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

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.

‘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 as such ,’ 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.