Summer on the Little Cornish Isles Read online

  Summer on the Little Cornish Isles

  Phillipa Ashley

  Avon 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 2018

  Paperback edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

  Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2018

  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: 9780008253417

  Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008253400

  Version: 2018-06-14

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Discover all the Cornish Isles Series

  If you loved Summer on the Little Cornish Isles, don’t miss Phillipa Ashley’s stunning Cornish Café series

  About the Publisher

  Author’s 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, 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

  Chapter 1

  Even the sign outside the gallery made Poppy McGregor’s toes curl with pleasure. It was such a lovely name; so evocative and catchy. Who could possibly resist popping into a place called ‘The Starfish Studio’?

  She hadn’t known then, of course, that this was the precise moment she was about to fall in – and out – of love. She couldn’t see into the future, which was probably just as well or she might never have set foot inside the studio at all.

  It was too late now. The sunlight glittered on the granite walls, dazzling her. Set back from St Piran’s pocket-sized harbour, the Starfish Studio had already cast its spell, luring her onto the weathered veranda with its baskets of cards and giftware.

  Her boyfriend, Dan, appeared at her side. ‘You’re doing it again,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Doing what again?’ said Poppy, her eyes transfixed by the faded bunting looped around the veranda roof.

  ‘You’ve got that dreamy look on your face. I expect this means we won’t be able to leave St Piran’s without another set of bloody coasters and some seashell dangly tat.’ Dan picked up a rope garland of shells as if it was radioactive.

  Poppy squashed down her annoyance. So far, their week-long holiday to the Isles of Scilly had been relaxing and fun – when Dan hadn’t been moaning about being ripped off by coffee shops, boat operators and restaurants. His job as sales manager with a bulldozer company had made him obsessed with budgets and figures. Mind you, she did have a scarily large collection of coastal bits ’n’ bobs in their small semi in the Staffordshire market town where they lived; their bedroom was already a shrine to the Cornish seaside.

  ‘I only want a quick look. Besides, the artists depend on visitors like us for their livelihoods.’ Through the doorway of the studio, she glimpsed bright splashes of colour on white walls.

  It was so humid and still that even the bunting hung limply. In contrast, Poppy’s own dark brown hair, which she’d blow-dried that morning, had curled into tendrils in the warm, moist air. She’d tried to tame it earlier while visiting the pub toilets and given up. Despite the sunscreen, her nose was pink and her cheeks were dusted in tiny freckles. Oh well, she was on holiday. She took a few sips from her bottle of water and stepped a little closer to the door. That cool interior was so inviting …

  ‘I doubt if you buying a set of coasters is going to keep the whole economy of Scilly going,’ said Dan with a world-weary grumble. Sometimes she thought he sounded more like ninety-two than thirty-two.

  ‘I promise you I have no intention of buying any more coasters. You can stay outside and watch the boats if you like, but I’m going to explore.’

  Leaving him on the veranda, she stepped inside and sighed with pleasure as the cool air hit her bare arms. An older woman with white crinkly hair tied back with an emerald scarf was sitting behind a cash desk. She smiled and said ‘hello’ before going back to her tattered paperback. The large ginger cat sitting at her feet thrust its hind leg in the air and washed itself. A
faded notice on the wall said that the Starfish had once been a boatshed but had been converted to a studio in the nineteen seventies.

  A man with a silver beard was working on a painting as she moved past the sculptures, glass and jewellery. From a faded photo in the window, Poppy realised this was Archie Pendower himself, the artist-owner of the gallery. Judging by the scrawly signature in the corners, many of the works on the knobbly walls appeared to be his. Poppy felt she could almost feel the spray on her face when she gazed at the stormy seascapes. Being oils, the pictures had no glass frames, so she could see the textures and colours in all their glory.

  Behind her, she heard Dan’s trainers squeak on the tiled floor. Her heart sank as she waited for him to march up and tell her it was time to leave. She was well aware that their ferry to St Mary’s was departing in half an hour to take them back to their B&B on the main island. But Dan’s footsteps slowed and then stopped.

  Poppy sneaked a glance at him. He seemed to be almost as mesmerised as she was, lingering by paintings and showing no signs of being bored. Relieved not to be hauled outside, she carried on exploring.

  Although the walls were peeling and the display cabinets showing signs of age, the space still gave her the shivers – in a good way. Alongside Archie Pendower’s oils, there was work by other artists and makers. Every nook and cranny was filled with copper fish twisting through metal water, driftwood sculptures, bangles made of semi-precious stones and pendants with silver shells and sea glass in jewel-like colours.

  At the rear of the gallery, Dan was now deep in conversation with Archie himself. Archie’s deep local burr was mesmeric and Dan’s voice was livelier and more animated than she’d heard him for ages.

  Clutching a pack of postcards featuring Archie’s work, Poppy joined Dan and told Archie how much she admired his work. She hoped she didn’t sound like too much of a fangirl but the Starfish Studio seemed to have worked its magic on both of them.

  At one time, while she was studying English at university, Poppy had harboured vague dreams about running a gallery. She’d actually spent one of her university summer holiday’s earning a bit of cash by helping out in a gallery – more of a gift shop really – at the craft centre near her parents’ house. She was well aware that an artist’s life was far from the creative bubble customers liked to believe, but she was still in awe of those who made their actual living being creative. She’d always enjoyed dabbling with crafts and spent far too long in the bead shop in her town. She was wearing one of her own creations today: a bracelet inspired by the colours of the sea.

  However, when she’d left university she’d got a job as a PR assistant with a building products company and risen to be the communications manager. She still made a few pieces now and then, but work and a long commute meant she had less time than ever for her hobby.

  She might laugh at Dan’s obsession with budgets and bulldozers, but her own job was hardly creative. On the other hand, it was how she’d first met him: at a construction conference a couple of years before. She’d gone along, thinking that it would be dull as ditchwater and almost decided to miss the final seminar on marketing on the first day. She was so glad she hadn’t.

  Dan had walked onto the stage and Poppy had perked up immediately. Admittedly, she couldn’t remember many of the details of the presentation, but as for the presenter himself – the hour had flown by. He was tall and fit with toffee-blond hair and he reminded her (a bit) of Ryan Gosling. He came across as confident but not cocky, and he really knew his stuff. When she asked a question at the end, he answered it politely and explained his point without patronising her. Afterwards, he made a beeline for her in the hotel bar and while his colleagues were getting pissed, he spent the evening chatting to her. She was impressed by his ambition and his attentiveness. He made her feel special and, by a huge stroke of luck, it turned out they only lived half an hour from each other.

  They made arrangements to meet up on a date, and six months later, they’d moved in together. Two years on, their lives were as tightly intertwined as vines and Poppy hoped they would always stay that way: growing closer and building a future together.

  ‘So, how long have you been making a living from the gallery?’ Poppy heard Dan ask Archie.

  ‘Too long to remember.’ Archie chuckled, caught Poppy’s eye and winked. He started to explain to Dan how he’d bought and converted the boatshed into a gallery while his family were young. He mentioned ‘while my Ellie was alive’ more than once, which must mean he was a widower now, unless the lady at the cash desk was his current partner.

  Poppy glanced at her phone and realised it would soon be time to walk down to the ferry. With a smile for Archie, she said, ‘I must finish my shopping,’ and left him and Dan talking. After swooping on a few ‘must-haves’, she took her purchases to the counter. The assistant added up the cost on an old-fashioned calculator and put Poppy’s money in an old cash tin.

  The assistant wrapped the fused glass starfish coasters in tissue paper. ‘Beautiful choice,’ she said, clucking appreciatively. ‘The artist who made these is inspired by sea life on the beaches around St Piran’s, you know.’

  Poppy smiled to herself. She knew that engaging with customers made the items they’d chosen seem personal. ‘Really? I thought I’d seen a starfish like these on the beach the other day,’ she said.

  ‘They’re certainly washed up from time to time,’ said the assistant, popping the tissue parcel in a paper bag. ‘Getting the ferry, are you, dear?’

  ‘Yes, but I think we’ve still got twenty minutes before it leaves?’

  The assistant nodded sagely. ‘About that. Anyway, it’s only a minute to the harbour and you should hear it tooting from here as it pulls in. Your man’s thick as thieves with Archie at the moment. Why don’t you carry on having a look round? It’s cool in here on a hot day like this.’

  Amused at Dan being referred to as her ‘man’, Poppy picked up her paper bag, which was surprisingly heavy, and smiled. ‘Thanks. I think I will.’

  While she waited for Dan to finish his conversation, she drifted around the gallery again. There were many more things she could have bought but she’d already spent more than enough and even if she’d had the cash, there was a limit to the amount she could carry back on the small aircraft taking them home to the mainland. She was probably over the limit already.

  She lingered in front of a small painting almost hidden in a niche next to a spiral staircase that was roped off with a sign marked ‘Private’. The painting was only six inches square but she instantly fell for it. It showed the studio from the outside, bunting flying, with a ginger cat – like the one by the till – curled up on the veranda. The picture was perhaps ‘cuter’ than the landscape scenes in the studio, but it captured the essence of the studio perfectly. There was no price on it, but judging by the figures for the larger pictures, she guessed it wouldn’t be cheap. The artist may have considered it too twee and deliberately tucked it away in a corner, but it was still a piece of original art and she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking the cost when she most likely couldn’t afford it.

  ‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Archie. Thanks for telling me about your work.’ Dan was shaking hands with the artist and smiling in a way Poppy hadn’t seen for a while. His job was stressful and demanding. This holiday had clearly done them both good and they’d needed it. She’d been very busy at work too – finding new ways of making drainage sexy was harder than it looked – and they both had a horrible commute through the increasingly clogged, polluted roads of the Midlands. Tiny, remote St Piran’s couldn’t have been a greater contrast.

  The sun made her squint as she followed Dan outside, clutching her bag to her chest, enjoying the weight of the haul inside. She couldn’t wait to unwrap them when they finally arrived home, picturing where she’d put the hand-turned wooden dolphin and a cobalt glass trinket dish inlaid with bronze starfish, and deciding who would receive the greetings cards. She couldn’t be
ar to part with the coasters.

  ‘Do you really need more stuff?’ said Dan as soon as they were out of hearing of anyone inside the studio. ‘Not to mention coasters.’

  ‘You can never have too many coasters.’ She glanced up at him, annoyed that he’d guessed what she’d bought, but he was smiling. ‘And anyway, I couldn’t resist the trinket tray for Auntie Liz’s birthday. It’s just her sort of thing and you know she’ll love the starfish motif.’

  He rolled his eyes but amusement lingered around his mouth. She didn’t need his approval to spend her own money and his comments on her taste sometimes irritated her. However, he did actually seem to be joking this time and his good mood continued as they meandered slowly towards the jetty, admiring the sea and the tiny green fields and the whole exquisite toytown nature of the island.

  St Piran’s was the second smallest of the inhabited Scilly islands and was divided by a channel from its nearest neighbour, Gull Island. The other coast faced the open Atlantic and a lighthouse that marked the very western outpost of the British Isles. St Piran’s took a little longer to reach from St Mary’s – the largest of the Scilly Isles – than the other islands and the crossing, though still only twenty minutes, often left people with salty skin, damp clothes and a swirling stomach. However, its isolation appealed to Poppy’s soul and might even have captivated Dan.

  ‘Jaw-dropping, isn’t it?’ he said, coming to a halt at the top of the jetty where day trippers were starting to gather.

  ‘It’s breathtaking. I really don’t want to go back to work. It’ll be hard to return to running campaigns for wall insulation and rainwater products after this.’