Phillipa Ashley - Summer on the Little Cornish Isles - The Starfish Studio

He squeezed her hand. ‘Do we dare do this?’

Her stomach rolled over, and it had nothing to do with the swell. Moving to Scilly would be the most incredible opportunity and surely she’d be mad to let it pass her by?

Almost three years later

Jake cursed as the baggage carousel chugged round yet again. He could have sworn he’d seen the same bright pink suitcase three times already, yet he was still empty-handed. His flight had reached the stand over forty minutes ago and there was still no sign of his bags. It looked as if his precious luggage – with his whole life inside – might have been left behind in Auckland.

Wait … there it was!

A large padded rucksack with its distinctive green tag finally appeared through the plastic flaps. He’d been about to call his parents, but now they’d have to wait to find out their only son was alive and hadn’t been eaten by a crocodile or zapped by killer jellyfish.

He dived into the scrum of people at the belt. Yes ! He was almost within touching distance of his camera bag. If he could just push the bald-headed sumo wrestler ahead of him out of the way …

Sumo-man swung a massive wheelie case off the belt and slammed it into Jake’s legs. He stumbled; his phone flew out of his hand and clattered onto the tiles.

‘Argh.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ the man grunted. ‘What a game this is, eh? Bloody cattle class. I’m never going Down Under again, I can tell you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Jake, diving for his phone before it was crushed under the wheels of a trolley topped by a cuddly kangaroo.

Damn. His bag had gone again, obscured by the crowds of people.

Jake held up his hands in frustration. He couldn’t care less about his clothes, which were in a wheeled holdall somewhere else on the carousel – if they’d arrived at all. That stuff could be replaced, but his two professional Canon cameras, tripod and an array of specialist lenses filters could not. He’d spent years building up an arsenal of camera equipment that would be impossible to assemble again. Thank God, he’d kept the memory cards in his jacket and emailed most of the best shots he’d captured while he was on assignment.

There was no way he was going to be able to push through the melee now to reach his bag in time; he’d have to wait until he could make his way through. Rubbing his knee, he limped to a quieter spot near the travel money centre and heaved a sigh of relief. His phone screen was cracked but still functioning.

His heart almost stopped when he saw the text. It had come through along with a dozen others, but it was only the message from his mother that brought him out in a cold sweat.

Jake. Where ARE you? Call us please. It’s about Grandpa.

He dialled his parents’ number and held his breath, waiting for the news he’d dreaded for some time now, but hoped would never come.

‘Jake!’

‘Mum. What’s up?’

‘Where have you been? We’ve been trying to get you for the past day.’

‘Flying halfway round the world. I only got your message a moment ago. I’m in the baggage hall at Terminal Five. What’s wrong with Grandpa?’

‘We didn’t want to worry you while you were so far away …’

His pulse rate rocketed. ‘Oh Jesus …’

‘Don’t panic. He’s not dead. He’s had a fall and fractured his hip.’

‘What? Is he OK?’

‘Yes. Fine. Considering. It was almost two weeks ago and he’s feeling a bit better now, but at his age it’s going to take a long time for him to fully recover,’ said his mum.

Jake was torn by relief that Grandpa Archie was alive and horror that his beloved grandfather had been hurt. No wonder his mum had sounded a bit odd in her most recent email. It was typical of her and his dad not to want to alarm him and to save the news until he was safely home. ‘Poor Grandpa. How did it happen?’ he asked.

He heard his mother’s sigh of exasperation over the phone. ‘He slipped over while he was painting on the harbour. They had to airlift him from St Piran’s to Cornwall for an emergency operation. Once he’d been discharged from the hospital, we managed to persuade him to spend some time with your dad and me.’

‘I’m glad he’s OK, but I’m sorry to hear about his accident. I’m getting the train straight to Truro now, if you can pick me up later this afternoon? I can see how he is and spend some time with you all.’

There was a pause. ‘Of course, we can collect you, darling, but you can’t stay here long.’

He glimpsed his camera bag on the carousel through a gap in the thinning crowds. ‘Can’t stay? Why not?’

‘Because we need you to sort out the handover of the studio to the new tenants.’ His mother sounded desperate. She had a demanding job as a senior nurse in the day surgery unit of the local hospital and his father ran a building firm and was always working. Jake guessed things had been tense at home because of Archie’s arrival.

‘What new tenants?’ he said, stalking his bag like a panther as he moved towards the belt.

‘The new people who’ve taken over the Starfish Studio, of course. I did mention it in my email. Never mind … Archie’s rented the gallery to a young couple. Running the place has been too much for him and Fen for a good while now.’

‘It won’t take long,’ his dad piped up, and Jake realised he must be listening on speaker. ‘And with our jobs and your grandpa to care for, we’d be ever so grateful if you could help out.’

‘Help out how ? Sorry, Mum, I’m not quite following you.’

‘By going to St Piran’s tomorrow. I know you hate the place, and we wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate, but now you’re back and you’ve got some time off, we thought you wouldn’t mind.’

Jake stopped dead in his tracks. ‘St Piran’s? Tomorrow? I’ve only just got back in the country.’

‘We know, darling, but it will only take a day.’

‘Or two,’ his dad added. ‘A week, tops.’

‘You’ll be back home with us in Cornwall before you know it.’ His mum was using her soothing ‘nursey’ voice. It was the one she saved for her patients and ‘difficult’ conversations with the family, thereby instantly raising everyone’s blood pressure. Jake was anything but soothed.

‘Hang on, I have to get my camera kit,’ he said.

He jostled aside a red-faced father wearing a hat with corks and grabbed his camera bag with his free hand. Muttering an apology, he lugged his bag to safety and put the phone to his ear again.

‘S-sorry, M-mum. I’m s-still here.’

‘Jake? What’s going on? You sound very out of breath.’

‘I j-just rescued my k-kit from the carousel.’ He rested his bag against his bruised knee. ‘Mum, did you really say you want me to fly off to St Piran’s tomorrow?’

‘Yes, love. We’ve booked you onto the afternoon flight and Fen’s expecting you. You don’t mind, do you? I know it will be hard, but it’s been almost three years since you-know-what now, not that it makes things much easier, of course. Like I say, we wouldn’t dream of asking you if it wasn’t urgent, but you’d be doing us – and more importantly Grandpa – the biggest favour in the world.’

Jake opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. He stared at the phone screen before dragging a reply out of the depths against every urge to say: ‘No chance on the planet am I ever setting foot on St Piran’s again as long as I live.’

‘If you really need me, of course I’ll help.’

He felt his mother’s sigh of relief down the phone. ‘Oh, thank goodness for that. We’d half feared you’d say no. I’m glad you can help. And let me say, you facing up to St Piran’s might even turn out to be a good thing for everyone.’