‘Bloody hell. He’s keen.’
Hazel Samson peered through the slatted blinds of the front bar window as Maisie stocked the chiller cabinets with bottled drinks ready for a busy Sunday. It was only ten o’clock and the first ferry from St Mary’s or the off-islands didn’t arrive until eleven, though walkers and guests from the campsite and Gull Island’s handful of holiday cottages would soon be up and about and in need of coffee or something stronger.
‘Who is it?’ Maisie asked.
‘Some young bloke with a bag.’
Hmm. Maisie was puzzled. The Blond had had a rucksack not a bag, but her mum couldn’t see too well and might have been confused. ‘What does he look like?’ she asked, slotting bottles of ‘posh’ juice into the soft drinks chiller.
‘I don’t know. He’s got his back to me. Youngish. Fair hair. Funny, he seems vaguely familiar although I haven’t got my specs on. He looks a bit like that singer you like. Tom O’ Donnell?’
‘Tom Odell,’ said Maisie, straightening up and peering over the counter. She picked up a cloth and started to wipe down the bistro menu covers.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘Just hanging about, I think … oh, wait, he’s going now. Running towards the jetty … no idea why.’
‘Right,’ said Maisie, feeling guilty for losing interest in her mother’s mystery man. She hadn’t slept well, and her insomnia had nothing to do with the Blond. She’d heard her father up and about several times and muted voices coming from her parents’ room down the hallway from hers. It wasn’t easy living in such close proximity, for her or them, but in general, they all got along pretty well. However, living in the same premises had brought home to her that all wasn’t rosy with his health. Maisie was convinced that the stress of running the pub was a contributor to his problems. She needed to find someone reliable to help out, if only part-time.
She stacked the menus neatly at the end of the bar. Hazel was still peering through the blinds.
‘What’s up?’ Maisie asked.
‘He just ran along the beach the other way. I’ve no idea what he’s doing.’
‘Well, if he wants to come in here, we don’t open until half-past so he can wait. Mum, would you mind checking we’ve enough vegetables for the Sunday lunches? I can get Dad to dig up some more if not, and I want to make sure we’re stocked up before Helmut comes in to do the prep.’ Helmut was the chef. He and the seasonal barman lived in the tiny staff studios behind the pub. Debbie, the bistro manager, had been lodging in a caravan at the campsite. They would all be gone on the ferry to the mainland the next morning.
Hazel closed the slats. ‘No problem.’
Hazel went into the kitchen while Maisie gave the bar another wipe down and checked the float in the till. Could they manage without any help at all over the winter? she wondered. It would be a lot more cost-effective but it meant having no time off. She could handle that, somehow, by closing an extra day, but it would also mean relying more and more on her parents. They were in their late sixties and they’d had enough. Her dad wasn’t too well, though he tried to hide the fact and claimed he was just tired. Maisie could see he struggled to get his breath sometimes and he was pale under his year-round tan.
Maisie heard a scuffle outside on the terrace and angry shouts. She risked a discreet glance through the bottle-glass pane in the pub door. There was a figure out there, but it was so distorted, it could have been anyone. She glanced at the big clock above the bar. It was twenty past ten.
Sharp raps on the door made her jump.
Winter was coming and she needed every penny of revenue, didn’t she? She could open ten minutes early. She drew the bolts on the top and bottom as carefully as she could, then turned the key and lifted the latch.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Sorry to startle you.’ A handsome man about her own age, with blond, almost white hair, stood in the porch. He must have been waiting right in front of the door and Maisie had almost knocked him flying.
‘Hugo? What do you want?’
Hugo Scorrier held his laptop bag protectively in front of his privates. ‘Apologies for the early visit but I wanted a quick word before the inn opened. Basil! Bad dog! Stop that!’
At Hugo’s shout, Basil pulled his snout out of a patch of weeds topped by the remains of a rotting seagull. The Labrador’s coat glistened like wet coal and there was a green strand of weed stuck to his tail.
Hugo flashed an apologetic smile at Maisie. ‘Sorry, he may whiff a bit. He goes his own way, never listens to a word I tell him. I’ve been chasing the devil up and down the beach for ages.’
Clever Basil, thought Maisie, but answered Hugo as civilly as she could. ‘We open in ten minutes and I’m afraid I’m rather busy.’
‘I would have been here at ten,’ he said as Basil sniffed around the tables on the terrace, ‘if Basil hadn’t had other ideas involving seagulls and going AWOL.’
‘You should have phoned me to make an appointment.’
‘Well, I hadn’t planned on calling as such,’ said Hugo. ‘Not on you specifically, but I’ve been to the morning service at the chapel and had a coffee with a few of your neighbours afterwards. I thought I’d drop in on my way back to my boat.’
Maisie shivered in the cool morning air. Hugo wore olive cords, a waxed jacket and shiny brogues on his feet. He was like an apparition from another era. A very unwelcome one at that.
‘Can you spare five minutes?’ he asked.
‘Who’s that, love?’ Hazel shouted from the bar.
‘It’s Hugo Scorrier, Mum. We’re just having a very quick chat.’
‘Oh, shit.’
Worried that Hugo had heard her mum’s curse, Maisie cringed and quickly pulled the door to behind her. ‘I can spare a few minutes.’ She ushered Hugo to a table near the beach. People were already wandering along the path, eyeing up the inn. Basil ran off to investigate some old lobster pots.
Hugo perched on the edge of a bench, looking for a spot without any seagull poo. ‘I know you’re a busy woman so I’ll get to the point. Have you thought any more about our offer to take the Driftwood off your hands?’
‘“Take it off my hands”? Hugo, I think I’ve made it quite clear that I don’t want to sell the Driftwood at this time. Or any time. I’ve only recently taken over here.’
Hugo placed his bag on the table. ‘Yes, I know. You came from a very senior role with a successful pub chain. I’m sure that your experience has thrown the – um – limitations of the Driftwood into stark reality.’
‘Yes, it has, and my experience has also shown me how it could be more profitable and successful. I hope you’re not suggesting that my parents haven’t worked incredibly hard to keep the place viable. We turn a reasonable profit, enough to give us all a basic living and allow us to stay here on Gull.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything like that. Your parents are troupers. They’ve stuck it out far longer than anyone could have expected them to. All I’m saying is that, if you accepted our offer, which is a generous one, you could still live and work at the Driftwood without the worries of living hand to mouth. Let’s face it, the Driftwood could do with a makeover.’
Maisie sat her on hands, resisting the urge to throw Hugo off the terrace. She’d tried hard to put herself in his shoes when she’d first come home and she did feel sorry about his father’s illness. It must be tough having to run the business while seeing his dad suffering from Alzheimer’s at such a young age. Hugo was a year younger than her and his father, Graydon Scorrier, had had to hand over the reins to his son five years previously. He was now in a nursing home on St Mary’s. Hugo’s parents had split up when Hugo was still a teenager and his mother now lived in London and as far as Maisie knew, had never come back to visit her ex.
‘Firstly, we don’t live hand to mouth,’ she said. ‘And secondly, why would we want to be tenants here when we can be owners?’ She hated Hugo in that moment, not because what he was saying was wrong or insulting but because actually his offer did make some sense. The Driftwood was only just holding together and probably did need a lot of work doing. It could do with a repaint over the winter, and the window frames needed varnishing and the roof needed repairing at the very least. The cost of re-slating it was unthinkable. Then there were the toilets: they could do with a total refit. In fact, in her dreams, it would be a lot smarter than it looked now and she’d love to expand the bistro and terrace too. They were pipe dreams, however: the basics needed tackling first.
Hugo opened his mouth to speak. He had a beige moustache of sorts clinging for dear life to his upper lip. Maisie cut him off before he could get any words out. ‘Before you say any more, I have seriously considered your offer and yes, there are advantages …’
Hugo broke into a smile. ‘I thought you’d see it that way.’
‘But on balance, I – and my parents – have decided that we’re going to decline it.’ There, thought Maisie, I’ll use the type of business language he can understand. She was really rather proud of herself.
Hugo was silent for a few seconds then sighed. ‘I’m sorry to hear that and very disappointed, naturally. The Driftwood would have made a wonderful addition to our portfolio on Gull. We’d be able to make a significant investment in it and extend it.’
‘You mean turn it into a clone of the Rose and Crab on Petroc?’
‘Not a clone. Gull would be given its own distinct identity. We’ve had a top London agency draw up the branding. In fact’ – he sniffed – ‘I have the designs in my bag here. I’ve just come back from showing them to some of the other islanders who attended the service and coffee morning. There was a good turnout. I’d say about half the islanders were there.’
Maisie rolled her eyes. ‘That’s because the coffee and bacon rolls were free.’
‘Probably.’ Hugo grinned. He had lovely white teeth and wasn’t unattractive in a Hooray Henry kind of way, Maisie was forced to admit. He reminded her of a less hunky and fairer version of the vicar in Grantchester, one of her mum’s favourite shows.
Hugo smirked. ‘I can see there’s no point trying to bullshit you.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’ Maisie got up. ‘I really have to start serving. We’ve customers already waiting as you can see and the morning tripper boat will be here soon.’ She nodded at the half a dozen punters hovering expectantly on the terrace. Basil seemed to have sensed Hugo’s time was up too and lolloped over. He nudged Hugo in the crotch.
‘Basil. For God’s sake,’ said Hugo, pushing the dog away and wrinkling his nose at the damp patch on his trousers. ‘As you’re obviously busy, I’ll leave you with a copy of my plans.’
He unzipped his bag and pulled out an A4 folder. ‘There’s no harm in taking a look, is there? You know where to reach me if you change your mind.’
‘Thanks,’ Maisie ground out. She didn’t touch the file he’d placed in front of her. Hugo pushed his floppy lock of hair off his face. ‘I’ll be off then.’
Maisie wiggled her fingers. ‘Byeee. Have a safe journey back over the water!’
‘Thanks.’ Hugo turned away, but he’d only got a few steps when he doubled back, just as Maisie had picked up the file. ‘By the way, I think you should know that two more of your neighbours are seriously considering selling to us – Hell Cove Cottages and the Fudge Pantry. I think that makes five businesses on Gull who have sold or agreed to sell to us now. There’s not much left, is there?’
Then, leaving Maisie too stunned to reply, Hugo sauntered down the path and along the beach towards the jetty and his boat, calling Basil to heel and being ignored. Maisie sat back down on the bench, staring at the folder. She should be in the pub now, ready to serve the first rush of customers but she couldn’t move.
Una and Phyllis at the Hell Cove Cottages had agreed to sell up to Hugo? Pete and Davina at The Fudge Pantry in the middle of the island too? Both families had been on Gull for generations. They’d once told Maisie they’d sell to the Scorriers over their dead bodies. Was Hugo winding her up, or bluffing? If he was right, it left only a handful of significant businesses on Gull Island that were still independently owned, along with the land around them. Hugo would be free to apply to develop them as he chose. Despite what people said, if offered enough money, it wouldn’t take much for the rest of the families to fall like a pack of dominoes. And who could blame them when it took such commitment and energy to eke out a half-decent living on Gull?
Maisie glanced over to Petroc with its chichi cottages and businesses clustered around the harbour. Was she the one who was wrong, trying to make sure Gull kept its slightly shabby but fiercely independent character?
It wasn’t only the Petroc channel that had separated her and Hugo. He’d been despatched to boarding schools in Cornwall from the age of seven and had only returned for the holidays. Maisie and the island kids had hung out with him occasionally when their paths crossed, swimming and playing cricket on the beach. Hugo had been hopeless at football, Maisie recalled – they only played rugger at his boarding school. More often than not, however, Hugo had friends to stay and then he and his chums had kept in their own little clique.
It was hard to judge after all these years, but Maisie had felt that when Hugo was with his school friends, they’d turned up their noses at Maisie and her mates. He’d been far less sure of himself when he was on his own, but maybe that was natural. Kids were quick to realise when an ‘outsider’ wanted to join in and at times Hugo hadn’t met with the friendliest of welcomes. When she was older, in her late teens, she used to think he fancied her and that had made her even more distant with him. Now she was older still she suspected he’d probably just been lonely.
However, none of this was an excuse for Hugo being a total prat now he was a grown man.
Ray Samson appeared in the doorway of the pub, waving frantically. ‘Maisie!’ he called.
‘Coming!’
Maisie hurried into the Driftwood, smiling at punters and apologising for the late opening. She slid behind the counter and after a moment’s hesitation, stepped on the pedal of the bin and dropped Hugo Scorrier’s plans inside. Then, with a heart as heavy as stone, she turned back to the room with a huge grin.
‘Right, you lovely thirsty, hungry people. Welcome to the Driftwood. What can I get you?’