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