Читать книгу Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn - Phillipa Ashley - Страница 13

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.

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.’