Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles

by Phillipa Ashley

  Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles

  The Driftwood Inn

  Phillipa Ashley

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

  Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2017

  Cover illustration © Robyn Neild

  Cover design © Alison Groom

  Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008259792

  Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008257309

  Version: 2017-08-23

  For my wonderful mum and dad

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author Note: Where Are the ‘Little Cornish Isles’?

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Keep Reading …

  Also by Phillipa Ashley

  About the Publisher

  Author Note: Where are the ‘Little Cornish Isles’?

  The Isles of Scilly are one of my favourite places in the world – not that I’ve travelled that much of the world but I’ve been lucky enough to visit a few locations renowned for their stunning coastlines, including Grenada, St Lucia, Sardinia, Corsica and Southern Australia. There are some beautiful beaches in all of these places but I think the white sands and jewel-like seas of St Mary’s, St Martin’s, St Agnes, Tresco and Bryher are equally, if not more, breathtaking than any of those exotic hotspots.

  From the moment I first glimpsed Scilly from a tiny Skybus aircraft in September 2014, I was smitten. From the air, the isles look like a necklace of emerald gems fringed by sparkling sands, set in a turquoise, jade and sapphire lagoon. (Just remember that we’re in the chilly Atlantic, thirty miles west of Cornwall and that it can rain and the fog can roll in. Take your wellies, walking boots and umbrella as well as your bikini!)

  Within half an hour of setting foot on the ‘Main Island’, St Mary’s, I knew that one day I had to set a novel there. However, if you go looking for Gull Island, St Piran’s, St Saviour’s, Petroc or any of the people, pubs or businesses featured in this series, I’m afraid you won’t find them. They’re all products of my imagination. While I’ve set some of the scenes on St Mary’s, almost all of the organisations mentioned in the series are completely fictional and I’ve had to change aspects of the ‘real’ Scilly to suit my stories.

  On saying that, if you visit Scilly I hope you will find stunning landscapes, welcoming pubs and cafés, pretty flower farms and warm, hardworking communities very like the ones you’ll read about in these books. I’ll leave it to you, the reader, to decide where Scilly ends and the Little Cornish Isles begin.

  Phillipa x

  Prologue

  18 October

  Maisie Samson was the only living soul on Gull Island. At least, that’s how it felt as she padded over the sand towards the silver-smooth waters of the Petroc channel that morning. Behind her, the Driftwood Inn basked in the first rays of autumn sunlight at the top of the beach. The rising sun brought out the pink in the granite walls of the pub that Maisie had returned home to eight months previously.

  A cormorant dried its wings on a sandbar in the middle of the narrow channel that separated Gull Island from its neighbour, Petroc Island. Rubbing her arms to warm herself, Maisie picked her way between the bleached sticks of driftwood that gave the inn its name. In the damp sand, tiny shells glimmered in the sunlight, uncovered by the retreating tide.

  Letting the chilly wavelets nibble at her toes, she turned back to look at the inn. The curtains were still drawn in the windows of the flat over the pub. Last night, the bar was rocking with a folk band, and Ray and Hazel Samson were having a well-earned lie-in.

  Despite falling into her bed at half-past midnight, Maisie had woken early and decided to go for a swim while she had the beach to herself. Hers were the only footprints leading down the beach and probably the first ones to be made on any beach on the whole of Gull Island today. That was something, wasn’t it? To be alone for a few minutes in a busy overcrowded world? No matter what had happened over the past year, she wouldn’t swap places with anyone this morning.

  She poked a toe into the water, took a deep breath and waded in, huffing and cursing. The sea might look like the Caribbean, but this was still the Atlantic. Ignoring the chilly bite of water at her waist, Maisie took a deep breath, splashed water over herself. Bloody hell …

  One. Two. Three.

  Argh. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. Oh God, why did she do this? And why was it always so much colder than she expected?

  As the initial shock subsided, Maisie switched from a frantic doggy paddle to a steady breaststroke. She didn’t bother with goggles; she was no Rebecca Adlington, and goggles would have defeated the object of her swim, which was to take in her surroundings. To have a few precious moments of peace before a frantic Saturday running the Driftwood.

  It was hard to believe that Christmas was only two months away. How different this one would be: the first in eight years that she’d spend with her family. Relatively relaxed compared to being rushed off her feet running the big chain pub near St Austell where she’d been manager until the start of the year. Not that she’d minded working hard. In fact, she’d always loved her job, but last Christmas Day had been the worst she’d ever known.

  Which made Maisie even more determined to enjoy
Christmas Day with her own family. Unlike the mainland pub, the Driftwood would be closed on the 25th. Hazel Samson was dying to share the traditional full-on turkey dinner with all the trimmings, and Ray was itching to drag the tree and decorations out of his shed at the back of the pub.

  Her parents were treating the coming festive season as if Maisie was fourteen, not coming up for forty, but Maisie didn’t mind. She knew they were eager to give her a proper Samson Christmas after spending nearly a decade with just a snatched phone or Skype call while Maisie lay exhausted in her flat after making everyone else’s day special.

  The raw pain of her last Christmas Day had faded a little, but it reared up at unexpected times. She tried to focus on her swim and the good things in her life now … friends and family, the Driftwood and the beautiful place she lived in.

  As Maisie swam up and down parallel to the shore, she spotted a young black Labrador romping out of the grassy dunes and onto the sand on the opposite side of the Petroc channel. Even from a hundred metres away, she could tell the excitable hound was Hugo Scorrier’s dog, Basil. Seconds later, Hugo himself appeared, in his trademark green wellies and a waxed jacket. He threw a large stick for the dog and Maisie caught a snatch of him shouting, ‘Fetch, Basil!’ above the gentle swoosh of the waves.

  Basil scampered around, obviously having no intention of getting his paws wet. He shot off along the shoreline towards Petroc Island’s tiny harbour where Hugo’s gleaming motor yacht, the Kraken, was berthed alongside the quay. The Samsons kept a motorboat too, an old sixteen-footer that kept them from relying completely on the ferries between the islands. However, the Puffin was nothing like the smart vessels moored off Petroc’s quayside. The quay was lined with chic pastel fishermen’s ‘cottages’ that no real fishermen had lived in for decades. Petroc Island was now a resort run by the Scorrier family and the cottages had long been converted into plush holiday villas, galleries and eateries.

  Maisie turned back towards the shore, feeling a current of slightly warmer water pushing against her and the breeze quickening against her face. The Driftwood was opposite her again, with its terrace still in deep shadow. Throughout the spring and summer, gig boat racers, yachties, tourists and locals alike flocked to the isles and the Driftwood itself. Even now, in late October, Gull Island was still buzzing with day-trippers, holidaymakers and bird watchers hoping to catch a glimpse of the rare birds that were often blown off course to Scilly on their way to Africa.

  Soon the sun would rise higher and the terrace would be filled with people in shirt-sleeves enjoying their last taste of late-autumn sun before heading back to the mainland and all its pre-Christmas mayhem.

  Maisie was still far enough out to see around the small rocky headland to the east of the pub, towards the Gull Island jetty. The sturdy quay had been there for a century and was recently refurbished thanks to a generous donation from Hugo, damn him. Without the two jetties – one near the Driftwood and the other on the far side of the island – the tripper boats and Gull Island ferries wouldn’t be able to land, and as they brought vital customers and supplies to the residents, perhaps she should thank Hugo for that.

  The swell lifted her gently and snatches of Basil’s joyful barks reached her ears as she turned again and swam parallel with the shore. A clock chimed from the tiny church on the north side of Gull. Eight-thirty. Maisie was suddenly aware of how cold she was. She’d been out for twenty minutes, which was surely enough for anyone in these chilly waters, even Rebecca Adlington.

  She lingered for a moment and trod water, taking one last glance at Petroc and at Basil chasing into the waves to retrieve Hugo’s stick before dropping it at his master’s feet. At least someone loved Hugo …

  Basil shook himself and Hugo leapt back as he got a soaking. Maisie smiled to herself. The day had started well and who knew what it had in store. Maybe a tall, dark, handsome stranger might walk into the pub and sweep her off her feet. The trouble was, a tall, dark – or any other type of – handsome stranger was the last person she wanted to walk into her life again.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Another day in paradise, eh? You are so lucky to live here.’

  It was almost lunchtime and Maisie’s customer-friendly smile was firmly in place as she handed a large G&T to the customer waiting at the bar. Maisie guessed the woman was in her early fifties, but her designer skinny jeans, Converses and butter-soft leather jacket made her look ten years younger. With her carefully downplayed cut-glass accent and expensive ‘off-duty’ outfit, Maisie could guess where she was staying.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, pulling a pint of bitter for the woman’s partner, who, she assumed, was enjoying the midday warmth on the Driftwood’s terrace.

  The woman let out a sigh of pleasure. ‘Look at that amazing sky, and the colours in the sea are just to die for. Harry and I were only just saying how much Scilly reminds us of Sardinia or Antigua. Honestly, you could absolutely be in the Grenadines and who would possibly believe it was only eight weeks to Christmas?’

  ‘It is hard to believe,’ said Maisie, stopping the tap at just the right moment when the glass was full and topped with a thin layer of froth.

  ‘Although I expect it can get terribly claustrophobic if you have to live here full-time.’ The woman lowered her voice. ‘I expect you all know each other’s business.’

  Maisie placed the beer on the drip mat next to the G&T and adopted the same conspiratorial tone. ‘That’s so true. There are no secrets on Gull Island, no matter how much we’d like to keep them.’ The posh woman was right: nothing and no one escaped notice in such a small and tight-knit community. People tended to know if you went to the loo before you’d even locked the bathroom door, but Maisie had had this conversation a hundred times before.

  With a knowing smile, the woman nodded as if she’d been let in on a secret too and tapped the side of her nose. Maisie deposited notes in the till and handed over some change.

  ‘Oh, no, keep that,’ the customer protested, waving her G&T airily.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll add it to the staff tips box. How are you enjoying your break on Petroc?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘How clever of you to guess we’re on Petroc. Yes, we are enjoying it. It’s half term and we’ve rented the sweetest cottage for our daughter and the grandchildren. Well, I say it’s a cottage but there are five bedrooms.’ She laughed. ‘Hubby and I are on babysitting duty tonight while Phoebe and her husband have dinner in the pub.’ The woman laughed. ‘Not that the Rose and Crab is just a pub these days of course, now it’s been awarded its Michelin star. My husband and I tried it last night. Gosh, it was a-mazing. The turbot was incredible and don’t get me started on that brill. Of course, I don’t mind sharing cheesy pasta with the little ones tonight. It’s just so lovely to spend some quality time together with Saffron and baby Tom. They live so far away.’

  Maisie mustered all her patience, aware that a small queue was forming behind the woman. ‘I hope you all have a lovely time,’ she said. ‘You’ll stay for lunch with us hopefully?’

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘You do lunch here?’

  ‘Yes. We can’t match up to the gourmet food at the Rose and Crab, of course, but we have local lobster salad on special today and we can rustle up some fresh crab sandwiches. You could eat them in the upstairs bistro or outside if it stays warm.’

  ‘Yum. Local seafood, you say? How lovely. We’ll check out the menu.’ With a happy smile on her face, the holidaymaker picked up the drinks and turned away. Through the open front door, the sunlight danced on the turquoise water of the channel and the white sand flats. The woman sighed dreamily. ‘Gosh, this view is just divine.’

  With a polite smile, Maisie turned to her next punter as the woman carried the drinks out to the terrace. He was a bearded sixty-something in a cycling helmet and eye-wateringly tight Lycra shorts. ‘And what can I get you, sir?’ she asked, trying not to laugh, very glad that the counter hid the lower half of his body.

  For t
he next half an hour, Maisie handed over glasses of wine and foamy pints of the local brew, relieved to see the inn so busy this late in the year. She’d taken over the Driftwood in February when her parents had decided to semi-retire. Hazel and Ray Samson could still be found behind the bar sometimes, or helping in the upstairs bistro, but Maisie was now in charge. She made the decisions and did the hiring and firing – mostly hiring, thank God. She set the prices, broke up the arguments (also rare) and presided over the Driftwood with a smile on her face, even when her feet were killing her and her heart was breaking. Always a smile. No one wanted a gloomy hostess; the customers were there to enjoy themselves and enjoy the glorious view, whether they were tourists or locals.

  Fewer than a hundred people lived on the island year round and most of them at some time popped into the pub. Some had been born and bred on Scilly, while a few were ‘incomers’ who’d moved to this isolated corner of Britain in search of a more peaceful life.

  While she helped to clear glasses and serve drinks, Maisie chatted to Will Godrevy from the Flower Farm on St Saviour’s island who had popped in for a half a Guinness while he was visiting Javid, who ran the Gull Island campsite. Will’s sister, Jess, was Maisie’s best mate, but Jess was busy today, helping her team send out the first crop of narcissi to customers on the mainland. Maisie expected to see Javid at some point when he came to collect his sandwich or pasty from the bistro.