent for a few seconds then sighed. ‘I’m sorry to hear that and very disappointed, naturally. The Driftwood would have made a wonderful addition to our portfolio on Gull. We’d be able to make a significant investment in it and extend it.’ ‘You mean turn it into a clone of the Rose and Crab on Petroc?’ ‘Not a clone. Gull would be given its own distinct identity. We’ve had a top London agency draw up the branding. In fact’ – he sniffed – ‘I have the designs in my bag here. I’ve just come back from showing them to some of the other islanders who attended the service and coffee morning. There was a good turnout. I’d say about half the islanders were there.’ Maisie rolled her eyes. ‘That’s because the coffee and bacon rolls were free.’ ‘Probably.’ Hugo grinned. He had lovely white teeth and wasn’t unattractive in a Hooray Henry kind of way, Maisie was forced to admit. He reminded her of a less hunky and fairer version of the vicar in Grantchester, one of her mum’s favourite shows. Hugo smirked. ‘I can see there’s no point trying to bullshit you.’ ‘You’re not wrong there.’ Maisie got up. ‘I really have to start serving. We’ve customers already waiting as you can see and the morning tripper boat will be here soon.’ She nodded at the half a dozen punters hovering expectantly on the terrace. Basil seemed to have sensed Hugo’s time was up too and lolloped over. He nudged Hugo in the crotch. ‘Basil. For God’s sake,’ said Hugo, pushing the dog away and wrinkling his nose at the damp patch on his trousers. ‘As you’re obviously busy, I’ll leave you with a copy of my plans.’ He unzipped his bag and pulled out an A4 folder. ‘There’s no harm in taking a look, is there? You know where to reach me if you change your mind.’ ‘Thanks,’ Maisie ground out. She didn’t touch the file he’d placed in front of her. Hugo pushed his floppy lock of hair off his face. ‘I’ll be off then.’ Maisie wiggled her fingers. ‘Byeee. Have a safe journey back over the water!’ ‘Thanks.’ Hugo turned away, but he’d only got a few steps when he doubled back, just as Maisie had picked up the file. ‘By the way, I think you should know that two more of your neighbours are seriously considering selling to us – Hell Cove Cottages and the Fudge Pantry. I think that makes five businesses on Gull who have sold or agreed to sell to us now. There’s not much left, is there?’ Then, leaving Maisie too stunned to reply, Hugo sauntered down the path and along the beach towards the jetty and his boat, calling Basil to heel and being ignored. Maisie sat back down on the bench, staring at the folder. She should be in the pub now, ready to serve the first rush of customers but she couldn’t move. Una and Phyllis at the Hell Cove Cottages had agreed to sell up to Hugo? Pete and Davina at The Fudge Pantry in the middle of the island too? Both families had been on Gull for generations. They’d once told Maisie they’d sell to the Scorriers over their dead bodies. Was Hugo winding her up, or bluffing? If he was right, it left only a handful of significant businesses on Gull Island that were still independently owned, along with the land around them. Hugo would be free to apply to develop them as he chose. Despite what people said, if offered enough money, it wouldn’t take much for the rest of the families to fall like a pack of dominoes. And who could blame them when it took such commitment and energy to eke out a half-decent living on Gull? Maisie glanced over to Petroc with its chichi cottages and businesses clustered around the harbour. Was she the one who was wrong, trying to make sure Gull kept its slightly shabby but fiercely independent character? It wasn’t only the Petroc channel that had separated her and Hugo. He’d been despatched to boarding schools in Cornwall from the age of seven and had only returned for the holidays. Maisie and the island kids had hung out with him occasionally when their paths crossed, swimming and playing cricket on the beach. Hugo had been hopeless at football, Maisie recalled – they only played rugger at his boarding school. More often than not, however, Hugo had friends to stay and then he and his chums had kept in their own little clique. It was hard to judge after all these years, but Maisie had felt that when Hugo was with his school friends, they’d turned up their noses at Maisie and her mates. He’d been far less sure of himself when he was on his own, but maybe that was natural. Kids were quick to realise when an ‘outsider’ wanted to join in and at times Hugo hadn’t met with the friendliest of welcomes. When she was older, in her late teens, she used to think he fancied her and that had made her even more distant with him. Now she was older still she suspected he’d probably just been lonely. However, none of this was an excuse for Hugo being a total prat now he was a grown man. Ray Samson appeared in the doorway of the pub, waving frantically. ‘Maisie!’ he called. ‘Coming!’ Maisie hurried into the Driftwood, smiling at punters and apologising for the late opening. She slid behind the counter and after a moment’s hesitation, stepped on the pedal of the bin and dropped Hugo Scorrier’s plans inside. Then, with a heart as heavy as stone, she turned back to the room with a huge grin. ‘Right, you lovely thirsty, hungry people. Welcome to the Driftwood. What can I get you?’ Chapter 6 (#ulink_04107352-a390-5cbd-b440-6428265358f9) After packing up on Monday morning, Patrick had shouldered his rucksack and strolled out of the campsite. His plan had been to spend the night on St Mary’s before he caught the flight back to Cornwall at lunchtime, but in the end he’d decided that it was easier to camp on Gull one last time and get the early ferry to St Mary’s. He’d spent his final day walking around the rugged northern side of Gull before heading back to the campsite. The students were surprised to see him but very happy when he rustled up a homemade chilli for them. Patrick listened to Javid bemoaning the months of dark evenings that lay ahead and the fact the Islander ferry would stop its daily visits altogether at the end of the week, leaving the air service as the only way off the isles – if the planes were able to fly and weren’t grounded by fog or storms as he’d been warned they could be. Then it was an early night, a quick breakfast and off towards the jetty near the Driftwood. His pack was full to bursting but it felt good to have it on his back. It was solid and the weight of it reminded him that he had, actually, made his decision to go back to Melbourne. Once he reached Penzance, his plan was to hop on an overnight train to London and get the first plane out of Heathrow to Oz. His lawyers in Sydney would be delighted that he’d stopped messing them around. He knew someone else who’d also be delighted that Patrick had finally made his decision. The prospect of their glee made his heart sink but he’d have to get over it. As he walked down the road – just a single tarmacked track – that led down the slope to the Driftwood and the jetty, Patrick could see two people working in the allotment behind the pub. A woman was crouched down, weeding a patch of vegetables. A man had a ladder rested against an outhouse attached to the side of building, which must be the Driftwood’s toilet block. He was hammering some slates onto the roof and cursing. Presumably these were Hazel and Ray Samson, who Javid, the campsite owner, had told him about. Patrick bent down to tie the laces on his boots and allow himself a last look at the inn. There was no doubt that the Driftwood occupied a knockout spot and its location was probably the equal, in its own way, of any bar he’d ever been to. Even the slightly shabby end-of-world feel to the old building held its own charms. On the other hand, judging from the way Ray Samson was puffing and wiping his brow as he tackled the lichen-spotted slates, Patrick guessed the inn wasn’t quite so charming to live in. He wasn’t sure the guy should be up the ladder at his age, although it wasn’t any of Patrick’s business. In fact, he reminded himself, nothing that went on at the Driftwood was his business. He had half an hour to spare before his ferry to St Mary’s arrived so he walked down the track and onto the beach. The tide was slowly filling the channel between Petroc and Gull Island and the remaining islets of sand glittered in the morning sun. Soon they’d shrink to nothing, presenting one smooth and silvery expanse of water between Gull and Petroc. Leaving his pack by a rock on the powdery sand, Patrick sauntered down to the sea. He picked up a small stone and cast it over the water. It skipped a couple of times then sank. The water was so shallow, he imagined he could see it resting on the bottom. He tried again with a larger flatter stone. Feeling confident, he snapped back his wrist but fluffed his aim and managed only one bounce. ‘Here. Let me try.’ Maisie Samson’s voice was unmistakeable; her soft local accent was tinged with dry amusement. He didn’t think she was laughing at him, and even if she was he wouldn’t have blamed her. He found himself ridiculous most of the time. He turned around to see her standing a few feet behind him, her arms folded. How long she’d been watching him, he didn’t know, but he felt as if he’d been caught smoking a fag at school by the matron. She wore skinny jeans and an old Arran fisherman’s sweater that hung off her slight frame. It had obviously been her dad’s at one time – or a boyfriend’s. It could still belong to a boyfriend now, he supposed. He shoved one hand in his pocket. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Morning,’ he said, jiggling the stones in his pocket nervously. ‘I thought you’d left already.’ ‘I’m waiting for the ferry. I decided to stay one more night. How did you know I was going home?’ She shrugged. ‘I assumed. Everyone left yesterday.’ ‘The kayaking students are still around,’ he said. ‘Apart from them. Javid told me the rest of the site was empty and I don’t think there are any other tourists in any of the B&Bs or holiday cottages on the island at the moment.’ ‘Do you and Javid monitor everyone’s comings and goings?’ ‘Pretty much. Like I said, everyone knows everything on Gull. Sooner or later.’ How much later, he thought. How long would it take for the islanders to know his comings and goings – and secrets? Maisie shrugged and rubbed the sand with her sneaker. Patrick had the feeling she was embarrassed about her comments when they’d been flirting again the previous day, and she’d certainly been eager to get rid of him after their banter was over. Unable to meet his eye, she scraped the shingle with the toe of her Converse, but if she were so keen to avoid him, why was she hanging around now? He considered collecting his pack and leaving her alone but she suddenly peered at the shingle and picked up a stone. She crouched low at the water’s edge and, without a word, set the stone free with one deft flick of the wrist. It skipped over the water once, twice … seven times in all until it finally disappeared. ‘You should have been in TheDambusters,’ said Patrick. She laughed out loud. ‘TheDambusters? That’s an old one. You’re surely too young to have seen that?’ ‘Ditto,’ said Patrick. ‘Mum and I have been force fed that film by Dad, every bank holiday without fail. Now he has it on DVD so we’re made to watch it regularly as an example of our glory days.’ She shook her head and a smile, a heartfelt one, tilted the corners of her mouth. ‘How could we not watch it? My great-great-uncle Horace was a mechanic on those planes in the war,’ she said. ‘Horace knew Guy Gibson, the man who led them. My dad remembers Uncle Horace from when he was a boy.’ Patrick whistled. ‘I’m impressed.’ ‘Me too. Sort of. Can’t imagine being in a war, but Horace is still a terrible name … Why don’t you have another go with your stones?’ ‘You only want to show me up when I fail spectacularly.’ ‘Of course I do and I hope you’re not going to disappoint me.’ In two minds as to whether Maisie wanted him to disappoint her or not, Patrick tried his very best over the course of the next five minutes. He found stones every bit as good as Maisie’s yet she beat him each time by at least two bounces. ‘Damn it!’ he said in exasperation as another stone sank just feet from the shore. Maisie stood by with her hands on her hips, watching him critically. ‘Your technique needs honing,’ she said. While Patrick selected another pebble, round the headland, out of sight, a whistle tooted. Maisie nodded in the direction of the jetty. ‘That’s your ride to St Mary’s,’ she said. His ride out of there and his escape plan, thought Patrick. His last chance to do the right thing and leave Gull forever. His fingers curled tighter around the stone in his palm. Ignoring the whistle, he bent low and flung his stone. Three skips. Still crap. He wandered down to the water and fished another promising-looking stone from the wavelets. The water ran down the cuff of his sweatshirt. The ferry whistle tooted again, twice and more urgently. ‘If you don’t leave now, you’ll miss the ferry and that means you’ll miss the Islander ferry to Penzance and have to stay another night, unless you’re prepared to fork out for a plane ride.’ Maisie’s voice reached his ears from behind. ‘This is true,’ said Patrick, enjoying the weight of the stone in his hand and the cold water trickling down his arm. He’d soon found out that the ocean was as cold here as at home, where it pounded the coast, chilled by the Antarctic. People – tourists – thought it would be like a warm bath and were shocked and disappointed when it froze your nuts off, same as their own seas. Same here, he guessed … but he wasn’t disappointed by Gull Island yet. He might be, given time. He’d always been disappointed and always messed things up … What about this time? Judy had asked him to give the place at least a chance. Greg and Judy had given him a chance before, many many chances … so maybe he owed it to them both to stay a bit longer now. It would be no hardship to spend a little longer in Maisie Samson’s company, that was for sure. He flung the stone away, not expecting anything. It glanced off the water, again and again. Five, six, seven times and maybe more until it slipped under the surface. ‘Wow.’ Patrick turned. Maisie was silhouetted against the morning sun, miming applause while her auburn hair blew across her face in the breeze. She reminded him of a girl in a Shakespeare play he’d been forced to study at school. Though she be but little, she is fierce. He smiled at himself. If Maisie knew what he was thinking, she’d probably walk straight off. Toot. Toot. Toooooot. ‘That’s your last chance. You’ll have to run,’ she said. ‘My pack’s too heavy to rush.’ Maisie grabbed the top of it. ‘I’ll help you if you want.’ She’s daring me to go, he thought. Or daring herself. Or am I kidding myself? He stayed where he was. ‘One more stone first.’ She let go of his pack. Patrick doubted she’d have got far with it anyway. ‘OK but it’s your funeral.’ He thought about throwing another stone but something kept him rooted to the beach, looking at her looking at him. Patrick thought back to the notice pinned on the corkboard in the laundry room and to his chat with Javid last night. Maisie wasn’t the only one who had her spies. He glanced at the fort on Petroc opposite and in the distance he heard the putter of a boat engine. The ferry nosed its way beyond the headland and headed back to St Mary’s. The breeze freshened. Maisie pulled her hair off her face and held it out of her eyes as she joined him at the shoreline. Water lapped at her shoes but she didn’t seem to mind. ‘You’re too late. You missed your chance to escape from Gull,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to make other arrangements now.’ Maybe not, thought Patrick as madness seized him. He turned to her and the words came tumbling out. ‘I could be wrong, but I hear you’re looking for a barman.’ Chapter 7 (#ulink_d8d29e0c-8966-57f9-a134-a491f0f8a3f2) If Maisie had been sitting on her favourite rock when she heard the Blond’s announcement, she was sure she’d have fallen off it. All her smart replies flew out of her mind in favour of a strangled: ‘Sorry?’ ‘Sorry? As in sorry, the vacancy’s been filled? Sorry, if it was a choice between Hitler and me, you’d hand the job to Adolf?’ Maisie spluttered. ‘Don’t be so daft. You’d be perfect. I mean, you’d make a perfect – a very good and competent – barman. I’m sure.’ ‘But?’ ‘Five minutes ago, you were leaving. Your bags are packed. Look.’ She picked up the rucksack again, which was about as tall as she was, and almost toppled over. ‘Careful, Maisie Samson. Don’t want you doing yourself an injury.’ ‘I’m worried I might do an injury to more than myself if I take you on at the Driftwood.’ Patrick folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re not up for the challenge?’ Maisie bit back a reply. Her heart was beating faster than she liked and she was on very dangerous ground. She wanted him to work for her and dreaded it in equal measure, for entirely opposing reasons. ‘There was a notice advertising the job in the campsite reception … that wasn’t a figment of my imagination, now was it?’ he said. ‘No. It was a real notice and there is a vacancy.’ ‘And you just said, if my hearing didn’t deceive me, that I’d be perfect.’ ‘That was wrong of me. You don’t have any experience …’ ‘I thought I’d make a very competent barman?’ ‘I only meant you’ve the gift of the gab. You seem to like talking, anyway.’ ‘Miaow,’ said the Blond. Maisie could have cheerfully hit him with his rucksack, if she could have got it off the ground. ‘I need someone who can hit the ground running. I can’t carry passengers.’ ‘Two transport metaphors in one sentence. She’s smart.’ ‘And you’re fired,’ said Maisie, thinking of lobbing a stone at him and hoping it bounced off his head. ‘I don’t even know your name.’ ‘What? You mean the Gull Island grapevine hasn’t worked this time?’ ‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that famous yet, but it would probably be a good idea to introduce yourself if you’re interested in applying for the job.’ The Blond stepped forward and stuck out his hand. ‘It’s Patrick. Patrick McKinnon. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.’ Heat rose to Maisie’s cheeks. That kiss they’d shared in St Mary’s had been anything but formal but at least she had a name at last. Patrick McKinnon. It was a nice, normal name that suited him well. She shook his hand briefly but firmly then stepped back to maintain her distance. Her heart was beating much faster than she wanted it to. ‘I appreciate it’s an unconventional way of going about things and if you don’t like the look of me or can’t stand my cheek, then fair enough, but I do have plenty of experience. I’ve worked in half a dozen pubs and bars in my time, including one in Melbourne for the past five years as bar manager. I can even turn my hand to some cooking if it’s basic. I can get references that’ll prove I’m not about to run off with the takings or the customers.’ ‘OK. I’ll admit that sounds tempt … I mean satisfactory, but how do I know you have the right to work here?’ Maisie said, recovering her composure a little. ‘Gull Island may be the back of beyond and, yes, rules are broken, but I can’t afford to be in trouble with the powers-that-be.’ Patrick smiled. ‘I have the right to work here, rest assured, and I can prove it.’ ‘It can get lonely here in the winter,’ she said. ‘Lonely and monotonous. Seeing the same old faces day after day, being stuck on the isles – on Gull Island – for days at a time when the weather closes in. This island can send people nuts, believe me.’ ‘All the more reason to have a fresh face around the place, eh?’ For me, thought Maisie, but maybe not for you. ‘That flyer had been up so long the sun had almost faded the words away. You need someone urgently and from what I hear, staff are in short supply on Gull Island. I can help you in the pub and kitchen but I can also help you in other ways.’ His eyes twinkled. Maisie went all shivery. ‘Such as?’ she said, as prim as a maiden aunt. Undeterred, Patrick pointed at the pub. ‘I could help your dad re-slate that roof and paint the woodwork that’s peeling off. The place will need a new coat of render before spring by the look of it and that terrace furniture needs re-varnishing. Your dad’s not been too well, I hear, so perhaps he could do with a hand.’ The Driftwood Inn sign creaked in the wind. The seagull picture was so weathered it might have been a penguin and the lettering was starting to dissolve. Maisie pursed her lips but her stomach did a flip. She’d winced when she’d seen her dad struggling with the roof earlier and she knew her mum was worried sick. Everything Patrick said made sense. Too much sense, so why was she hesitating? She desperately tried to get a grip and think rationally about the situation. ‘OK. I accept you have experience and we do need some practical help around the place as well as in the Inn but I don’t know anything about you. I only learned your name five minutes ago. If I’m to take you on, it’s only fair that I interview you properly and check all the paperwork’s in order.’ ‘Fine. Is now a good time?’ ‘As good as any as you’re not going anywhere in a hurry.’ Patrick held out his hand to let her walk ahead of him across the terrace. ‘Bring it on, then.’ Maisie gave him six weeks tops. Less if the weather was particularly crappy over the autumn. He’d definitely be gone before her mum had made the Christmas cake. She led the way into the pub and suggested he take a seat in the far corner while she collected some paperwork and her tablet. What have I done? What the chuffing heck have I done? she thought, her inner voice nagging at her like a stroppy toddler. He’d make a great barman but he’d also have the female population of the island falling at his feet, not to mention some of the guys. And while he’d doubtless be very handy to have around, he might also prove an unwanted distraction to her while she was trying to run the place and get ready for Christmas and get a hundred-and-one jobs done over the off-season. She had to remind herself that she hadn’t actually given him the position yet. She was in control, she had to remember that, whatever the outcome of the next half-hour. Patrick dumped his pack on the floor while Maisie went through to the tiny back room next to the kitchen that served as an office-cum-staffroom. She could just make out her dad wheeling a barrow through the archway at the rear of the garden that led to another allotment where there was a glasshouse and her mum’s flock of chickens. It was just as well that her parents were safely out of the way for a little while at least. She didn’t want an audience while she interviewed Patrick, and she wanted to make up her own mind about him. The advantages of taking on Patrick McKinnon were obvious: he’d draw in what scant custom there was and, she was sure, he’d work hard and long hours. He was the answer to her dreams, in so many ways, and that’s what bothered her most. Setting aside the fact that she fancied the faded jeans off him, it was too good to be true that an attractive, personable and experienced Australian barman had rocked up at the arse end of nowhere just when she needed a personable and experienced barperson. Maisie found her tablet, a notebook and pen and tried to focus on the questions she’d usually ask her potential staff for the Driftwood. Patrick, she reminded herself, was no different and deserved no special treatment. If he didn’t tick all her boxes, he could be on his way back to St Mary’s or wherever. This was business now. ‘OK,’ said Maisie, returning to the table and putting her iPad and notebook down. ‘Before we go any further, I have to ask you this. Why do you want to lock yourself away for six months here when you could be enjoying the sun in Australia? I hate to ask it, but why are you here at all?’ Patrick smiled. ‘Now, that,’ he said, ‘is the question I’ve been asking myself for the past ten minutes.’ ‘I’m not going to answer it for you,’ she said with a smile. ‘You don’t have to. Until half an hour ago, I was going back to Melbourne. Although that’s not strictly true. I’ve had a mind to stay on here ever since I set foot on the isles. I came over to London a week ago with the intention of having a working holiday.’ ‘Funny time to come here, the end of October.’ ‘A mate told me there would be a lot of seasonal bar work going, with the festive season coming up. I believe it starts at Easter over here.’ He grinned. ‘It’s crazy,’ said Maisie. ‘Christmas cards in the shops in August …’ She realised she was agreeing with him too readily. No matter what had gone on between them before, this was meant to be an interview. ‘I can see why you’d want some work in London, where there are tons of jobs at Christmas, and I can even possibly understand why you’d want to be here when the weather’s crap, but why would you want to stay on Gull Island itself?’ He sighed. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I could have got a job in London just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘And earned a lot more money, but it’ll be a nice change to get out of the city, even a city like Melbourne.’ ‘Why did you leave your last bar in Melbourne?’ she asked, still unconvinced. ‘Did they let you go?’ He smiled. ‘They didn’t let me go as in sack me. I’m on a sabbatical as you’ll find out if you take up my references.’ ‘When,’ she said. ‘I will be taking them up, I can promise you. If I take you on. How many busy city bars can afford to let their managers have a sabbatical?’ He nodded. ‘It does sound fishy, I agree. I can see I’m going to have to be straight with you.’ Maisie’s hackles rose at his flippant reference to telling the truth. ‘I won’t stand for an ounce of bullshit, let’s get that straight from the start.’ ‘Well, it’s a long and boring story …’ Maisie folded her arms and firmed up her tone. ‘Why don’t you try me?’ Patrick held her gaze, but she refused to flinch. He could try it on all he liked but she had to show him who was boss from the start and she wouldn’t be fazed by any diversion tactics, however much they might make long-dead feelings stir, deliciously, low in her belly. ‘There was this bloke … let’s call him a special mate …’ Chapter 8 (#ulink_c8fda683-348f-591b-9091-980a67a88008) The penny dropped in Maisie’s brain with a loud ‘kerching’. Damn it, how had she not realised before? A bloke, a ‘special mate’. Patrick was gay and running away to Gull from a wrecked relationship, just like herself. That relationship just happened to be with a man. Argh. Maisie kicked herself for her naivety in assuming that he was straight and fancied her. She smiled encouragingly at him, rueing her presumption. ‘I see,’ she said. Patrick frowned as if he couldn’t see why or what Maisie ‘saw’ at all. ‘Do you?’ ‘Yes, I mean, no. Sorry to interrupt you. Please carry on.’ ‘This bloke, Greg is – was – a good friend of mine. A very good friend, you could say …’ Maisie arranged her face into sympathetic-good-listener mode. She felt sorry for him, having to explain himself, and perhaps she should tell him now that his personal life was none of her business unless it related directly to his work. ‘Greg was like a father to me,’ said Patrick. ‘Father?’ Her voice was almost a squeak. Maisie had to make a physical effort to wipe the grin of relief from her face. Not gay then. But … what other surprises were coming from left field? Plenty, if her hunches about Patrick McKinnon were right. ‘Yes, or a father figure, though he would have laughed at me for saying anything so schmaltzy. He thought of himself more as a good mate, which he was. Sorry, I’m not making much sense, am I?’ ‘Greg was also my boss at my last place of work in Melbourne. The Fingle Bar, which of course you’ll know all about when you google it and email or phone to talk to them.’ ‘Will Greg vouch for you?’ she said, noting his name on the pad. ‘I’m sure he would if he could …’ Maisie glanced up. ‘He’s been dead for six months.’ ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’ ‘So am I. Sorrier than I can tell you, but there’s nothing he or I can do about it. Greg had cancer, and he was only fifty-one. He’d taken me on at the Fingle as a pot washer and by the time he passed away, I was managing the place. It’s a big bar overlooking the Yarra River in the heart of the city. You’d like it.’ He hesitated. She smiled encouragingly. ‘Sounds great. Go on.’ ‘Cutting a long story short, Greg was my mentor and friend. He helped me out at a time in my life when I was going way off the rails. Without him I’d have ended up in a bad place – I already had, to be honest – and finding out that he was sick made me and him rethink a few things. Greg told me his cancer was terminal late last year and that I should use his bad luck as a wake-up call for my own life.’ ‘I can understand that,’ said Maisie, surprised but pleased by his honesty. Losing Keegan – and losing their unborn baby at the same time – had turned her own world upside-down. For the first few weeks after her miscarriage and Keegan walking out on her, she’d felt like someone had picked her up, shaken her until she didn’t know night from day, or anything at all. When she’d slowly emerged from a cocoon of grief and loss, the world had looked completely different. ‘Maisie?’ ‘Sorry. You were saying? Greg’s illness made you re-evaluate your priorities.’ He smiled at her. It wasn’t like her to use language like that but she’d been reminded of what she’d written in her resignation letter to her line manager at the pub. She’d used cold and formal words then to describe the raw pain and anger she’d been feeling over her double loss. ‘Greg asked me if I was really happy running the Fingle; he told me to get out and see the world while I was young and fit. He told me he regretted staying so long in one place and now it was too late for him. He wished he’d taken his wife and kids to live in and experience other places when he’d been younger. I stayed on to help Judy but now I’ve decided to take a break and made my plans to see the world.’ ‘So you came to Britain first?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Any particular reason?’ He ran his fingertip over the table top, a smile creeping over his lips. ‘Ah, that’s simple. I am British.’ OK. He was full of surprises. ‘My parents emigrated from London when I was a baby so I think of myself as Aussie. I have dual citizenship and two passports, so there shouldn’t be any problem with my right to work. Crazy, really, when I’d never set foot in the motherland before last week.’ ‘OK, but why Scilly? Why not Stratford, or Scotland or Yorkshire? Cornwall even?’ ‘Because Greg’s great-grandparents on his mum’s side used to live on Scilly way back in the day. He was always going on about their heritage and vowing he’d come over and see it but he never made it. He made me promise I’d include it on my trip, so here I am.’ ‘Wow. What were their names? Do you know? Many Scilly families have lived here for generations so some of their descendants are sure to have known Greg’s ancestors.’ His brow furrowed. ‘God. I can’t think. He never said, or if he did I wasn’t listening hard enough. The granddad’s first name might have been Rex … or Robert. Or was it Harry? Sorry, Greg just referred to him as “the old boy”. I didn’t take too much notice of the details and, to be honest, most of what he told me was while he was in a bad way at the end. He was confused and on a truckload of meds for the pain, but he made me promise I’d come over and see the UK and his roots.’ ‘Doesn’t matter. Does Greg have family? They’ll be interested in what you’ve found here and that you’ve decided to stay.’ ‘He has a wife – that’s Judy – and a couple of grown-up kids … Have you decided I should stay then, Maisie Samson?’ She hesitated just long enough to give him doubt. ‘I’m still making up my mind. Here, fill in this form while I make us a coffee. I’ll be back shortly.’ Leaving Patrick with a job application and a pen, Maisie escaped to the kitchen. She didn’t want a drink but she did want time to think about her decision. His story about Greg was plausible and actually very touching. She could check out the Fingle in seconds on the Internet and chat with Judy Warner and any other referees Patrick supplied. Again, Google would be her friend when cross-checking that the bars really were owned by Greg and Judy. She was used to hiring and firing and as long as Patrick’s story checked out, she should feel confident in taking him on. Except, he was different to any other employee. Or was that simply because she fancied him? If so, that was her own lookout. Eventually, she took two mugs of coffee back to the bistro. Patrick had finished writing and handed her the form. While he sipped the coffee, Maisie scanned through it quickly. ‘It all looks OK. You haven’t murdered anyone, have you? You didn’t list any criminal convictions.’ He laughed. ‘I haven’t murdered anyone, but …’ The hairs on the back of Maisie’s neck stood on end. ‘But?’ ‘I have been in prison.’ Maisie’s heart plunged. Here we go, she thought. Here we go. ‘In Australia?’ ‘Yeah. I spent six months in a young offender’s place. I got drunk and vandalised a kids’ park in one of the suburbs. It wasn’t my first offence and I did a lot of damage. I was with some mates – at least I thought they were mates at the time – and the judge said I was the ringleader.’ ‘And were you?’ she asked him, amazed her voice was so calm. Of course she’d interviewed applicants with a criminal record before, and taken on some over her years as a pub manager. She’d only regretted it once when one had taken advantage of her trust and stolen some cash from the till: the other ex-offenders had tended to work twice as hard once they’d been given the chance of a job. ‘Oh yes. I was the ringleader. I was angry at the whole world back then. I thought I owed nothing to anyone.’ ‘Was there a reason for that?’ ‘I’ve spent too long with social workers and shrinks to answer that quickly. I don’t know. They say it was because I lost my parents “at a vulnerable stage in my formative years”. I want to be honest with you from the start. I went off the rails when I was young. I went a bit wild, quit school, bummed around, got into all kinds of minor trouble, smoked some weed, tried some stronger stuff …’ ‘I’m sorry. Your parents must have been young themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘Youngish, yeah … I don’t want to bore you with my family history. I got back on the straight and narrow, thanks to Greg and Judy’s help.’ ‘They sound like good people. I’m sorry about your parents. I can’t imagine losing one of mine, let alone both at once …’ She was curious about what had happened but didn’t want to ask him directly. ‘What a terrible thing to deal with when you must have still been very young too,’ was all she dared to say, but Patrick seemed to want to carry on in the same open manner. ‘I was at boarding school when it happened. It was a light aircraft crash … they were travelling between the Outback and Adelaide where we were living at the time,’ he said, evenly, as if he was so used to saying it that by now it was like relating a story about someone else. ‘Who looked after you?’ said Maisie, deciding that as Patrick had already revealed some of the details himself he wouldn’t mind her asking. ‘I stayed at school in term time and in the holidays I went to a distant older cousin’s, although she packed me off to summer camps and the like, which suited us both. Soon as I was seventeen, I left and picked up a load of odd jobs and lived off the small trust fund Mum and Dad left when they died.’ ‘What about your other relatives? Grandparents, aunties and uncles in Britain?’ ‘At the time, one elderly grandfather in a nursing home. An auntie on Mum’s side who had four kids and had just remarried a man with twins. An uncle who has his own family and definitely wasn’t interested in me. And even if they had wanted me, I would have jumped in a shark-infested ocean before I’d have left Oz. I didn’t want to come here: all I heard of it was shit weather and whingeing moaners who were always complaining about the shit weather. ‘The thing is, I met Greg while I was at low point. One of the regulars at the Fingle was a volunteer at one of the youth centres where I’d rocked up – forced to by my probation officer. He saw something in me, God knows what, and he told Greg about me. Greg and Judy took me on as a pot washer in the bar. They gave me a chance.’ He smiled. ‘Many, many chances until I finally realised how bloody lucky I was and got my act together and decided to live a pure and sin-free life henceforth.’ ‘Pure and sin-free? That sounds boring,’ Maisie joked. Patrick laughed. ‘Not as boring as staring at four walls for twenty hours a day, or waking up in a pool of your own vomit.’ She winced, then it clicked. ‘Ah. The Coke. You’re teetotal, aren’t you?’ ‘I am. Does that put you off taking me on as bar staff?’ ‘On the contrary, I consider it an asset.’ Maisie blew out a breath, trying to take in the story she’d heard. Patrick was so blas? about his terrible childhood and youth. Breezing through a tragic tale as if he were talking about an exciting rugby match. Maisie was certain that there was a lot more to discover about Patrick McKinnon, but how much did she want to know? His smiling eyes hid so much, she thought. As did her gobby, sassy fa?ade. ‘Interesting way of trying to impress your new boss,’ she said. ‘“Shitty weather and whingeing moaners”, eh?’ Patrick gave a wry smile. ‘With some exceptions, of course. Gull Island’s not too shabby, when the sun’s out …’ He left the sentence hanging, tantalisingly. Left her waiting for the line about the Driftwood and its owner: her. But nothing. ‘You made a reference to “my new boss”,’ he added instead of a compliment to Maisie. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved he hadn’t tried to flatter her. She really had no idea how she felt about taking on Patrick McKinnon. ‘So, does that mean you’re not put off by my history?’ ‘Well, there’s been nothing I need to know about since your spell in prison, has there?’ ‘So I’m hired?’ She had a feeling she might be making the biggest mistake of her life … Maisie smiled and held out her hand. Patrick grasped it firmly but without trying to prove some point by mashing her bones. ‘Subject to your references checking out, yes. Congratulations and welcome to the Driftwood. Now, let me show you the staff accommodation.’ Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘You have staff accommodation?’ ‘Yes. Where were you expecting to stay?’ ‘I wasn’t,’ said Patrick. ‘This was a spur of the moment decision … I hadn’t even thought about where I might live.’ Maisie shook her head. ‘You really do like to live in the moment, don’t you?’ ‘Don’t you?’ he said. The glint in his eyes left her in no doubt he was hinting at their kiss on the beach the previous week. Ignoring the question because she didn’t know how to answer, Maisie got up. Her cheeks were burning. ‘It’s this way but I hope you’re not expecting too much,’ she said briskly. She led the way through the catering kitchen and the staffroom at the rear of the pub to the garden. ‘It’s not the Melbourne Ritz.’ She was acutely aware of Patrick’s presence behind her. Something about knowing he was so close and in her private territory made her skin tingle. She wasn’t scared of him; she was scared of no man, and the feeling of being followed was more thrilling than scary. Yet his presence seemed to do something to the air. Goosebumps popped up on the back of her neck and her arms under her sweatshirt. ‘Through here,’ she said, and crossed the small paved area behind the kitchen to a low granite building at right angles to the inn itself. An assortment of garden furniture stood on the patio area, discarded cast-iron and plastic pieces that had seen far better days. The good stuff was all reserved for the customer terrace at the front. Maisie was aware of the fag ends on the flagstones where the staff had been enjoying a sneaky ciggie despite her disapproval. The grassy area outside the granite outbuilding was still green and lush and the tubs had bright red geraniums blooming in them even though it was late October. ‘Unless you can find accommodation elsewhere on Gull Island, the Piggery is your best option, I’m afraid.’ ‘The Piggery?’ ‘Staff quarters. These buildings once housed pigs and a couple of cows. Nothing posh, but there’s a bedsit, kitchenettes and shower room.’ Maisie opened the door of the Piggery and immediately muttered a rude word under her breath. The young barman had only vacated the place the previous day, and hadn’t been keen on housework, judging by the unsavoury tang and the empty cans rolling around the floor. The bed looked like it had come straight from a Tracey Emin exhibit. She barred the door, leaving Patrick right behind her. ‘I haven’t had the chance to clear it out yet. I’m sorry.’ ‘It’ll be fine.’ She hesitated before walking in and letting him follow her. Maisie cringed. It was even worse than it had appeared on first glance – and sniff. ‘It’s great,’ he said, sitting on the single bed. The mattress sagged under his weight and he bounced on it a couple of times. ‘Seen some action, though.’ She wanted to melt through the floor. Actually, the floor was as minging as the bed. ‘It’s not fine. You can’t stay here.’ Patrick stood up. ‘I can clear it out. Give me a few bin bags, some bleach and scrubbing brush and it’ll be shipshape by opening time tonight. I’ve slept in places that would make your hair curl.’ ‘Just because you’ve been in jail, doesn’t mean you have to sleep in a stinking pit. God knows what that boy has been doing.’ ‘You could be right. From what I recall, jail was a lot cleaner than this.’ ‘Thanks!’ She had to smile at his nerve. He definitely might brighten up a long, dark winter on Gull. He joined her in the kitchenette. ‘That was a joke, though well disguised. My sense of humour doesn’t always translate.’ She lifted her trainer off the sticky vinyl floor and put out her tongue. ‘Maybe not but this place is the pits. You can’t stay in it until I’ve had it fumigated.’ ‘Give me the cleaning kit and I’ll do it. You didn’t know I was going to rock up so soon.’ She ignored him. She was deeply ashamed, not of the mess, which was par for the course with some of the young staff, but of not checking the room first. She wouldn’t have dreamt of showing a new staff member such a hovel, let alone expect them to sleep in it. She ran a tight ship at her last pub. She should have kept a better eye on the staff quarters, but she’d been flat out at the end of the season. ‘Wait here, please.’ Leaving him, she walked back outside, pushed open the door of the neighbouring studio and swore. The place reeked of unwashed clothes and lager. Maisie didn’t even want to cross the threshold. She was surprised her parents hadn’t realised, although it didn’t take long for a place to get rank if left. Both rooms needed a deep clean and she’d be the one rolling up her sleeves later. ‘Any better?’ She almost bumped slap bang into Patrick’s chest. Which wouldn’t have been unpleasant. In fact, it would have been pretty awesome. In contrast to the rooms, up close, he smelled of some kind of woody body spray. ‘I thought I told you to stay put?’ she said, half joking. ‘I thought the air was fresher out here.’ ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Mr McKinnon?’ He held out his hands. ‘Enjoying watching you getting worked up over nothing? Not really. Either of these places is fine if you’ll only let me help you sort them out. Or I can find somewhere else to kip. I’ve still got my tent. I can camp out here or Javid might let me stay on site and use his facilities.’ ‘No! I’ll be the laughing stock.’ He frowned. ‘Why?’ ‘People will say I can’t look after my own staff. Just because you can clean the place up doesn’t mean you ought to. I’ll get a cleaner in later and until then …’ Maisie was floundering. She wasn’t even sure herself why it had become so important to her to sort out a decent place for Patrick to stay. Maybe it was because she was trying so hard to prove to both of them that she was determined to be professional in their working relationship. She knew what people would say when they heard she’d taken on an attractive single Aussie who she knew next to nothing about. She knew what her parents would think, let alone her neighbours. She could see and hear them now. Archie Pendower, Phyllis and Una and Jess Godrevy … oh shit, Jess, her best mate, was going to put two and two together and make at least a hundred and four. Maisie felt her cheeks growing warm and hated herself. The only way this arrangement was going to work was if it was kept strictly professional despite any previous encounters. She closed the door to the second studio then opened it again. ‘It needs to air, before it has a proper clean,’ she said, and before Patrick could give her any backchat, she bulldozed on. ‘Look, I need to draw up a contract and check out the references you gave me. Obviously, with the time difference I don’t expect to hear from Judy or the other referees you mentioned until morning. However, if you wanted to help out in the bar tomorrow night, to see how we roll here, then that might be a good idea.’ Patrick beamed. ‘Great idea.’ ‘Until then, can you keep yourself out of trouble? You’re welcome to make use of the pub kitchen to make some lunch and you can have some peace and quiet in the bistro upstairs. You can bed down up there overnight if I don’t get a chance to clean the cottages.’ Patrick saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Maisie pretended not to be amused. ‘Just “boss” will be fine. Come on inside, and I’ll break the er … good news to Mum and Dad.’ Chapter 9 (#ulink_beb63307-b604-567b-95c8-19212bb3bc68) You’ve really gone and done it now, Paddy boy. Later that afternoon, Patrick closed his laptop in the upstairs bistro and gave himself time to reflect on the crazy, impulsive decision that had led to him signing up for six months at the Driftwood Inn. He’d emailed Judy at the Fingle and the owner of the restaurant where he’d worked previously to warn them he would be staying in the UK over the winter and to expect his new employer to take up references. He crossed to the window and took in the magnificent view over the channel towards Petroc. With its white sand, flowers and low-lying islands set in a turquoise sea, it could easily be Port Fairy in western Victoria. He’d not expected to find a place in England that so reminded him of home; but then again, the beauty of the place was the least surprising thing about the situation. He’d only been in the country a few days and here he was, staying for half a year. If he made it that far, of course. If Maisie didn’t throw him out first, or he quit in sheer frustration. Hazel and Ray Samson had been – how could you put it – ‘taken aback’ when Maisie had delivered the news and introduced him. Ray had shaken his hand warmly and seemed relieved that there would be an extra pair of hands around the place. The guy wasn’t well, his face was pale and drawn and he’d been breathless and sweating while he was up on that roof. Hazel was trickier to read. She’d recovered from the initial shock quickly and joked that Maisie hadn’t wasted any time in taking on new staff, yet there was something about the way she’d watched him, when she thought he wasn’t looking, that made his hackles rise. She didn’t trust him: and he didn’t blame her. If Hazel had been thinking that Maisie could do with a man, for practical and other purposes, he definitely wasn’t the right one in Hazel’s eyes. Patrick suspected that they might be bothered about his criminal record. He could understand their concerns and was prepared to live with Hazel’s distrust but there was an even bigger hurdle to get over. Even as she was introducing him to her parents, he suspected Maisie was already kicking herself for giving him the job. Her discomfort radiated from every pore and showed in her tight smile as she introduced him; in the way she stood with her arms wrapped around her chest while her dad shook his hand and her mum made jokes about kangaroos and boomerangs. He had a feeling Maisie Samson was regretting letting him into her home, her business and her life and he didn’t think that was entirely down to his chequered past. So why had she agreed to take him on? And what bloody stupid idea had made him ask? Six months he’d signed up for. Half a year at this tiny pub with this determined woman who already occupied his thoughts far too much. He’d never seriously thought she’d say yes to his offer to work for her. He’d been amazed when she’d agreed, even after he’d told her the worst of him: the jail, the drink, the drugs. And yet a voice nagged at him. Gnawed at him. He still hadn’t told her the very worst about him, had he? He’d kept back the part that would freak her out. It would have got him thrown out of the pub, and off the island too, if she knew. ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Patrick glanced up to find Hazel Samson standing a few feet away. She’d walked into the bistro from the upstairs flat and was carrying a plastic bucket with cloths and cleaning products. ‘They’re not worth as much as a penny.’ She gave Patrick a hard stare. Her red hair was greying at the temples and her face was weathered from long years working in the sun, but she still had her daughter’s slight frame and sharp green eyes that missed nothing. ‘I bet they are,’ she said. He pointed at the laptop, aware the screen was dimmed from lack of recent use. ‘I’ve been letting a few people know I’m staying on.’ Hazel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Maisie says you don’t have any family?’ Wow. Straight to the point. Maisie had shared at least some of his ‘colourful’ history with her parents, then. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised as the Samsons were going to have to work and live very closely with him. He didn’t mind. ‘A cousin I’ve lost touch with, some distant relatives in the UK who have probably forgotten I exist. I do have a few mates, though, who might be interested to know I haven’t been kidnapped by an irate Brit who took exception to me taking a bar job … the current climate towards foreigners being what it is.’ Hazel’s smile was about as sincere as a croc’s. ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger from the locals here on Gull.’ You could have fooled me, thought Patrick, freezing his rocks off under Hazel’s sub-zero glare. Winning her trust was going to be harder than he’d thought. ‘I wondered if there was no wife or girlfriend in Oz that you had to break the news to. She won’t be very happy you’ve decided to extend your stay here, will she? Don’t tell me there’s no woman waiting back home? You’re still young and not exactly the Hunchback of Notre Dame, now are you?’ ‘What makes you think it’s a woman?’ She smiled for about a nanosecond. ‘Call it a wild guess.’ Well, thought Patrick, he had to admire Hazel’s directness. Now he knew who Maisie had inherited her feistiness from and perhaps it was better to be honest with each other than enduring months of suspicious looks. ‘You don’t have to answer if I’m being too nosy, but I look out for our Maisie. She’s had enough heartbreak lately,’ she added, although Patrick didn’t think she gave two hoots whether she was being nosy or not. ‘You’re right: there’s no partner on the scene at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘Of either sex.’ ‘Hmm. I suppose that makes sense, or you wouldn’t have come halfway round the world and left her for six months. Unless you had to leave Australia of course, and I doubt that’s the case.’ Hazel paused. ‘As for partners, you said “at the moment”. Am I right in thinking there was someone special?’ Maisie would cringe at this line of questioning but Patrick couldn’t blame Hazel. It was obvious she saw him as a threat to the equilibrium of the household. She might be right about that too, he thought, but perhaps not in the way she suspected. ‘You’re right. There was a woman, but that was a while ago now.’ The image of Tania walking out of the door slid into his mind. He waited for the slice of pain low to the gut but he felt as if he was watching that movie now, not living it. But still, an enigmatic smile was all he was prepared to give Hazel. She nodded slowly. ‘Fine. I should mind my own business, though you’ll appreciate I like to know a little about the people who’ve come to live in our house and share our lives.’ ‘I don’t blame you, though I’ve already discussed my reasons for wanting the job with Maisie. Your daughter gave me a thorough grilling when she interviewed me,’ said Patrick, still wondering exactly which details Maisie had shared with her parents. ‘I know she did. I wanted to hear it direct. Oh well, you never know who you might meet while you’re here on Gull Island,’ she said and flashed him a smile that told him Maisie was off the menu – or else. ‘Do you want another coffee or a soft drink?’ she asked, nodding at his empty cup. ‘Thanks for the offer, but no. I’ve got some more emails to send before I get ready to learn the ropes in the bar tomorrow night.’ ‘OK, I’ll be getting on with my jobs, then.’ Hazel picked up the bucket and headed downstairs. Patrick waited a moment until the footsteps quietened before padding down to the bar himself. He heard the door to the staffroom open, crept forward and peered around the edge of it. He could see Hazel walking across the patio to the staff studios where Maisie was outside the first cottage with her sleeves rolled up and a pair of Marigolds on. Hazel handed over the bucket and the two women exchanged some words. They had their backs to him so Patrick ventured further into the staffroom. The window was open a crack but he couldn’t hear their conversation. He suspected from Hazel’s grim expression that it might have been about him. He almost jumped out of his skin as the phone out in the office next to the staffroom rang out. Maisie and Hazel immediately turned and Patrick just had time to duck out of sight. Maisie pulled off her rubber gloves before she marched towards the office. Patrick made a hasty exit back into the bar, listening around the door as Maisie answered the phone in a breathless voice. His own heart thumped. That would teach him to eavesdrop, but this was his only chance. He had to hope that Hazel wasn’t still in the garden or coming round the side of the pub, although even if she was, he could make up some kind of excuse for being outside. As quietly as he could, he slipped out of the front door of the bar and made his way around the side of the building to the garden. The bucket was abandoned and Hazel had joined Ray at the top of the garden. Patrick spotted Maisie through the office window, standing by the desk, talking into the cordless house phone. With one final glance to check the coast was clear, he picked up the cleaning bucket and Marigolds and slipped inside the open studio. The key was on the inside of the door and with a surge of triumph, he closed it behind him and locked himself in. ‘Patrick McKinnon. Are you in there?’ Patrick had only cleaned down the washbasin and had just thrust the brush down the toilet, when Maisie called through the front door. Damn. He’d hoped the conversation would have gone on longer than that. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘I was caught short while I was on the patio,’ he called. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind me using the loo as I’m going to be living here. I won’t be long.’ Silence. ‘OK. I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’ ‘I may be a while,’ he shouted, trying to sound embarrassed. More silence. ‘Um. Right. Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be back in a bit.’ Cruel of him, thought Patrick, but he couldn’t stop the broad smile as he squirted bleach down the loo and started to scrub with the brush. He decided he could get away with a jaunty whistle too, and figured he had at least half an hour before Maisie would dare to return, even if she dared at all. It would be long enough to get the shower room into non-toxic condition and most of the kitchenette. He checked his watch, took a cloth and bathroom spray from the bucket ready to wipe down the cistern and seat. Just in time, he remembered not to flush the loo. Chapter 10 (#ulink_496e97cf-5eaf-5a8d-bbe9-f73e7cea9f47) Maisie tapped her foot on the patio. She’d seen a lot while she was managing pubs but asking Patrick McKinnon why he’d spent so long in the loo was possibly one of the most excruciating moments of her career. ‘Patrick. Can you please let us know you’re OK? We’re um … getting slightly concerned about you.’ There was no reply. Maisie was not only worried but seriously pissed off. What the hell had he been doing in the studio for over an hour? She’d tried to peer through the curtains but they’d been drawn tightly. She’d left them closed from earlier but possibly not that tightly closed. Damn, she couldn’t remember. It would be getting dark soon. Oh my God, what if Patrick had come to the other side of the world to do something stupid? She thought back to their conversation and the one she’d just had with Judy Warner at the Fingle Bar. She tried the handle of the door again. She’d half tried once before, stopped and decided she didn’t want to barge in if Patrick had picked up a bug. Maybe he’d decided to have a shower too or had fallen asleep. Although she had no reason to think he’d done something more unusual or worse than any of those scenarios, she still felt a fluttering of anxiety as she applied more pressure to the handle. It didn’t budge and was obviously locked from the inside. ‘Patrick. Please open the door. We’re worried about you. If you’re not feeling well, we can help.’ She put her ear to the door and thought she could hear noises. Muffled thuds, the sound of a loo flushing. Maisie slumped in relief. He was alive then, and hopefully OK. Maisie fell on top of Patrick as he pulled open the door. He caught her by the tops of the arms and she glanced up into his smiling face. His tanned, cheerful and very healthy face. Her heart raced. Relief flooded through her closely followed by a strong urge to wring his neck. ‘Whoa. Be careful,’ he said. She sprang back, away from his chest. Waves of pine-scented disinfectant and furniture polish emanated from the studio. ‘What the bloody hell have you been doing?’ Patrick held up a cloth and a bottle of Cif. ‘Cleaning.’ ‘What? I told you not to. I told you I’d get it done. I thought – we thought – something had happened to you or you’d been taken ill.’ ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you after I’d used the loo. I was intent on my work. Would you like to see it?’ He held up his hands in surrender. The Marigolds waggled. ‘Caught me – yellow-handed, boss.’ He held out his upturned wrists. ‘I’ll come quietly if you promise not to punish me too harshly …’ Her skin tingled all over and her throat dried. Patrick was wearing a ripped T-shirt that had shrunk in the wash and stretched across his broad chest and flat stomach. The rubber gloves reached just above his wrists, highlighting the golden hair sprinkled over the golden forearms. She was in massive trouble here. All it would take was for her to turn the key behind her again. The curtains were already closed. Her parents had gone shopping on St Mary’s and were at least two hours away. It was just her and Patrick and a single bed. No one would know. With great effort, she shook away the feelings of lust: she’d only known him two days. Thinking that way was ridiculous. ‘I wish you’d do as you’re told,’ she said. ‘And I wish you’d let me help you. That’s why you took me on. You’ve enough to do with the books, and the pub and bistro and God knows what else. Your dad’s not too well, you know …’ ‘I know that!’ She hadn’t meant to snap, she was just worried about her dad. ‘I know he isn’t very well but he won’t go to the doctor. I’ve seen him out of breath and sweating and he’s pale and he’s lost a stone since the summer. Mum’s worried sick and so am I.’ Maisie felt her bottom lip trembling. She hadn’t cried for so long; not over Keegan leaving her or the loss of Little Scrap, but she felt perilously close now. Teetering on the edge of losing it totally in front of Patrick because of a row over cleaning the studio. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just worried about Dad and it’s been a long hard season here. I’d forgotten how much there was to do.’ ‘I’m not trying to add to your worries, but I noticed he was struggling on Saturday and he probably shouldn’t have been up there fixing the roof.’ ‘You try stopping him. There’s so much needs doing around here, as you pointed out. Dad’s a typical male; his leg would have to fall off before he’d go to the doctor and it’s not as if he can toddle down the road to the surgery. Mum and I have tried to persuade him. I worry so much about him.’ ‘He’s probably afraid of what he’ll find out if he goes, but it could be something that’s easy to sort. Either way he needs to make sure.’ Maisie’s stomach clenched. ‘Tell me about it.’ ‘Come in and sit down,’ he said gently. For a split second, Maisie was reminded of Keegan, in the early days, when she’d first thought he was a rock of a man, not a flaky sandcastle who crumbled with the first rough tide. But Patrick McKinnon wasn’t a rock either, she reminded herself: just a drifter with a cleaning fetish. ‘I don’t need a shoulder to cry on,’ she said. ‘I’m not offering one.’ He smiled. ‘You wouldn’t want to get too close anyway, I’ve been hard at work and I need a shower.’ ‘Not in that health hazard of a bathroom,’ she said, sniffing the air: a bit of a chemical factory but definitely clean. ‘You could eat your dinner off the floor now,’ he said. ‘Let me wash my hands and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ Maisie glanced at the kitchen. The units, cooker and fridge were basic and old but clean. The stainless steel sink sparkled and the work surfaces gleamed. She hated showing weakness but she was too weary. Hugo had phoned her again and asked her if she’d had time to think over his plans. It had been all she could do to give him a civil answer. He’d said that more residents were ‘seriously thinking’ of selling and although he might be bullshitting her, Maisie wasn’t sure. She’d felt like telling him to stuff his offer but for a few seconds she’d also felt like caving in and saying, ‘Have the bloody place.’ If her dad was ill and needed urgent health care, or decided to leave the island, circumstances could look very different. ‘It’ll have to be black coffee or hot chocolate,’ he said, holding up a jar of Nescaf? and a tub of Cadbury’s Highlights. ‘I’ve inspected the contents for weevils and they look OK, even if the previous occupant was a Neanderthal.’ Maisie laughed. What harm could it do to have a drink with him? And she was really, very relieved that he’d cleaned the place up himself. One less job on her list. ‘I’ll risk the hot choc, please.’ ‘Wise choice.’ He filled the white plastic kettle and switched it on. Maisie sat down on a rattan chair in front of the single bed. The place had been dusted and had had the Henry Hoover round it, by the looks of the tracks on the carpet. It was very basic, but at least it was clean. The cost of getting new furniture – new anything – out to the island meant that things couldn’t be thrown away unless absolutely necessary. As the kettle boiled, Maisie tried to compose herself and let her heightened feelings calm down. Patrick opened the kitchen window and the top light in the bedsitting area to let some fresh air in. He’d also left the door open a crack so there was a route for escape if necessary. If she wanted it. Patrick handed her a mug of hot chocolate and lifted his own, chipped mug from the rattan table next to her. ‘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.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/phillipa-ashley-2/christmas-on-the-little-cornish-isles-the-driftwood-inn/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.