There were two ways down to Polwenna Bay from Mo’s clifftop yard. The simplest route was to follow the narrow lane that wound its way down the hillside and passed through the westerly side of the village beside the British Legion and the Merry Mackerel Café, before passing the church, skipping over a humpbacked bridge and finally opening up into a street filled with restaurants and gift shops – plus the latest jewel in Polwenna Bay’s crown, Symon’s Michelin-starred restaurant, The Plump Seagull. Today, Mo wasn’t in the mood for simple or straightforward. She also had a vested interest in taking the second route into the village, a muddier and splashier path that split off from the lane just before the jumbled lichen-splattered village rooftops came back into view. This was a scenic and more leisurely path through several acres of ancient woodland. The locals called this area Fernside; in the heat of the summer it was a cool oasis of green shade and in the winter it was the best place in the world to gather kindling for the wood burner or to collect bags full of spiky holly splashed with blood-red berries, to make Christmas garlands.
Mo, who was generally always dressed in boots and jeans, had been taking the Fernside route into the village for as long as she’d had horses up at the top of the hill, and there wasn’t an inch of the woodland that she didn’t know. Mo always felt that when she slipped into the dappled pools of shade it was as though she’d stepped away from the noise and demands of the real world and travelled backwards to a quieter time. Although the sounds of the village still floated through the valley and the rooks in their treetop perches chattered endlessly like noisy schoolchildren, being in the woods felt like being in another dimension altogether. Whatever the season, Mo loved the peace and quiet of Fernside. In the springtime the floor was an inland sea of bluebells. In the summer wild garlic lent a Parisian scent to the pathways as her boots brushed against the flowers. When autumn came, the leaves turned to russet and scarlet and gold confetti, drifting down silently to carpet the earth. By winter the trees shivered beneath their ivy cloaks and knitted their branches overhead to keep out the rain. Mo had played here as a child, making camps with her siblings, and as an adult it was a place where she liked to come and just be still for a while to escape the pressures of the yard and the knotty business of Tremaine family life. There was something about catching glimpses of Polwenna through the tangled trees, small as a model village from this height, which calmed her down and put everything into perspective.
Today Mo was walking through Fernside for a very different reason. Rather than feeling soothed, every step she took wound her up so much that she was in danger of chiming like the village hall clock. She splashed through the puddles, kicked branches out of the way and, for once, neglected to admire the village peeping shyly at her through the greenery. Instead of seeing the path and the breathtaking views, all Mo could picture was the pristine tarmac road that Ashley bloody Carstairs wanted to bulldoze through the woods. Mariners, at present his white elephant of a property, couldn’t be accessed by road through the village, which was a tragic blow to a man who probably loved his sports car more than his mum (if indeed Cashley had a mum; Mo was convinced that he was actually Satan come to earth as a property developer). But the house was situated right at the end of Fernside, and it hadn’t taken Cashley long to figure out that if he flung enough money at the council somebody would agree to sell the woods to him. Today’s letter from PAG had carried the devastating news that the woods were indeed going to be sold at auction very soon.
It was a coincidence too far, Mo thought bitterly as she kicked a piece of bark. Of course this was another of the dark doings of Cashley – and unless she came up with a brilliant idea and pretty bloody quickly too, Fernside would be his personal driveway before you could say tosser. There had to be a way she could raise the money to beat him to it.
Unable to face walking to the end of the woods and seeing the sad shell of Mariners, Mo turned left when the path fell a little, and took the stepped lane that dropped behind St Wenn’s and popped out behind the chip shop. The houses were a cluster of slate roofs and listing chimney pots, speckled with moss and seagull droppings, and the closer she got to the village the louder the music became as The Tinners played their first set on the green.
Maybe Zak would get a big recording deal and lend her the money to buy the woods, Mo thought hopefully. Everyone said he was talented, so if that failed maybe she could persuade him to go on The X Factor instead and have a bash at One Direction style world domination? Winning the lottery was another possibility, although since she didn’t play it this plan had its flaws. Then there was always the chance of marrying a rich man.
Mo glanced down at her broken nails, calloused hands and tatty clothes. Unless there was a millionaire with a penchant for scruffy girls who smelled of horses and had wild hair, she was on a hiding to nothing. Besides, there was a distinct lack of millionaires in Polwenna Bay; they preferred the smarter Cornish resorts like Fowey and Rock, where they could pose in their boats and pretend that they knew the royals. Unfortunately for Mo the only millionaire in the village was Cashley.
There was nothing else for it: she would have to start buying lottery tickets.
The village green was packed like a sardine tin, with bodies of holidaymakers and locals alike pressed together. Beers in hand and swaying to the catchy harmonies, people had gathered to listen to The Tinners. Mo joined the throng for a couple of songs – and managed to wave at Zak, who grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. Then she went to find her brother Nick over at the hog roast. Clutching their food and dripping apple sauce everywhere, they wandered through the street that led past the shops and along the fish-market area, where the Penhalligan brothers in their dayglow-yellow overalls were landing the day’s catch. Continuing past them, they climbed the narrow flight of stone steps leading into the pub.
“Shouldn’t you be giving them a hand?” Mo asked her little brother as they stumbled into the candle-lit fug of The Ship. She hated to play the bossy big sister but sometimes Nick brought this side out in her.
Nick shook his shaggy blond head. He was still dressed in his smock and boots and smelled of diesel and sea spray, but the glitter in his blue eyes and the easy smile playing at the corners of his wide mouth suggested that he’d been taking part in the celebrations for some time while his colleagues sorted and weighed the catch.
“Time off for good behaviour. I’m taking the boat again at midnight with Davey Tuckey so that the boys can party tonight,” he explained, not quite able to look at his sister – which was typical of Nick when he was being economical with the truth. He waved across the crowded bar to the pretty brunette busy emptying the glass-washer and threw her a smile that could thaw ice caps.
“Hey! Kelly! Pint of Doom Bar for me and a scrumpy for Mo!”
It was a given that women always melted where her brothers were concerned, and Mo pulled a face while the smitten Kelly flicked her hair about and fluttered her lashes so hard that the newspapers piled on the end of the bar were in danger of being blown away. Mo guessed that this did have one advantage – being tall, chiselled and handsome, the Tremaine brothers were pretty hard to miss and in a crowded pub this meant that they tended to be served very quickly. Mo knew she would have been queuing for ages and, being only five feet two, wasn’t so easy to spot in a crowd. While Nick paid she hopped onto a bar stool and glanced about the place.
Oh bollocks, there was Danny hunched over the far end of the bar, nursing a whisky as though he were Gollum protecting the precious Ring. Judging from his unfocused expression, he’d been here for some time. There was no sign of Jake yet – Mo guessed he was still at the marina – but Issie was sitting cross-legged in one of the window seats, talking to a plump woman with spiky purple hair who was laughing and gesticulating wildly about something. She was familiar but Mo couldn’t quite place her. Pink wellies? She frowned. No local would wear pink wellies. Maybe she was a second-homer?
There were certainly lots of these folk in evidence today, crowding th
e bar and munching their way through crusty baguettes and plates of mussels. Most of the locals had decamped to the far end of the bar, practically under the stairs with the musty coats and old umbrellas, while the holidaymakers claimed the comfy seats with the best views. This was how it was in the summer, and the residents of Polwenna Bay were more or less resigned to having to step back and make themselves scarce for a few months. After all, these folk paid top dollar to rent the holiday cottages and kept the tills of many village businesses ringing. The Tremaines had two cottages and the marina and, unless things perked up soon, Mo’s pony-trekking venture would also rely on the tourists. At this thought she took her drink from Nick, clinked the glasses, and then took a deep swig. Maybe Danny had a point.
Nick downed his pint and held the glass out to Kelly for a refill.
“Stressful day,” he explained when Mo raised her eyebrows. “Caught the trawl and came fast. Thought we’d have to cut it off for one bloody awful moment. Can you imagine? Eddie would have gone mental.”
Having grown up in a fishing village, Mo spoke fluent trawlerman and knew that coming fast was less E L James and more to do with getting your net stuck on a wreck. Since trawl nets were worth thousands and the catch in them just as much on a good day, Mo could well imagine what Eddie Penhalligan’s reaction would be to such a mishap. The Penhalligans were a volatile bunch with their mythical Spanish roots and hot Latino tempers, and Big Eddie was famous for exploding. When he’d first seen a picture of Summer posing for FHM, all grapefruit cleavage, flowing black gypsy curls and pouting red lips, his roar of fury could be heard in Plymouth. If Mo hadn’t hated her former best friend, she would have felt very sorry for her indeed.
Still, even the sheer relief of escaping a verbal tongue-lashing from his boss didn’t excuse Nick from getting drunk when he had to take the trawler to sea again at midnight. Alcohol and deep-sea fishing were a deadly combination.
“Should you be having another one if you’re saving tide and going at midnight?” Mo asked gently. She glanced at the novelty pasty clock on the wall. It was only half five but, even so, if Nick kept on like this there was no chance he’d be sober enough to skipper Penhalligan Girl at midnight.
“Chillax, sis,” said Nick airily. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, OK? Anyway, this is weak beer and I won’t have more than four or five anyway. I know what I’m doing.”
If Mo drank five pints of beer she would be unconscious until the middle of the next week. Nick though, like most of the fishermen in the village, drank hard and often. Mo worried about him but, as he often reminded her, he was twenty-two and more than capable of making his own decisions. She was wondering whether to persuade him that this particular decision wasn’t a sensible one when the pub door burst open and none other than Ashley Carstairs bowled in as though he owned the place.
Well, he didn’t own it, thought Mo. Not yet anyway! Just the sight of his smug face, stupid wavy hair and ridiculously expensive clothes was enough to set Mo’s teeth on edge. Already seething after her walk through the woods and fired up by half a cider on an empty stomach, she shot Ashley a look that in a fair and just universe should have laid him out at her feet in a crumpled heap of Musto clothing. Unfortunately, Mo lived in the unfair and unjust universe and, as though sensing her vibes, Ashley caught her eye and made a beeline for her.
“Just bloody great,” Mo muttered, glancing around for an escape route and, short of leaping the bar and ducking down behind it, not finding one. What on earth did he want now? The last time they’d met had been at an open meeting of the town council where, on the behalf of PAG, she’d opposed his latest plans for a helipad – and been successful, too. There was to be no helipad at Mariners, no matter how many promises he made about improvements to the environment. Cashley’s expression when he’d looked across at Mo had been on a par with the one Henry VIII might have worn when sending wives to the Tower. Dark moody guys who got off on the whole broody Heathcliff thing had never done it for Morwenna – she’d gone right off Heathcliff when he hung Isabella’s dog – and in spite of herself she shivered. Knowing that somebody hated your guts was not a comfortable feeling.
Well, you hate his guts too, Mo reminded herself sternly as Ashley made his way towards her, cutting through the crowded pub like Moses parting the Red Sea and then looming over her at the bar. It was at times like this that Mo really wished she were six feet tall like her brothers. Being small and looking harmless was such a pain at times.
“You, Red, are costing me far too much money,” Ashley Carstairs remarked, staring down at her with his dark eyes. Mo resisted the instinct to shrink away and instead glared up at him. With his hawk-like features and intense gaze, he reminded her of a bird of prey – and there was no way she was letting him swoop in for the kill.
“That’s right; it’s all about money with you lot, isn’t it?” she said, ignoring the annoying name he’d just called her. She wasn’t going to acknowledge that Ashley Carstairs had given her a nickname, unless that nickname was Nemesis.
“You lot?” Ashley sounded amused. “What’s that supposed to mean? We incomers? Us emmets? People who haven’t lived here for ten generations and bred with their kin?” Without missing a beat, he leaned across Mo, brushing up against her and making her hiss like a cat. Ignoring this, he smiled at Kelly and handed her two fifties. “Pint of Carlsberg, angel, and one for yourself and all the other...” he glanced at Mo and winked “...real locals in the house. They might all hate me but they never turn down a free drink – just like they’ll never turn down a good price for their cottages or their scruffy bits of woodland.”
“Oh thanks, Mr Carstairs!” Dimpling at him, Kelly – whom Mo had always suspected was dimmer than The Ship’s lighting – trotted off to fetch the drinks while Mo seethed, her hands curling into fists and scoring half moons into her palms.
“Or maybe,” Ashley was continuing thoughtfully, “you mean people who choose to invest their money in this town and who want to improve it? Drag it out of the nineteen-seventies and give it the kind of makeover that doesn’t seem to have done Rock any harm? The kind of people who keep marinas going, for instance, and who spend the same filthy money you despise in very expensive, and quite frankly overrated, local restaurants? Those people?”
Mo pretended to be fascinated by her drink. She was not going to rise to this pathetic baiting, even though she longed to bop him on the nose.
“I meant people who have no sense of heritage, community and history,” she replied calmly. “People who have no taste whatsoever and want to ruin ancient woodland just because they’re too bloody lazy to walk or don’t want to get their stupid penis cars wet.”
Ashley raised an eyebrow. “Do we really need to bring my penis into this, sweetheart? Much as I’m flattered that you’re thinking about it, I don’t really feel it’s appropriate. We’re virtually strangers. Or is this one of those local customs?”
To her horror, Mo felt a hot tidal wave of a blush start to spread up her neck and sweep towards her cheeks. It was one of the downsides of having flaming red hair. As if she was thinking about Ashley’s… Ashley’s…
He was grinning at her and Mo blushed even harder.
Well anyway, that.
“God, you’re pathetic,” she said coldly, or rather as coldly as a woman with a face hotter than the nuclear core of Sellafield could. “A total cock.”
Ashley shrugged. “Still thinking of my cock, Red? Call me what you like but I’m a cock with lots of money. And whether you like it or not, I will be getting my own way over all of this, because that’s what I do. I develop property. Clue’s in the job description, sweetheart, and you’re starting to get on my nerves with your constant interfering. Just admit defeat. Mariners is going to be rebuilt and I will have my driveway put in through that tatty scrubland you seem so fond of.”
“I’ll chain myself to the trees,” Mo threatened. “You’d have to run me over first.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “I se
e. Would you be naked?”
She stared at him, wrong-footed. “What?”
Ashley took a long, slow gulp of his drink and studied her over the rim of his pint glass. There was a look in his eyes that made Mo feel very odd indeed and not quite like herself. The hairs on her forearms rippled.
“You heard me. There’d have to be something worth stopping the diggers for, wouldn’t there? Otherwise I’d be more than happy to run you over. Would you paint yourself green? It’s popular here, I think? Maybe stick a few leaves over your nipples and make a skirt out of twigs? That ridiculous hippy, Silver Starr, was wearing something similar earlier. I bet she’d be pleased to help too. Maybe you could even make a little camp in the trees? Have some tepees and see if that Swampy guy wants to come out of retirement and lend a hand?”
Mo’s blood was starting to bubble. “It’s all just a joke to you, isn’t it?”
“Sweetheart, I’m deadly serious about wanting to see you naked,” drawled Ashley, his dark eyes raking over Mo from the top of her tangled head to the bottom of her muddy boots, making her annoying blush grow even hotter. “In fact, I’d go as far as to say that might be the only thing that could save those woods of yours. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”
At that precise second Mo didn’t think she’d ever hated anyone quite as much as she hated Ashley Carstairs. He was laughing at her, gloating that his bottomless wallet was going to buy him whatever he wanted. Mo’s sense of right and wrong was thumping its fists on the table and throwing an enormous tantrum.
“I’m serious,” said Ashley softly. He was still staring at her, the hawk watching its prey. “Generally I like to have dinner with women before I see them naked. So, will you?”
[Polwenna Bay 01.0] Runaway Summer Page 7
