Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn - Phillipa Ashley

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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.

      He had half an hour to spare before his ferry to St Mary’s arrived so he walked down the track and onto the beach. The tide was slowly filling the channel between Petroc and Gull Island and the remaining islets of sand glittered in the morning sun. Soon they’d shrink to nothing, presenting one smooth and silvery expanse of water between Gull and Petroc.

      Leaving his pack by a rock on the powdery sand, Patrick sauntered down to the sea. He picked up a small stone and cast it over the water. It skipped a couple of times then sank. The water was so shallow, he imagined he could see it resting on the bottom. He tried again with a larger flatter stone. Feeling confident, he snapped back his wrist but fluffed his aim and managed only one bounce.

      ‘Here. Let me try.’

      Maisie Samson’s voice was unmistakeable; her soft local accent was tinged with dry amusement. He didn’t think she was laughing at him, and even if she was he wouldn’t have blamed her. He found himself ridiculous most of the time. He turned around to see her standing a few feet behind him, her arms folded. How long she’d been watching him, he didn’t know, but he felt as if he’d been caught smoking a fag at school by the matron. She wore skinny jeans and an old Arran fisherman’s sweater that hung off her slight frame. It had

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