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

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.’

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.’