Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn

‘Doesn’t matter. Does Greg have family? They’ll be interested in what you’ve found here and that you’ve decided to stay.’

‘He has a wife – that’s Judy – and a couple of grown-up kids … Have you decided I should stay then, Maisie Samson?’

She hesitated just long enough to give him doubt. ‘I’m still making up my mind. Here, fill in this form while I make us a coffee. I’ll be back shortly.’

Leaving Patrick with a job application and a pen, Maisie escaped to the kitchen. She didn’t want a drink but she did want time to think about her decision. His story about Greg was plausible and actually very touching. She could check out the Fingle in seconds on the Internet and chat with Judy Warner and any other referees Patrick supplied. Again, Google would be her friend when cross-checking that the bars really were owned by Greg and Judy. She was used to hiring and firing and as long as Patrick’s story checked out, she should feel confident in taking him on. Except, he was different from any other employee. Or was that simply because she fancied him? If so, that was her own lookout. Eventually, she took two mugs of coffee back to the bistro. Patrick had finished writing and handed her the form.

While he sipped the coffee, Maisie scanned through it quickly.

‘It all looks OK. You haven’t murdered anyone, have you? You didn’t list any criminal convictions.’

He laughed. ‘I haven’t murdered anyone, but …’

The hairs on the back of Maisie’s neck stood on end. ‘But?’

‘I have been in prison.’

Maisie’s heart plunged. Here we go, she thought. Here we go.

‘In Australia?’

‘Yeah. I spent six months in a young offender’s place. I got drunk and vandalised a kids’ park in one of the suburbs. It wasn’t my first offence and I did a lot of damage. I was with some mates – at least I thought they were mates at the time – and the judge said I was the ringleader.’

‘And were you?’ she asked him, amazed her voice was so calm. Of course she’d interviewed applicants with a criminal record before, and taken on some over her years as a pub manager. She’d only regretted it once when one had taken advantage of her trust and stolen some cash from the till: the other ex-offenders had tended to work twice as hard once they’d been given the chance of a job.

‘Oh yes. I was the ringleader. I was angry at the whole world back then. I thought I owed nothing to anyone.’

‘Was there a reason for that?’

‘I’ve spent too long with social workers and shrinks to answer that quickly. I don’t know. They say it was because I lost my parents “at a vulnerable stage in my formative years”. I want to be honest with you from the start. I went off the rails when I was young. I went a bit wild, quit school, bummed around, got into all kinds of minor trouble, smoked some weed, tried some stronger stuff …’

‘I’m sorry. Your parents must have been young themselves.’

He shrugged. ‘Youngish, yeah … I don’t want to bore you with my family history. I got back on the straight and narrow, thanks to Greg and Judy’s help.’

‘They sound like good people. I’m sorry about your parents. I can’t imagine losing one of mine, let alone both at once …’ She was curious about what had happened but didn’t want to ask him directly. ‘What a terrible thing to deal with when you must have still been very young too,’ was all she dared to say, but Patrick seemed to want to carry on in the same open manner.

‘I was at boarding school when it happened. It was a light aircraft crash … they were travelling between the Outback and Adelaide where we were living at the time,’ he said, evenly, as if he was so used to saying it that by now it was like relating a story about someone else.

‘Who looked after you?’ said Maisie, deciding that as Patrick had already revealed some of the details himself he wouldn’t mind her asking.

‘I stayed at school in term time and in the holidays I went to a distant older cousin’s, although she packed me off to summer camps and the like, which suited us both. Soon as I was seventeen, I left and picked up a load of odd jobs and lived off the small trust fund Mum and Dad left when they died.’

‘What about your other relatives? Grandparents, aunties and uncles in Britain?’

‘At the time, one elderly grandfather in a nursing home. An auntie on Mum’s side who had four kids and had just remarried a man with twins. An uncle who has his own family and definitely wasn’t interested in me. And even if they had wanted me, I would have jumped in a shark-infested ocean before I’d have left Oz. I didn’t want to come here: all I heard of it was shit weather and whingeing moaners who were always complaining about the shit weather.

‘The thing is, I met Greg while I was at low point. One of the regulars at the Fingle was a volunteer at one of the youth centres where I’d rocked up – forced to by my probation officer. He saw something in me, God knows what, and he told Greg about me. Greg and Judy took me on as a pot washer in the bar. They gave me a chance.’ He smiled. ‘Many, many chances until I finally realised how bloody lucky I was and got my act together and decided to live a pure and sin-free life henceforth.’

‘Pure and sin-free? That sounds boring,’ Maisie joked.

Patrick laughed. ‘Not as boring as staring at four walls for twenty hours a day, or waking up in a pool of your own vomit.’

She winced, then it clicked. ‘Ah. The Coke. You’re teetotal, aren’t you?’

‘I am. Does that put you off taking me on as bar staff?’

‘On the contrary, I consider it an asset.’

Maisie blew out a breath, trying to take in the story she’d heard. Patrick was so blasé about his terrible childhood and youth. Breezing through a tragic tale as if he were talking about an exciting rugby match. Maisie was certain that there was a lot more to discover about Patrick McKinnon, but how much did she want to know? His smiling eyes hid so much, she thought. As did her gobby, sassy façade. ‘Interesting way of trying to impress your new boss,’ she said. ‘“Shitty weather and whingeing moaners”, eh?’

Patrick gave a wry smile. ‘With some exceptions, of course. Gull Island’s not too shabby, when the sun’s out …’

He left the sentence hanging, tantalisingly. Left her waiting for the line about the Driftwood and its owner: her.

But nothing.

‘You made a reference to “my new boss”,’ he added instead of a compliment to Maisie. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved he hadn’t tried to flatter her. She really had no idea how she felt about taking on Patrick McKinnon. ‘So, does that mean you’re not put off by my history?’

‘Well, there’s been nothing I need to know about since your spell in prison, has there?’

‘So I’m hired?’

She had a feeling she might be making the biggest mistake of her life … Maisie smiled and held out her hand. Patrick grasped it firmly but without trying to prove some point by mashing her bones. ‘Subject to your references checking out, yes. Congratulations and welcome to the Driftwood. Now, let me show you the staff accommodation.’

Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘You have staff accommodation?’

‘Yes. Where were you expecting to stay?’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Patrick. ‘This was a spur of the moment decision … I hadn’t even thought about where I might live.’

Maisie shook her head. ‘You really do like to live in the moment, don’t you?’

‘Don’t you?’ he said. The glint in his eyes left her in no doubt he was hinting at their kiss on the beach the previous week.

Ignoring the question because she didn’t know how to answer, Maisie got up. Her cheeks were burning. ‘It’s this way but I hope you’re not expecting too much,’ she said briskly.

She led the way through the catering kitchen and the staffroom at the rear of the pub to the garden. ‘It’s not the Melbourne Ritz.’ She was acutely aware of Patrick’s presence behind her. Something about knowing he was so close and in her private territory made her skin tingle. She wasn’t scared of him; she was scared of no man, and the feeling of being followed was more thrilling than scary. Yet his presence seemed to do something to the air. Goosebumps popped up on the back of her neck and her arms under her sweatshirt.

‘Through here,’ she said, and crossed the small paved area behind the kitchen to a low granite building at right angles to the inn itself. An assortment of garden furniture stood on the patio area, discarded cast-iron and plastic pieces that had seen far better days. The good stuff was all reserved for the customer terrace at the front. Maisie was aware of the fag ends on the flagstones where the staff had been enjoying a sneaky ciggie despite her disapproval. The grassy area outside the granite outbuilding was still green and lush and the tubs had bright red geraniums blooming in them even though it was late October.

‘Unless you can find accommodation elsewhere on Gull Island, the Piggery is your best option, I’m afraid.’

‘The Piggery?’

‘Staff quarters. These buildings once housed pigs and a couple of cows. Nothing posh, but there’s a bedsit, kitchenettes and shower room.’

Maisie opened the door of the Piggery and immediately muttered a rude word under her breath. The young barman had only vacated the place the previous day, and hadn’t been keen on housework, judging by the unsavoury tang and the empty cans rolling around the floor. The bed looked like it had come straight from a Tracey Emin exhibit.

She barred the door, leaving Patrick right behind her. ‘I haven’t had the chance to clear it out yet. I’m sorry.’

‘It’ll be fine.’

She hesitated before walking in and letting him follow her. Maisie cringed. It was even worse than it had appeared on first glance – and sniff.

‘It’s great,’ he said, sitting on the single bed. The mattress sagged under his weight and he bounced on it a couple of times. ‘Seen some action, though.’

She wanted to melt through the floor. Actually, the floor was as minging as the bed. ‘It’s not fine. You can’t stay here.’

Patrick stood up. ‘I can clear it out. Give me a few bin bags, some bleach and scrubbing brush and it’ll be shipshape by opening time tonight. I’ve slept in places that would make your hair curl.’

‘Just because you’ve been in jail, doesn’t mean you have to sleep in a stinking pit. God knows what that boy has been doing.’

‘You could be right. From what I recall, jail was a lot cleaner than this.’

‘Thanks!’ She had to smile at his nerve. He definitely might brighten up a long, dark winter on Gull.

He joined her in the kitchenette. ‘That was a joke, though well disguised. My sense of humour doesn’t always translate.’

She lifted her trainer off the sticky vinyl floor and put out her tongue. ‘Maybe not but this place is the pits. You can’t stay in it until I’ve had it fumigated.’

‘Give me the cleaning kit and I’ll do it. You didn’t know I was going to rock up so soon.’

She ignored him. She was deeply ashamed, not of the mess, which was par for the course with some of the young staff, but of not checking the room first. She wouldn’t have dreamt of showing a new staff member such a hovel, let alone expect them to sleep in it. She ran a tight ship at her last pub. She should have kept a better eye on the staff quarters, but she’d been flat out at the end of the season.

‘Wait here, please.’ Leaving him, she walked back outside, pushed open the door of the neighbouring studio and swore. The place reeked of unwashed clothes and lager. Maisie didn’t even want to cross the threshold. She was surprised her parents hadn’t realised, although it didn’t take long for a place to get rank if left. Both rooms needed a deep clean and she’d be the one rolling up her sleeves later.

‘Any better?’

She almost bumped slap bang into Patrick’s chest. Which wouldn’t have been unpleasant. In fact, it would have been pretty awesome. In contrast to the rooms, up close, he smelled of some kind of woody body spray.

‘I thought I told you to stay put?’ she said, half joking.

‘I thought the air was fresher out here.’

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Mr McKinnon?’

He held out his hands. ‘Enjoying watching you getting worked up over nothing? Not really. Either of these places is fine if you’ll only let me help you sort them out. Or I can find somewhere else to kip. I’ve still got my tent. I can camp out here or Javid might let me stay on site and use his facilities.’

‘No! I’ll be the laughing stock.’

He frowned. ‘Why?’

‘People will say I can’t look after my own staff. Just because you can clean the place up doesn’t mean you ought to. I’ll get a cleaner in later and until then …’ Maisie was floundering. She wasn’t even sure herself why it had become so important to her to sort out a decent place for Patrick to stay. Maybe it was because she was trying so hard to prove to both of them that she was determined to be professional in their working relationship. She knew what people would say when they heard she’d taken on an attractive single Aussie who she knew next to nothing about.

She knew what her parents would think, let alone her neighbours. She could see and hear them now. Archie Pendower, Phyllis and Una and Jess Godrevy … oh shit, Jess, her best mate, was going to put two and two together and make at least a hundred and four. Maisie felt her cheeks growing warm and hated herself. The only way this arrangement was going to work was if it was kept strictly professional despite any previous encounters.

She closed the door to the second studio then opened it again. ‘It needs to air, before it has a proper clean,’ she said, and before Patrick could give her any backchat, she bulldozed on. ‘Look, I need to draw up a contract and check out the references you gave me. Obviously, with the time difference I don’t expect to hear from Judy or the other referees you mentioned until morning. However, if you wanted to help out in the bar tomorrow night, to see how we roll here, then that might be a good idea.’

Patrick beamed. ‘Great idea.’

‘Until then, can you keep yourself out of trouble? You’re welcome to make use of the pub kitchen to make some lunch and you can have some peace and quiet in the bistro upstairs. You can bed down up there overnight if I don’t get a chance to clean the cottages.’

Patrick saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Maisie pretended not to be amused. ‘Just “boss” will be fine. Come on inside, and I’ll break the er … good news to Mum and Dad.’

Chapter 9

Y ou’ve really gone and done it now, Paddy boy.

Later that afternoon, Patrick closed his laptop in the upstairs bistro and gave himself time to reflect on the crazy, impulsive decision that had led to him signing up for six months at the Driftwood Inn. He’d emailed Judy at the Fingle and the owner of the restaurant where he’d worked previously to warn them he would be staying in the UK over the winter and to expect his new employer to take up references.

He crossed to the window and took in the magnificent view over the channel towards Petroc. With its white sand, flowers and low-lying islands set in a turquoise sea, it could easily be Port Fairy in western Victoria. He’d not expected to find a place in England that so reminded him of home; but then again, the beauty of the place was the least surprising thing about the situation. He’d only been in the country a few days and here he was, staying for half a year.

If he made it that far, of course. If Maisie didn’t throw him out first, or he quit in sheer frustration.

Hazel and Ray Samson had been – how could you put it – ‘taken aback’ when Maisie had delivered the news and introduced him. Ray had shaken his hand warmly and seemed relieved that there would be an extra pair of hands around the place. The guy wasn’t well, his face was pale and drawn and he’d been breathless and sweating while he was up on that roof. Hazel was trickier to read. She’d recovered from the initial shock quickly and joked that Maisie hadn’t wasted any time in taking on new staff, yet there was something about the way she’d watched him, when she thought he wasn’t looking, that made his hackles rise. She didn’t trust him: and he didn’t blame her. If Hazel had been thinking that Maisie could do with a man, for practical and other purposes, he definitely wasn’t the right one in Hazel’s eyes. Patrick suspected that they might be bothered about his criminal record.

He could understand their concerns and was prepared to live with Hazel’s distrust but there was an even bigger hurdle to get over. Even as she was introducing him to her parents, he suspected Maisie was already kicking herself for giving him the job. Her discomfort radiated from every pore and showed in her tight smile as she introduced him; in the way she stood with her arms wrapped around her chest while her dad shook his hand and her mum made jokes about kangaroos and boomerangs. He had a feeling Maisie Samson was regretting letting him into her home, her business and her life and he didn’t think that was entirely down to his chequered past.

So why had she agreed to take him on?

And what bloody stupid idea had made him ask?

Six months he’d signed up for. Half a year at this tiny pub with this determined woman who already occupied his thoughts far too much. He’d never seriously thought she’d say yes to his offer to work for her. He’d been amazed when she’d agreed, even after he’d told her the worst of him: the jail, the drink, the drugs.

And yet a voice nagged at him. Gnawed at him. He still hadn’t told her the very worst about him, had he? He’d kept back the part that would freak her out. It would have got him thrown out of the pub, and off the island too, if she knew.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’

Patrick glanced up to find Hazel Samson standing a few feet away. She’d walked into the bistro from the upstairs flat and was carrying a plastic bucket with cloths and cleaning products.

‘They’re not worth as much as a penny.’

She gave Patrick a hard stare. Her red hair was greying at the temples and her face was weathered from long years working in the sun, but she still had her daughter’s slight frame and sharp green eyes that missed nothing. ‘I bet they are,’ she said.

He pointed at the laptop, aware the screen was dimmed from lack of recent use. ‘I’ve been letting a few people know I’m staying on.’

Hazel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Maisie says you don’t have any family?’

Wow. Straight to the point. Maisie had shared at least some of his ‘colourful’ history with her parents, then. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised as the Samsons were going to have to work and live very closely with him. He didn’t mind.

‘A cousin I’ve lost touch with, some distant relatives in the UK who have probably forgotten I exist. I do have a few mates, though, who might be interested to know I haven’t been kidnapped by an irate Brit who took exception to me taking a bar job … the current climate towards foreigners being what it is.’

Hazel’s smile was about as sincere as a croc’s. ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger from the locals here on Gull.’

You could have fooled me, thought Patrick, freezing his rocks off under Hazel’s sub-zero glare. Winning her trust was going to be harder than he’d thought. ‘I wondered if there was no wife or girlfriend in Oz that you had to break the news to. She won’t be very happy you’ve decided to extend your stay here, will she? Don’t tell me there’s no woman waiting back home? You’re still young and not exactly the Hunchback of Notre Dame, now are you?’

‘What makes you think it’s a woman?’

She smiled for about a nanosecond. ‘Call it a wild guess.’

Well, thought Patrick, he had to admire Hazel’s directness. Now he knew who Maisie had inherited her feistiness from and perhaps it was better to be honest with each other than enduring months of suspicious looks.

‘You don’t have to answer if I’m being too nosy, but I look out for our Maisie. She’s had enough heartbreak lately,’ she added, although Patrick didn’t think she gave two hoots whether she was being nosy or not.

‘You’re right: there’s no partner on the scene at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘Of either sex.’

‘Hmm. I suppose that makes sense, or you wouldn’t have come halfway round the world and left her for six months. Unless you had to leave Australia of course, and I doubt that’s the case.’ Hazel paused. ‘As for partners, you said “at the moment”. Am I right in thinking there was someone special?’

Maisie would cringe at this line of questioning but Patrick couldn’t blame Hazel. It was obvious she saw him as a threat to the equilibrium of the household. She might be right about that too, he thought, but perhaps not in the way she suspected.

‘You’re right. There was a woman, but that was a while ago now.’ The image of Tania walking out of the door slid into his mind. He waited for the slice of pain low to the gut but he felt as if he was watching that movie now, not living it. But still, an enigmatic smile was all he was prepared to give Hazel.

She nodded slowly. ‘Fine. I should mind my own business, though you’ll appreciate I like to know a little about the people who’ve come to live in our house and share our lives.’

‘I don’t blame you, though I’ve already discussed my reasons for wanting the job with Maisie. Your daughter gave me a thorough grilling when she interviewed me,’ said Patrick, still wondering exactly which details Maisie had shared with her parents.

‘I know she did. I wanted to hear it direct. Oh well, you never know who you might meet while you’re here on Gull Island,’ she said and flashed him a smile that told him Maisie was off the menu – or else. ‘Do you want another coffee or a soft drink?’ she asked, nodding at his empty cup.

‘Thanks for the offer, but no. I’ve got some more emails to send before I get ready to learn the ropes in the bar tomorrow night.’

‘OK, I’ll be getting on with my jobs, then.’

Hazel picked up the bucket and headed downstairs. Patrick waited a moment until the footsteps quietened before padding down to the bar himself. He heard the door to the staffroom open, crept forward and peered around the edge of it. He could see Hazel walking across the patio to the staff studios where Maisie was outside the first cottage with her sleeves rolled up and a pair of Marigolds on. Hazel handed over the bucket and the two women exchanged some words. They had their backs to him so Patrick ventured further into the staffroom. The window was open a crack but he couldn’t hear their conversation. He suspected from Hazel’s grim expression that it might have been about him.

He almost jumped out of his skin as the phone out in the office next to the staffroom rang out.

Maisie and Hazel immediately turned and Patrick just had time to duck out of sight. Maisie pulled off her rubber gloves before she marched towards the office. Patrick made a hasty exit back into the bar, listening around the door as Maisie answered the phone in a breathless voice. His own heart thumped. That would teach him to eavesdrop, but this was his only chance. He had to hope that Hazel wasn’t still in the garden or coming round the side of the pub, although even if she was, he could make up some kind of excuse for being outside.

As quietly as he could, he slipped out of the front door of the bar and made his way around the side of the building to the garden. The bucket was abandoned and Hazel had joined Ray at the top of the garden.

Patrick spotted Maisie through the office window, standing by the desk, talking into the cordless house phone. With one final glance to check the coast was clear, he picked up the cleaning bucket and Marigolds and slipped inside the open studio. The key was on the inside of the door and with a surge of triumph, he closed it behind him and locked himself in.

‘Patrick McKinnon. Are you in there?’

Patrick had only cleaned down the washbasin and had just thrust the brush down the toilet, when Maisie called through the front door. Damn. He’d hoped the conversation would have gone on longer than that.