Patrick saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Maisie pretended not to be amused. ‘Just “boss” will be fine. Come on inside, and I’ll break the er … good news to Mum and Dad.’
Chapter 9
You’ve really gone and done it now, Paddy boy.
Later that afternoon, Patrick closed his laptop in the upstairs bistro and gave himself time to reflect on the crazy, impulsive decision that had led to him signing up for six months at the Driftwood Inn. He’d emailed Judy at the Fingle and the owner of the restaurant where he’d worked previously to warn them he would be staying in the UK over the winter and to expect his new employer to take up references.
He crossed to the window and took in the magnificent view over the channel towards Petroc. With its white sand, flowers and low-lying islands set in a turquoise sea, it could easily be Port Fairy in western Victoria. He’d not expected to find a place in England that so reminded him of home; but then again, the beauty of the place was the least surprising thing about the situation. He’d only been in the country a few days and here he was, staying for half a year.
If he made it that far, of course. If Maisie didn’t throw him out first, or he quit in sheer frustration.
Hazel and Ray Samson had been – how could you put it – ‘taken aback’ when Maisie had delivered the news and introduced him. Ray had shaken his hand warmly and seemed relieved that there would be an extra pair of hands around the place. The guy wasn’t well, his face was pale and drawn and he’d been breathless and sweating while he was up on that roof. Hazel was trickier to read. She’d recovered from the initial shock quickly and joked that Maisie hadn’t wasted any time in taking on new staff, yet there was something about the way she’d watched him, when she thought he wasn’t looking, that made his hackles rise. She didn’t trust him: and he didn’t blame her. If Hazel had been thinking that Maisie could do with a man, for practical and other purposes, he definitely wasn’t the right one in Hazel’s eyes. Patrick suspected that they might be bothered about his criminal record.
He could understand their concerns and was prepared to live with Hazel’s distrust but there was an even bigger hurdle to get over. Even as she was introducing him to her parents, he suspected Maisie was already kicking herself for giving him the job. Her discomfort radiated from every pore and showed in her tight smile as she introduced him; in the way she stood with her arms wrapped around her chest while her dad shook his hand and her mum made jokes about kangaroos and boomerangs. He had a feeling Maisie Samson was regretting letting him into her home, her business and her life and he didn’t think that was entirely down to his chequered past.
So why had she agreed to take him on?
And what bloody stupid idea had made him ask?
Six months he’d signed up for. Half a year at this tiny pub with this determined woman who already occupied his thoughts far too much. He’d never seriously thought she’d say yes to his offer to work for her. He’d been amazed when she’d agreed, even after he’d told her the worst of him: the jail, the drink, the drugs.
And yet a voice nagged at him. Gnawed at him. He still hadn’t told her the very worst about him, had he? He’d kept back the part that would freak her out. It would have got him thrown out of the pub, and off the island too, if she knew.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’
Patrick glanced up to find Hazel Samson standing a few feet away. She’d walked into the bistro from the upstairs flat and was carrying a plastic bucket with cloths and cleaning products.
‘They’re not worth as much as a penny.’
She gave Patrick a hard stare. Her red hair was greying at the temples and her face was weathered from long years working in the sun, but she still had her daughter’s slight frame and sharp green eyes that missed nothing. ‘I bet they are,’ she said.
He pointed at the laptop, aware the screen was dimmed from lack of recent use. ‘I’ve been letting a few people know I’m staying on.’
Hazel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Maisie says you don’t have any family?’
Wow. Straight to the point. Maisie had shared at least some of his ‘colourful’ history with her parents, then. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised as the Samsons were going to have to work and live very closely with him. He didn’t mind.
‘A cousin I’ve lost touch with, some distant relatives in the UK who have probably forgotten I exist. I do have a few mates, though, who might be interested to know I haven’t been kidnapped by an irate Brit who took exception to me taking a bar job … the current climate towards foreigners being what it is.’
Hazel’s smile was about as sincere as a croc’s. ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger from the locals here on Gull.’
You could have fooled me, thought Patrick, freezing his rocks off under Hazel’s sub-zero glare. Winning her trust was going to be harder than he’d thought. ‘I wondered if there was no wife or girlfriend in Oz that you had to break the news to. She won’t be very happy you’ve decided to extend your stay here, will she? Don’t tell me there’s no woman waiting back home? You’re still young and not exactly the Hunchback of Notre Dame, now are you?’
‘What makes you think it’s a woman?’
She smiled for about a nanosecond. ‘Call it a wild guess.’
Well, thought Patrick, he had to admire Hazel’s directness. Now he knew who Maisie had inherited her feistiness from and perhaps it was better to be honest with each other than enduring months of suspicious looks.
‘You don’t have to answer if I’m being too nosy, but I look out for our Maisie. She’s had enough heartbreak lately,’ she added, although Patrick didn’t think she gave two hoots whether she was being nosy or not.
‘You’re right: there’s no partner on the scene at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘Of either sex.’
‘Hmm. I suppose that makes sense, or you wouldn’t have come halfway round the world and left her for six months. Unless you had to leave Australia of course, and I doubt that’s the case.’ Hazel paused. ‘As for partners, you said “at the moment”. Am I right in thinking there was someone special?’
Maisie would cringe at this line of questioning but Patrick couldn’t blame Hazel. It was obvious she saw him as a threat to the equilibrium of the household. She might be right about that too, he thought, but perhaps not in the way she suspected.
‘You’re right. There was a woman, but that was a while ago now.’ The image of Tania walking out of the door slid into his mind. He waited for the slice of pain low to the gut but he felt as if he was watching that movie now, not living it. But still, an enigmatic smile was all he was prepared to give Hazel.
She nodded slowly. ‘Fine. I should mind my own business, though you’ll appreciate I like to know a little about the people who’ve come to live in our house and share our lives.’
‘I don’t blame you, though I’ve already discussed my reasons for wanting the job with Maisie. Your daughter gave me a thorough grilling when she interviewed me,’ said Patrick, still wondering exactly which details Maisie had shared with her parents.
‘I know she did. I wanted to hear it direct. Oh well, you never know who you might meet while you’re here on Gull Island,’ she said and flashed him a smile that told him Maisie was off the menu – or else. ‘Do you want another coffee or a soft drink?’ she asked, nodding at his empty cup.
‘Thanks for the offer, but no. I’ve got some more emails to send before I get ready to learn the ropes in the bar tomorrow night.’
‘OK, I’ll be getting on with my jobs, then.’
Hazel picked up the bucket and headed downstairs. Patrick waited a moment until the footsteps quietened before padding down to the bar himself. He heard the door to the staffroom open, crept forward and peered around the edge of it. He could see Hazel walking across the patio to the staff studios where Maisie was outside the first cottage with her sleeves rolled up and a pair of Marigolds on. Hazel handed over the bucket and the two women exchanged some words. They had their ba
cks to him so Patrick ventured further into the staffroom. The window was open a crack but he couldn’t hear their conversation. He suspected from Hazel’s grim expression that it might have been about him.
He almost jumped out of his skin as the phone out in the office next to the staffroom rang out.
Maisie and Hazel immediately turned and Patrick just had time to duck out of sight. Maisie pulled off her rubber gloves before she marched towards the office. Patrick made a hasty exit back into the bar, listening around the door as Maisie answered the phone in a breathless voice. His own heart thumped. That would teach him to eavesdrop, but this was his only chance. He had to hope that Hazel wasn’t still in the garden or coming round the side of the pub, although even if she was, he could make up some kind of excuse for being outside.
As quietly as he could, he slipped out of the front door of the bar and made his way around the side of the building to the garden. The bucket was abandoned and Hazel had joined Ray at the top of the garden.
Patrick spotted Maisie through the office window, standing by the desk, talking into the cordless house phone. With one final glance to check the coast was clear, he picked up the cleaning bucket and Marigolds and slipped inside the open studio. The key was on the inside of the door and with a surge of triumph, he closed it behind him and locked himself in.
‘Patrick McKinnon. Are you in there?’
Patrick had only cleaned down the washbasin and had just thrust the brush down the toilet, when Maisie called through the front door. Damn. He’d hoped the conversation would have gone on longer than that.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I was caught short while I was on the patio,’ he called. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind me using the loo as I’m going to be living here. I won’t be long.’
Silence.
‘OK. I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’
‘I may be a while,’ he shouted, trying to sound embarrassed.
More silence. ‘Um. Right. Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be back in a bit.’
Cruel of him, thought Patrick, but he couldn’t stop the broad smile as he squirted bleach down the loo and started to scrub with the brush. He decided he could get away with a jaunty whistle too, and figured he had at least half an hour before Maisie would dare to return, even if she dared at all. It would be long enough to get the shower room into non-toxic condition and most of the kitchenette. He checked his watch, took a cloth and bathroom spray from the bucket ready to wipe down the cistern and seat. Just in time, he remembered not to flush the loo.
Chapter 10
Maisie tapped her foot on the patio. She’d seen a lot while she was managing pubs but asking Patrick McKinnon why he’d spent so long in the loo was possibly one of the most excruciating moments of her career.
‘Patrick. Can you please let us know you’re OK? We’re um … getting slightly concerned about you.’
There was no reply. Maisie was not only worried but seriously pissed off. What the hell had he been doing in the studio for over an hour? She’d tried to peer through the curtains but they’d been drawn tightly. She’d left them closed from earlier but possibly not that tightly closed. Damn, she couldn’t remember. It would be getting dark soon. Oh my God, what if Patrick had come to the other side of the world to do something stupid? She thought back to their conversation and the one she’d just had with Judy Warner at the Fingle Bar.
She tried the handle of the door again. She’d half tried once before, stopped and decided she didn’t want to barge in if Patrick had picked up a bug. Maybe he’d decided to have a shower too or had fallen asleep. Although she had no reason to think he’d done something more unusual or worse than any of those scenarios, she still felt a fluttering of anxiety as she applied more pressure to the handle. It didn’t budge and was obviously locked from the inside.
‘Patrick. Please open the door. We’re worried about you. If you’re not feeling well, we can help.’
She put her ear to the door and thought she could hear noises. Muffled thuds, the sound of a loo flushing. Maisie slumped in relief. He was alive then, and hopefully OK.
Maisie fell on top of Patrick as he pulled open the door. He caught her by the tops of the arms and she glanced up into his smiling face. His tanned, cheerful and very healthy face. Her heart raced. Relief flooded through her closely followed by a strong urge to wring his neck.
‘Whoa. Be careful,’ he said.
She sprang back, away from his chest. Waves of pine-scented disinfectant and furniture polish emanated from the studio.
‘What the bloody hell have you been doing?’
Patrick held up a cloth and a bottle of Cif. ‘Cleaning.’
‘What? I told you not to. I told you I’d get it done. I thought – we thought – something had happened to you or you’d been taken ill.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you after I’d used the loo. I was intent on my work. Would you like to see it?’
He held up his hands in surrender. The Marigolds waggled. ‘Caught me – yellow-handed, boss.’ He held out his upturned wrists. ‘I’ll come quietly if you promise not to punish me too harshly …’
Her skin tingled all over and her throat dried. Patrick was wearing a ripped T-shirt that had shrunk in the wash and stretched across his broad chest and flat stomach. The rubber gloves reached just above his wrists, highlighting the golden hair sprinkled over the golden forearms. She was in massive trouble here. All it would take was for her to turn the key behind her again. The curtains were already closed. Her parents had gone shopping on St Mary’s and were at least two hours away. It was just her and Patrick and a single bed.
No one would know.
With great effort, she shook away the feelings of lust: she’d only known him two days. Thinking that way was ridiculous. ‘I wish you’d do as you’re told,’ she said.
‘And I wish you’d let me help you. That’s why you took me on. You’ve enough to do with the books, and the pub and bistro and God knows what else. Your dad’s not too well, you know …’
‘I know that!’ She hadn’t meant to snap, she was just worried about her dad. ‘I know he isn’t very well but he won’t go to the doctor. I’ve seen him out of breath and sweating and he’s pale and he’s lost a stone since the summer. Mum’s worried sick and so am I.’ Maisie felt her bottom lip trembling. She hadn’t cried for so long; not over Keegan leaving her or the loss of Little Scrap, but she felt perilously close now. Teetering on the edge of losing it totally in front of Patrick because of a row over cleaning the studio.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just worried about Dad and it’s been a long hard season here. I’d forgotten how much there was to do.’
‘I’m not trying to add to your worries, but I noticed he was struggling on Saturday and he probably shouldn’t have been up there fixing the roof.’
‘You try stopping him. There’s so much needs doing around here, as you pointed out. Dad’s a typical male; his leg would have to fall off before he’d go to the doctor and it’s not as if he can toddle down the road to the surgery. Mum and I have tried to persuade him. I worry so much about him.’
‘He’s probably afraid of what he’ll find out if he goes, but it could be something that’s easy to sort. Either way he needs to make sure.’
Maisie’s stomach clenched. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Come in and sit down,’ he said gently. For a split second, Maisie was reminded of Keegan, in the early days, when she’d first thought he was a rock of a man, not a flaky sandcastle who crumbled with the first rough tide. But Patrick McKinnon wasn’t a rock either, she reminded herself: just a drifter with a cleaning fetish.
‘I don’t need a shoulder to cry on,’ she said.
‘I’m not offering one.’ He smiled. ‘You wouldn’t want to get too close anyway, I’ve been hard at work and I need a shower.’
‘Not in that health hazard of a bathroom,’ she said, sniffing the air: a bit of a chemical factory but definitely clean.
‘You could eat your dinner off the floor now,’ he said. ‘Let me wash my hands and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Maisie glanced at the kitchen. The units, cooker and fridge were basic and old but clean. The stainless steel sink sparkled and the work surfaces gleamed. She hated showing weakness but she was too weary. Hugo had phoned her again and asked her if she’d had time to think over his plans. It had been all she could do to give him a civil answer. He’d said that more residents were ‘seriously thinking’ of selling and although he might be bullshitting her, Maisie wasn’t sure. She’d felt like telling him to stuff his offer but for a few seconds she’d also felt like caving in and saying, ‘Have the bloody place.’ If her dad was ill and needed urgent health care, or decided to leave the island, circumstances could look very different.
‘It’ll have to be black coffee or hot chocolate,’ he said, holding up a jar of Nescafé and a tub of Cadbury’s Highlights. ‘I’ve inspected the contents for weevils and they look OK, even if the previous occupant was a Neanderthal.’
Maisie laughed. What harm could it do to have a drink with him? And she was really, very relieved that he’d cleaned the place up himself. One less job on her list.
‘I’ll risk the hot choc, please.’
‘Wise choice.’ He filled the white plastic kettle and switched it on. Maisie sat down on a rattan chair in front of the single bed. The place had been dusted and had had the Henry Hoover round it, by the looks of the tracks on the carpet. It was very basic, but at least it was clean. The cost of getting new furniture – new anything – out to the island meant that things couldn’t be thrown away unless absolutely necessary.
As the kettle boiled, Maisie tried to compose herself and let her heightened feelings calm down. Patrick opened the kitchen window and the top light in the bedsitting area to let some fresh air in. He’d also left the door open a crack so there was a route for escape if necessary. If she wanted it.
Patrick handed her a mug of hot chocolate and lifted his own, chipped mug from the rattan table next to her.
Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles Page 7
