Читать книгу Summer on the Little Cornish Isles: The Starfish Studio - Phillipa Ashley, Phillipa Ashley - Страница 6

Even the sign outside the gallery made Poppy McGregor’s toes curl with pleasure. It was such a lovely name; so evocative and catchy. Who could possibly resist popping into a place called ‘The Starfish Studio’?

She hadn’t known then, of course, that this was the precise moment she was about to fall in – and out – of love. She couldn’t see into the future, which was probably just as well or she might never have set foot inside the studio at all.

It was too late now. The sunlight glittered on the granite walls, dazzling her. Set back from St Piran’s pocket-sized harbour, the Starfish Studio had already cast its spell, luring her onto the weathered veranda with its baskets of cards and giftware.

Her boyfriend, Dan, appeared at her side. ‘You’re doing it again,’ he grumbled.

‘Doing what again?’ said Poppy, her eyes transfixed by the faded bunting looped around the veranda roof.

‘You’ve got that dreamy look on your face. I expect this means we won’t be able to leave St Piran’s without another set of bloody coasters and some seashell dangly tat.’ Dan picked up a rope garland of shells as if it was radioactive.

Poppy squashed down her annoyance. So far, their week-long holiday to the Isles of Scilly had been relaxing and fun – when Dan hadn’t been moaning about being ripped off by coffee shops, boat operators and restaurants. His job as sales manager with a bulldozer company had made him obsessed with budgets and figures. Mind you, she did have a scarily large collection of coastal bits ’n’ bobs in their small semi in the Staffordshire market town where they lived; their bedroom was already a shrine to the Cornish seaside.

‘I only want a quick look. Besides, the artists depend on visitors like us for their livelihoods.’ Through the doorway of the studio, she glimpsed bright splashes of colour on white walls.

It was so humid and still that even the bunting hung limply. In contrast, Poppy’s own dark brown hair, which she’d blow-dried that morning, had curled into tendrils in the warm, moist air. She’d tried to tame it earlier while visiting the pub toilets and given up. Despite the sunscreen, her nose was pink and her cheeks were dusted in tiny freckles. Oh well, she was on holiday. She took a few sips from her bottle of water and stepped a little closer to the door. That cool interior was so inviting …

‘I doubt if you buying a set of coasters is going to keep the whole economy of Scilly going,’ said Dan with a world-weary grumble. Sometimes she thought he sounded more like ninety-two than thirty-two.

‘I promise you I have no intention of buying any more coasters. You can stay outside and watch the boats if you like, but I’m going to explore.’

Leaving him on the veranda, she stepped inside and sighed with pleasure as the cool air hit her bare arms. An older woman with white crinkly hair tied back with an emerald scarf was sitting behind a cash desk. She smiled and said ‘hello’ before going back to her tattered paperback. The large ginger cat sitting at her feet thrust its hind leg in the air and washed itself. A faded notice on the wall said that the Starfish had once been a boatshed but had been converted to a studio in the nineteen seventies.

A man with a silver beard was working on a painting as she moved past the sculptures, glass and jewellery. From a faded photo in the window, Poppy realised this was Archie Pendower himself, the artist-owner of the gallery. Judging by the scrawly signature in the corners, many of the works on the knobbly walls appeared to be his. Poppy felt she could almost feel the spray on her face when she gazed at the stormy seascapes. Being oils, the pictures had no glass frames, so she could see the textures and colours in all their glory.

Behind her, she heard Dan’s trainers squeak on the tiled floor. Her heart sank as she waited for him to march up and tell her it was time to leave. She was well aware that their ferry to St Mary’s was departing in half an hour to take them back to their B&B on the main island. But Dan’s footsteps slowed and then stopped.

Poppy sneaked a glance at him. He seemed to be almost as mesmerised as she was, lingering by paintings and showing no signs of being bored. Relieved not to be hauled outside, she carried on exploring.

Although the walls were peeling and the display cabinets showing signs of age, the space still gave her the shivers – in a good way. Alongside Archie Pendower’s oils, there was work by other artists and makers. Every nook and cranny was filled with copper fish twisting through metal water, driftwood sculptures, bangles made of semi-precious stones and pendants with silver shells and sea glass in jewel-like colours.

At the rear of the gallery, Dan was now deep in conversation with Archie himself. Archie’s deep local burr was mesmeric and Dan’s voice was livelier and more animated than she’d heard him for ages.

Clutching a pack of postcards featuring Archie’s work, Poppy joined Dan and told Archie how much she admired his work. She hoped she didn’t sound like too much of a fangirl but the Starfish Studio seemed to have worked its magic on both of them.

At one time, while she was studying English at university, Poppy had harboured vague dreams about running a gallery. She’d actually spent one of her university summer holiday’s earning a bit of cash by helping out in a gallery – more of a gift shop really – at the craft centre near her parents’ house. She was well aware that an artist’s life was far from the creative bubble customers liked to believe, but she was still in awe of those who made their actual living being creative. She’d always enjoyed dabbling with crafts and spent far too long in the bead shop in her town. She was wearing one of her own creations today: a bracelet inspired by the colours of the sea.

However, when she’d left university she’d got a job as a PR assistant with a building products company and risen to be the communications manager. She still made a few pieces now and then, but work and a long commute meant she had less time than ever for her hobby.

She might laugh at Dan’s obsession with budgets and bulldozers, but her own job was hardly creative. On the other hand, it was how she’d first met him: at a construction conference a couple of years before. She’d gone along, thinking that it would be dull as ditchwater and almost decided to miss the final seminar on marketing on the first day. She was so glad she hadn’t.

Dan had walked onto the stage and Poppy had perked up immediately. Admittedly, she couldn’t remember many of the details of the presentation, but as for the presenter himself – the hour had flown by. He was tall and fit with toffee-blond hair and he reminded her (a bit) of Ryan Gosling. He came across as confident but not cocky, and he really knew his stuff. When she asked a question at the end, he answered it politely and explained his point without patronising her. Afterwards, he made a beeline for her in the hotel bar and while his colleagues were getting pissed, he spent the evening chatting to her. She was impressed by his ambition and his attentiveness. He made her feel special and, by a huge stroke of luck, it turned out they only lived half an hour from each other.

They made arrangements to meet up on a date, and six months later, they’d moved in together. Two years on, their lives were as tightly intertwined as vines and Poppy hoped they would always stay that way: growing closer and building a future together.

‘So, how long have you been making a living from the gallery?’ Poppy heard Dan ask Archie.

‘Too long to remember.’ Archie chuckled, caught Poppy’s eye and winked. He started to explain to Dan how he’d bought and converted the boatshed into a gallery while his family were young. He mentioned ‘while my Ellie was alive’ more than once, which must mean he was a widower now, unless the lady at the cash desk was his current partner.

Poppy glanced at her phone and realised it would soon be time to walk down to the ferry. With a smile for Archie, she said, ‘I must finish my shopping,’ and left him and Dan talking. After swooping on a few ‘must-haves’, she took her purchases to the counter. The assistant added up the cost on an old-fashioned calculator and put Poppy’s money in an old cash tin.

The assistant wrapped the fused glass starfish coasters in tissue paper. ‘Beautiful choice,’ she said, clucking appreciatively. ‘The artist who made these is inspired by sea life on the beaches around St Piran’s, you know.’

Poppy smiled to herself. She knew that engaging with customers made the items they’d chosen seem personal. ‘Really? I thought I’d seen a starfish like these on the beach the other day,’ she said.

‘They’re certainly washed up from time to time,’ said the assistant, popping the tissue parcel in a paper bag. ‘Getting the ferry, are you, dear?’

‘Yes, but I think we’ve still got twenty minutes before it leaves?’

The assistant nodded sagely. ‘About that. Anyway, it’s only a minute to the harbour and you should hear it tooting from here as it pulls in. Your man’s thick as thieves with Archie at the moment. Why don’t you carry on having a look round? It’s cool in here on a hot day like this.’

Amused at Dan being referred to as her ‘man’, Poppy picked up her paper bag, which was surprisingly heavy, and smiled. ‘Thanks. I think I will.’

While she waited for Dan to finish his conversation, she drifted around the gallery again. There were many more things she could have bought but she’d already spent more than enough and even if she’d had the cash, there was a limit to the amount she could carry back on the small aircraft taking them home to the mainland. She was probably over the limit already.

She lingered in front of a small painting almost hidden in a niche next to a spiral staircase that was roped off with a sign marked ‘Private’. The painting was only six inches square but she instantly fell for it. It showed the studio from the outside, bunting flying, with a ginger cat – like the one by the till – curled up on the veranda. The picture was perhaps ‘cuter’ than the landscape scenes in the studio, but it captured the essence of the studio perfectly. There was no price on it, but judging by the figures for the larger pictures, she guessed it wouldn’t be cheap. The artist may have considered it too twee and deliberately tucked it away in a corner, but it was still a piece of original art and she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking the cost when she most likely couldn’t afford it.

‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Archie. Thanks for telling me about your work.’ Dan was shaking hands with the artist and smiling in a way Poppy hadn’t seen for a while. His job was stressful and demanding. This holiday had clearly done them both good and they’d needed it. She’d been very busy at work too – finding new ways of making drainage sexy was harder than it looked – and they both had a horrible commute through the increasingly clogged, polluted roads of the Midlands. Tiny, remote St Piran’s couldn’t have been a greater contrast.

The sun made her squint as she followed Dan outside, clutching her bag to her chest, enjoying the weight of the haul inside. She couldn’t wait to unwrap them when they finally arrived home, picturing where she’d put the hand-turned wooden dolphin and a cobalt glass trinket dish inlaid with bronze starfish, and deciding who would receive the greetings cards. She couldn’t bear to part with the coasters.

‘Do you really need more stuff?’ said Dan as soon as they were out of hearing of anyone inside the studio. ‘Not to mention coasters.’

‘You can never have too many coasters.’ She glanced up at him, annoyed that he’d guessed what she’d bought, but he was smiling. ‘And anyway, I couldn’t resist the trinket tray for Auntie Liz’s birthday. It’s just her sort of thing and you know she’ll love the starfish motif.’

He rolled his eyes but amusement lingered around his mouth. She didn’t need his approval to spend her own money and his comments on her taste sometimes irritated her. However, he did actually seem to be joking this time and his good mood continued as they meandered slowly towards the jetty, admiring the sea and the tiny green fields and the whole exquisite toytown nature of the island.

St Piran’s was the second smallest of the inhabited Scilly islands and was divided by a channel from its nearest neighbour, Gull Island. The other coast faced the open Atlantic and a lighthouse that marked the very western outpost of the British Isles. St Piran’s took a little longer to reach from St Mary’s – the largest of the Scilly Isles – than the other islands and the crossing, though still only twenty minutes, often left people with salty skin, damp clothes and a swirling stomach. However, its isolation appealed to Poppy’s soul and might even have captivated Dan.

‘Jaw-dropping, isn’t it?’ he said, coming to a halt at the top of the jetty where day trippers were starting to gather.

‘It’s breathtaking. I really don’t want to go back to work. It’ll be hard to return to running campaigns for wall insulation and rainwater products after this.’

‘I’m not looking forward to selling bulldozer parts either,’ said Dan gloomily.

‘Oh, look the ferry’s coming.’ Her heart sank. It would be at least a year before they would return to St Piran’s again, if they could afford the trip. They had a hefty mortgage on their little semi outside Lichfield and interest rates were sure to rise.

‘If only we didn’t have to get on it,’ said Dan.

‘Well, we can’t afford to stay overnight here, no matter how much we’d like to. I doubt there’s any accommodation available anyway and we’d risk missing our flight home.’

He turned to her, a gleam in his eye. ‘I don’t mean I wish we didn’t have to get on it now,’ he said. ‘But one day, I wish we could stay.’

She let out a gasp. ‘You mean stay as in live here?’

‘Yes. I suppose I do. I’m sick of feeling like I’m being torn away and thrust back into the rat race. I’m wasting my life. We both are. All the bloody commuting; I dice with death every day on that M42. The traffic jams, the constant targets at work. Is that really living or just existing?’

Before Poppy could reply, there was a shout from behind. Turning around, she saw a dark-haired man jogging towards them from the Starfish Studio. As he drew near, she did a double take. The guy reminded her in a strange way of the gallery owner, even though he was fifty years younger. His features – the strong straight nose and the chin with its dimple – were just the same. His expression though was serious, as if he was worried about something.

‘Everything OK?’ said Dan, frowning as the man caught up with them.

‘It is now – I was worried I might have just missed you.’ He smiled and his face lit up. Poppy felt as if the sun had been switched on.

‘Missed us?’ she said, unable to tear her eyes from him. His looks were so striking, they took her breath away: he had jet-black hair that brushed his neck. His eyes were almost as dark and the skin of his arms and face was tanned as if he was of Spanish heritage. Her face coloured as she realised she was probably gawping at this extraordinary man.

‘My grandpa Archie asked me to give you this.’ He held out a stiff paper bag.

Dan frowned. ‘We haven’t left anything behind.’

‘Oh no. It’s a gift. He saw your wife admiring this painting of the studio, so he thought she might like to have it. I’m Jake Pendower, by the way.’

Poppy smiled awkwardly as the man held out the bag, but neither she nor Dan made any attempt to take it. She had adored the picture but didn’t dare push her luck with Dan.

‘Thanks, Jake. That’s a lovely thought but we can’t pay for it. I’m afraid we’ve run out of money. You only take cash, don’t you?’ said Poppy.

‘Actually, we do take cards,’ said Jake. ‘Just so you know.’

‘But we’ve definitely used up our holiday budget and we’re ready to get the boat,’ said Dan.

Poppy cringed. It was embarrassing to be chased after by this man, trying to sell them the picture, but Dan sounded a bit brusque.

‘No.’ Jake smiled. ‘You misunderstand me. The picture’s a gift for your wife. Grandpa noticed her looking at it and thought she might like to have it. With his compliments.’

‘Oh, how lovely! Dan – that’s so kind, isn’t it?’

He shot her a warning glance. ‘Yeah, but we can’t accept it. You’re running a business. You shouldn’t be giving things away if you want to make a profit.’

‘It’s Grandpa’s business. It’s his decision and …’ Jake gave a wry smile. ‘It’s not unheard of for him to give pictures away on impulse to people who clearly love his work.’ He turned his gaze on Poppy and she melted a little when she realised that, with the sun on them, his eyes were the exact colour of burnt caramel.

Dan shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate, we can’t accept—’

Poppy cut across him. There was no way she was leaving without that painting. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Her fingers brushed Jake’s as she accepted the bag from him and drew out the small square painting of Starfish Studio, with its contented ginger cat. The scene was even more beautiful and the colours and light even more dazzling than she’d remembered in the gallery, but it was eclipsed by Jake’s amused smile.

‘Thank your grandpa for this. I’ll treasure it.’ She was embarrassed by the heat creeping into her cheeks and her physical response to Archie Pendower’s grandson. It wasn’t right while Dan was by her side – it wasn’t right even if he hadn’t been – but she couldn’t help herself. She could hardly bear to look at Dan, so she made a play of putting the picture back in its paper bag.

Dan made a big show of checking his watch. ‘We’d better get going. Thanks for the free picture. You’ve obviously made Poppy’s day.’

She cringed. Dan’s holiday spirit had clearly evaporated. Maybe he was thinking of their return to work, which was enough to depress anyone.

‘It was a pleasure. Hope you have a safe journey home,’ Jake said cheerfully.

‘Thanks,’ Dan grunted.

A horn tooted.

‘Don’t miss your ferry,’ said Jake, then let out a small gasp. ‘Oh God. I’ll have to run too. I was meant to be meeting my fiancée at the harbour five minutes ago. We’re going sailing.’

Dan put his hand on Poppy’s back and started to steer her away from Jake as the boat tooted again.

She clutched the picture to her protectively. Of course, Jake had a fiancée and she had a boyfriend. It was clearly time to get back to the real world. ‘Goodbye, Jake. Have a good sail and congratulations,’ she said brightly.

‘Thanks,’ said Jake. ‘Hope to see you again one day.’

‘Poppy! Come on!’ Dan was halfway down the jetty now, leaving her to jog to catch him up.

She risked a quick glance behind when they reached the boat but Jake had already gone.

Once they were on board, Dan turned to her. ‘Why did you congratulate him?’

She had to regain her breath before she replied. ‘On g-getting engaged. H-he said he was meeting his fiancée.’

‘Humph.’ Dan turned to look at the view, but a few moments later, his arm snaked around her back and he kissed her cheek. She held on to her purchases while the boat started to rise and fall with the swell. She hoped she’d get to St Mary’s without feeling sick, but even if she did, it would be worth it to have visited the studio.

Dan kept his arm around her and stared out across the ocean, lost in thought.

‘That was fate,’ he said a few minutes later, out of the blue.

She tore her eyes from the view. ‘What do you mean “fate”?’

‘I don’t know exactly, but I wasn’t joking: I’m sick of the commute and the daily grind. I want to do something different.’

Taken aback, she pushed the hair out of her eyes as the boat cut through the waves. Dan didn’t believe in fate and he rarely did anything impulsive. She was the one inviting strangers they’d met five minutes before to stay with them ‘whenever they liked’ or blowing their holiday budget on handmade glass coasters. Dan was the sensible, practical sales manager who had the household finances on an Excel spreadsheet and the council bin chart pinned up by the back door.

‘That guy – Jake – chasing after us with the painting. I thought he was trying to flog us extra stuff at first, but now, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should see it as a sign.’

She gasped. ‘A sign? You don’t believe in any of that hippy-dippy rubbish. I don’t understand.’

He shrugged. ‘Not a sign then, but a wake-up call. You love it here and I’ve never seen a place have an effect on you like this one has. Your eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when you looked around the gallery and you’ve been, well, kind of glowing ever since that Jake bloke brought us the painting. In fact, you’ve perked up since we set foot on the island full stop and, I must admit, this holiday has made me think too. I’ve not been happy at work for a long time.’

‘Really? I know our lives aren’t perfect, but I didn’t realise you were unhappy.’ She squeezed his arm, and a pang of guilt struck her. She’d been mooning over a stranger – even if only for a few minutes – and her own partner had been hiding his unhappiness. She hugged him. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t want to waste the rest of my life selling front idlers and bottom rollers. Do you really want to spend the rest of yours telling people how wonderful your firm’s soil pipes are? You’re creative. You love your beady stuff and you worked in that gallery in your uni vacation. You could have your own place one day.’

She laughed, amused by his confidence in her. ‘Helping out at the local craft centre for a few weeks a decade ago doesn’t qualify me to run a gallery.’

‘Maybe not, but you know more than most people would and that old guy – Archie – he clearly makes enough to live from the studio. And he looks so content with life. So … comfortable and at ease in his own skin. His grandson seems very pleased with life too, and not short of cash: did you see the watch and trainers he was wearing? He must make a living somehow. It seems as if everyone on the island is doing well. We should look at buying a business here. I already run my part of the business and you know how to market stuff. You could upskill your beadmaking too.’

She listened, half in amazement and half in sheer terror. What had got into Dan?

‘The jewellery, it’s relaxing and fun, but bead bangles won’t pay the bills. Unlike soil pipes.’ She laughed, but inside she was thrown by his enthusiasm for such a venture. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but this doesn’t sound like you … you normally like everything to be … so planned out.’ She’d been going to say ‘safe’ but didn’t want to destroy his dreams, even if she was slightly horrified by them.

‘I can see my life ebbing away like the rainwater down one of your drains. I don’t want us to grow old and have regrets. I’ll be on the way to forty before I know it and I want a change. I love Scilly. Let’s do it. It would be a great place to bring up a family too, wouldn’t it?’

She almost squeaked in astonishment. A family? It was the first time she’d heard him mention children for months and months. She’d always thought – hoped – they would have them one day, but this reference to them was stark. This was getting serious and had caught her totally off guard. She wanted children, but giving up her job? Selling the house and moving to such an isolated place, however idyllic, was a huge change. Did she have the courage?

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?