Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn. Phillipa Ashley
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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.
‘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