Читать книгу Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn - Phillipa Ashley - Страница 10

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 fiancée.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Maisie, reminded of the dreadful day when Jake Pendower – Archie’s grandson – had lost his fiancée 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.