Summer on the Little Cornish Isles: The Starfish Studio

Chapter 2

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.’