Although a bit disappointed not to get to the bottom of Archie’s sketches, Poppy smiled. Perhaps it was right that some memories were better left in the past. ‘Actually, I have a watercolour taster day next weekend, which includes lunch,’ she told Fen. ‘The Petroc Resort advertised it on their website and half a dozen people have booked. They’re taking a fat cut, of course, but I’ll make a little money from it and it will help get people into the studio and spread the word. I’ve also set up a weekend workshop in October, as part of a holiday package with the Petroc Resort.’
‘That sounds good. Will you need a hand on the day? I don’t mind cutting a few sandwiches.’
Poppy laughed. ‘I’d love that and the locally sourced lunch is part of the attraction. I’d hoped to offer some rocket and tomatoes from the allotment. With the bread from our island bakery, plus some goat’s cheese from the Flower Farm herd, I think I can produce a completely local lunch. I’m going to get organised and promote more regular courses in the spring and autumn next year if these go well.’
‘I’m sure they will. I hope so. I want you to make a go of it. You’re becoming part of the furniture.’
Poppy was touched by Fen’s warm words. ‘I’ll never be rich, but I will make something from the use of the workshop and sale of the artists’ work, of course. Hopefully we’ll have repeat bookings and word will spread through the art community.’
Fen nodded. ‘Archie used to run courses years back when he had more patience and I had the energy to help organise them. Then he decided to switch his focus to the painting.’
‘Will he want to use the studio to work when he comes home?’ asked Poppy, suddenly wondering how she’d handle a permanent artist in residence after being on her own for so long.
‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that … mind you, the first thing we need to do is get him home at all.’
‘Is there any date planned yet? He must miss it terribly.’
‘Not yet, but knowing Archie, he’ll just wake up one morning and decide today’s the day to come home.’
They’d reached Fen’s cottage and stood outside on the tiny front garden where a clump of mauve agapanthus flowers nodded their heads in the breeze.
Fen gave her a shrewd look. ‘If you’re planning on organising these workshops for next year, you must definitely be thinking of staying on yourself?’
‘I guess … yes, I must be. I’ll see how the first couple go, but I want to make a go of it here. I want to give it a decent chance. It’s been hard leaving my family and friends, but the place has seeped into my soul. If that doesn’t sound too weird.’
‘Not at all.’ Fen patted her arm. ‘We’ll make a local of you yet.’
The workshop went well, and even though it was exhausting keeping eight demanding amateur artists happy, fed and watered, Poppy was delighted with the additional income and planning to organise more. Three of the attendees signed up on the spot for the autumn weekend course, despite Leo strolling in and managing to knock over their easels like dominoes.
The summer was taking its toll, with every moment taken up with admin, island life or just the logistics of making sure she had enough food. If she was honest, she was putting in more hours than she had in her old job, but the compensations were worth it. The sunsets were the most spectacular she’d ever seen, seals regularly popped up to greet her on her walks and one morning she awoke to find a pod of dolphins frolicking in the sea outside the harbour.
Missing her family was the downside, so she was delighted when Zoey arrived for a visit. She dumped her bags on the floor of the studio and bear-hugged Poppy. She’d come to stay for a week and other than a weekend visit from her parents, Poppy hadn’t seen anyone from home since the launch.
‘How’s it going? Heard from D’Artagnan on his travels lately?’ Zoey asked almost as soon as they’d let go of each other.
Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘You do know that D’Artagnan was French, not Spanish?’ she said, amused.
‘OK. OK. But have you heard from him? How long has it been now? A month?’
‘Six weeks.’ Six weeks exactly tomorrow, Poppy could have added, but she didn’t dare let on to Zoey that she’d been counting the days. She’d tried not to count them but couldn’t help remembering that final moment: the damp squib of it. She’d been protecting herself, but now she wished she’d wrung every last drop of pleasure from their time together, even if that might have made letting him go even harder. ‘And I had a WhatsApp message and some photos from him this morning as a matter of fact. An amazing shot of a sloth and an anaconda, and one of a golden lion tamarin. Incredible lighting. I don’t know how he does it.’
Zoey seemed unimpressed. ‘So, you’re really missing him badly?’
‘Honestly? I haven’t had time.’
Zoey folded her arms and pursed her lips. ‘That’s being honest?’
‘I did miss him for a while. I’d sort of got used to having him around, but that’s exactly why I’m glad he’s gone. I didn’t like waiting for him to leave and knowing I’d miss him. I don’t want to miss anyone again. It’s too soon after Dan. It’s just not … convenient right now.’
Zoey laughed and sat down on the bed. ‘Oh, Pops. Love doesn’t come along to order. It’s not a train running to schedule. Unless it’s running to a Southern Trains type of schedule.’
‘You mean waiting all day for one, then three come along at once and they’re not even going where you want them to?’
Zoey smiled. ‘Something like that.’
Poppy laughed. ‘Well, Jake’s train doesn’t have any room left for anyone else, and even if it did, I’m not sure I want to climb aboard. In any way. Have you seen Dan?’ she asked.
Zoey pulled a face. ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I shouldn’t, but yes. Tell me the worst.’
‘My mum spotted him and Evil Eve a few weeks ago, actually. They were coming out of JoJo Maman Bébé with a buggy.’ Zoe bit her lip. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. It’s fine. I only wondered.’
‘If it’s any consolation, they were having a bit of a row. Mum said that he was moaning about the price of the buggy and Eve was telling him not to be such a mean bastard. Or something like that. Mum didn’t actually use the word “bastard”.’
‘That sounds like Dan.’ Poppy smiled.
Zoey reached for her. ‘Come on, have a hug. It still hurts, doesn’t it?’
‘No, it’s just annoying. It’s annoying that I even care what he might be doing.’
‘Do you still love him?’
‘I don’t think so. In fact, no.’ In truth, Poppy was no longer sure if she had ever really loved Dan, not in the way she should have, or even in the way she felt about Jake.
‘Hate him?’
‘Hate’s a strong word,’ said Poppy.
‘A word you used about him twenty times a day until you came here, so if you don’t really know how you feel, that’s progress. Now, can we please have a glass of wine?’
‘How about a G&T? Would you like some seaweed gin? It’s been made with local kelp.’
Zoey grimaced. ‘Seaweed? Do I have to?’
‘It’s part of the St Piran’s initiation ceremony. Just like in The Wicker Man. We’re on the lookout for a virgin to sacrifice to the weather gods.’
Zoey let out a shriek then smirked. ‘I’ll be safe then. Hand over the gin.’
As the holiday season got into full swing, Poppy determined to make the most of trade while the place was buzzing, but she also hadn’t wanted to miss a moment of Zoey’s company, so Fen kindly stepped in for a couple of afternoons, and on others, Zoey helped Poppy in the gallery. For the rest of the time, Zoey was happy to take a book to the beach and sunbathe or hang out in the gallery when the weather was wet.
One grey morning near the end of the week, Zoey was inside helping Poppy unpack a new delivery from Rowan. His more graphic ‘pots’ were proving surprisingly popular with Hugo’s well-heeled Petroc Resort crowd. Poppy had
lost count of the women she’d heard tittering as they handed over the cash for their purchase, ‘for a friend from my book club, of course. I can’t wait to see her face!’
Zoey delved into the box that Rowan had dropped off earlier that morning and held up a crinkly pasty-shaped object. ‘Erm. Excuse me, but is this a fanny?’’
Poppy took it from her and set it on top of Rowan’s display plinth with his other works. ‘No, it’s a dish. You have a filthy mind.’
Zoey curled her lip. ‘Must have because it looks exactly like a fanny to me. Still, if it sells.’ She reached into the box and unwrapped another piece. ‘And this, I suppose, is a jewellery stand?’ Zoey waggled a blue-glazed phallic sculpture under Poppy’s nose. ‘Well, there’s no way any of my rings would fit over that.’
Poppy giggled. ‘It’s artistic licence, and anyway, I don’t think it’s for rings. You could slide bangles and bracelets over it, I suppose. These sell far better than I expected.’
‘I bet they do. All those posh ladies who lunch must live secret lives.’ Zoey picked up the ‘fanny bowl’ from the plinth and tried to push the ‘willy’ into the ‘fanny’. ‘The slot is too small. God, whoever made this has no idea.’
‘St-stop it. Y-you’ll break the willy.’ Poppy tried to hold back the giggles.
‘That can actually happen you know,’ said Zoey, whose eyebrows shot up her face as she examined the willy. ‘Emma at work’s brother had it happen. He had to go to A&E. He said it was the worst pain he’d ever known. Worse than when his Achilles tendon snapped. He said that it made a noise like a gun going off.’
Poppy had to put the ‘fanny’ down. Her sides hurt and her eyes were streaming. She couldn’t speak for laughing.
‘I need the loo now,’ said Zoey, with a grin. ‘Handle that with care, won’t you?’
While Zoey went to the bathroom, Poppy wiped tears of laughter from her eyes and checked her mascara in the mirror of one of the display cases. Oh, but she had missed Zoey over the past few months. She’d missed sharing a laugh and a drink, consoling each other and dishing the dirt. While she loved the studio and the stunning landscape – and getting away from Dan had seemed the right thing at the time – doubts were creeping in. She’d made new friends of course, but Zoey being here, making her laugh, well, it would be very hard to say goodbye again.
Poppy travelled all the way across to St Mary’s airport with Zoey and waited until her flight had been called. Even though she’d settled in well, part of her wanted to get on the little plane with her friend, especially when Zoey hugged her and whispered: ‘I miss you, hun. I hate to get slushy, but I really do. I know it’s pathetic, but I actually cried after you moved here. I thought Dirty Dan pissing off with Evil Eve would make you stay.’
‘Me t-too,’ said Poppy, gulping down a sob.
Zoey’s shoulders shook under her embrace. It wasn’t like Zoey to be sentimental at all and she’d set Poppy off.
They broke apart.
‘What are we like?’ They said the words together and both burst out laughing.
‘It’s not the moon, you know,’ said Poppy.
‘May as well be,’ said Zoey, pulling a face.
‘I’ll be back home after October half-term and at Christmas,’ said Poppy.
Zoey nodded. ‘Can’t wait. Let’s do FaceTime later. If I survive this flight. My Smart car is bigger than that bloody plane!’
‘Madam, are you getting on this flight or staying the night?’ The uniformed Skybus official gave Zoey a stern look and with a final hug goodbye she hurried out of the doors to the awaiting plane.
Poppy stayed right until the tiny aircraft had zipped off the end of the cliff-top runway and over the sea towards Cornwall. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and headed for the harbour to go back to St Piran’s, the studio and her own company.
Soon Zoey’s visit was only a memory and another week had flown by. Poppy threw herself into wringing every last drop out of the season and setting up new opportunities. When she wasn’t working or socialising with Kelly and the other islanders, she helped Fen in the allotment, although there had been far less time for that than she’d hoped. Perhaps she’d have more time one day – if she stayed on.
Before Poppy knew it, Jake had been gone almost eight weeks, as his trip had been extended. She still missed him. She looked forward to his emails and photographs, although she hadn’t heard from him for a couple of days. He’d warned her he wouldn’t always have Wi-Fi and it was obvious that communication would be difficult in such remote places, so she tried not to think too much of it.
It was a sultry high summer evening and she’d been over to Petroc to discuss the arrangements for an art weekend in the autumn. The moment she set foot off the boat in the harbour at St Piran’s, the heavens opened. The days were long but the cloudy weather had made it seem dark early. Even on the short run to the studio, the rain had grown heavier and was being driven off the sea by a strong wind. You could barely see beyond the harbour wall and St Piran’s might as well be the only Scilly isle in existence because every other trace of dry land had vanished into the mist and rain. By the time she reached the studio, Poppy was drenched and ran upstairs for a towel to dry her hair.
Rain drummed on the studio roof and hurled itself against the windows. The temperature had dropped too. She changed her T-shirt and jeans and pulled on an old hoodie. She went to put the kettle on and heard a noise from below. It sounded as if someone was hammering on the door of the studio.
At seven o’clock? Surely, they could see the closed sign. She peered out of the side window, which overlooked part of the veranda, but all she could see was a large rucksack propped up against the wooden step.
Her heart rate shot up and she shot towards the stairs. There was one person who might turn up on her doorstep at this time of night. She must not get excited. Even if Jake was back, she shouldn’t feel like this: the sweaty palms, the pounding heart, the hope. It was crazy and dangerous.
She stopped scampering down the stairs and slowed her pace. Let him get wet – after all, he’d spent weeks in the rainforest – let her breathing subside, let her appear cool and calm and not the least bit like she cared that he’d come back when she’d lost all hope of him returning to the Starfish ever again.
God, who was she kidding?
She hurried to the door and flung it open.
A wet, dishevelled figure stood on the veranda. ‘Well,’ he muttered. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
Chapter 28
In those first few moments, she hadn’t even been sure that the bedraggled figure on the veranda was Dan, but close up there was no mistaking him. His hipster beard was straggly and his sodden hair was like rats’ tails. Rain dripped down his nose and water pooled from his boots onto the decking.
‘This must be a shock,’ he said in a croaky voice.
Poppy noticed the dark circles under his eyes and realised that the water running down his face might not only be raindrops.
‘It is but … come inside. You’re drenched. How did you get here?’
She stood aside so he could walk into the studio.
‘I got a plane earlier and then a minibus to the harbour … and then I had to beg someone to bring me across in one of those yellow speedboats. It cost me forty quid just for a fifteen-minute ride over here!’ He dumped his rucksack on the tiles. ‘As if I wasn’t soaked by the rain, that thing was like riding a bucking bronco on water.’
‘You’re lucky you managed to get across at all in this weather. The scheduled ferry has been cancelled because of the storm.’ Poppy had no sympathy for Dan being forced to pay out for the jetboat. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I – I don’t really know. I just got on the plane from Birmingham and then from Newquay and – here I am.’
He looked around him at the studio and artwork, but the walls might have been transparent. He was physically in the room but absent mentally. Something wasn’t right or else why was
he here at all?
Poppy touched his arm. ‘Dan?’ she said softly. ‘What’s happened?’
He looked at her with an expression of pure desolation ‘It’s my dad. He’s dead.’
She reeled. ‘Dead? I’m so sorry. B-but what about Eve? Why aren’t you with her?’
‘She can’t handle it … not in her condition.’
Dan sniffed loudly and Poppy choked back a sob herself. She’d liked Dan’s dad, Pete, a lot. He could be a bit loud, but he was funny and jolly; in fact, he had far more of a sense of humour than Dan had. They’d often shared a joke and Pete had actually phoned Poppy and told her how upset he was when Dan had first left. It was shocking that he appeared to have died so suddenly.
‘My God. What a terrible shock. What happened? He was only sixty.’
‘Heart attack. You know he liked to enjoy himself. The fags and the whisky.’ Dan heaved in a breath.
‘What about your mum?’ Dan’s mum and dad had split a long time ago and his mother now lived in New Zealand.
‘She knows. I had to tell her … God, that was awful … horrible …’ He covered his face with his hands.
‘I bet it was. Poor you – and your mum, hearing the news from so far away.’ Poppy grabbed some paper towels and handed them over, still trying to process the terrible news.
‘She was no fan of Dad and they were barely speaking since they split up, but she was very upset. She couldn’t stop crying and saying “no, not my Pete”, so I had to let her new bloke comfort her and phone back. You’d never think Mum and Dad were at daggers over the divorce terms and virtually throwing things at each other. Anyone would think she still loved him.’
‘She probably did. You don’t let go of love that lightly, if at all,’ said Poppy, thinking of Jake’s words to her. Of her own feelings now, about Dan. They were confused too. She was on the verge of tears herself, seeing his distress.
Dan reached for her and she let him cling to her, while she made soothing noises, but at a loss as to how she could possibly comfort him. Maybe she couldn’t and he only needed her to be there, with her. Yet the whole situation also felt wrong. Dan shouldn’t be here. He was in the wrong place … with the wrong person.
Summer on the Little Cornish Isles Page 24
