Summer on the Little Cornish Isles: The Starfish Studio
Phillipa Ashley
Fans of Jill Mansell and Carole Matthews will love this gorgeous new book from the author of the bestselling Cornish Café series.One summer can change everything …Poppy has always loved Cornwall. So when her boyfriend Dan suggests they leave their office jobs and take over the Starfish Studio on the Isles of Scilly, Poppy doesn’t need asking twice.But things don’t go to plan when Dan dumps her, weeks before they’re due to move. Determined not to give up, Poppy accepts the help of local photographer Jake, her landlord’s grandson. But Jake is distracted by a loss from his past.Can they turn the crumbling gallery into a success in time for tourist season? And will a summer on the little Cornish Isles mend just the studio – or Poppy’s heart too?Authors love Phillipa Ashley’s books:‘Warm and funny and feel-good. .’ Katie Fforde‘Filled with warm and likeable characters. Great fun!’ Jill Mansell‘A glorious, tantalising taste of Cornwall, I could almost taste the salt of the sea air as I read it.’ Jules WakeAn utterly glorious, escapist read from a one of the freshest voices to emerge in women's fiction today. I loved every gorgeous page.’ Claudia CarrollReaders love Summer on the Little Cornish Isles:‘This is an utterly charming read, with loveable characters, a gorgeous location, sizzling chemistry, humour and a loveable kitty.’ Goodreads Reviewer‘You know that you are on a sure thing when you pick up a Phillips Ashley book.’ Netgalley Reviewer‘I absolutely LOVED this book. It's just so lovely and so heartwarming that I struggled to put it down!’ Goodreads Reviewer‘Could not put it down and read it in a day.’ Netgalley Reviewer‘This and all the other previous novels will take you away to a wonderful place and give you a great story at the same time.’ Netgalley Reviewer‘This is the ultimate summer beach read.’ Netgalley Reviewer
Summer on the Little Cornish Isles
Phillipa Ashley
Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Paperback edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2018
Cover illustration © Robyn Neild
Cover design © Alison Groom
Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008253417
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008253400
Version: 2018-06-14
Table of Contents
Cover (#u7015b240-ddf4-5cb2-be71-a6249bc582bf)
Title Page (#u8b98ff51-6bfa-51c5-be5f-7c1293309b56)
Copyright (#ubb0639ea-a41e-56b4-a1cb-4a5eaf53853e)
Author’s Note (#u6ccaec01-5920-519b-9858-2bc50dfb5db7)
Chapter 1 (#ufdb03301-1573-5d26-8993-ecaa6e16ce54)
Chapter 2 (#uff5f44f5-00a5-5402-bfb6-5b9ccf658133)
Chapter 3 (#ucaa9f037-8daf-5956-be51-90ba3a6c86b6)
Chapter 4 (#ud7ab1c45-8598-50f5-8567-b2c821114726)
Chapter 5 (#u9b417d39-2d7c-5e27-a2a4-9375fcc597ea)
Chapter 6 (#u4058b336-e380-5de3-83c8-6f576bc928df)
Chapter 7 (#ufb3e30a6-5885-5a7f-aac3-3be9fbc40f18)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Discover all the Cornish Isles Series (#litres_trial_promo)
If you loved Summer on the Little Cornish Isles, don’t miss Phillipa Ashley’s stunning Cornish Café series (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
Where are the ‘Little Cornish Isles’?
The Isles of Scilly are one of my favourite places in the world – not that I’ve travelled that much of the world, but I’ve been lucky enough to visit a few locations renowned for their stunning coastlines, including Grenada, St Lucia, Sardinia, Corsica and Southern Australia. There are some beautiful beaches in all of these places, but I think the white sands and jewel-like seas of St Mary’s, St Martin’s, St Agnes, Tresco and Bryher are equally, if not more breathtaking than any of those exotic hotspots.
From the moment I first glimpsed Scilly from a tiny Skybus aircraft in September 2014, I was smitten. From the air, the isles look like a necklace of emerald gems fringed by sparkling sands, set in a turquoise, jade and sapphire lagoon. (Just remember that we’re in the chilly Atlantic, thirty miles west of Cornwall and that it can rain and the fog can roll in. Take your wellies, walking boots and umbrella as well as your bikini!)
Within half an hour of setting foot on the ‘Main Island’, St Mary’s, I knew that one day I had to set a novel there. However, if you go looking for Gull Island, St Piran’s, St Saviour’s, Petroc or any of the people, pubs or businesses featured in this series, I’m afraid you won’t find them. They’re all products of my imagination. While I’ve set some of the scenes on St Mary’s, almost all of the organisations mentioned in the series are completely fictional and I’ve had to change aspects of the ‘real’ Scilly to suit my stories.
On saying that, I hope you will find stunning landscapes, welcoming pubs and cafés, pretty flower farms and warm, hardworking communities very like the ones you’ll read about in these books. I’ll leave it to you, the reader, to decide where Scilly ends and the Little Cornish Isles begin.
Phillipa x
Chapter 1 (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
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?
Chapter 2 (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
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.’
Great. Bloody great. Jake was still muttering to himself when he stepped onto the quayside at St Piran’s harbour. From Heathrow, he’d caught a train straight to his parents’ place, where his grandpa was recovering, and spent the evening catching up with them. The next day he’d whizzed by his own flat, repacked his rucksack and camera bag, and the following morning taken the first helicopter to Scilly.
Although the last thing he’d wanted to do was spend his ‘break’ on St Piran’s, he’d kept his true feelings hidden, for his grandpa’s sake. Besides, it surely wouldn’t take long to hand over a set of keys, show this Poppy McGregor and Dan Farrow the basics of the Starfish Studio and then escape.
It was hard to believe that only two days previously, he’d been in Auckland after a six-week photography expedition to some of the remoter parts of New Zealand and Australia. He’d been looking forward to spending some time at his own place in the coastal village of St Agnes, a few miles from his parents’ home in Perranporth. His flat and attached studio was more of a base than a home these days, as he’d spent most of the past few years travelling the world on professional photography assignments or leading tours for keen amateurs.
He’d filled his time with travel and work, worried that if he stopped to think about the terrible events of that summer’s day on St Piran’s, almost three years before, he might crumble and break apart. But even Jake couldn’t keep working forever and finally he now had a couple of months free before he jetted off on his next project. Going to St Piran’s wasn’t how he’d imagined starting his break but he wasn’t intending to hang around.
There was only one other passenger on the boat as it docked at the harbour, a guy with an Eastern European accent who said he was helping out behind the bar at the island pub, the Moor’s Head. He didn’t speak much to Jake, which was a relief; at least one person here didn’t know his ‘tragic past’ and wasn’t going to offer their sympathy.
The barman hurried up the slope towards the pub, while Jake took a more leisurely pace, steeling himself for the next few days. Halyards clanked, gulls squabbled outside the fish shed and he could hear the distant chug of a tractor in a field somewhere. From the harbour, he headed straight for Fen Teague’s cottage. As Grandpa Archie’s near neighbour and closest friend, Jake knew she’d have been waiting to see him ever since she’d heard he was coming over on a ‘mercy dash’, as his mum called it.
Fen’s place was one of a row of old fisherman’s cottages, perched on the road that led from the harbour to the tiny village that was St Piran’s only real settlement. He had the presence of mind to duck as he entered the sitting room of her cottage, straight from the road – the only road – on St Piran’s.
She’d obviously been watching for him because she gave him a bear hug as soon as he got through the door.
‘Hello, Jake! How was your journey? My, you look thin! Worn out too but very brown. Now, let me make you a nice cup of tea.’
‘Hmm. Lovely.’ Jake let Fen’s comments wash over him and hugged her back. He’d known her his entire life and it was best to bend like a willow in the wind as far as Fen was concerned.
Fen brought in the tea tray and placed it on the coffee table. Jake winced as she stirred the pot vigorously as if it was a cauldron of witch’s brew. He’d seen at least three teabags go in. He’d obviously turned into a softy since he’d left home, more used to delicate herbal teas or artisan coffee, but builder’s strength was how his grandpa had always liked his cuppas.
While Fen splashed milk into two faded Cornish-ware mugs in the kitchen, he turned his attention to the painting propped up against the gateleg table under the window. Even though the work was only half finished, it was still a beautiful picture. It showed the tiny harbour of St Piran’s on a late February afternoon with a storm threatening. The contrast of spring sunlight on the boats and the looming clouds was so striking and evocative that he could almost feel the keen wind tugging at his hair and taste the salt on the air. The picture had all his grandad’s trademark deftness of touch and eye for light and colour, but the ugly splodge of yellow paint across the bottom corner disturbed him. That definitely wasn’t Archie’s style.
Fen joined him in the cottage sitting room and set the mugs down on the old Ercol coffee table.
‘It’s a shame about Grandpa letting go of the Starfish,’ he said, looking at the picture again. He was still fixated by the yellow scar of paint.
Fen put her hands on her hips and rested her fingers on the edge of the canvas. ‘Archie is eighty-two, Jake. You have to expect these things. He’s already had a good innings. I knew the studio was getting too much for him, but I must admit I never thought your grandpa would actually sell it,’ said Fen.
‘I suppose the fall finally helped him make his mind up … Was this the picture he was working on when he fell?’
‘Yes. Pity about that smudge. Apparently, Archie’s brush marked the canvas when he slipped over on the wet cobbles of the harbour. He said he was trying to stand back and get a better view, poor thing. Still, I suppose it’s lucky he got away with a broken hip …’ Fen’s face crumpled. ‘It’s a long road to recovery when you’re getting on like your grandpa is and I know he’s better off with your mum and dad but I do miss him. It’s been two weeks since his fall and I was hoping he’d come home soon.’
‘I’m sure he misses you too. In fact, I know he does.’ Jake put his arm around Fen’s bony shoulders. She’d never had any spare meat on her lean frame after a lifetime spent working in her market garden on St Piran’s and, until recently, helping Archie with the studio. In her late seventies now, she was still on the go all the time. However, Jake didn’t recall her being quite this thin – but then again, it had been two years since he’d last seen her. Or was it longer than that? Jake racked his brains. It had been March – so just over two years – when he’d last made it back to St Piran’s to visit his grandpa, and even then, he’d only stayed a couple of days. Apart from the pleasure of Archie’s company, he’d been desperate to leave as soon as possible and he didn’t feel any different now.
‘Did he say he misses me?’ Fen’s sharp green eyes searched his face. Jake wished he hadn’t lied.
‘Not out loud, but I could tell.’
Fen looked unimpressed. ‘Hmm. But he didn’t say when he might be home?’
‘I’m sorry, Fen, but no. You’re right that it’s a long road to recovery and he had that bout of pneumonia after the op. He’s much better now, but I think the fall has shaken him. You know he’s always been as fit as a fiddle until this. They did get him up and walking quite soon afterwards, but I guess being properly mobile takes much longer.’
He let Fen go. She picked up her mug and took a sip. Jake left his alone.
‘It’s not like Archie to sit around indoors for five minutes, let alone for weeks. I’d hoped he’d be back to the studio by now, but I suppose your parents are enjoying fussing over him and he doesn’t like to leave. Maybe I should go and see him again. He kept telling me not to go to the time and expense and that he’d be back soon.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Jake, feeling that he was stretching the truth again. Archie was living temporarily in the ground-floor room converted from the garage that used to be Jake’s. He’d been sitting in a chair, his legs covered by a rug when Jake had visited. Jake had been shocked by his grandpa’s frail appearance. His bright blue eyes had seemed watery and dimmed, and his beard – Archie’s pride and joy – was unkempt. Apparently, he’d refused all offers or attempts to have it trimmed and shaped. From what Jake had seen of the situation, it was Archie who didn’t want to leave … or do anything much at all. Who was Jake to judge? His grandpa might finally be feeling his age and have lost his confidence.
‘I took some of his paints over when I saw him in the hospital after he’d had his op. I haven’t seen him since then, though I’ve called him a few times. He’s not keen on talking on the phone and I didn’t like to badger him … Has he been using them?’ Fen asked hopefully.
‘Dad set his easel up in his room, by his chair.’
‘That’s a good sign.’ Fen nodded in satisfaction and took a noisy slurp of her tea. She smacked her lips. ‘Good brew that, if I say so myself. Archie would approve. I suppose your mum likes that scented muck everyone drinks these days.’
Jake smiled, glad to have a chance to change the subject. The easel had been bare of any work and, according to his parents, the box of paints remained unopened and untouched. ‘You can rest easy. Mum had to get in Grandpa’s own personal supply of “normal tea”. He wouldn’t touch her Earl Grey.’
Fen chuckled. ‘I’m glad to hear that, at least.’ She pointed to Jake’s untouched mug. ‘You should get yours down you before it goes cold.’
Trying not to gag, Jake swallowed a large gulp of rusty liquid while Fen went to fetch the biscuit barrel. He loved her almost as dearly as Archie but he still couldn’t stomach her tea.
‘Mum wanted me to come back to help get the studio ready for the new tenants,’ he said, accepting a homemade fairing from the plate she held out. Her biscuits were a lot more palatable than her tea. ‘They’re meant to be arriving tomorrow afternoon on the Islander ferry from Penzance,’ he added.
Fen sucked on her teeth. ‘You’ll be lucky. There’s heavy seas forecast tomorrow. Word is, the Islander may not sail … Are they aware of the state of the studio?’ Fen’s voice wavered and Jake felt sorry for her. He knew she felt bad about not being able to keep the studio so spick and span these days. She’d worked for his grandpa for decades, but she, like Archie, couldn’t cope with running the business full-time any more even before his fall.
‘Don’t worry. I heard that the studio needs a bit of an upgrade. The agent gave me all their details and I’ve emailed to tell her and her partner that Grandpa had let things slide a little, but she hasn’t replied, apart from to say they’re still coming.’
‘The mainland agent who put the details on the property website must have used an old photograph. I’m not sure this Polly will recognise it.’
He suppressed a smile. ‘Poppy. Her name is Poppy McGregor and his is Daniel Farrow.’
Fen screwed up her nose. ‘Fancy name. Not sure I like this thing for naming people after flowers. Daisy, Lily, whatever. Reminds me of my gran’s day. How old is she?’
‘Mid-thirties, I think. I really haven’t had time to find out any more about them. All I have are the agent’s and solicitor’s emails. Archie had already given the go-ahead to the tenancy agreement before he had his accident and you know yourself how hard it’s been to find someone to take it on. I thought it best to let it go through and explain about Archie when they get here.’
‘They’ll have a shock. Maybe they’ll turn around and sail straight home when they see it.’ Her voice tailed off.
He patted her arm. ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you make out.’
‘You haven’t seen it yet,’ she muttered.
‘I’ll take a look after I’ve finished here. Stop worrying. No one could have done more to help Grandpa than you and, I promise you, he will do his very best to come home as soon as he’s able.’
She nodded and a sudden rattle drew their attention to the doorway. A large ginger cat, almost of fox-like proportions, wriggled through the flap and sauntered into the sitting room.
‘Aww. Leo’s come to see you!’
Jake smiled at the cat, who did what cats do: ignored him. Jake loved animals, but Leo didn’t love him. Jake had had the scratches and bite marks to prove it ever since Fen had taken Leo in five years before. Leo tolerated his humans; Fen and Archie were his favourites and Leo had allowed Harriet to stroke him. But Jake had the feeling that if Leo had been a tiger, he’d have eaten Jake for breakfast without a second thought.
‘I hope you don’t mind that Grandpa asked me to deal with the new tenants and help them settle in. Mum and Dad have enough to do with the business and caring for him. I think he didn’t want to worry you with having to sort it all out, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done in looking after it while he’s been away – and in the past …’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not offended.’
Leo allowed Fen to stroke the fur between his ears. His eyes narrowed into slits, which might have been pleasure but could just as easily mean he was planning world domination.
‘I’ve done my best with the place, but since Archie’s been on the mainland, I haven’t really had much cause to go to the studio. I wasn’t really sure these new folk would actually turn up and, to be honest, I haven’t liked to go in there, with your grandpa being away. I’m a silly old devil, but it upsets me to see the place without Archie. I keep wondering if he’ll ever be back.’
‘Of course, he’ll be back,’ he soothed, wondering if he was actually being kind to Fen by making so many sweeping and optimistic statements. ‘And we didn’t expect you to have to sort it out for the new tenants. That’s why I’m here. I’ll sort out grandpa’s paintings and tidy up a bit so there’s room for the new stock the new tenants will want to buy in.’
‘And they definitely plan on living in the attic flat above the studio?’
‘Apparently. It comes as part of the lease and they’ll want to save money, so I doubt they’ll rent anything else on the island, even if they could find it.’
‘That’ll be cosy.’
Jake thought of the studio room above the gallery, with its open-plan sitting room/kitchen/bedroom and tiny shower room. It was where he’d stayed many times – and once with Harriet. It was fine for one person, or for a couple for a short time – or a couple who were crazy about each other’s company and prepared to share everything. He and Harriet had been at that stage when they’d slept in the studio, but Jake had the impression that Dan and Poppy were long-term partners.
Jake would be staying in his grandpa’s cottage while he was sorting out the handover, which he was grateful for. He’d have rather slept on the beach than in the bed he’d once shared with Harriet. The memories of the three good years he’d enjoyed with her were now tainted by the bad ones of their final month together. Their bond, once so strong, had started to unravel before the weekend on St Piran’s that was meant to give them some private time away from distractions and help them both focus on each other and resolve their differences.
Instead their stay on the island had finally ended in the most terrible way imaginable. Coming back to St Piran’s had brought the memories flooding back in vivid detail. All because of a lapse of judgement on her part, which he had contributed to, however indirectly.
It was all too much. His skin prickled, his throat was thick, he could hear the waves slapping the sides of the boat, hear himself screaming. The floor shifted like the deck of a yacht on a swell or like water. He was going to sink and drown …
‘What’s the matter? Jake?’ Fen was at his side, holding his elbow. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet.’
‘I’ll be OK …’
‘Rubbish. You’re swaying. Sit here.’ With Fen’s help, he lowered himself into the chair. ‘Quick. Get this down you,’ she ordered.
He gulped down the cold tea and almost gagged, but he covered it just in time. Luckily, the tea revived him and the room stopped moving. He felt solid floor under his boots.
‘Are you all right? You look awful.’
‘Fine. I had a bit of a bug before I left and, on top of the jet lag, I just felt a bit light-headed. Nothing that some sleep won’t cure. Thanks for the tea.’ He pushed the mug away from him. ‘You were saying something about the new tenants and the flat above the Starfish?’
She blew out a breath. ‘Yes. It’ll be a big test for two strangers, moving out here. They’ve not run a business before, have they? And they’re coming from the city.’
‘I think they live in a market town, but you’re right, they’ve never done anything like this.’
‘But they’ve signed up for it now, so they can’t back out.’
‘I’m sure they won’t,’ he said more confidently than he felt. Even though he hadn’t been up to the studio yet, he was worried about what the new tenants would think of it. If it was as dilapidated as Fen made out – not to mention his parents, who had said they were shocked by the state of the place when they’d last visited a few months previously – he wouldn’t blame the new arrivals for claiming the place wasn’t as advertised and they were heading home.
Maybe they already had heard on the grapevine somehow … Poppy McGregor clearly didn’t share her partner’s enthusiasm, judging by the email the property agent had forwarded to Jake.
Don’t worry, I’m coming. Let’s face it, I’ve no choice now, ha ha. :( :(
Let’s face it, I’ve no choice now … It wasn’t very professional for a business email, but maybe Poppy was the quirky type. And the ‘ha ha’ and double horrified emojis had rung a few alarm bells. There was quirky, and then there was bonkers and impossible to deal with. Jake didn’t want any hassle. He simply wanted to hand over the Starfish Studio to Poppy and Dan and bugger off back home to see his family and his own flat.
Personally, he thought the two of them were nuts to leave civilisation and come to the back end of beyond, but maybe they had wide-eyed dreams of starting a new life away from the rat race. Maybe it had been her partner’s idea to move and now she’d burnt her bridges, she had no choice but to go along with his lunatic scheme. Shit. He really hoped they wouldn’t cause him too much hassle. They’d signed the lease and technically couldn’t back out now, but the Starfish was in a state … In twenty-four hours, could he make a difference? If the Islander ferry was stuck in Penzance he might have longer … unless, of course, Poppy and Dan decided to take the plane or helicopter.
Fen broke into his thoughts. ‘Do you want a hand sprucing the place up? Will you be going in there this evening?’
Jake smiled. She had enough on her plate keeping her own place from falling down without labouring at the Starfish.
‘That’s good of you, but I don’t think there’s a lot I can do this evening. I plan to get an early start in there tomorrow. Think I’ll go up to Grandpa’s cottage now and settle in, if you don’t mind.’
She eased herself out of the chair. ‘Course not. I’m here if and when you need me. Plenty of bleach and rags here too, if you want them. I put some milk and butter in the fridge and left you a fresh loaf and a pot of my hedgerow jam. I knew the shop would be closed when you got here and wasn’t sure if you’d have time to get some food in Hugh Town. I don’t know what they’ve got left anyway. If the supply boat can’t make it tomorrow, the mainland and the off-islands will be running short of everything.’
He hugged her warmly. ‘That’s very kind. I’d probably have starved without you.’
Her face creased in pleasure. ‘If you want anything else, just pop in.’
‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’
He was halfway out of the door when she called to him from the kitchen. ‘Oh, and Jake, there’s a crate in the storeroom at the studio. I came across it the other day when I was looking out some papers.’ Fen came back into the sitting room, drying her hands on a tattered tea towel. ‘I thought it was a delivery of frames until I saw the envelope stuck on the side.’
Jake lingered on the doormat, twitching with anxiety to have some time to himself. ‘Oh?’
‘Envelope had your name on it. Didn’t Archie mention it when you saw him at your mum’s?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘I wonder if he had a premonition something was going to happen and thought he might not come home at all …’
She crushed the tea towel between her hands and Jake could have sworn her eyes glistened. A shiver ran up his own spine. That was all he needed: a letter from his grandpa that might have been intended to be read after his death. This visit was getting more emotionally tough by the minute and he intended to quash any thoughts of that nature, if he possibly could.
‘No.’ He reached out and touched her arm. ‘Thanks for telling me. I’ll take a look.’ But he might not actually open the envelope, he decided.
‘Good luck.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘And remember, I’m only five minutes away if you do need me.’
Jake got the impression that Fen didn’t want him to call her, even if she did want to help him. She probably wanted to wait until he’d had the chance to calm down after seeing the place.
‘Thanks.’ Jake smiled but started to hurry out of the door when he felt pressure against his legs as something wound its way between them. ‘Ow!’
Stars swam and he felt sick as he tried to steady himself after smacking his head against the stone lintel. He held on to the doorjamb for support and, wincing, he opened his eyes. Leo had teleported right under his feet and tripped him up. The cat stared at him, as if to say ‘what the hell is up with you, human?’
‘You won’t win,’ Jake murmured. ‘I won’t give in. I’ve faced down much bigger beasts than you.’
Leo walked past him, tail in the air.
‘You see,’ Jake muttered, ignoring the sickening throb in his forehead. ‘I told you you’d break first.’
‘What’s up?’ Fen walked into the sitting room. ‘Hit your head on the beam. Damn thing. Mind, I always told Archie you’d grow too big for St Piran’s.’
‘Leo got under my feet. Didn’t even know he was there.’
‘He’s like that. I have to watch out myself. You’ll live, though?’
‘Yeah.’ Jake glared at Leo, who had his tail to him, looking up at Fen.
Fen tutted. ‘Leo can’t help it. He’s a cat.’
Leo strolled up to Jake, staring up at him innocently.
Fen beamed in delight. ‘Aww. Bless. Puss has come to you. You’re highly honoured.’
Jake leaned down. Maybe Fen was right. Archie loved Leo, so maybe he should make an effort. Then Leo lifted his tail and sprayed a stream of urine over Jake’s legs.
As Fen shrieked in dismay, Jake shook his damp and stinking leg and sighed. Then again, maybe some rifts were too deep to heal.
Chapter 3 (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
‘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.
Chapter 4 (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
Jake almost fell into the studio. He’d had to push very hard to persuade the outer door to budge at all because the wood must have swollen in the damp of a Scilly spring. Archie hadn’t been back to the studio since his fall, and the building had been shut up a lot over the off-season. Archie tended to use the rear entrance into his work area.
Sunlight streamed through the door and made the scale of the problem clear. The Starfish Studio was almost unrecognisable and he had around six hours to sort it out. Leo sauntered past him and jumped up onto the window ledge, mentally rubbing his paws together and thinking: ‘I’m looking forward to watching this.’
Jake walked deeper in, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of damp and wincing at the peeling, discoloured walls and dusty display plinths, half of which were bare. Fen had confessed to him that over the past couple of seasons, some visitors had found the studio shut when it was advertised as open. The artists who supplied work had expressed dismay at the conditions their work was displayed in. Although big fans of Archie, some had already decided not to send any more work to the Starfish and its cases and walls were growing bare. He wondered if Poppy and Dan knew the full story? He sighed. No matter how much he loathed the task, it was now his job to let them know.
First, he had to clear away the crates of paintings Fen had mentioned.
Steeling himself, he walked into the work area at the rear of the gallery. The large worktable was a snapshot of the time before his grandpa’s fall. There were drawings, and tubes of paint scattered on the table and a half-finished canvas on the easel that already provided a great framework for cobwebs. Everything was in place, waiting for its owner to return at any minute, but, of course, he never had and now it was frozen in time.
The crates of pictures Fen had described were lined up at one end of the work area and he found the one intended for him almost immediately, as it had an envelope taped to the top, addressed to Jake, in Archie’s spidery handwriting.
Jake sighed. He wasn’t sure why Archie had left the paintings for him now, unless as Fen had suggested, Archie had had some premonition of the accident.
Jake’s fingers hovered over the envelope, a whisker away from tearing it off and opening it. Maybe it was a simple gift that Archie intended to give him, but in his heart, Jake didn’t believe that. Archie had never made such a gesture before … No, Jake was convinced that the paintings inside were meant to be a legacy and opened after his grandfather’s death. No matter how good an innings his grandpa had enjoyed so far, the thought of him slipping into a chair-bound twilight when his life had been so vibrant filled him with despair. Archie wasn’t young, his parents had reminded him, but Jake wasn’t ready to face up to the loss of another of the people he loved. Not yet. Not ever.
‘And anyway. I don’t have time to open it now. Not with this place in such a bloody state,’ he declared to Leo.
Leo made the feline equivalent of ‘Yeah, whatever, human,’ and went back to washing his paws.
The morning flew by and Jake was sweating and starving after all his work. He’d carried the crate over to Archie’s cottage along with the other boxes, which Archie had intended to remove from the studio. Then he’d opened the windows and hunted down a couple of portable electric heaters to try and dry out the atmosphere and ease the smell of damp in the studio and attic flat.
The work had been tedious and hard, but it had given him something to take his mind off being back in a place that held so many memories of Harriet. He’d even put Radio Scilly on loud to try and drown out any negative thoughts. It was mid-afternoon when he finally took a break from trying to get the studio into a state that wouldn’t make the new tenants take one look and head for home.
He popped back to the cottage and tucked into more of Fen’s loaf and butter and a coffee made with the dregs of an ancient jar of Grandpa’s Nescafé. There hadn’t been much else that was edible in the cottage, but there was plenty of beer in the old scullery and he’d availed himself of a couple the previous evening before he’d gone to bed.
Despite the alcohol, he hadn’t slept well, as worries over his grandpa and unhappy memories had played on his mind. He’d been as astonished as Fen that Archie had decided to rent out the Starfish Studio on a long-term basis. It had always been a haven for Archie to work in and somewhere to sell his own art and that of other local artists and makers.
The studio was only yards from the cottage that Archie had lived in with his wife, Ellie. The boathouse had been lying derelict for a while and when the owner had finally decided to sell it, his grandparents had snapped it up because Archie’s paintings had long outgrown the cottage. By then, Archie’s reputation had been growing and he’d realised the boathouse would make an ideal gallery space for his own work, close to the main ‘thoroughfare’ of St Piran’s where people arrived and departed.
Jake’s dad, Tom, had left the island after school, trained as a builder and started his own small firm. He’d met Jake’s mum, Susan, who was a nurse, when they were both in their early twenties, and they’d stayed in Cornwall, where there was more work for them and wider opportunities for Jake. Although his parents had never moved back to Scilly, they’d taken Jake there to see Archie as often as they could. Jake had spent many of his school holidays with his grandpa too while his parents were busy at work.
It was on Scilly with Archie that Jake had developed his passion for photography. Archie said Jake had inherited his creative genes and encouraged his grandson to make a living from his boyhood hobby. So, after he’d left school, Jake had gone to Falmouth University and gradually built up his own reputation as a nature photographer of some considerable talent.
He tried to get back to St Piran’s whenever he could and knew his visits were eagerly anticipated. Archie wasn’t alone. Since Ellie Pendower’s death, Fen had helped Archie to manage the gallery shop, running it alongside her own little smallholding. In recent years, she’d begun to find the long opening hours in the season too much and things had been going downhill slowly but surely.
According to his parents, all his grandpa had wanted to do in recent times – and probably all he’d ever wanted to do – had been to paint. In fact, since his family had been off his hands, he hadn’t cared much what he sold as long as he could afford to live. After Jake’s grandma died, even with Fen stepping in, he’d showed little interest in the retail side of the business. He had a reputation for paying his bills in paintings and Jake knew that half a dozen hung on the walls of the local pubs, both at the Moor’s Head on St Piran’s and the Driftwood on Gull Island, one of his favourite haunts.
When he’d finished his photography degree at Falmouth and started to go on assignments around the world, Jake had still found the time to visit Archie as often as he could. He’d brought Harriet here not long after he’d met her and a few times more … the last being to celebrate his engagement to her with a party for family and friends.
He never brought her back again.
He pushed the memories and Archie’s letter to the back of his mind, determined not to have any distractions from the task at hand as he hurried back to the studio. Time was running out …
He couldn’t do anything about the discoloured walls, which were no longer a suitable backdrop for the artworks, or the peeling display plinths. He’d attempted to rearrange some of the stock – what there was of it – and rescue one or two pieces that had fallen off their plinths. Thank God the artists couldn’t see the place now, and their precious work scattered around like junk. All of the stock was on sale or return and he wondered how long it would be before their goodwill evaporated and they came to reclaim it.
Still, that was the new tenants’ problem. He didn’t mean to sound harsh, but he couldn’t take on the responsibility of the place. He wanted to keep in the background as much as possible during the handover so the new people would have to hit the ground running.
Having decided he couldn’t do any more in the gallery space, he went up to the flat, where he found Leo stretched out on the bare mattress. The heaters and fresh air had already made some improvement to the damp odour, but the mattress was a sorry sight. Jake assumed that Poppy and Dan would be bringing their own bedding on the Islander, so perhaps that didn’t matter much. However, Archie and Fen had used the flat to make cups of tea, prepare food and use the bathroom and there were still coffee stains all over the worktops and the fridge was none too clean.
With Leo as supervisor, he cleaned the bathroom and had almost finished scrubbing the metal sink when he heard a warning toot through the window of the flat.
‘Damn. Not already!’ Jake swore.
Leo glanced at him and his eyes narrowed. Jake was convinced he was sneering.
Jake peered out of the window and saw the ferry pulling into the harbour.
Damn. Poppy and Dan were sure to be on that boat. Should he go down there and meet them? It might be a good idea to prepare them for the shock of the studio – in a cheery way, of course. He would be positive and optimistic but realistic.
He hoped that Poppy and Dan were friendly and tolerant – and didn’t chuck the first piece of artwork that came to hand at him.
Chapter 5 (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
Fresh butterflies took flight in Poppy’s stomach even before the boat nudged alongside the quay on St Piran’s. She could see a couple of people waiting on the quayside. None of them was an older woman, however, so she didn’t think Fen had turned up. There was, however, a vaguely familiar face. One that, as the boat came to a halt, Poppy recognised. The young guy about her own age was thinner than she remembered and had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a dark blue hoodie and his mouth was downturned.
At the same moment as she spotted him, he seemed to recognise her … Had he remembered her from three years ago? She smiled at him and waved. He lifted a hand in greeting and managed a brief smile, although she had the feeling he was confused.
He walked towards her as she stepped off the boat and the boatman handed her the carrier bags.
‘Hello … you must be Poppy McGregor.’
‘Yes, that’s me. How did you guess?’
‘You’re the only one not dressed in head-to-toe khaki and you don’t have a beard.’
It was obviously meant to be a joke but delivered without any humour so she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. ‘Oh … oh, I see what you mean.’
‘I’m Jake Pendower, Archie’s grandson.’ He held out a hand.
She shook it. ‘I remember you. We met briefly three summers ago. Your grandfather sent you after me with a painting of the studio. It was a blazing hot day and I – we – had been in the studio. That was the day we decided to move here, if we possibly could,’ she said and took a deep breath. Now was the ideal opportunity to tell him about Dan, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words. It had been a month ago and she should be used to it by now. This was her new life, where she could start all over again, with no one even thinking of her as part of a couple. Go on, say it, she told herself, tell him … but Jake was speaking.
‘Yes. I do remember …’
By the pained look on his face, she thought he didn’t seem that pleased at being reminded of their encounter. In contrast, Poppy’s recollection of Jake was way more positive.
He was still as striking – more so in fact – with those dark expressive eyes that seemed to hold as much back as they showed. She recalled the way, even back then, his expression had changed from intense to amused within seconds, but there was something different about him. It wasn’t so much the barely visible silver threads in his hair or the faint lines on his temple, but the hunched way he stood with his hands deep in his pockets. Something had sucked the life out of Jake Pendower or dimmed his light.
‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t connected you with the new tenants.’
He lingered on the quayside, seemingly unsure what to do next. She was the stranger, yet Jake appeared to want her to take the next step.
‘I heard from the boatman that your grandfather was poorly.’
‘From Winston?’ Jake said, nodding at the boatman who was a few feet away on the quayside, loading steel beer kegs from a trailer into the back of the boat.
‘Yes, but I don’t know the details. I’m sorry to hear he’s ill,’ Poppy said carefully, unsure as to how serious Archie’s condition actually was.
‘He had a fall a couple of weeks ago, but he’s on the mend now. That’s why you’ve got me … I’m looking after the handover while he convalesces at my parents’ place in Perranporth. We should have warned you, but I’ve been working away and Grandpa hasn’t been up to dealing with stuff.’
‘It’s OK. As long as someone’s here to show me the ropes. My circumstances have also changed a bit.’ She bit the bullet. ‘You’ve probably noticed that I’m on my own …’
‘I did wonder when you got off the boat alone,’ he said in a softer tone.
She steeled herself. ‘The thing is that Dan and I have gone our separate ways. Quite recently, actually, and I probably should have told your grandfather and the agent, but there never seemed a good moment.’ She hesitated as he listened, holding her gaze with his intense one. ‘It’s not easy explaining to people that you’re not part of a couple any more.’
He pressed his lips together, then spoke quietly. ‘I do understand … more than you know.’
Poppy winced inwardly, guessing that Jake was alluding to Harriet’s death. She waited for him to say more, but instead he summoned up an awkward smile.
‘Well, maybe it’s easier that I only have to explain the other piece of news to one person, rather than two. You see, some other things have changed since you were last here. I’m afraid the Starfish Studio might not be quite the way you remember it.’
This sounded so ominous that she didn’t know how to reply. Jake must have seen her panicked expression.
‘Don’t worry. The building’s still standing. Everything’s in working order, but I only arrived yesterday and the place hasn’t been aired since Grandpa left it. It hasn’t been open much over the winter and spring and he must have been using it to sort out and store some of his work, but I’ve shifted that and started to get some fresh air flowing. The damp climate had affected the atmosphere …’
She had that sinking feeling again, but the last thing she wanted was for Jake or anyone to think she was a clichéd urban snowflake. ‘Don’t worry. I thought the studio might not be exactly the same as I imagined it. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
‘I just wanted to warn you before you stepped over the threshold. I’ll be around for a little while yet, so I can help you … if you want me to, seeing as you’re on your own.’
‘Thank you, but I don’t need any favours,’ she replied.
He flinched. ‘Of course not. I’ll keep away, of course, if that’s what you want.’
She cringed. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but his words had reminded her of Dan’s sneering contempt when she said she was going ahead with their plans alone – yet Jake hadn’t been laughing at her. Damn, why was she still so edgy? ‘I’m still getting used to taking this step on my own,’ she said quickly. ‘Or taking it at all. I’m happy to accept all the help and advice I’m offered.’
Jake shrugged and she realised the damage had been done already. ‘It’s OK, and anyway, as I said, I’ll be out of your hair soon, but Fen and the agent will be on hand to answer any questions. She’s Grandpa’s friend.’
‘I think I might have met her too, on the day we visited the studio. Crinkly hair and colourful clothes? In her mid-seventies?’
‘That would have been her, though she’s almost eighty now.’
They heard a clang behind them. The boatman had hoisted a beer keg off the boat and into the quay. There was a toot and a couple of passengers climbed on board.
Poppy glanced round and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God. I’ve only just realised. Has my stuff arrived? It was loaded onto the Islander in a packing crate.’
Jake frowned. ‘Not as far as I know. Did the Islander crew say they’d send it on here? They should have done and they’re normally very efficient, although nothing has been delivered to the studio yet.’
‘They told me everything would be brought over when I boarded and I asked again before I got off the boat and they seemed to think I was worrying over nothing. They said the St Piran’s freight boat would bring it, but I don’t think the ferry has any space for cargo?’
‘Not much, though they will take things to and from St Mary’s if they have space. Like the beer kegs to and from the pub … We have to get our priorities right, don’t we, Winston?’ Jake called to the boatman.
With a grin, Winston walked over. He was about fifty with a pot belly, thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a gold earring.
‘Can’t have the pub running dry, can we?’ Jake said. ‘You’ve already met Poppy McGregor, haven’t you? She’s going to be running the studio.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Winston, shaking Poppy’s hand. ‘Again.’
‘You too.’ Poppy smiled.
‘Poppy was asking after her stuff. Do you know when the Herald will be here with the freight? I’m out of the loop where timing’s concerned?’ said Jake.
‘I was told it would be here by now …’ said Poppy, crossing her fingers and wondering how she was going to get to grips with the names, functions and schedules – or lack of them – of all the different inter-island boats and ferries. There appeared to be dozens of them, all with their own mysterious routes and purposes.
Winston gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘I hate to bring bad news, but I’ve just heard on the radio that the Herald has engine trouble. She’s under repair in St Mary’s and nothing major is getting across to St Piran’s from the harbour today.’
‘Oh. Oh f—’ Poppy resisted the urge to swear and say that if there had been room for half a dozen beer kegs, why couldn’t her crate have been squeezed onto the passenger ferry.
‘When do you think the Herald will be operating again?’ Jake asked.
Winston shrugged. ‘Her skipper was trying to make arrangements for another boat to bring the freight over. It might be this evening or it could be tomorrow.’
Poppy groaned. ‘All my bedding, clothes and bits and pieces were in the shipping crate. I haven’t even got a spare pair of knickers with me!’
Jake and Winston exchanged glances.
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut in horror. Why, oh, why had she said that?
‘I’m afraid that’s island life for you,’ said Jake, clearly struggling to hold in his laughter.
Winston grinned. ‘Not to worry. Your stuff should be here by the weekend.’
She gasped. ‘The weekend? Shit. Sorry – but what am I supposed to do without clean clothes until then?’
‘I expect Fen can lend you a pair of her drawers,’ said Jake, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
Poppy squeaked. ‘It’s not funny!’
‘I’m sure it isn’t. It sounds very serious, but take no notice of Winston. He’s having you on. The skippers will sort it out between them and I bet the whole lot will get here first thing in the morning.’ Jake smiled and, despite her indignation, Poppy glimpsed the sunlight behind his eyes for a moment. ‘Joking apart, don’t worry. Fen and I will try to loan you anything you need tonight – um … most things anyway.’
‘I’ll ask around at the quay in St Mary’s and give you a bell,’ said Winston, still smirking.
‘Thanks.’ Poppy forced herself to sound cheerful. ‘I told myself to be prepared for glitches like this, but I can see it’s going to take a lot of getting used to.’
‘This is only the start of it,’ said Jake and Poppy was sure he wasn’t joking.
‘Oh. I see what you mean.’
If Poppy hadn’t been carrying her shopping, she’d have dug her nails into her palm to try and avoid blubbing when she followed Jake inside the Starfish Studio. Jake had warned her not to expect too much, but he’d been right when he said things had changed. In fact, she was finding it impossible to equate the damp, cold space around her with the vibrant gallery she remembered. The photos on the agent’s website must have been years old.
She put her bags down. Jake went in ahead of her, so she couldn’t see his face and maybe that was what he wanted. ‘I’m sure it can be sorted out and if you really feel that the place isn’t as advertised then I know my grandfather wouldn’t want you to feel forced to stay.’
‘I’m staying,’ she declared and her words echoed off the walls. Oh, the walls … they weren’t the cool white backdrop she remembered; they were discoloured, chipped and peeling. That was only the half of it. Most of the display plinths were empty and the stock that was left was hardly appealing. Oh God, was that a collection of crocheted toilet roll dollies by the cash desk?
Jake followed her to the loo roll dollies. He winced. ‘Sorry. I should have cleared those away. They must have been made by one of Fen’s friends and Grandpa obviously didn’t have the heart to chuck them out. Or maybe Fen sneaked them in when he wasn’t looking as a favour to her mate. They’re not really in keeping with the gallery, are they?’
‘I don’t want to be a snob,’ said Poppy. ‘Or offend anyone but …’
‘It’s your gallery and you have to have your own vision for it. You can’t stock every piece that someone offers you and if that means ruffling a few feathers, then so be it.’
He switched on the lights. Despite it being only five p.m., the place seemed dull and the overhead strip light only served to highlight the shabby walls and fittings.
‘I can see I’m going to have to redecorate.’ She was thinking aloud.
Jake moved by her side. ‘That sounds like a plan.’
‘And I think we’re going to need new stock.’
‘Definitely,’ said Jake. ‘I can help you sort through some of Grandpa’s paintings,’ he added more brightly. ‘There were several boxes of them in the work area and I wasn’t sure which he wanted to put up for sale. Shall I phone and ask him for you?’
She swung round. ‘Yes. Thanks. I very much still want to sell your grandfather’s pictures. It’s wonderful and, after all, the studio’s reputation was built on Archie Pendower’s work.’
‘I think that’s what he was hoping,’ said Jake and gave her one of his searching looks. ‘Have you had much experience of running a gallery before?’
‘Does it look like it?’ said Poppy, then softened as she realised Jake wasn’t being sarcastic. ‘Some. I worked in a small studio at a craft centre during one of my uni vacations, but that was a long time ago, as you’ve probably guessed. I dabble in jewellery making as a hobby, but I’m not a professional. My last job was managing the PR for a building products company, so promoting gloss paint is as close as I’ve come to selling art recently.’
Jake’s eyes crinkled. ‘At least you’re honest. Some people might have turned up, thinking they know everything about the business. I doubt the gallery trade has changed that much and if you’ve a realistic idea about the business and you’re ready to learn, that’s most of the job done.’
She was sure he was being kind but also hoped he was right. ‘I’ve being doing lots of research over the past few months since we decided to move here. I talked to a lot of gallery owners and artists. I’ve already emailed half a dozen of the people who supply the studio and told them about my “exciting new plans”.’ She placed air quotes around the last few words with her fingers.
He paused by the desk where Fen used to ring up the purchases. The same vintage calculator sat on the table, although the digital screen was dead. ‘Um, what did they say?’ he asked.
‘Only two of them bothered to reply and said they’d have to think about it. That was months ago and I was going to phone them all back and find out why they seemed reluctant, but things happened at home and, since then, I’ve spent all my time trying to sort the fallout from me and Dan splitting up.’
‘That’s understandable and I’m not surprised the artists didn’t respond if they’d seen the way this place was going.’ He picked up her shopping from the floor by the doorway. ‘It can wait until tomorrow after the journey you must have had. I heard the Islander was almost cancelled. Why don’t you come up and see the flat? It’s basic but I’ve – er – had a bit of a tidy-up this morning, so there shouldn’t be too many shocks.’
Dreading what awaited her, Poppy followed him to the spiral staircase that she’d seen on her first visit. The rope barrier hung from the hook on the wall, the ‘Private’ sign resting on the lowest step. Passing the sign reminded her this was her space now and only she had the right to pass the barrier and enter the flat above. It also reminded her that she should have been exploring the studio and flat with Dan at her side. They ought to have been sharing the disappointment of finding the gallery in disarray and reassuring each other – together. She wondered what his reaction might have been. He would probably have been angry and grumpy and possibly have demanded that Jake cancel the lease and they head straight home. Or maybe he would have jollied her along and been positive. She had no way of knowing and now never would. Everything she’d thought she’d been certain of where Dan was concerned had been blown to smithereens.
‘The flat’s small but it is cosy, or it will be,’ Jake said.
It didn’t take long to take in everything, from the dated but clean kitchenette to the ageing sofa where the plumped-up cushions were lined up neatly. The curtains were tied back from the windows, flooding the attic flat with light. The sun lit up every fading furnishing, chipped cupboard and peeling wall. The sight of her humble new home combined with the efforts a stranger had gone to, to make it welcoming, was almost too much. What finally tipped her over the edge was the double bed, stripped bare apart from the sagging mattress.
She bit her lip, but it was too late to stop tears forming in her eyes. She not only felt miserable, she also felt mortified in case she blubbed in front of Jake.
‘It’ll be f-fine,’ she said, unable to hide the crack in her voice. She dug a tissue from her coat pocket and blew her nose noisily. ‘It’s been a very long day. A long few months in fact.’
‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll put the kettle on? My throat’s dry anyway, after clearing all that dust from downstairs.’
‘Thanks,’ said Poppy and sat down on the bed next to her. The springs made an alarming noise as if one was going to pop through the mattress like in a cartoon. Seconds later, the bed lurched sideways and she felt herself tipping over.
‘Oh my God …’
She tried to get up but it was too late. The bed collapsed onto the floor with a loud crunch as the leg gave way. Poppy found herself lurching sideways down the mattress, fully aware it was happening but unable to stop herself. A second later, she’d dropped the few inches from the mattress onto the floor and was face to face with the tufts of the rug.
She’d been slightly winded by the shock of rolling off the bed but nothing hurt so she knew she was completely uninjured. Her descent had happened in such comedic slow motion that it was almost funny. In fact, it was funny and the tears that had bubbled out only moments earlier now turned into laughter. She rolled onto her back, her body shaking.
Jake loomed over her, his brow creased in horror. ‘Christ. Are you OK? I’m so sorry.’
She opened her mouth to answer but had a fit of the giggles as his face, almost six feet above her, bore an expression of complete disbelief.
‘Oh God.’ He looked so horrified Poppy laughed even more.
‘I’m f-f-fine. It’s just … well it’s s-so f-funny. The bed c-collaps-sing …’ Her sides hurt from laughing.
‘No. It’s not funny. It’s terrible.’ Jake dragged his hands over his face and groaned. ‘I’m so sorry. This bloody place. It’s not only a dump, it’s downright dangerous as well.’
She managed to stop giggling for a few seconds and pushed herself up to sitting. Tears wet her cheeks.
Jake held out his hand.
‘No. I’m fine. Please don’t worry,’ she said, but he clasped her hand anyway and she half clambered and was half pulled to her feet.
He let go of her hand. ‘I knew the place was a mess, but I hadn’t realised it was this bad. Look at that bed!’ he cried.
She glanced at the mattress. One leg had snapped clean off, hence her undignified fall to earth. ‘It could have happened any time. Good job it wasn’t in the middle of the night,’ she said, with a giggle.
Jake wasn’t amused and his embarrassment only made her smile more. He’d obviously been terrified of showing her the place, which somehow made her feel better about how shitty it was.
‘It’s not good enough,’ he declared. ‘None of it is. I wouldn’t blame you if you decided not to stay,’ he said.
‘Oh no. Absolutely not.’ She fired back the words so hard and fast that he looked taken aback. ‘I’m staying. Even if it kills me,’ she declared.
‘I hope it won’t do that. The sofa is safe enough. I’ve tested it,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll get the coffee.’
She took his advice on the sofa. A few minutes later, Jake handed over a mug and sat next to her.
‘I’m sorry the place doesn’t meet with your expectations … I’m sure Grandpa and Fen hadn’t noticed or fully realised how much it had gone downhill … My parents are working full-time and now caring for him. I probably should have come over sooner and made more of an effort, but I’ve been away in New Zealand.’
‘Stop feeling guilty,’ she said, feeling sorry for him and wondering what he did for a living. She glanced around her again. ‘The flat’s fine and I can see you’ve tried to make it look welcoming. I mean you have made it welcoming. I’m digging a deeper hole, aren’t I?’
He shook his head and a crooked little smile touched his mouth. ‘I’d had no actual idea it was this bad, but I might have guessed. I had promised to come and visit Grandpa at Christmas and I could have checked it out then, but … well, I let other priorities come first.’
She wondered what those priorities were, but certainly wasn’t going to ask. ‘A lot of things haven’t lived up to my expectations lately, so in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t massive.’
Her words surprised even herself. She probably sounded far more confident than she felt, but Jake’s offer to let her off the tenancy only made her more determined to stay. Then again, how the gallery would ever be ready for a grand launch in less than a month’s time, she had no idea. She planned on opening over the late spring bank holiday weekend at the end of May when there would be plenty of holidaymakers around and her family and Zoey could get away from work for a longer visit.
She savoured her coffee and checked out the furniture again. It might be old but it was perfectly useable and, anyway, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
‘I’m glad that the studio comes with accommodation though it might have been a bit too cosy if Dan had come with me. Especially knowing what I know about him now. We might have done away with each other.’
Jake smiled. ‘You’d definitely have been getting under each other’s feet. It’s going to seem a lot better when you’ve got all your own stuff around you.’ He hesitated. ‘Take a look at the view out to the west.’
They took their mugs to the window.
Wow. The sun had come out while Jake had been showing her round and the space was now flooded with light. The flat had windows on all four sides: one at either end of the gable and two large Velux lights in the roof that gave views of the sky. The glass was sparkling and she guessed Jake had cleaned the windows earlier that day. His efforts had paid off because what greeted her made her breath catch in her throat. She wasn’t that high up but the elevation was enough to reveal a sensational vista over the beach towards the open sea on one side and the harbour on the other.
‘You can watch all the comings and goings at the harbour and jetty from here,’ he said. ‘And that way, to the west—’ he pointed with his free hand ‘—there’s nothing until America. Unless you count the lighthouse and a few Stone Age ruins.’
Poppy gazed beyond the headland that marked the western extremity of St Piran’s, to the other low islets floating in the sea. In the far distance was little more than a large rock with a white lighthouse on it. She could feel the warmth from the late afternoon sun through the glass against her skin.
‘That’s the Bishop Rock.’ Jake pointed to the west. ‘In Grandpa’s younger days, he said it was manned and people used to hitch rides with the supply boat to shout hello to the keepers. He painted a picture of it in a storm – it’s in the gallery downstairs.’
‘I can’t wait to see that. I’m not surprised he was inspired by it. Imagine living out there with only the seals and gulls for company. Are the seas round here dangerous?’
He hesitated before replying. ‘If you don’t respect them, they’re lethal. There are literally hundreds of shipwrecks. Some of the Spanish Armada foundered round here way back.’
‘Really?’
‘So they say. You should visit the figurehead museum on Tresco if you like that sort of thing. They all come from wrecks.’
He said it almost sarcastically, so she guessed he considered the museum a touristy thing to do. She hadn’t actually been to the museum on her previous trip, however, and resolved to go there soon but not to let him know.
The floorboards creaked as he moved away from the window but she stayed where she was. She craned her neck and looked the other direction to the harbour where a few yachts and workboats were moored. The sea looked calm within the harbour but she had an inkling of how wild it could be from her journey here.
‘If you want to have a little time to yourself, I’ll make myself scarce. I have some calls to make, so when you’re ready, come over to the cottage. You can’t miss it. It’s right there.’ He pointed to a stone house about fifty yards up the beach facing the harbour. ‘I’ll sort out some bedding and a few other things you might need and I’ll arrange for the bed to be repaired as soon as possible.’
‘Thanks. I’ll manage for now on this floor mattress.’
She glanced at the bare mattress again and thought of the shoddy state of the gallery beneath her feet. Great light and amazing view or not, she still had a huge amount of work to do to get her home and business up and running. Jake must have noticed the anxiety on her face because he spoke gently to her.
‘Look, you’ve taken a huge step and had a rough time. It will get easier, I promise you.’
‘I’m sure I’ll settle in when I get to know people,’ she said, embarrassed by his sympathy.
‘I meant that being on your own would get easier. At least, you’ll come to terms with it.’ He sounded bitter and as if he really did understand her. Whatever had happened with his fiancée must have caused him terrible pain.
Chapter 6 (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
Jake cursed silently as he jogged down the stairs and out of the studio. That was all he needed: the new tenant turning up on her own and almost bursting into tears of horror when she saw the studio. And – deep joy – a bloody collapsing bed.
He didn’t blame Poppy for being upset at what had greeted her. In fact, he’d have probably felt exactly the same. Even if she hadn’t been on her own, she had every right to be annoyed and dismayed about the condition of the gallery and flat. The fact that she’d just made a life-changing step only made things ten times worse.
He’d recognised her within a few moments of her stepping off the St Piran’s jetty. He’d had no reason to connect her with the new tenants, of course, as he’d never known her name. His reaction, after the initial surprise, had been a mixture of memories – good and bad. The bad ones had nothing to do with her, and yet he couldn’t entirely separate them.
He walked the short distance to Archie’s cottage, turning over the contrast between that summer’s day and now. Poppy was imprinted on his mind as a bubbly, thoughtful woman whose enthusiasm for life he’d once shared. She still came across as warm, if understandably a little defensive at times, and she was every bit as attractive, with her soft brown curls and those blue eyes, but her face was pale, probably as a result of a rough crossing on the Islander and sleepless nights before that.
He’d no idea what had happened between her and Dan, although from his five minutes’ acquaintance with the man, he’d have bet his new Canon on Dan having been the guilty party. Poppy seemed like a decent person to him. She also had a sense of humour, from the way she was giggling when she fell on the floor. She’d definitely need that over the coming months.
He’d half wanted to take out his camera and photograph her, which had been a bizarre thing to think. The comment about her knickers had made him smile to himself. He also remembered her reaction when he’d run after her with Grandpa’s painting on that hot August day that seemed like yesterday but also a century ago. Even then he’d felt a connection with her and had warmed to her instantly.
Grandpa Archie had noticed her looking at the painting and drawn his own conclusions about her. Jake couldn’t help being reminded of that day. He’d only popped in on his way to meet Harriet at the St Piran’s boatyard, where she’d gone on ahead while he told Archie where they were taking the yacht. The Hotspur had been bigger than the dinghy that Archie now owned; obviously, he’d sold it after Harriet’s death.
Once again, the events of that day slammed into him.
‘I’m in a hurry, Grandpa. Harriet’s waiting for me. She’s getting the Hotspur ready to sail and I don’t want to let her do it all herself.’
‘If you’re heading that way, run after that couple who were in here. Pretty young woman with brown hair and a pink T-shirt. She’s with that chap in the orange shirt. You can’t miss them. Give this picture to the girl. Not to him, mind, he’s a bit of a know-all, but I can see she fell in love with it.’
Jake took the hastily wrapped picture. ‘You’re a big softy, Grandpa.’
Archie’s eyes twinkled. ‘I know, but that’s why you love me.’
Jake had grabbed the picture and fled out of the studio past Fen, who told him to be careful on his sailing trip. He’d caught up with the ‘girl’ he now knew to be Poppy and the ‘know-all’, Dan, and handed over the painting.
He’d never forget the delight in her eyes or Dan’s assumption that he wanted payment for the picture. Jake had teased him a bit, the prat. Poppy had wished him a happy sail and congratulated him on his engagement. Her words were etched on his mind forever, along with the events that had followed.
Poppy had assumed, as any polite and generous person might, that he and Harriet were living in a state of pre-marital bliss.
It couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Everyone on St Piran’s had thought the same as Poppy, and why wouldn’t they? He and Harriet had put on a great show of hiding the darker undercurrents of their relationship. Even his grandpa and Fen hadn’t guessed the real truth.
The short break on St Piran’s was meant to be a last-ditch chance to try and save their relationship. They’d both said and done some deeply hurtful things in the weeks leading up to that last trip, but they’d both agreed to try one last time to work things out.
They’d never had the chance, and no one but himself would ever know what had really happened in those fatal few minutes before Harriet had lost her life.
Once Jake was out of hearing of the studio, he called the local ‘jack of all trades’ to fix the bed, then popped in to see Fen, to reassure her that the new tenant had arrived and to explain that she was on her own and he was helping her settle in.
‘Poor girl,’ said Fen. ‘Do you think I should go over and see how she is?’
‘Why not let her settle in for this evening?’ said Jake, suspecting Poppy might need a rest and some time to wallow in misery before she dusted herself off and came over to the cottage – if she came over. He didn’t mention the non-delivery of her stuff, or the collapsing bed or Fen would have been round the studio in a flash, fussing over Poppy and fretting over the state of the flat and studio. ‘I think she’s shattered after the journey and she hinted she wanted to get an early night.’
‘If you think she’s OK … How did she react when she saw the accommodation?’
‘Fine. She seems to be made of strong stuff to me. Why not pop over in the morning after she’s had a good night’s sleep?’
‘You’re probably right. Thanks for showing her round. I couldn’t have stood it if she’d taken one step inside and burst into tears.’
‘Like I said, she seems to know exactly what she’s doing,’ Jake fibbed, pecking Fen on the cheek by way of goodbye. ‘So, don’t worry.’
Making his excuses, he strode off to Archie’s cottage, calling his grandpa on the way to reassure him that Poppy had arrived and all was well. Archie made no mention of the crate of paintings addressed to Jake, so he decided not to let on he’d seen it.
Back at the cottage, he went straight upstairs to the spare room where he was sleeping. He had to edge round the crate in order to reach the airing cupboard. Grandpa Archie didn’t have much need for spare linen, but there was a faded but clean set on the shelf. He put the cover on the hardly used duvet from his bed and borrowed his grandad’s duvet for his own bed.
For a few mad seconds, he’d debated about offering the spare bed in the cottage to Poppy while he slept in Archie’s room, but dismissed the idea straightaway. There was no way he could make an offer like that without it seeming like he was coming on to her – and he assumed the last thing she wanted was any man within fifty feet of her, if, as he guessed, Dan had dumped her.
He found an old-fashioned bar of soap and a towel and smiled as he made up the ‘emergency kit’ for Poppy, thinking it was a shame there was nothing he could do about her missing knickers. As a final thought, he went to fetch a clean T-shirt from his overnight bag to add to the kit. She could use it as pyjamas or wear it tomorrow as she saw fit.
After today, he decided to keep his distance unless she asked for him. She certainly didn’t need a bloke hanging about, let alone one who’d shown her an ailing business and a shabby flat with collapsing furniture. While he’d been embarrassed to show her around the Starfish, he hadn’t been embarrassed by the sadness she was obviously trying to hide. The loss of Harriet, though horrendous, had made him far more compassionate towards other people’s emotions. He admired Poppy for sticking to her guns and deciding to pursue her plans without her partner. That took a lot of guts.
When he came back into the cottage sitting room with the T-shirt, Leo was lounging on the bundle of bedding, washing his paws.
‘Oi, Leo. Get off!’
Leo flexed his claws as if he was admiring his manicure.
Jake clapped his hands loudly, hoping Leo would shift without him having to intervene. ‘Poppy might be allergic to cats and she won’t want her sheets covered in fur. She’s had enough trauma today without you adding to it,’ he said before realising that he was actually trying to debate with a cat.
Ignoring him, Leo lifted his hind leg and decided to give himself a more thorough bath.
‘Urgh. Do you mind doing that in the privacy of your own home? Or Fen’s? Come on, shoo.’ He dashed forward, ready to scoop Leo off the bedding, but the cat dropped deftly to his paws before Jake reached him and strolled off towards the open door, tail in the air.
After Leo’s departure, Jake realised that Poppy might need a toothbrush, so he went back up to his room and dug out an unused travel toothbrush and toothpaste from the bottom of his washbag. Before he left the room, he couldn’t help glancing at the crate again. It was like Pandora’s box: begging to be opened so he could discover its secrets. Yet if he opened it, would he regret what he’d unleashed?
Chapter 7 (#ulink_04609e47-7e1e-571a-81f4-9f6839c7dbe1)
A warm and furry presence wound its way around Poppy’s legs as she stood in the doorway to Jake’s – or rather Archie’s – cottage.
‘Oh! What a gorgeous cat! He’s huge. Is he yours?’ She rubbed the top of Leo’s head, feeling the thick fur between his ears.
‘No, he belongs to Fen and Archie. Or rather they belong to him,’ said Jake, eyeing Leo warily. ‘He switches between their two cottages, depending on who has the tastiest morsels, I guess, but at the moment, he prefers Fen’s, obviously, because my grandpa’s away.’
Leo purred and let Poppy carry on stroking him.
‘Wow. You’re highly honoured. He won’t let me do that. We’re not the greatest of pals, though I’ve known him from a kitten, but I haven’t seen much of him lately. Fen adores him and my grandad even let him into the studio. I think he was a stray.’
‘Well, he’s adorable. He must be the biggest cat I’ve ever seen.’
‘Hmm. Personally, I think he’s half sabre-toothed tiger. His teeth and claws are sharp enough. Come in.’
Once inside, Poppy homed in on a plate of mashed potato and prawns on the coffee table. Tempting aromas wafted under her nose and her stomach rumbled. She was reminded that she hadn’t eaten since her tea shop lunch.
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