Summer on the Little Cornish Isles

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘That looks beautiful.’ Fen stood beside Poppy as she fiddled with the display.

  ‘Do you think so? It’s not too twee with the pebbles and wood?’

  Fen tutted. ‘It’s perfect. Too good for that Minty.’

  Poppy turned in surprise. ‘You’re not a fan of hers?’

  ‘Her jewellery is very pretty – I’ll give her that. It used to fly off the shelves until custom waned, but she has an inflated opinion of her own talents. You met her, dear. You must have formed an impression.’

  ‘I didn’t really spend that much time with her to be honest.’

  Fen raised an eyebrow. ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I admit she was slightly intimidating.’ Poppy had to hide her glee at Fen’s blunt assessment of Minty. ‘But she is a great lure for customers and she’s coming around next Friday to see how we’re getting on with the “space”. Several of the other artists are coming too.’

  ‘Oh gosh. Not all together I hope?’

  ‘No. Rowan’s booked in first, with the others later that day. I thought everyone would prefer individual attention and grovelling, so Kay Baverstock is due after lunch and Minty around four. Why?’

  Fen sighed in relief. ‘Thank goodness for that. Minty likes to be queen bee and she can’t stand Kay … Nor most of the other artists in the gallery. The female ones anyway.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘And have you warned Jake?’ said Fen.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Minty descending on us, of course.’

  ‘Do I need to?’ asked Poppy, slightly alarmed.

  ‘It might be a good idea.’ Fen lowered her voice as if she expected Jake to burst in on them at any moment. ‘Before he met Harriet, they had a thing, you know …’

  ‘They? You mean Jake and Minty?’

  Fen pursed her lips and nodded theatrically.

  ‘Wow. That’s … surprised me. Um … this “thing” … was it serious?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by serious. Minty thought so, but I’m not sure how Jake felt. He broke more than a few hearts on these islands, I can tell you, before he met Harriet.’ Fen gazed at one of Archie’s paintings on the wall. ‘Then again, it seems to run in the family.’

  Chapter 15

  Jake popped into the gallery on the Saturday morning. Was this the same place? When he’d last seen it, the floor had still been littered with dust sheets and paint tins. Wow. It was obvious that while he’d been busy doing some of his own work at the cottage, Poppy had moved some of the display cases and plinths into the space, hung a few pictures and arranged some of the artworks on the plinths. Stock was still sparse, but wow, it gave a great idea of how the Starfish could – and would – look by launch day.

  ‘Wow. It’s almost unrecognisable,’ said Jake. ‘My grandpa won’t believe it when he comes back.’

  Poppy blew a strand of hair away from her face. She was glowing after her efforts and her denim dungarees and blue T-shirt were spattered with white paint. Jake thought she’d never looked more gorgeous.

  ‘Still work to do, but I think we’re getting there,’ she said. ‘With a bit of luck, I’ll have more to sell by launch day.’

  Jake smiled to himself. She’d tried to hide the pride in her voice, but he could tell how happy she was. She deserved to be.

  ‘Thanks for helping me. I’m very grateful,’ she said.

  ‘No way. Don’t be. The ideas and concept are all yours. You did well to stick it out here after that first day.’

  ‘Did you think I’d leg it straightaway?’ she asked, and he knew she was only half-joking.

  ‘I wasn’t sure. I think I would have. In fact, I’d have been on the first plane home.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘I’ve thought about it a few times.’ She pointed to a space on the wall opposite the cash desk. ‘I was thinking of displaying your photos there. What do you think?’

  Just in time, Jake stifled a groan. He hadn’t even started taking the pictures yet and time was racing by. He had to do something very very soon, because not only did he have to take the photos but he also had to edit them and have them printed on the mainland. Even then, he’d have to get the shots emailed to the specialist printing company and sent over by air. It would cost an arm and a leg, but he’d promised Poppy exclusive pictures and that’s what she’d have.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ She cut into his thoughts, with an anxious look on her face. ‘You don’t have to take them if you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘I haven’t. Like I say, it’s the least I could do after we let you down over the gallery. You can sell the prints either in the Starfish or online if you like. I won’t let anyone else have them. If that’s what you want,’ he added hastily, suddenly realising he sounded as if he was doing her a favour. ‘And if you don’t like them when you see them or they don’t fit in, don’t say yes because you don’t want to offend me. I’ve a hide like a rhino after so long in this business.’

  ‘I wish I had,’ she said, then smiled. ‘But I’m absolutely sure I’ll love the prints. A Jake Pendower Exhibition will be a real coup for the gallery.’

  ‘It might drive people away.’ He laughed, unsure if she was teasing him.

  ‘We’ll have to see …’ Her voice was tinged with amusement. ‘So have you decided what pictures to take yet?’

  ‘I’ve a few ideas … but nothing definite. I’d better get a move on, hadn’t I?’ He kept his tone light but inside he was panicking.

  ‘Yes, you had.’ She bent down to pick up a paint tin that had been left on the floor. Jake swallowed hard. Those dungarees were just about the sexiest thing he’d ever seen a woman wear.

  He joined her, picking up a dust sheet and folding it as Poppy stacked the tin on the stepladder. She stretched her spine and raised her arms in the air to ease her shoulders.

  ‘I’ll clear up tomorrow. I’m too knackered now. Do you want to go for a drink?’

  Jake smiled. He had to get out of the studio. Feelings he hadn’t expected and didn’t know how to deal with had emerged out of nowhere. They went beyond physical attraction. He should really say ‘no’ and get away from the source. ‘I’d love to, but I think I’ll go out with the camera. The light’s perfect at this time of the evening and there could be a great sunset.’

  ‘Oh … OK.’ She didn’t seem too disappointed – he didn’t know how he felt about that.

  On Sunday morning, Jake was up at first light. He dug into a bowl of cereal while musing about the previous evening. He had gone out with his camera after he’d left Poppy, but the sunset wasn’t as interesting as he’d made out. He’d wandered around the island until dusk, half-heartedly shooting a few pictures, but none of them had been worth keeping, so he’d deleted them. He was back to square one.

  He needed fresh inspiration for the new pictures; the problem was that he didn’t want any. And the even bigger problem was that he knew exactly where he might find it if he had the courage to look.

  He left his half-eaten Cornflakes, got the pliers from under the sink and went upstairs. He hesitated before opening the crate, then thought of Poppy. She’d made a leap of faith in coming to St Piran’s to start a new life so soon after Dan had left her. She’d been brave and bold. All Jake had to do was look at a few paintings.

  It sounded simple, but it was with slightly unsteady hands that he prised out the tacks in the lid and lifted it off.

  He let out a breath as he pulled out the scrunched-up newspaper covering the pictures. Inside were around half a dozen canvases, each protected by bubble wrap and secured with sticky tape. Colours and shapes were all he could make out through the bubbles. The tape didn’t look old, so he guessed that Grandpa had packed them fairly recently.

  He lifted out the first one and laid it on the bed, before peeling off the tape from the wrap. Instantly, he was transported back into a different life. One where everything was innocent and hopeful, bathed in sunlight, with the future not even thought of. A world where he’d lived for the moment a
nd worried only about finding a starfish on the beach or whether there’d be pizza for dinner.

  The painting showed a boy on the beach. It was obviously him, even though it was a back view. He couldn’t mistake the shock of dark hair, the Cornish Pirates rugby shirt he always wore and, of course, his Nikon camera. He must have been around nine or ten and he was taking a picture of his favourite view of the rocks at the northern end of St Piran’s and the ocean beyond it.

  That view took his breath away, both because of its stark beauty and the memories it evoked – now, not then of course, when all he’d cared about was capturing the scene and showing it to his grandpa.

  He could almost point to the spot where the yacht had nearly run aground while he was trying to search for Harriet after she’d fallen overboard. The painting brought back the crushing panic that had frozen his mind while he tried to stop the boat and sail round to where she’d been swept into the waves by the boom. He’d wanted to jump in to save her but he had to control the boat first or she’d have no chance.

  Why had his grandpa left this painting of this scene for him, knowing it would churn up the darkest memories from the depths?

  He’d never know unless he found the courage to face the past … unless that was exactly what Archie had wanted him to do?

  He pulled out another painting, before he lost his nerve, and started to rip open the tape.

  Jake shrugged his camera backpack off his shoulders and winced. His back and arms ached, and he felt completely drained, not simply from the physical effort of carrying heavy kit around all day, but because of the emotional strain of the past two days.

  It was Monday evening, and for the last two days, he’d taken hundreds of shots at each of the locations featured in Archie’s paintings. He’d checked them all while he was in the field, but he needed to transfer them to his laptop, choose his favourites and start the post-processing before emailing the finished shots to the printer in Truro. He didn’t expect to get to bed before the small hours.

  His stomach rumbled and his throat was on fire so he filled a pint glass with tap water and knocked the lot back. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and had probably become dehydrated. He’d managed on only a bottle of water and a takeout coffee all day. Once he’d started his mission, he hadn’t dared to stop. He’d been afraid to stop taking pictures in case his courage failed him, so he’d ploughed on, covering almost every path and byway of the little island, from its treacherous cliffs to its balmy beaches.

  He’d struggled several times when he’d revisited favourite haunts with his camera. The memories of days spent with Archie, with his parents, on his own and with Harriet had almost overwhelmed him at times, but he’d stuck to his task. He would honour his grandpa’s legacy with one of his own – a unique testimony to Archie’s influence on him as a photographer. He’d never taken pictures that were so personal to him and, at times, it had physically hurt him to lift the lens and point it at the scenes that held so many memories, happy and sad.

  He splashed water on his face, shoved a ready meal in the microwave and opened a beer while he waited for it to ping. There was no time to waste. After a hasty supper, he went back upstairs and looked at the paintings he’d laid out in the bedroom again. He wanted to fix the scenes in his mind’s eye before he selected the shots he’d taken to replicate his grandpa’s scenes. He started to sort through the best images, ready to whittle them down to the final half dozen or so.

  The small thumbnails unfolded on the screen like a banner; thousands of them. Jake scrolled down, reliving again the places he’d visited over the weekend.

  He stopped every now and then, picking out the most striking pictures from experience and instinct.

  There.

  There was the spot he’d taken a photo of a seal on the rocks while his grandpa had painted it. There was the beach where he and Harriet had lit a driftwood fire. There was the very hollow at the edge of the dunes where he’d proposed to her …

  He caught his breath, clicking through some of the later shots. There was the place where he’d lost her, just as wild and dangerous and beautiful as in Archie’s painting. He heaved a sigh and moved onwards to the very last of the images he’d taken.

  His body relaxed a little and he smiled as he lingered over the final photo.

  He only hoped Poppy would like the results.

  Chapter 16

  On Wednesday evening, Poppy was trying to stay calm. The artists were visiting on Friday and although the studio was almost ready, her nerves were getting to her. There were only ten days to go to the launch and the days were racing by. She was very happy to accept an invitation from Kelly to go to the pub that evening, where her partner, Spike, was cooking in the kitchen.

  She hadn’t seen much of Jake since their talk about the photographs, apart from their paths crossing a couple of times around the harbour area. He’d been laden down with equipment and it was obvious he was on a mission. She didn’t like to pressure him, though her curiosity over what he would produce was running wild. It couldn’t be easy for him – revisiting places with memories that might be painful – but it was his decision, so she left well alone.

  She met Kelly and they sat outside the Moor’s Head, admiring the fiery sunset over a drink and a delicious Thai fish curry. It was a cool evening but bright and far too nice to be inside. With a couple of beers inside her, after a day arranging her display units in the newly painted space, Poppy was feeling a little more mellow. Things seemed to be taking shape in her life at last.

  ‘Jake’s still here then. I thought he’d be gone by now, but it’s been over two weeks since he arrived,’ said Kelly.

  ‘Yes. He’s been a big help. I think he felt guilty about the state of the studio.’

  ‘Is he definitely staying for the launch, then?’

  ‘Yes. He’s been busy taking some photographs of St Piran’s especially for it.’

  ‘So I heard. That’s a big deal for the studio. He’s supposed to be a big fish in landscape photography.’

  ‘I know now. I googled him,’ said Poppy, thinking of all the prestigious publications she’d discovered where Jake’s photos had appeared since she’d taken the time to check him out. She’d had no idea how well known and regarded he was, which made his offer all the more amazing.

  ‘Jake must like you if he’s taking pictures especially for you.’

  ‘For the studio, not me,’ Poppy corrected. She was torn between amusement and dismay that Kelly was implying Jake had taken the photos because he fancied Poppy. ‘I think he’s trying to help Archie in a roundabout way. He wants the place to be a success for his grandpa’s sake as much as mine.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah … that must be it. Of course it’s all for Archie.’ Kelly smirked and Poppy could tell she didn’t believe a word.

  ‘Another drink?’ she said, hoping to change the subject.

  Kelly laughed. ‘I won’t say no … Oh, you’ve got me going now. I can’t wait to see these new photos.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ murmured Poppy as she headed for the bar.

  Poppy didn’t sleep well that night. It was probably nerves and excitement at the prospect of meeting the artists on Friday and awaiting their verdict on the new gallery – not to mention the launch party coming up fast.

  Her slumbers weren’t helped by the wind that started blowing hard as she tossed and turned in her bed. She kept meaning to get up and shut the skylight in the shower room in case it rained but she must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew the first fingers of light were creeping into the flat and she could pick out the shapes of furniture in the predawn.

  There was a strange noise too. A dull roar, like the heaviest rain she’d ever heard, and as if someone was running a bath … a very big bath …

  ‘What?’

  She sat up and threw off the covers as she realised that the sound wasn’t the wind or rain but water. Very fast-running water … inside the flat.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. Th
e sound was unmistakable. Her heart thumping, she scrambled out of bed and squelched over the rug towards the source of the torrent of noise. Water was streaming from under the shower room door. She pushed it open and a scraggy wet ball of fur shot out past her legs on a mini wave of cold water.

  ‘Oh my God, Leo!’

  But Leo was gone, leaping onto the bed and licking his sodden fur from the safety of the pillows. Apart from being soaked, he seemed OK, so Poppy focused on the immediate problem: the metal mains water pipe to the basin was split in two. Water was pumping out of the pipe at mains pressure, spraying the walls and ceiling. It had already blasted off several bottles of shampoo, shower gel and a large polished pebble from the window ledge, which must have chipped the edge of the cistern cover on its way down. The damage to the loo was the least of her worries.

  She cursed and gasped as the cold water sprayed her pyjama vest and shorts, soaking them in a few seconds. The floor was a centimetre deep in water, which was flowing merrily along the floorboards and down the stairs in a mini waterfall.

  ‘Oh no. The gallery!’

  Swearing loudly, she slithered down the spiral staircase in her bare feet, almost slipping down the last few steps. Her heart was in her mouth. The shower room was directly over the work area so she dreaded what she might find. How long had the pipe been broken? How long had that amount of water – the equivalent to the bath taps turned full on – been pouring out?

  To her horror, water had already pooled around the foot of the steps and in puddles on the uneven tiles of the gallery floor. Puddles were joining up and creeping towards the front door of the gallery. Some water had collected at the bases of the freshly decorated boxes and plinths. Luckily, the pieces of art, sculptures and ceramics were all off the floor, so, on first sight, none appeared to be damaged.

  She’d never imagined that a domestic pipe could create such a noise or such a mess. Plasterboard and dust had come down from the shower room ceiling and water was running down the walls towards the light switches.