Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn
- -
- 100%
- +
‘Um. I was wondering if you fancied a fry-up?’ Sam asked.
Patrick shook his head. ‘You mean you can handle a full English after last night?’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ Sam looked puzzled. That was another thing about being young, Patrick thought, you could neck a skinful and still devour a plate of bacon and eggs a few hours later.
‘If you’re asking if I’ll cook the brekkie if you provide the bacon and eggs, then you’re on,’ he said.
Sam rubbed his hands together. ‘I’d hoped you’d say that.’
‘I’ll be over as soon as I’ve got dressed. Get the stove and a brew on and I might even rustle up some tomatoes and mushrooms to go with it.’
Patrick pulled on a hoodie, shorts and flip-flops. No boxers or T-shirt but he wasn’t planning on stripping naked, so who’d know? He needed to do some laundry. He took his chance to pile his damp stuff into the washing machine, bought up the tiny camp shop’s stock of mushrooms and tinned tomatoes and headed for the students’ tents.
More of them were surfacing now, one or two resembling extras from the Living Dead but he guessed they’d cope once they smelled the bacon. With all that hard work on the water and the impromptu rugby, Patrick had soon discovered they were always ravenous. Sam had set up the camp kitchen outside the tents and the sun was rising in the sky as Patrick cracked the eggs and slapped the rashers in the pan. The sizzle of bacon hitting a hot pan made him smile, as did the faces around him. They were like dogs waiting for their bowls to be filled.
‘That smells awesome.’
A lanky ginger youth scratched his boxers and hovered by the pan. You might want to wash your hands first, thought Patrick, but handed over a plastic plate of bacon and eggs anyway. Around a dozen students lined up for their breakfast while Sam piled slices of crusty bread onto the lid of a tin and placed it in the middle of the grass. Finally everyone was served and Patrick made himself a bacon and fried egg sandwich.
He sat cross-legged on the drying grass, washing his breakfast down with a mug of steaming tea. The sun was rising, as yellow as the yolk oozing between the crusts. It wasn’t as fine a day as yesterday but he supposed it was fair for England. At home, it would have been considered pretty dull and cool. Melbourne had its moments and you could get four seasons in one day almost any time of year, but when the sun shone, man it shone. That had been the hardest thing to take about England: the dull autumn skies. Coming to Scilly had given him a glimpse of the full glory of this strange northern land. It was as if someone upstairs had decided to open the blinds and let the poor sods below have a taste of summer.
‘What you doing today?’ ‘Ginger’ asked him. ‘Are you up for some kayaking? We’re paddling round the Eastern Isles to see the seals.’
‘Thanks for the offer but I might go over to St Mary’s.’
‘For the nightlife?’
‘No. I might stay over there and ship out on tomorrow’s ferry.’
‘I thought you were staying until the end of the week,’ Sam butted in.
‘I thought I was but something’s come up back home,’ Patrick fibbed. ‘Bloody pain in the arse but I suppose I ought to go back.’
‘That’ll cost you to change your air ticket.’
Patrick grimaced. ‘Can’t be helped.’
Until that moment, Patrick hadn’t known he was going home. He had no idea where the impulse had come from but Sam’s question had tripped a switch inside his brain. What was he doing here? Why had he thought this was a good idea? Greg was dead, and Patrick had done his duty. He’d been to England and he’d fulfilled his promise: he no longer owed anyone a thing, alive or dead.
He looked around him at the students, fifteen years younger than him, and wanted to laugh at himself. He pushed the plate away with a quarter of the sandwich still uneaten. The yolk had soaked through the bread and the bacon fat had congealed on the plate. The sight and smell of it made him queasy.
Sam pointed his fork at the leftovers. ‘Don’t tell me you’re leaving that after cooking for us.’
‘Yeah. Cooking it ruins your appetite. You have it, mate.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Sam.
Patrick handed the plate over. ‘Get it down you. If you’re heading out on a voyage, you’ll need it.’
Feeling no obligation to wash up, and wanting to be on his own, Patrick padded back to his tent. He crawled inside intending to pack up, but half an hour later he was still lying on the sleeping bag, staring at the canvas roof. Outside, excited voices chattered away as the students set off on their adventure. Patrick was cold and stiff. He’d never felt so lost in his life. He felt as if he’d been cut adrift in the ocean. Was this loneliness? Or just lack of sleep and perhaps, his rational mind whispered, delayed grief?
He’d loved Greg, though the two men had never admitted it to each other. You just didn’t say those things, but he had loved him, as a father or an older brother, neither of which he’d ever really known. He even missed Tania, even though she’d left him for her hairdresser shortly after he’d heard that Greg’s illness was terminal. She’d be out to dinner on a yacht in Darling Harbour now, or maybe sipping champagne in some cocktail bar.
Good luck to her. He was no longer bitter.
The zip of the tent flap rasped. Sam’s head poked through the flap.
‘We’re going. Probably won’t see you again so just wanted to say nice to meet you and have a good journey.’
Patrick propped himself up on his elbows, hoping to Christ that his eyes weren’t wet. ‘Have a good trip. Watch out for Great Whites,’ he said.
Sam grinned awkwardly. ‘We will. Er … we wanted you to have this as a thank-you for cooking the breakfast. We know you’re on the wagon and this was all we could find that was alcohol-free but … enjoy, old man.’
Patrick sat up. Sam thrust a bottle of Vimto at him. It was almost full.
‘Thanks.’
‘Pleasure. Don’t drink it all at once.’ Sam saluted and was gone.
A few minutes later, Patrick crawled out of his tent. The campsite was empty of humans. Only the tents stood, gently flapping in the breeze. On three sides, the sea spread out like an inky cloth, speckled with whitecaps. People crawled over the tower of an old fort that looked like it was part of Gull but was actually on the coast of the island opposite. Crows cawed and small birds twittered and darted in and out of the bushes. It was autumn here – spring was on its way in Melbourne. The weather would probably be even worse than here, but on sunny days the skies would be a full-on honest sapphire, not this half-hearted couldn’t-make-its-mind-up blue.
He took a deep breath and started to pack up his tent.
Chapter 5
‘Bloody hell. He’s keen.’
Hazel Samson peered through the slatted blinds of the front bar window as Maisie stocked the chiller cabinets with bottled drinks ready for a busy Sunday. It was only ten o’clock and the first ferry from St Mary’s or the off-islands didn’t arrive until eleven, though walkers and guests from the campsite and Gull Island’s handful of holiday cottages would soon be up and about and in need of coffee or something stronger.
‘Who is it?’ Maisie asked.
‘Some young bloke with a bag.’
Hmm. Maisie was puzzled. The Blond had had a rucksack not a bag, but her mum couldn’t see too well and might have been confused. ‘What does he look like?’ she asked, slotting bottles of ‘posh’ juice into the soft drinks chiller.
‘I don’t know. He’s got his back to me. Youngish. Fair hair. Funny, he seems vaguely familiar although I haven’t got my specs on. He looks a bit like that singer you like. Tom O’ Donnell?’
‘Tom Odell,’ said Maisie, straightening up and peering over the counter. She picked up a cloth and started to wipe down the bistro menu covers.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘Just hanging about, I think … oh, wait, he’s going now. Running towards the jetty … no idea why.’
‘Right,’ said Maisie, feeling guilty for losing interest in her mother’s mystery man. She hadn’t slept well, and her insomnia had nothing to do with the Blond. She’d heard her father up and about several times and muted voices coming from her parents’ room down the hallway from hers. It wasn’t easy living in such close proximity, for her or them, but in general, they all got along pretty well. However, living in the same premises had brought home to her that all wasn’t rosy with his health. Maisie was convinced that the stress of running the pub was a contributor to his problems. She needed to find someone reliable to help out, if only part-time.
She stacked the menus neatly at the end of the bar. Hazel was still peering through the blinds.
‘What’s up?’ Maisie asked.
‘He just ran along the beach the other way. I’ve no idea what he’s doing.’
‘Well, if he wants to come in here, we don’t open until half-past so he can wait. Mum, would you mind checking we’ve enough vegetables for the Sunday lunches? I can get Dad to dig up some more if not, and I want to make sure we’re stocked up before Helmut comes in to do the prep.’ Helmut was the chef. He and the seasonal barman lived in the tiny staff studios behind the pub. Debbie, the bistro manager, had been lodging in a caravan at the campsite. They would all be gone on the ferry to the mainland the next morning.
Hazel closed the slats. ‘No problem.’
Hazel went into the kitchen while Maisie gave the bar another wipe down and checked the float in the till. Could they manage without any help at all over the winter? she wondered. It would be a lot more cost-effective but it meant having no time off. She could handle that, somehow, by closing an extra day, but it would also mean relying more and more on her parents. They were in their late sixties and they’d had enough. Her dad wasn’t too well, though he tried to hide the fact and claimed he was just tired. Maisie could see he struggled to get his breath sometimes and he was pale under his year-round tan.
Maisie heard a scuffle outside on the terrace and angry shouts. She risked a discreet glance through the bottle-glass pane in the pub door. There was a figure out there, but it was so distorted, it could have been anyone. She glanced at the big clock above the bar. It was twenty past ten.
Sharp raps on the door made her jump.
Winter was coming and she needed every penny of revenue, didn’t she? She could open ten minutes early. She drew the bolts on the top and bottom as carefully as she could, then turned the key and lifted the latch.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Sorry to startle you.’ A handsome man about her own age, with blond, almost white hair, stood in the porch. He must have been waiting right in front of the door and Maisie had almost knocked him flying.
‘Hugo? What do you want?’
Hugo Scorrier held his laptop bag protectively in front of his privates. ‘Apologies for the early visit but I wanted a quick word before the inn opened. Basil! Bad dog! Stop that!’
At Hugo’s shout, Basil pulled his snout out of a patch of weeds topped by the remains of a rotting seagull. The Labrador’s coat glistened like wet coal and there was a green strand of weed stuck to his tail.
Hugo flashed an apologetic smile at Maisie. ‘Sorry, he may whiff a bit. He goes his own way, never listens to a word I tell him. I’ve been chasing the devil up and down the beach for ages.’
Clever Basil, thought Maisie, but answered Hugo as civilly as she could. ‘We open in ten minutes and I’m afraid I’m rather busy.’
‘I would have been here at ten,’ he said as Basil sniffed around the tables on the terrace, ‘if Basil hadn’t had other ideas involving seagulls and going AWOL.’
‘You should have phoned me to make an appointment.’
‘Well, I hadn’t planned on calling as such,’ said Hugo. ‘Not on you specifically, but I’ve been to the morning service at the chapel and had a coffee with a few of your neighbours afterwards. I thought I’d drop in on my way back to my boat.’
Maisie shivered in the cool morning air. Hugo wore olive cords, a waxed jacket and shiny brogues on his feet. He was like an apparition from another era. A very unwelcome one at that.
‘Can you spare five minutes?’ he asked.
‘Who’s that, love?’ Hazel shouted from the bar.
‘It’s Hugo Scorrier, Mum. We’re just having a very quick chat.’
‘Oh, shit.’
Worried that Hugo had heard her mum’s curse, Maisie cringed and quickly pulled the door to behind her. ‘I can spare a few minutes.’ She ushered Hugo to a table near the beach. People were already wandering along the path, eyeing up the inn. Basil ran off to investigate some old lobster pots.
Hugo perched on the edge of a bench, looking for a spot without any seagull poo. ‘I know you’re a busy woman so I’ll get to the point. Have you thought any more about our offer to take the Driftwood off your hands?’
‘“Take it off my hands”? Hugo, I think I’ve made it quite clear that I don’t want to sell the Driftwood at this time. Or any time. I’ve only recently taken over here.’
Hugo placed his bag on the table. ‘Yes, I know. You came from a very senior role with a successful pub chain. I’m sure that your experience has thrown the – um – limitations of the Driftwood into stark reality.’
‘Yes, it has, and my experience has also shown me how it could be more profitable and successful. I hope you’re not suggesting that my parents haven’t worked incredibly hard to keep the place viable. We turn a reasonable profit, enough to give us all a basic living and allow us to stay here on Gull.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything like that. Your parents are troupers. They’ve stuck it out far longer than anyone could have expected them to. All I’m saying is that, if you accepted our offer, which is a generous one, you could still live and work at the Driftwood without the worries of living hand to mouth. Let’s face it, the Driftwood could do with a makeover.’
Maisie sat on her hands, resisting the urge to throw Hugo off the terrace. She’d tried hard to put herself in his shoes when she’d first come home and she did feel sorry about his father’s illness. It must be tough having to run the business while seeing his dad suffering from Alzheimer’s at such a young age. Hugo was a year younger than her and his father, Graydon Scorrier, had had to hand over the reins to his son five years previously. He was now in a nursing home on St Mary’s. Hugo’s parents had split up when Hugo was still a teenager and his mother now lived in London and as far as Maisie knew, had never come back to visit her ex.
‘Firstly, we don’t live hand to mouth,’ she said. ‘And secondly, why would we want to be tenants here when we can be owners?’ She hated Hugo in that moment, not because what he was saying was wrong or insulting but because actually his offer did make some sense. The Driftwood was only just holding together and probably did need a lot of work doing. It could do with a repaint over the winter, and the window frames needed varnishing and the roof needed repairing at the very least. The cost of re-slating it was unthinkable. Then there were the toilets: they could do with a total refit. In fact, in her dreams, it would be a lot smarter than it looked now and she’d love to expand the bistro and terrace too. They were pipe dreams, however: the basics needed tackling first.
Hugo opened his mouth to speak. He had a beige moustache of sorts clinging for dear life to his upper lip. Maisie cut him off before he could get any words out. ‘Before you say any more, I have seriously considered your offer and yes, there are advantages …’
Hugo broke into a smile. ‘I thought you’d see it that way.’
‘But on balance, I – and my parents – have decided that we’re going to decline it.’ There, thought Maisie, I’ll use the type of business language he can understand. She was really rather proud of herself.
Hugo was silent for a few seconds then sighed. ‘I’m sorry to hear that and very disappointed, naturally. The Driftwood would have made a wonderful addition to our portfolio on Gull. We’d be able to make a significant investment in it and extend it.’
‘You mean turn it into a clone of the Rose and Crab on Petroc?’
‘Not a clone. Gull would be given its own distinct identity. We’ve had a top London agency draw up the branding. In fact’ – he sniffed – ‘I have the designs in my bag here. I’ve just come back from showing them to some of the other islanders who attended the service and coffee morning. There was a good turnout. I’d say about half the islanders were there.’
Maisie rolled her eyes. ‘That’s because the coffee and bacon rolls were free.’
‘Probably.’ Hugo grinned. He had lovely white teeth and wasn’t unattractive in a Hooray Henry kind of way, Maisie was forced to admit. He reminded her of a less hunky and fairer version of the vicar in Grantchester, one of her mum’s favourite shows.
Hugo smirked. ‘I can see there’s no point trying to bullshit you.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’ Maisie got up. ‘I really have to start serving. We’ve customers already waiting as you can see and the morning tripper boat will be here soon.’ She nodded at the half a dozen punters hovering expectantly on the terrace. Basil seemed to have sensed Hugo’s time was up too and lolloped over. He nudged Hugo in the crotch.
‘Basil. For God’s sake,’ said Hugo, pushing the dog away and wrinkling his nose at the damp patch on his trousers. ‘As you’re obviously busy, I’ll leave you with a copy of my plans.’
He unzipped his bag and pulled out an A4 folder. ‘There’s no harm in taking a look, is there? You know where to reach me if you change your mind.’
‘Thanks,’ Maisie ground out. She didn’t touch the file he’d placed in front of her. Hugo pushed his floppy lock of hair off his face. ‘I’ll be off then.’
Maisie wiggled her fingers. ‘Byeee. Have a safe journey back over the water!’
‘Thanks.’ Hugo turned away, but he’d only got a few steps when he doubled back, just as Maisie had picked up the file. ‘By the way, I think you should know that two more of your neighbours are seriously considering selling to us – Hell Cove Cottages and the Fudge Pantry. I think that makes five businesses on Gull who have sold or agreed to sell to us now. There’s not much left, is there?’
Then, leaving Maisie too stunned to reply, Hugo sauntered down the path and along the beach towards the jetty and his boat, calling Basil to heel and being ignored. Maisie sat back down on the bench, staring at the folder. She should be in the pub now, ready to serve the first rush of customers but she couldn’t move.
Una and Phyllis at the Hell Cove Cottages had agreed to sell up to Hugo? Pete and Davina at The Fudge Pantry in the middle of the island too? Both families had been on Gull for generations. They’d once told Maisie they’d sell to the Scorriers over their dead bodies. Was Hugo winding her up, or bluffing? If he was right, it left only a handful of significant businesses on Gull Island that were still independently owned, along with the land around them. Hugo would be free to apply to develop them as he chose. Despite what people said, if offered enough money, it wouldn’t take much for the rest of the families to fall like a pack of dominoes. And who could blame them when it took such commitment and energy to eke out a half-decent living on Gull?
Maisie glanced over to Petroc with its chichi cottages and businesses clustered around the harbour. Was she the one who was wrong, trying to make sure Gull kept its slightly shabby but fiercely independent character?
It wasn’t only the Petroc channel that had separated her and Hugo. He’d been despatched to boarding schools in Cornwall from the age of seven and had only returned for the holidays. Maisie and the island kids had hung out with him occasionally when their paths crossed, swimming and playing cricket on the beach. Hugo had been hopeless at football, Maisie recalled – they only played rugger at his boarding school. More often than not, however, Hugo had friends to stay and then he and his chums had kept in their own little clique.
It was hard to judge after all these years, but Maisie had felt that when Hugo was with his school friends, they’d turned up their noses at Maisie and her mates. He’d been far less sure of himself when he was on his own, but maybe that was natural. Kids were quick to realise when an ‘outsider’ wanted to join in and at times Hugo hadn’t met with the friendliest of welcomes. When she was older, in her late teens, she used to think he fancied her and that had made her even more distant with him. Now she was older still she suspected he’d probably just been lonely.
However, none of this was an excuse for Hugo being a total prat now he was a grown man.
Ray Samson appeared in the doorway of the pub, waving frantically. ‘Maisie!’ he called.
‘Coming!’
Maisie hurried into the Driftwood, smiling at punters and apologising for the late opening. She slid behind the counter and after a moment’s hesitation, stepped on the pedal of the bin and dropped Hugo Scorrier’s plans inside. Then, with a heart as heavy as stone, she turned back to the room with a huge grin.
‘Right, you lovely thirsty, hungry people. Welcome to the Driftwood. What can I get you?’
Chapter 6
After packing up on Monday morning, Patrick had shouldered his rucksack and strolled out of the campsite. His plan had been to spend the night on St Mary’s before he caught the flight back to Cornwall at lunchtime, but in the end he’d decided that it was easier to camp on Gull one last time and get the early ferry to St Mary’s.
He’d spent his final day walking around the rugged northern side of Gull before heading back to the campsite. The students were surprised to see him but very happy when he rustled up a homemade chilli for them. Patrick listened to Javid bemoaning the months of dark evenings that lay ahead and the fact the Islander ferry would stop its daily visits altogether at the end of the week, leaving the air service as the only way off the isles – if the planes were able to fly and weren’t grounded by fog or storms as he’d been warned they could be. Then it was an early night, a quick breakfast and off towards the jetty near the Driftwood. His pack was full to bursting but it felt good to have it on his back. It was solid and the weight of it reminded him that he had, actually, made his decision to go back to Melbourne.
Once he reached Penzance, his plan was to hop on an overnight train to London and get the first plane out of Heathrow to Oz. His lawyers in Sydney would be delighted that he’d stopped messing them around. He knew someone else who’d also be delighted that Patrick had finally made his decision. The prospect of their glee made his heart sink but he’d have to get over it.
As he walked down the road – just a single tarmacked track – that led down the slope to the Driftwood and the jetty, Patrick could see two people working in the allotment behind the pub. A woman was crouched down, weeding a patch of vegetables. A man had a ladder rested against an outhouse attached to the side of building, which must be the Driftwood’s toilet block. He was hammering some slates onto the roof and cursing. Presumably these were Hazel and Ray Samson, who Javid, the campsite owner, had told him about.
Patrick bent down to tie the laces on his boots and allow himself a last look at the inn. There was no doubt that the Driftwood occupied a knockout spot and its location was probably the equal, in its own way, of any bar he’d ever been to. Even the slightly shabby end-of-world feel to the old building held its own charms.
On the other hand, judging from the way Ray Samson was puffing and wiping his brow as he tackled the lichen-spotted slates, Patrick guessed the inn wasn’t quite so charming to live in. He wasn’t sure the guy should be up the ladder at his age, although it wasn’t any of Patrick’s business. In fact, he reminded himself, nothing that went on at the Driftwood was his business.