Читать книгу Summer on the Little Cornish Isles: The Starfish Studio - Phillipa Ashley, Phillipa Ashley - Страница 8

‘Feeling a bit queasy, love? Still, not long to go now.’

The man opposite Poppy sank his teeth into his pasty. He had dirt under his fingernails and pastry crumbs in his scraggy greying beard … and oh God, was that a diced carrot nestled among the whiskers? He reminded her of Mr Twit from the Roald Dahl books. Mr Twit crossed with one of the Hairy Bikers.

The smell of meat and pastry hit her and her stomach clenched. She clutched the sick bag tighter. She’d have given her right arm – no make that Dan’s right arm – to be beamed onto dry land. Still, not long to go, according to Mr Twit. Surely, she couldn’t throw up any more?

‘We’ll be rounding St Mary’s in three-quarters of an hour, give or take. Things will calm down a bit then.’

‘Still three-quarters of an hour?’ she said. ‘B-but the isles look so close.’ At least they had seemed close ten minutes previously when she’d staggered back, for the third time, from the washrooms into the ferry’s café. The low islands – reminding her of black beetles – had appeared on the horizon for a few seconds before vanishing again as the ship plunged into the trough of the next huge wave.

‘Give or take. We’ll be passing the Eastern Isles and St Saviour’s soon and if the tide’s right we could be there in half an hour, but we can’t go through the lagoon today. Tide’s not right. We have to sail round and come into St Mary’s the long way.’ Mr Twit was obviously a multi-tasker, chewing and talking at the same time, while crumbs sprayed from his mouth and settled on her jeans.

The boat juddered as a wave smacked into it. ‘Oh God …’

‘You do look green round the gills, girl, but it’ll soon be over. Bet you’ve had no breakfast, either. Why don’t you get something down you? I can get you a pasty if you want? You’re in luck. Café hasn’t sold out of them today.’

At any other time, she’d have laughed at being called a ‘girl’, which didn’t happen that often now she was thirty-three. But right now, smiling was out of the question, as was laughing, sitting down, standing up, talking or basically existing.

Mr Twit thrust the pasty under her nose. ‘Here, have a taste of this.’

‘No … thank … yeuerghhhh!’

Poppy had just enough time to open the sick bag before she threw up in it, narrowly avoiding Mr Twit’s trousers, though looking at the stains on them, a bit of pebble-dashing might not have made any difference. And anyway, right now she didn’t care about anything apart from getting off this rollercoaster ride from hell and onto dry land.

When she’d finished retching, she glanced up, hoping that wasn’t dribble on her chin, or worse. ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ (she wasn’t) ‘I couldn’t help it.’

Mr Twit grinned. Mercifully, he’d finished chewing his pasty so his mouth was empty. ‘Better out than in, I always say. Been a bit lively on here, even I’ll admit, though nothing to what it’s like in the winter.’

‘Really?’ She dug a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped her mouth.

The man grinned. ‘Oh, yes. Was on here once in a March gale. Struck us halfway across. Even the crew were queasy. Had to shut the café, so I never got my fried brekkie. I love a slice of juicy black pudding, me. Hey, you’re looking a bit iffy again. Shall I fetch you a bottle of water?’

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Mr Twit couldn’t do anything unspeakable with a bottle of water and she didn’t know if she could manage to queue at the café desk and pay for the water without barfing. ‘Thanks, I’ll just go and freshen up in the washroom first.’ She also needed to dispose of the sick bag and find a fresh one – if they hadn’t run out. Otherwise, there was always her tote bag. ‘Let me give you some money,’ she said, reaching for her purse.

‘Don’t you worry. It’s my treat. Welcome to Scilly.’

Mr Twit patted her on the back, and although she didn’t know him from Adam, and had been revolted by his pasty munching, she didn’t mind.

Ten minutes later, she made it back to her seat, where Mr Twit had a bottle of chilled Cornish spring water waiting. He handed it over and refused once again to let her pay for it. She sipped the water and felt slightly better. On a scale of one to ten – ten being ‘Death, come quickly’ – she was now at level eight. At last, there was something positive to take from this whole experience. She’d agonised over a lot of horrendous decisions over the past few weeks, but one thing was clear. She was never setting foot on a boat, of any kind, ever again.

‘Thanks. That’s helped.’

‘Best take it outside if I were you, get a blow of fresh air now we’re near to land. The sun’s out and you’ll find the ride more comfortable now we’re between the isles. I’ll come outside with you and point out some of the sights, if you like? Take your mind off things?’

He held out his hand and she shook it limply.

‘I’m Trevor, by the way. Not the best start to your holiday, is it, love?’

She managed a weak smile. ‘I’m Poppy McGregor and um … I’m not on holiday.’

St Mary’s quay was a scene of organised chaos. The Islander crew were already unloading bags and freight, including, Poppy presumed, her own worldly goods – or at least the ones she’d been able to pack into half a dozen crates. These had been loaded into a small shipping container in Penzance by the removals company the previous evening. The removals people and the onboard crew had assured her that the crates would be transferred onto the St Piran’s freight boat, the Herald, and shipped over to the island that same afternoon.

If she was being honest, Poppy would almost have given all her stuff away if she could only have got off the ferry, but now she was on dry land, she was looking forward to unpacking her own things and settling in.

She spotted a board that was chalked up with the names of different ‘tripper’ boats and water taxis that ferried people around the various islands. However, she didn’t even want to think about how she was going to get to St Piran’s yet. She certainly had no intention of finding a lift over until her stomach settled, so she slung her backpack on her shoulders and headed towards civilisation.

Beyond the harbour, a higgledy-piggledy line of buildings was Hugh Town, the tiny capital of St Mary’s. She could only see the backs of the pubs, shops and cafés, all hugging the long sweep of pale beach that curved around a small headland. The clouds were low and grey and the rain reduced to a half-hearted drizzle.

Poppy had a good imagination and a creative soul, but no matter how hard she tried, the scene before her didn’t look anything like the white sands and turquoise waters of her last visit to the isles – or anything like Archie Pendower’s paintings. Today, Hugh Town could have been any small harbour town on a wet and windy day, but nowhere was at its best on a miserable day like this, especially after the journey she’d had.

She’d soon feel brighter after a cup of tea and a good night’s rest in the little flat above the Starfish Studio. She couldn’t believe she was finally going to sleep in the very place she and Dan had dreamed of since that sunny day almost three years previously. The Starfish was the place they’d given up their old lives for. The place that Dan had persuaded her to make her dream too – before abandoning it and her for another woman a month before they were due to move.

Even though Dan had sounded so passionate about the idea on their journey home, she’d fully expected his holiday enthusiasm to evaporate, but it hadn’t – in fact, it had crystallised into an active plan to start a new life by the seaside. They’d spent the following two years searching for a business to run on the islands or, failing that, in Cornwall. They’d registered with every property agent and even visited a few places but none had been suitable. Then, around nine months ago, one of the Scilly agents had tipped them off that the lease on the Starfish Studio might become available.

Apparently, Archie Pendower and his assistant were finding it too much to run the gallery and gift shop and Archie wanted to concentrate on his painting alone. It seemed like fate, of course, so she and Dan had jumped at the chance, signed the contract and enrolled on courses on how to run a business while they worked out their notices in their jobs. Neither of them had been back to Scilly since, because they knew one hundred per cent that they wanted the gallery. They’d studied the terms of the lease and had an accountant friend look over the books. The figures only just added up, but that was because the owners had ‘let the business slide somewhat’, said the agent, but ‘all it required was a fresh injection of enthusiasm and a quick spruce-up’.

They’d realised they’d have to tighten their belts and be as self-sufficient as possible while they got the gallery up and running. They were never going to be rich from their new lifestyle, but they considered that the price of moving to paradise and the Starfish Studio also came with the major bonus of an attic flat above the gallery, which was included in the rent. As they studied at the photos on the agent’s website, Poppy realised that must be where the roped-off staircase had led to on her brief visit while on holiday on St Piran’s. The flat was small, just one sitting-cum-dining-cum-bedroom with a kitchenette and teeny shower room, but that was fine with them both. It all sounded perfect.

At the weekends, Poppy had been visiting dozens of galleries, spoken to the owners and started to make contact with the artists who supplied the studio, as well as exploring new ideas. She wanted everything to be handmade locally or in Cornwall. She envisaged the studio building up a new portfolio of original paintings, sculpture, ceramics, glasswork, metalwork, woodwork, jewellery and textiles. She hoped that Archie would also want to sell some of his paintings in the studio. Everything was beginning to come together and she was starting to get excited about her new life. The dream might have started as Dan’s, but it was now their dream.

At the start of April – one month before the move – Poppy finally handed in her notice at work. It felt stomach-churningly final and she knew some people thought she was mad, while others were envious. Coming home that evening, she had stopped off at the supermarket to buy a bottle of champagne. She guessed Dan would probably be feeling the same as she was: terrified, liberated and wildly excited. She’d walked into the house to find him already home … sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face.

She’d abandoned the fizz and thrown her arms around him. ‘Oh my God. What’s happened? Is it your parents? Your sister? Has someone died?’

Instead of letting her comfort him, he’d pushed her away and looked at her like a scolded child, as if everything was her fault.

‘No,’ he’d said, his voice cracking with misery. ‘No one d-died … I’m sorry, Poppy, but I can’t do this.’

Her blood had run cold. ‘What do you mean, you can’t do this? It’s scary, I know that. Especially tonight, when we’ve handed in our notices …’

Dan lifted his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘That’s the thing, Pops, I didn’t hand in my notice.’

‘What? We had a pact. We’d do it together. I gave in mine … Dan, you’re nervous and scared. I can see that, but we’ve gone too far down the road now. I’ve told everyone I’m leaving. We sign the contract on the studio tomorrow. We can’t back out now.’

‘We have to. I have to.’ He wiped his knuckles across his face and his voice hardened. ‘I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to Scilly. I can’t. It’s not the move, Poppy. Oh God … I don’t know how to tell you this, but Eve said it was better to be cruel to be kind.’

She jumped up in alarm at the mention of Dan’s boss. ‘Eve? What do you mean? What’s Eve got to do with this?’

Dan had stood up and backed away too, as if he was scared of staying too close to Poppy. Then he folded his arms defensively. ‘I’m not coming to Scilly. I’m moving in with Eve. I’m sorry, Poppy, I’ve tried to fight this, b-but I love her.’

Now, squashing down a fresh wave of anger, Poppy shrugged her backpack onto her shoulders and marched off towards the town. She hurried up the cobbled street past a pub called the Galleon Inn and headed for a tea shop. The idea of a walk in the fresh air and, when she’d recovered, a cup of tea and something plain to fill her battered stomach, was very tempting.

She could check out the town’s facilities at the same time and pick up a few supplies from the little supermarket. Only as much as she could carry, of course, but she’d have to get used to that. Maybe she could have some food delivered once she got to know people. She already intended to start a little kitchen garden and maybe find a small patch of land to grow some of her own food. That had been one of Dan’s better ideas and, if she kept things simple, she hoped she could manage to grow a few things. She’d never grown a vegetable in her life, of course, but she’d have to learn. There were a lot of things she’d have to learn.

After a toastie and a coffee, she was feeling ready to face the short boat trip across to St Piran’s. She’d washed her face and brushed her hair in the tea room toilets and added to her returning colour with a touch of make-up. Seeing herself after getting off the boat, she’d been a bit shocked. Even with some blusher, she still had nowhere near the glow she’d had that summer when she’d first visited St Piran’s, and the weight she’d lost after Dan had left showed in her face. Her hair was shorter now too, but just as curly, and there were dark circles under her blue eyes. After so many sleepless nights recently, and a boat trip from hell, it was to be expected. But today was the start of the rest of her life, she told herself, dabbing on some lip gloss.

Several people had struck up friendly conversations with her in the tea shop and while she’d queued in the little supermarket, and she was feeling much more optimistic and even ready to face another very short sea journey to St Piran’s. Having found out the time of the late afternoon ferry, she headed to the quay where the boat was already moored. The boatman was at the top of the steps.

‘Want a hand with your bags? The steps are slippery so be careful.’ His voice was amused but warm. ‘I don’t want you suing me, do I, if you break your leg?’

She smiled. ‘No, you don’t.’ She handed him her supermarket carriers and stepped aboard the boat.

Aside from half a dozen birdwatchers, swaddled from head to toe in khaki and weighed down by camera equipment, chattering excitedly and pointing out seabirds wheeling overhead, she was the only other person on board. She pulled the zip of her funnel-neck top even higher and tried to disappear into her hood. If she pretended she was on a cruise between the South Sea Islands, maybe she could kid herself she’d arrived in paradise.

The Islander was preparing to sail back to Penzance, and passengers were standing on deck looking down on the smaller St Piran’s passenger ferry. Poppy felt strangely calm. She’d made her decision: onward not backwards. Towards the devil rather than back across the sea, not that she could possibly have faced it anyway.

She’d been sucked into a whirlpool of shock and dismay and the moment the news about Dan was out, everyone thought she wouldn’t actually go to Scilly, from her parents, to her best mate, Zoey, and all her former colleagues. Zoey was a real city girl, addicted to her fast-paced marketing job with a Birmingham insurance company and the buzz that came with it. Moving to Las Vegas would be far more Zoey’s thing than shipping off to a remote island.

Absolutely no one expected Poppy to follow through with her plans – least of all Dan. She remembered his reaction when she’d told him she was going it alone a few days after he’d dumped her.

‘You’re not going on your own?’ he’d said, sneering. ‘You’ll never cope on your own.’

Which had made her all the more determined to go, no matter how terrified she was. She would rent out the house in case it all went pear-shaped. It was only small and wouldn’t bring in much once the mortgage, costs and agent’s commission had been taken into account, but there would be a small amount left. As Dan had moved in with Eve, he agreed, and so, here she was …

‘Have you come over on the Islander? I heard it was a bit lively on there today,’ the boatman said, taking her fare.

‘Lively’ to Poppy meant a packed club on a hot Ibiza night, or the encore of the headline act at Glastonbury. It didn’t mean three hours of puking in the middle of the Atlantic. But she managed a smile. It was a small community and she wanted to make a good impression.

‘A bit.’ She smiled.

‘Are you on holiday?’ the boatman asked her, pointing to her overnight bag.

‘Not really. I’m starting a business on St Piran’s.’

His brow ceased but then he nodded. ‘Ah, yes. You must be Poppy. We’ve all heard about you.’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘You’re very brave to take on old Archie’s place. Shame he had to give it up, but that fall has really taken the wind out of his sails. He must be missing his studio and the boat, not to mention Fen, but I expect he’s being well looked after by his son and daughter-in-law on the mainland.’

‘Fen?’ Poppy had no idea who Fen was and she’d only met Archie once, that day at the gallery. She hadn’t spoken to him since. All negotiations had been done through a Scilly-based rental agent and by email with Archie’s grandson, Jake Pendower. She could still picture the smiling eyes, the light behind their dark intensity.

‘Fen Teague. His lady friend.’ The boatman winked. ‘Though no one knows for certain … You’re sure to meet her when you get to St Piran’s. She’s been looking after the studio while Archie’s away. Supposed to be looking after it. Fen’s not exactly a spring chicken herself and he had a fall and broke his hip a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Really? I didn’t know that.’

‘Not had much luck, the Pendowers. Poor old Archie was widowed when Jake was a lad and then there’s the thing with Jake and his fiancée.’

‘His fiancée?’ Poppy asked, remembering Jake’s comment about going to meet her.

The boatman grimaced. ‘Yes. Terrible it was. The whole island felt Harriet’s loss.’ He sighed. ‘Welcome to Scilly, anyway. I guess you won’t want a return.’

‘Not today,’ she said, still reeling from the news that Jake’s fiancée had died. She’d been about to ask the boatman more, but he’d moved on. When had this tragedy happened? How? If it was recent, dealing with Jake Pendower was going to be very difficult. The poor guy – his fiancée was probably a similar age to Poppy herself … After this bombshell, she wondered what else awaited her on the other side of the water. She had no idea that Archie had broken his hip, or that Fen was in charge of the studio or that terrible luck seemed to stalk the Pendowers like some malign spectre.

God, what if the studio itself was cursed? Let’s face it, she was hardly arriving under the happiest of circumstances herself. When the boatman had said he’d ‘heard all about her’, she’d been dreading him asking where her partner was … Still, she’d have to get used to answering, especially when she met this Fen, who was expecting her and Dan to turn up. Why hadn’t she just come clean and told the agent and the Pendowers that she’d be alone? Then again, did it really matter to them? It was her decision to make the move on her own.

After the boatman had collected the birdwatchers’ fares, the boat inched away from the quay and puttered across the harbour, past the Islander, which loomed above her. Jake’s loss wasn’t far from her mind. Even though she didn’t know him at all, it was always shocking to hear of the death of someone, especially someone so young, but as she began the final leg to St Piran’s, more immediate and practical thoughts loomed larger and reminded her how isolated she was.

If she wanted to travel to the mainland, she’d have to fork out for the plane or helicopter – not that she’d be leaving St Piran’s for a while. She’d burnt her boats and sunk her savings into the Starfish and her new lifestyle. She had to make a go of this. She would make a go of it – she wouldn’t give Dan or the Temptress the satisfaction of limping back home.

The boat bobbed gently as it headed out of the harbour. Poppy’s tum bobbed in sympathy and she gripped the edge of the bench. Please let me make it without throwing up, she begged silently. She could see St Piran’s with its ancient church tower. She was nearly there.

The hailer from the cabin crackled into life as the skipper addressed them. Poppy sank back into her hood, closing her nostrils as the stench of marine diesel filled the air and spray spattered her face.

‘We should be at St Piran’s in twenty minutes, give or take, landing at the Main Town jetty today. We leave from the Lower Town jetty this afternoon, so don’t forget or you’ll be spending longer than you wanted on the island. It might be a bit spicy today, so hold on to your hats. If we do need to evacuate the vessel for any reason, the emergency exits are here, here and here.’ The boatman waved his arms in the general direction of the grey waters of the harbour and the open sea.

Poppy huddled down into her jacket. Setting out alone on an open boat to a remote island and a new business that seemed to attract disaster, she was half wondering if she should take the emergency exits right now and head straight back to the Midlands.