Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn. Phillipa Ashley
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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 the 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.
Maisie had already had a quick word with Una and Phyllis Barton, the sisters who owned the aptly named Hell Cove Cottages on the rugged western coast of Gull Island, which was open to the full brunt of the Atlantic storms. They’d sat on the terrace with a coffee while they waited for the island ferry to St Mary’s. Every Saturday morning, come hell or high water, they did their shopping in Hugh Town after they’d finished the breakfast service at Hell Cove.
Then there was Archie Pendower, an elderly artist from St Piran’s island to the north of Gull. If the weather was as good as it was today, and Archie was feeling inspired, he might sail across to the Driftwood. Thinking of the growing gallery of paintings that adorned the first floor bistro, Maisie smiled to herself. Sooner or later, Archie might settle his bill – but not in cash. The Driftwood already had a dozen of his paintings and Maisie reckoned they were worth a lot more, financially and creatively, than a few quid. Such bartering would never have been allowed in the big pub where she used to work, which was another reason why Maisie loved the Driftwood, even if its lax and quirky ways would never make her family rich.
Time flew by while Maisie made her ‘figure of eight’ between the bistro, bar, kitchen and terrace, checking that everything was running smoothly and helping out where needed. With only a handful of seasonal staff compared to the big pub she had managed, she was used to mucking in on any task and loved it despite the long hours.
She was halfway through serving pints to some kayakers when a new customer blocked the doorway, obviously deciding whether he could be bothered to queue up. He shone out from among the khaki-clad twitchers like an exotic toucan among a group of sparrows. Dark-blond hair brushed the collar of his faded blue-and-yellow hooped polo shirt. His navy cargo shorts showed off a pair of muscular calves the colour of tea and he wore olive Goretex hiking boots. The frame of his red rucksack brushed the door lintel and blocked out the view of the terrace and sea completely.
He ducked under the wooden door beam and stepped into the shade of the bar. Maisie’s breath caught in her throat. For a few seconds she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.
Now she was certain.
It was him.
So what was he doing on Gull Island?
With most people she’d met before, Maisie might have called out a ‘hello’ or waved a greeting. The problem was she didn’t know this man’s name nor did she want to draw attention to herself – she was still flustered and shocked at his appearance in her pub.
She might not know the exotic guy’s name but she could never forget how amazing his lips had felt on hers when they’d shared a passionate kiss outside the Galleon Inn on St Mary’s the previous week. She’d nicknamed him ‘The Blond’ in her mind and tried to forget about him, knowing she’d been tipsy and that she’d never see him again.
Her hands fumbled with the change she’d just taken off the previous customer, but she shut the till drawer and tried to concentrate on serving the person in the queue in front of him.
Who had she been kidding? She hadn’t forgotten about him. How could she? They’d bumped into each other at a food festival being held at the pub. She’d gone along on her own, really to check out how the event was going with a view to running one at the Driftwood. She’d meant to stay for a couple of drinks, make mental notes and then leave, but the Blond had struck up a conversation with her.
Or maybe she’d spoken to him? Her memory of how it had all started was fuzzy, especially as a couple of drinks had turned into more. Somehow, they’d ended up walking away from the pub up the beach. She didn’t remember exchanging names – bloody hell, she must have been tiddly – but she did know that names hadn’t seemed to matter as they’d wandered away from the pub towards the headland at Porthmellon.
Apart from a brief word about him travelling around the UK on holiday and her working in a bar, neither of them had seemed to care about pasts or futures. They’d sat for a while on the rocks by the headland, watching the sun sinking and making the odd comment about the festival before the conversation had trailed off.
He’d taken her hand and it had happened. She didn’t know who’d instigated the kiss. She only knew that their lips had come together and that it had been amazing.
Too amazing. The feelings it had aroused had scared her. She’d backed away, laughing and mumbling about having had too much to drink. Without a goodbye, she’d almost run back up the beach and joined the tourists in the streets of Hugh Town.
She’d bought a black coffee from the deli-café and found a quiet corner in which to drink it, dreading he’d walk in and find her. She’d sobered up fast. If she’d been herself – watchful and on guard – she’d never have kissed a stranger whose name she didn’t even know … and never have let herself respond so rashly, holding on to his waist, pressing against him, drinking in that kiss.
‘Thanks.’
Smile fixed in place, Maisie watched the customer turn away, pint in hand, and the Blond approach the bar. He shrugged off his backpack, and dug out his phone. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised her. He was next in line after a kayaker who ordered several pints of beer.
Maisie tried to focus on pulling the pints. There was too much head on the last one and the foamy beer overflowed onto the drip tray.
She gave an apologetic grimace at the kayaker. ‘Sorry.’
He sipped the excess froth. ‘No problem.’
She gave him his change and he joined his mates outside.
The Blond was next.
Maisie flashed her customer smile. ‘Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?’
He smiled back. ‘Coke,