Phillipa Ashley - Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles - The Driftwood Inn

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?’

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 The Dambusters ,’ said Patrick.

She laughed out loud. ‘ The Dambusters ? 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.