Christmas was coming up fast and since the Nativity Parade the Driftwood had been quiet apart from a handful of small scheduled functions. Although they planned to open in the week after Christmas for the sake of locals and visitors, the main event was to be New Year’s Eve – Maisie’s birthday – with a band, buffet and fireworks.
Maisie and Patrick spent a lot of time working on repairs, and gardening at the pub or joining in the renovations at Hell Cove. Jess and Will’s mum was back from her visit to Cornwall so the Flower Farm was off the menu as a lust nest for the time being. Maisie resigned herself to a few snatched hours with Patrick while her parents were out at Christmas lunches or visiting friends.
Then, before she knew it, it was Christmas Eve itself. As if sensing that Maisie wanted some time with her parents, Patrick had accepted an invitation from Javid and Katya to join them for dinner, but he called into the flat later and shared a glass of apple juice while the Samsons enjoyed a midnight toast with something stronger. After a snatched kiss with Patrick as Maisie tidied up the kitchen, it was time for bed.
Maisie lay awake longer than she’d expected after all the physical work she’d been doing over the past few weeks. The darkness was profound: no light pollution of any kind filtered through her curtains. She thought of Patrick, hoping he’d be lying awake too and thinking of her. How much she’d love to be sharing his bed now – or that he was sharing her double.
It was ridiculous, she thought as she thumped her pillow, to carry on in this secretive way. No matter what the gossip they would have to endure, and how worried her parents would be about the future – or lack of it – of her relationship with Patrick, it was surely time to get things out in the open so they could enjoy what time they had left together properly? That prospect kept her tossing and turning until the chapel bell tolled one a.m. and she fell asleep to the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach outside the Driftwood.
For the first time in eight years, Maisie woke up on Christmas morning with no pub to open. By the time she drew the curtains, daylight – already half an hour old in London – had reached Scilly.
There was no sign of Patrick at breakfast even though he’d been invited the previous evening, he said he’d have ‘too much to do’. Over bacon butties, and still in her pyjamas, Maisie opened her gifts with her parents. The contrast between her putting on her uniform and opening a massive pub ready for the most hectic day of the year couldn’t have been greater, but the happiness of sharing the day with her parents was still tinged with the bitter memories of the previous year.
Worries about the renovations, finances and Patrick’s departure at some point were pushed aside, but her pleasure was laced heavily with sadness when she thought that she might have been a mum herself this year. There should have been gifts for a little one under the tree and a baby at the table.
A gentle hug from her father and a look from her mother let Maisie know that they were all too aware of her wistful thoughts. Yet it was Christmas and this year she was utterly determined that nothing would stop her from making the most of it and having a lovely family day. She pushed the bad times to the back of her mind and threw herself into the fun of Christmas morning. Her mum had ordered a top and jeans that Maisie had hinted she loved, plus a matching bracelet and necklace that Maisie had spotted in one of the galleries on the off-islands. Her father produced a carved French-style dressing-table mirror and stool, which he’d managed to have delivered and hidden away under sacks in his shed all without Maisie’s knowledge.
Maisie had a lump in her throat as she opened the large, gift-wrapped box and saw the furnishings. These gifts had significance beyond their practicality. The main items of furniture in her rented flat in St Austell had been the landlord’s, but even the smaller personal items had had to be pared down, not to mention the general ‘stuff’. And she’d left the flat in a hurry so much of it was given away, or went to the charity shop. A kind friend had also held a garage sale for her while she was sorting herself out and sent the proceeds on to Maisie by PayPal but the personal items she’d been able to salvage were precious to her.
‘Patrick collected them from the supply boat and hid the mirror in the store cupboard in the Piggery. We were on a safe bet that you never go in there,’ her dad said proudly. ‘And I know you never set foot in my shed.’
Maisie smiled weakly. She had of course been in the Piggery several times, but never to look in Patrick’s store cupboard. ‘They’re gorgeous. Just what I would have chosen.’
Ray was quietly delighted. ‘Mum saw you looking at them so we were pretty sure we were onto a winner. This is your place too. We want it to feel like your own space even if we have to share.’
Her dad hugged her. ‘You’re not too old for this, are you?’
‘Not as it’s Christmas,’ she said, tears prickling at the back of her eyes. Must be because it was Christmas. It was OK to go a bit mushy then, wasn’t it?
Her mother smiled warmly as her father finally let her go. ‘What a relief. I wasn’t sure they were the ones you wanted but your dad was convinced. Now, whose turn is it next?’
The unwrapping continued, with presents from Maisie to her parents. Clothes and a spa voucher for her mum at the luxury hotel on St Saviour’s, and some new gardening tools and signed books for her dad.
Even though there were only three of them, and some of the gifts were silly stocking fillers, there still seemed a scarily large number of parcels under the tree. Many of the goodies were practical things or items that they’d put off buying for the past few months, but there were also gifts from relatives on the mainland and local friends too, of course.
Once the close family presents were opened, they started on the gifts from the Godrevys and little treats from some of the regulars. Archie’s was obvious, of course, and was left until last so that everyone could enjoy opening it together after the mayhem of family gifts.
Hazel unwrapped the shrink-wrapped frame and let out an ‘oo’ of surprise.
‘It’s not a painting. It’s a photograph. It must be one of Jake’s.’
She held up the photo of the Driftwood on a winter’s morning, which had been taken with some kind of exposure that made the sea look as smooth as glass and as if mist were streaking over the flattened waves.
‘That’s grand,’ said Ray.
‘There’s a cutting with it.’ Hazel handed a copy of an international nature magazine to Maisie. The photo had made it into a feature about island life around the world. Jake Pendower’s portrait stared back from above the by-line: with his serious brown eyes at odds with the jet black hair flopping over his face and almost Mediterranean colouring. Archie had looked the same once, according to Ray who also remembered Archie’s father, Bill. Some said that the Pendowers were descended from shipwrecked sailors from the Spanish Armada. Well, it was a good tale for the customers and had earned Archie many a drink and might even have a kernel of truth in it.
‘Terrible thing about young Jake’s fiancée. No wonder he doesn’t come back home much, though I feel sorry for Archie,’ said Ray.
‘His parents don’t see much more of him. I reckon he stays as far away from St Piran’s as possible these days.’
‘So sad …’ said Maisie, remembering hearing about Jake’s fiancée in a call from her mum when she was working in St Austell, and feeling stunned by the news.
Ray started to gather up the wrapping paper. Maisie always felt sad that the gift exchange was over for another year. It had been such a treat to watch her parents open their presents, even though she always felt like they spent far too much of their cash on her. ‘Shall I come and start the veg?’ Maisie asked, eager to take part in every festive ritual, however mundane.
‘That’s your dad’s job,’ said Hazel. ‘But I think he might let you help him this year.’
Ray had pulled the parsnips and carrots and picked the sprouts freshly that morning. He’d harvested and stored the potatoes in his shed some time before. Maisie had been delighted to see him back working in his garden. With Patrick to do the heavy work, he’d begun to enjoy the allotment again. ‘I’ll join you. I’d better go and see how the turkey’s doing, anyway. Smells good.’ Hazel got up from the armchair. ‘What’s that noise?’
The sound of the back door to the kitchen slamming attracted their attention.
‘I think it may be Patrick.’ Maisie propped the photo of the Driftwood upright against the tree and scrambled to her feet. Her stomach did a mini-flip. She’d got him a present and despite her jokey protests, was pretty sure he’d bought her something. She just hoped it was something she could open in front of her parents without betraying her emotions. God, please let it not be sexy underwear – or any underwear.
Maisie reached the kitchen first and squealed.
‘Oh my God. What have you got on?’
Patrick stood in the middle of the kitchen with a large white cardboard box in his arms, but the box wasn’t the focus of her attention. He wore board shorts, a clashing Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops.
‘This is Christmas Day, isn’t it? This is what I’d wear on any Christmas Day. Shorts and thongs. Now, where’s the barbie?’
‘But it’s six degrees and blowing a gale.’
‘Lightweight.’ He grinned.
Maisie burst out laughing. ‘You are joking?’
‘Yeah. I’m joking, I’m freezing my bloody rocks off.’ He deposited the box on the countertop. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said and vanished out of the door again.
Hazel walked into the kitchen and raised her eyebrows at the box. ‘Where’s Patrick?’
‘Gone to put his clothes on,’ said Maisie.
‘What?’
Maisie giggled. ‘Your face. He’ll be back in a minute.’
Hazel pointed to the box. ‘What on earth is that?’
Maisie shrugged. ‘No idea.’
Hazel went to lift up the lid but Maisie stopped her.
‘No, wait. I think it’s meant to be a surprise,’ she said.
‘Bit late for that,’ said Hazel. ‘What has he been up to?’
‘I dunno. Shall we pretend we haven’t seen the box and get on with the veg?’
While Hazel basted the turkey, Ray joined Maisie at the sink, but she hadn’t got beyond peeling a parsnip when Patrick staggered back in, laden down with a rucksack and two large supermarket carriers. He’d added a Santa hat to his Bondi Beach ensemble. Ray froze midway through scrubbing the potatoes while Hazel gawped at him like aliens had invaded the kitchen.
‘What the?’
‘Santa’s here,’ Patrick declared with a grin. ‘Don’t look so worried.’
Ray burst out laughing and even Hazel managed a grin as Maisie helped Patrick take his presents into the sitting room.
‘I’ll give you yours now while we’re on our own,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t have bought us so much,’ Maisie said, looking at the gift-wrapped parcels in amazement.
‘Don’t get too excited. They’re only stocking fillers.’
Maisie wasn’t so sure.
Patrick pulled a present out of the bag. It was soft and squidgy and very light. Maisie’s heart sank. It felt like clothing …
‘I hope it’s not what I think it is.’
‘What do you think it is?’
Maisie glanced behind her. Her dad was murdering ‘White Christmas’ and she could hear the clash of pots and pans. Nonetheless she lowered her voice. ‘Underwear,’ she half-mouthed.
Patrick’s face fell. ‘Oh shit.’
Maisie stared at the parcel in horror.
‘Open it quick and hide it.’
She ripped the parcel open. Inside was a bright pink, Lycra and very practical … thermal rash vest.
‘You b—’
‘Shhh.’ Patrick put his finger on her lips. ‘It’s to help keep you warm on your swims. Here. I got these to go with them.’
Taking the rash vest from her, he handed over another parcel which was the same size but squidgier. Still shaking her head, she ripped open the paper and pulled out a pair of neoprene swim shorts.
She let out a little squeal of pleasure. ‘Oh, just what I’ve always wanted.’ She risked a quick peck on Patrick’s cheek. ‘Thanks.’
‘Anyone who didn’t know you would think you were being sarcastic, but I know better.’
Gleefully, Maisie tried the bright blue shorts against her for size. ‘They’re fantastic. I’ve been meaning to get a pair ever since I got back here.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman more excited by a surprise from me,’ said Patrick with a rueful smile. ‘I’ve got you something else too but that really will have to wait until we’re on our own.’
‘Ooh er missus,’ said Maisie, but her pulse skittered. How was she possibly going to hide her feelings for him throughout the whole day when she already felt like a kid who’d been given the keys to the Toys R Us warehouse?
‘I hope you like yours,’ she said, reaching for a gift bag from under the tree.
Patrick raised his eyebrows and accepted the gift bag.
Maisie had been in agonies of indecision over what to get him: something personal yet something that could stand up to public scrutiny, something funny that wouldn’t arouse suspicion as a gift from a boss to her employee. She’d taken equal care with his ‘secret’ gift too, but for different reasons. Nothing that might be seen as tying him to the islands. Nothing too sentimental or, God forbid, romantic.
He laughed out loud when he opened a box set of DVDs of the last Lions rugby series. ‘With us thrashing Australia of course,’ she said with glee.
‘Thanks. Not.’
‘I’ve saved your real present for later,’ she said hurriedly before Hazel and Ray walked in.
‘That’s the roast spuds and parsnips in the oven and the rest of the veg ready in the pans. Oh, what on earth’s that?’ said Hazel.
Maisie waggled the clothes. ‘A rash vest and shorts for my swims.’
‘Very nice,’ said Hazel, clearly amused. And, hopefully, thrown off the scent by the practical present.
‘I have something for you all,’ said Patrick.
He handed over bottles of wine, red and white. ‘This may be coals to Newcastle but you can’t get this wine in the UK. This is decent stuff.’
‘Very funny … so how did you get it here?’ asked Maisie.
‘One of the Fingle regulars has a small vineyard so he shipped it specially for me. I thought it would go nicely with the turkey. And this is for you, Ray.’ Patrick pulled a parcel from the carrier.
Ray was taken aback. ‘My God. An Aussie cricket shirt and there’s writing on it.’
‘It was signed by the Ashes XI and the Poms too. The year we won, of course,’ Patrick joked. ‘Can you be seen wearing it, though?’
‘Cheeky bugger … it’s grand but it must have cost a bit. How did you get it?’
‘Some of the squad come into the bar from time to time when they’re in Melbourne. One or two were big friends of Greg’s and happy to do it, especially when I said it was for a Pom.’ With his twinkling eyes and the tilt of the mouth hinting at trouble, Maisie didn’t think she could possibly fancy him any more, even in clashing shorts and a shirt so loud she needed ear defenders.
‘There was one condition, though,’ he said to Ray. ‘You have to have your picture taken wearing it.’
‘Wear it? I’ll bloody frame it,’ Ray declared. He examined the signatures more closely, reading them out and shaking his head in disbelief while roundly lambasting some of the names from both sides. Despite the jokes, Maisie could see her father was thrilled and touched. She wasn’t that surprised Patrick knew the cricketers, though, as the bar wasn’t far from the ground, but it was still a big thing to have got the shirt and have it posted all this way.
‘Sorry yours isn’t quite so exciting, Hazel,’ said Patrick handing her a smaller parcel.
‘I’m glad to hear it. I can’t stand cricket.’
‘Neither can the England team, by the looks of it,’ said Patrick.
Ray wagged his finger. ‘Now you’re pushing your luck, Crocodile Dundee … and speaking of which …’
More presents were exchanged. A DVD of Crocodile Dundee 1 and 2 for Patrick and a bottle of non-alcoholic fizz from the local vineyard. From Patrick there were purple leather gloves for Hazel, which Maisie had tipped him off about. Patrick opened a couple of gifts from Will and Jess and Javid and Katya, and a parcel that had been mailed to the pub by Judy, along with Ray’s shirt. Patrick laughed out loud when he pulled out the sleeveless sport shirt with McKinnon printed on the back, explaining that it was the latest Melbourne Demons Aussie Rules kit. It was accompanied by a framed photo of Judy and the bar team and a letter which he didn’t open.
‘Do you miss them?’ Hazel asked him.
Maisie held her breath.
‘Yes. Especially today, I won’t lie.’
‘I bet. I’m sorry about your friend. It must be very hard for you and Judy today.’
Maisie desperately wanted to hug Patrick but she didn’t dare. He nodded and said, ‘Well, she has her own family around her. That might not be a bad thing.’
‘And you’re stuck with us, mate.’ Ray slapped him on the back, and Hazel, to Maisie’s amazement, gave Patrick a kiss on the cheek.
‘Right. Who fancies a pre-dinner drink? Patrick, there’s plenty of the soft stuff for you but if no one minds, I’m going to have a beer.’
All Patrick’s offers to help in the kitchen were firmly rebuffed so Maisie found herself buzzing in and out of the kitchen as she helped with ‘trimmings’ and laid the table. It was quite fun, sneaking a quick kiss with Patrick while her parents were out of the way. It was like being a teenager again and reminded her of stolen snogs with the occasional bronzed young lad visiting Gull on holiday.
Hmm.
She guessed her parents might have known about some of those holiday romances but she was still confident they hadn’t guessed about her relationship with Patrick. One of the downsides of moving back home had been giving up her own space, but her bedsit was OK and it just wasn’t practical, economically, to rent long-term on Gull, even if she could have found a suitable year-round place. The staff cottages were needed in the season and her own little nook at the top of the main house was much cosier anyway.
Lunch was served to a round of applause from Patrick, who complimented them on the food.
‘What would you be having at home?’ Maisie’s mum asked him as Ray carved a slice of turkey.
Patrick helped himself to cranberry sauce. ‘A quick sarnie until we could finally get time for a proper sit-down dinner after the Christmas rush was over – which could be after New Year. Judy and Greg loved dishing up turkey and all the trimmings and I guess Judy will want to keep up the tradition, for her family’s sake.’
‘Even in that heat?’ Maisie asked.
‘Yup, though we sometimes have a different pudding. Something lighter.’ He flashed them a grin. ‘But more on that later.’
‘Is that what’s in the box?’ Hazel asked, piling sprouts on her plate.
Patrick tapped the side of his nose. ‘I know there’s a Christmas pudding on the way but I’ve taken the liberty of making you all a surprise.’
After dinner he vanished into the kitchen and returned with a snowy-white confection, topped with pillows of whipped cream and jewel-like green and red fruits.
‘Voila. A festive Pavlova.’
‘Oh my word!’ said Hazel.
Maisie giggled. ‘It looks amazing. What’s on it?’
‘Kiwi fruit, red grapes, dried cranberries and pistachios,’ said Patrick. ‘Plus a drizzle of framboise liqueur. I think I can allow myself that.’
‘It’s magnificent,’ said Hazel.
‘Well, there goes my healthy-eating plan,’ added Ray with a grin.
‘We have this at the Fingle instead of a Christmas pudding,’ said Patrick. ‘Judy usually makes it but she coached me through the recipe so I could do one for you. Desserts aren’t my forte.’
Ray rubbed his hands together. ‘But eating is mine. Let’s tuck in.’
Later, with everyone swearing they’d never eat a morsel of food ever again, and Ray and Hazel dozing in front of the telly, Patrick and Maisie escaped. Maisie grabbed a rug and some matches and they headed for the beach.