Charlie Quilter squinted into the sun that was coming in through the windscreen of the vintage double-decker Routemaster like a searchlight, and ran her palms down her skirt. It was early on a Saturday morning, but already the light was filling the bay of Porthgolow, making the water glitter encouragingly. And right now, in the midst of a meeting that she had called, but which was beginning to feel like a very bad idea, Charlie needed encouragement.

      ‘Do you want this place to survive, or don’t you?’ said Hugh, the owner of The Seven Stars pub, more impassioned than Charlie had ever seen him.

      ‘It’s not falling into the bleddy sea, is it?’ Myrtle shot back. Myrtle Gordon, long-standing Porthgolow resident, had taken against Charlie and her bus the moment she arrived in the village, so she wasn’t surprised to learn that her new suggestion wasn’t getting a seal of approval either.

      ‘No, of course not,’ Juliet said in a calm, even tone. ‘But what Charlie – we’re – suggesting, is simply a way to bring a few more businesses to Porthgolow. A small festival to brighten up the beach. The bus has been well-received, mostly, and this seems like an obvious next step.’

      ‘Obvious for you, mebbe. You young things, coming here and taking over. Emmets, the lot o’you.’ Myrtle picked up a mini toffee tart and popped it in her mouth, then turned purposefully towards the window.

      Charlie had heard the term several times over the last couple of months. It meant interlopers – non-Cornish people who’d moved to the county. She couldn’t deny that she was one, even if Porthgolow was only her temporary home, and the term wasn’t exactly friendly. She was wondering how to follow Myrtle’s outburst when Daniel Harper caught her eye and her entire vocabulary deserted her.

      After the successful launch of The Cornish Cream Tea Bus the week before, Charlie’s active mind had conjured up the next step of her plan to revitalize the quaint Cornish village that seemed forlorn and unloved, despite all its potential. A festival. Every Saturday. Down on the sand.

      Her bus had been embraced by a lot of the locals, and with a few more food trucks, a wider selection of culinary delights and some intense online marketing, she knew she could bring people flocking to the village. But she couldn’t do that without agreement from the residents. She had already discovered that they weren’t all easy to please, and although she had gone ahead with The Cornish