Summer on the Little Cornish Isles: The Starfish Studio
‘They’ll have a shock. Maybe they’ll turn around and sail straight home when they see it.’ Her voice tailed off.
He patted her arm. ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you make out.’
‘You haven’t seen it yet,’ she muttered.
‘I’ll take a look after I’ve finished here. Stop worrying. No one could have done more to help Grandpa than you and, I promise you, he will do his very best to come home as soon as he’s able.’
She nodded and a sudden rattle drew their attention to the doorway. A large ginger cat, almost of fox-like proportions, wriggled through the flap and sauntered into the sitting room.
‘Aww. Leo’s come to see you!’
Jake smiled at the cat, who did what cats do: ignored him. Jake loved animals, but Leo didn’t love him. Jake had had the scratches and bite marks to prove it ever since Fen had taken Leo in five years before. Leo tolerated his humans; Fen and Archie were his favourites and Leo had allowed Harriet to stroke him. But Jake had the feeling that if Leo had been a tiger, he’d have eaten Jake for breakfast without a second thought.
‘I hope you don’t mind that Grandpa asked me to deal with the new tenants and help them settle in. Mum and Dad have enough to do with the business and caring for him. I think he didn’t want to worry you with having to sort it all out, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done in looking after it while he’s been away – and in the past …’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not offended.’
Leo allowed Fen to stroke the fur between his ears. His eyes narrowed into slits, which might have been pleasure but could just as easily mean he was planning world domination.
‘I’ve done my best with the place, but since Archie’s been on the mainland, I haven’t really had much cause to go to the studio. I wasn’t really sure these new folk would actually turn up and, to be honest, I haven’t liked to go in there, with your grandpa being away. I’m a silly old devil, but it upsets me to see the place without Archie. I keep wondering if he’ll ever be back.’
‘Of course, he’ll be back,’ he soothed, wondering if he was actually being kind to Fen by making so many sweeping and optimistic statements. ‘And we didn’t expect you to have to sort it out for the new tenants. That’s why I’m here. I’ll sort out grandpa’s paintings and tidy up a bit so there’s room for the new stock the new tenants will want to buy in.’
‘And they definitely plan on living in the attic flat above the studio?’
‘Apparently. It comes as part of the lease and they’ll want to save money, so I doubt they’ll rent anything else on the island, even if they could find it.’
‘That’ll be cosy.’
Jake thought of the studio room above the gallery, with its open-plan sitting room/kitchen/bedroom and tiny shower room. It was where he’d stayed many times – and once with Harriet. It was fine for one person, or for a couple for a short time – or a couple who were crazy about each other’s company and prepared to share everything. He and Harriet had been at that stage when they’d slept in the studio, but Jake had the impression that Dan and Poppy were long-term partners.
Jake would be staying in his grandpa’s cottage while he was sorting out the handover, which he was grateful for. He’d have rather slept on the beach than in the bed he’d once shared with Harriet. The memories of the three good years he’d enjoyed with her were now tainted by the bad ones of their final month together. Their bond, once so strong, had started to unravel before the weekend on St Piran’s that was meant to give them some private time away from distractions and help them both focus on each other and resolve their differences.
Instead their stay on the island had finally ended in the most terrible way imaginable. Coming back to St Piran’s had brought the memories flooding back in vivid detail. All because of a lapse of judgement on her part, which he had contributed to, however indirectly.
It was all too much. His skin prickled, his throat was thick, he could hear the waves slapping the sides of the boat, hear himself screaming. The floor shifted like the deck of a yacht on a swell or like water. He was going to sink and drown …
‘What’s the matter? Jake?’ Fen was at his side, holding his elbow. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet.’
‘I’ll be OK …’
‘Rubbish. You’re swaying. Sit here.’ With Fen’s help, he lowered himself into the chair. ‘Quick. Get this down you,’ she ordered.
He gulped down the cold tea and almost gagged, but he covered it just in time. Luckily, the tea revived him and the room stopped moving. He felt solid floor under his boots.
‘Are you all right? You look awful.’
‘Fine. I had a bit of a bug before I left and, on top of the jet lag, I just felt a bit light-headed. Nothing that some sleep won’t cure. Thanks for the tea.’ He pushed the mug away from him. ‘You were saying something about the new tenants and the flat above the Starfish?’
She blew out a breath. ‘Yes. It’ll be a big test for two strangers, moving out here. They’ve not run a business before, have they? And they’re coming from the city.’
‘I think they live in a market town, but you’re right, they’ve never done anything like this.’
‘But they’ve signed up for it now, so they can’t back out.’
‘I’m sure they won’t,’ he said more confidently than he felt. Even though he hadn’t been up to the studio yet, he was worried about what the new tenants would think of it. If it was as dilapidated as Fen made out – not to mention his parents, who had said they were shocked by the state of the place when they’d last visited a few months previously – he wouldn’t blame the new arrivals for claiming the place wasn’t as advertised and they were heading home.
Maybe they already had heard on the grapevine somehow … Poppy McGregor clearly didn’t share her partner’s enthusiasm, judging by the email the property agent had forwarded to Jake.
Don’t worry, I’m coming. Let’s face it, I’ve no choice now, ha ha. :( :(
Let’s face it, I’ve no choice now … It wasn’t very professional for a business email, but maybe Poppy was the quirky type. And the ‘ha ha’ and double horrified emojis had rung a few alarm bells. There was quirky, and then there was bonkers and impossible to deal with. Jake didn’t want any hassle. He simply wanted to hand over the Starfish Studio to Poppy and Dan and bugger off back home to see his family and his own flat.
Personally, he thought the two of them were nuts to leave civilisation and come to the back end of beyond, but maybe they had wide-eyed dreams of starting a new life away from the rat race. Maybe it had been her partner’s idea to move and now she’d burnt her bridges, she had no choice but to go along with his lunatic scheme. Shit. He really hoped they wouldn’t cause him too much hassle. They’d signed the lease and technically couldn’t back out now, but the Starfish was in a state … In twenty-four hours, could he make a difference? If the Islander ferry was stuck in Penzance he might have longer … unless, of course, Poppy and Dan decided to take the plane or helicopter.
Fen broke into his thoughts. ‘Do you want a hand sprucing the place up? Will you be going in there this evening?’
Jake smiled. She had enough on her plate keeping her own place from falling down without labouring at the Starfish.
‘That’s good of you, but I don’t think there’s a lot I can do this evening. I plan to get an early start in there tomorrow. Think I’ll go up to Grandpa’s cottage now and settle in, if you don’t mind.’
She eased herself out of the chair. ‘Course not. I’m here if and when you need me. Plenty of bleach and rags here too, if you want them. I put some milk and butter in the fridge and left you a fresh loaf and a pot of my hedgerow jam. I knew the shop would be closed when you got here and wasn’t sure if you’d have time to get some food in Hugh Town. I don’t know what they’ve got left anyway. If the supply boat can’t make it tomorrow, the mainland and the off-islands will be running short of everything.’
He hugged her warmly. ‘That’s very kind. I’d probably have starved without you.’
Her face creased in pleasure. ‘If you want anything else, just pop in.’
‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’
He was halfway out of the door when she called to him from the kitchen. ‘Oh, and Jake, there’s a crate in the storeroom at the studio. I came across it the other day when I was looking out some papers.’ Fen came back into the sitting room, drying her hands on a tattered tea towel. ‘I thought it was a delivery of frames until I saw the envelope stuck on the side.’
Jake lingered on the doormat, twitching with anxiety to have some time to himself. ‘Oh?’
‘Envelope had your name on it. Didn’t Archie mention it when you saw him at your mum’s?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘I wonder if he had a premonition something was going to happen and thought he might not come home at all …’
She crushed the tea towel between her hands and Jake could have sworn her eyes glistened. A shiver ran up his own spine. That was all he needed: a letter from his grandpa that might have been intended to be read after his death. This visit was getting more emotionally tough by the minute and he intended to quash any thoughts of that nature, if he possibly could.
‘No.’ He reached out and touched her arm. ‘Thanks for telling me. I’ll take a look.’ But he might not actually open the envelope, he decided.
‘Good luck.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘And remember, I’m only five minutes away if you do need me.’
Jake got the impression that Fen didn’t want him to call her, even if she did want to help him. She probably wanted to wait until he’d had the chance to calm down after seeing the place.
‘Thanks.’ Jake smiled but started to hurry out of the door when he felt pressure against his legs as something wound its way between them. ‘Ow!’
Stars swam and he felt sick as he tried to steady himself after smacking his head against the stone lintel. He held on to the doorjamb for support and, wincing, he opened his eyes. Leo had teleported right under his feet and tripped him up. The cat stared at him, as if to say ‘what the hell is up with you, human?’
‘You won’t win,’ Jake murmured. ‘I won’t give in. I’ve faced down much bigger beasts than you.’
Leo walked past him, tail in the air.
‘You see,’ Jake muttered, ignoring the sickening throb in his forehead. ‘I told you you’d break first.’
‘What’s up?’ Fen walked into the sitting room. ‘Hit your head on the beam. Damn thing. Mind, I always told Archie you’d grow too big for St Piran’s.’
‘Leo got under my feet. Didn’t even know he was there.’
‘He’s like that. I have to watch out myself. You’ll live, though?’
‘Yeah.’ Jake glared at Leo, who had his tail to him, looking up at Fen.
Fen tutted. ‘Leo can’t help it. He’s a cat.’
Leo strolled up to Jake, staring up at him innocently.
Fen beamed in delight. ‘Aww. Bless. Puss has come to you. You’re highly honoured.’
Jake leaned down. Maybe Fen was right. Archie loved Leo, so maybe he should make an effort. Then Leo lifted his tail and sprayed a stream of urine over Jake’s legs.
As Fen shrieked in dismay, Jake shook his damp and stinking leg and sighed. Then again, maybe some rifts were too deep to heal.
Chapter 3
‘Feeling a bit queasy, love? Still, not long to go now.’
The man opposite Poppy sank his teeth into his pasty. He had dirt under his fingernails and pastry crumbs in his scraggy greying beard … and oh God, was that a diced carrot nestled among the whiskers? He reminded her of Mr Twit from the Roald Dahl books. Mr Twit crossed with one of the Hairy Bikers.
The smell of meat and pastry hit her and her stomach clenched. She clutched the sick bag tighter. She’d have given her right arm – no make that Dan’s right arm – to be beamed onto dry land. Still, not long to go, according to Mr Twit. Surely, she couldn’t throw up any more?
‘We’ll be rounding St Mary’s in three-quarters of an hour, give or take. Things will calm down a bit then.’
‘Still three-quarters of an hour?’ she said. ‘B-but the isles look so close.’ At least they had seemed close ten minutes previously when she’d staggered back, for the third time, from the washrooms into the ferry’s café. The low islands – reminding her of black beetles – had appeared on the horizon for a few seconds before vanishing again as the ship plunged into the trough of the next huge wave.
‘Give or take. We’ll be passing the Eastern Isles and St Saviour’s soon and if the tide’s right we could be there in half an hour, but we can’t go through the lagoon today. Tide’s not right. We have to sail round and come into St Mary’s the long way.’ Mr Twit was obviously a multi-tasker, chewing and talking at the same time, while crumbs sprayed from his mouth and settled on her jeans.
The boat juddered as a wave smacked into it. ‘Oh God …’
‘You do look green round the gills, girl, but it’ll soon be over. Bet you’ve had no breakfast, either. Why don’t you get something down you? I can get you a pasty if you want? You’re in luck. Café hasn’t sold out of them today.’
At any other time, she’d have laughed at being called a ‘girl’, which didn’t happen that often now she was thirty-three. But right now, smiling was out of the question, as was laughing, sitting down, standing up, talking or basically existing.
Mr Twit thrust the pasty under her nose. ‘Here, have a taste of this.’
‘No … thank … yeuerghhhh!’
Poppy had just enough time to open the sick bag before she threw up in it, narrowly avoiding Mr Twit’s trousers, though looking at the stains on them, a bit of pebble-dashing might not have made any difference. And anyway, right now she didn’t care about anything apart from getting off this rollercoaster ride from hell and onto dry land.
When she’d finished retching, she glanced up, hoping that wasn’t dribble on her chin, or worse. ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ (she wasn’t) ‘I couldn’t help it.’
Mr Twit grinned. Mercifully, he’d finished chewing his pasty so his mouth was empty. ‘Better out than in, I always say. Been a bit lively on here, even I’ll admit, though nothing to what it’s like in the winter.’
‘Really?’ She dug a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped her mouth.
The man grinned. ‘Oh, yes. Was on here once in a March gale. Struck us halfway across. Even the crew were queasy. Had to shut the café, so I never got my fried brekkie. I love a slice of juicy black pudding, me. Hey, you’re looking a bit iffy again. Shall I fetch you a bottle of water?’
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Mr Twit couldn’t do anything unspeakable with a bottle of water and she didn’t know if she could manage to queue at the café desk and pay for the water without barfing. ‘Thanks, I’ll just go and freshen up in the washroom first.’ She also needed to dispose of the sick bag and find a fresh one – if they hadn’t run out. Otherwise, there was always her tote bag. ‘Let me give you some money,’ she said, reaching for her purse.
‘Don’t you worry. It’s my treat. Welcome to Scilly.’
Mr Twit patted her on the back, and although she didn’t know him from Adam, and had been revolted by his pasty munching, she didn’t mind.
Ten minutes later, she made it back to her seat, where Mr Twit had a bottle of chilled Cornish spring water waiting. He handed it over and refused once again to let her pay for it. She sipped the water and felt slightly better. On a scale of one to ten – ten being ‘Death, come quickly’ – she was now at level eight. At last, there was something positive to take from this whole experience. She’d agonised over a lot of horrendous decisions over the past few weeks, but one thing was clear. She was never setting foot on a boat, of any kind, ever again.
‘Thanks. That’s helped.’
‘Best take it outside if I were you, get a blow of fresh air now we’re near to land. The sun’s out and you’ll find the ride more comfortable now we’re between the isles. I’ll come outside with you and point out some of the sights, if you like? Take your mind off things?’
He held out his hand and she shook it limply.
‘I’m Trevor, by the way. Not the best start to your holiday, is it, love?’
She managed a weak smile. ‘I’m Poppy McGregor and um … I’m not on holiday.’
St Mary’s quay was a scene of organised chaos. The Islander crew were already unloading bags and freight, including, Poppy presumed, her own worldly goods – or at least the ones she’d been able to pack into half a dozen crates. These had been loaded into a small shipping container in Penzance by the removals company the previous evening. The removals people and the onboard crew had assured her that the crates would be transferred onto the St Piran’s freight boat, the Herald, and shipped over to the island that same afternoon.
If she was being honest, Poppy would almost have given all her stuff away if she could only have got off the ferry, but now she was on dry land, she was looking forward to unpacking her own things and settling in.
She spotted a board that was chalked up with the names of different ‘tripper’ boats and water taxis that ferried people around the various islands. However, she didn’t even want to think about how she was going to get to St Piran’s yet. She certainly had no intention of finding a lift over until her stomach settled, so she slung her backpack on her shoulders and headed towards civilisation.
Beyond the harbour, a higgledy-piggledy line of buildings was Hugh Town, the tiny capital of St Mary’s. She could only see the backs of the pubs, shops and cafés, all hugging the long sweep of pale beach that curved around a small headland. The clouds were low and grey and the rain reduced to a half-hearted drizzle.
Poppy had a good imagination and a creative soul, but no matter how hard she tried, the scene before her didn’t look anything like the white sands and turquoise waters of her last visit to the isles – or anything like Archie Pendower’s paintings. Today, Hugh Town could have been any small harbour town on a wet and windy day, but nowhere was at its best on a miserable day like this, especially after the journey she’d had.
She’d soon feel brighter after a cup of tea and a good night’s rest in the little flat above the Starfish Studio. She couldn’t believe she was finally going to sleep in the very place she and Dan had dreamed of since that sunny day almost three years previously. The Starfish was the place they’d given up their old lives for. The place that Dan had persuaded her to make her dream too – before abandoning it and her for another woman a month before they were due to move.
Even though Dan had sounded so passionate about the idea on their journey home, she’d fully expected his holiday enthusiasm to evaporate, but it hadn’t – in fact, it had crystallised into an active plan to start a new life by the seaside. They’d spent the following two years searching for a business to run on the islands or, failing that, in Cornwall. They’d registered with every property agent and even visited a few places but none had been suitable. Then, around nine months ago, one of the Scilly agents had tipped them off that the lease on the Starfish Studio might become available.
Apparently, Archie Pendower and his assistant were finding it too much to run the gallery and gift shop and Archie wanted to concentrate on his painting alone. It seemed like fate, of course, so she and Dan had jumped at the chance, signed the contract and enrolled on courses on how to run a business while they worked out their notices in their jobs. Neither of them had been back to Scilly since, because they knew one hundred per cent that they wanted the gallery. They’d studied the terms of the lease and had an accountant friend look over the books. The figures only just added up, but that was because the owners had ‘let the business slide somewhat’, said the agent, but ‘all it required was a fresh injection of enthusiasm and a quick spruce-up’.
They’d realised they’d have to tighten their belts and be as self-sufficient as possible while they got the gallery up and running. They were never going to be rich from their new lifestyle, but they considered that the price of moving to paradise and the Starfish Studio also came with the major bonus of an attic flat above the gallery, which was included in the rent. As they studied at the photos on the agent’s website, Poppy realised that must be where the roped-off staircase had led to on her brief visit while on holiday on St Piran’s. The flat was small, just one sitting-cum-dining-cum-bedroom with a kitchenette and teeny shower room, but that was fine with them both. It all sounded perfect.
At the weekends, Poppy had been visiting dozens of galleries, spoken to the owners and started to make contact with the artists who supplied the studio, as well as exploring new ideas. She wanted everything to be handmade locally or in Cornwall. She envisaged the studio building up a new portfolio of original paintings, sculpture, ceramics, glasswork, metalwork, woodwork, jewellery and textiles. She hoped that Archie would also want to sell some of his paintings in the studio. Everything was beginning to come together and she was starting to get excited about her new life. The dream might have started as Dan’s, but it was now their dream.
At the start of April – one month before the move – Poppy finally handed in her notice at work. It felt stomach-churningly final and she knew some people thought she was mad, while others were envious. Coming home that evening, she had stopped off at the supermarket to buy a bottle of champagne. She guessed Dan would probably be feeling the same as she was: terrified, liberated and wildly excited. She’d walked into the house to find him already home … sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face.
She’d abandoned the fizz and thrown her arms around him. ‘Oh my God. What’s happened? Is it your parents? Your sister? Has someone died?’
Instead of letting her comfort him, he’d pushed her away and looked at her like a scolded child, as if everything was her fault.
‘No,’ he’d said, his voice cracking with misery. ‘No one d-died … I’m sorry, Poppy, but I can’t do this.’
Her blood had run cold. ‘What do you mean, you can’t do this? It’s scary, I know that. Especially tonight, when we’ve handed in our notices …’
Dan lifted his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘That’s the thing, Pops, I didn’t hand in my notice.’
‘What? We had a pact. We’d do it together. I gave in mine … Dan, you’re nervous and scared. I can see that, but we’ve gone too far down the road now. I’ve told everyone I’m leaving. We sign the contract on the studio tomorrow. We can’t back out now.’
‘We have to. I have to.’ He wiped his knuckles across his face and his voice hardened. ‘I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to Scilly. I can’t. It’s not the move, Poppy. Oh God … I don’t know how to tell you this, but Eve said it was better to be cruel to be kind.’
She jumped up in alarm at the mention of Dan’s boss. ‘Eve? What do you mean? What’s Eve got to do with this?’
Dan had stood up and backed away too, as if he was scared of staying too close to Poppy. Then he folded his arms defensively. ‘I’m not coming to Scilly. I’m moving in with Eve. I’m sorry, Poppy, I’ve tried to fight this, b-but I love her.’
Now, squashing down a fresh wave of anger, Poppy shrugged her backpack onto her shoulders and marched off towards the town. She hurried up the cobbled street past a pub called the Galleon Inn and headed for a tea shop. The idea of a walk in the fresh air and, when she’d recovered, a cup of tea and something plain to fill her battered stomach, was very tempting.
She could check out the town’s facilities at the same time and pick up a few supplies from the little supermarket. Only as much as she could carry, of course, but she’d have to get used to that. Maybe she could have some food delivered once she got to know people. She already intended to start a little kitchen garden and maybe find a small patch of land to grow some of her own food. That had been one of Dan’s better ideas and, if she kept things simple, she hoped she could manage to grow a few things. She’d never grown a vegetable in her life, of course, but she’d have to learn. There were a lot of things she’d have to learn.