The rumour started when Nurse Kelly popped in for a swift drink on the Sunday. Both Kelly and Alison faced a busy week ahead. No one gets much time off during the gig championships, least of all Alison, what with the invasion of crews from all over Cornwall and beyond: groups of fit young men and women, for some their first time away from home; teams of veterans mourning the prowess of their youth, desperate to settle old rivalries; fans of the racing, fans of the celebrating, fans of the commiserating. Winning! Losing! Alcohol! What could possibly go wrong?

But before that, there’s a different event to toast. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, but a new arrival might be on the way,’ whispers Kelly. 192

‘Who is it? Who’s up the duff?’

‘No, I can’t possibly tell you who it is, that would be unprofessional,’ declares the nurse.

Someone on Tresco is all she will reveal, adding, ‘You know her very well.’

That’s hardly a clue. Alison knows everyone.

‘Let’s wet the baby’s head,’ Alison whispers back, mouthing, ‘Cheers!’

‘Let’s have another in case it’s twins,’ giggles Kelly.

‘Any bets on triplets?’ laughs Alison.

Old Betty comes in to celebrate something else. She’s been up to the big city, by which she means Truro rather than the capital, and she’s been given a clean bill of health from the hospital check-up over there. She mouths the word breasts.

As Alison serves Old Betty, Kelly goes on to tell them about one of the builders who’d come to that week’s drop-in clinic at the community centre.

‘The poor lad was convinced he had, as he put it, cock cancer,’ she whispers. ‘Beside himself he was. I had to nag him into letting me see it, because of course he wanted the male doctor to do it. And he did have a lump under his foreskin. But do you know what it turned out to be when he finally let me examine him?’

Alison shakes her head. Old Betty shrugs.

‘It was a piece of sweetcorn! He’d been eating pizza in bed, probably had a fiddle while he was at it, and a bit had got lodged there! Bloody sweetcorn!’

The women chuckle.

Alison notices Thor gawping at Charlotte, who’s over for the gig weekend, staying at Falcon with Beatrice Wallace. The girl 193looks as if she’s stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. The poor lad looks mesmerised.

 

Alison gives the news of the pregnancy no more thought, but the next night, she notices Hannah isn’t drinking. No beers before her shift begins, no vodka added to her juice, no shots after she finishes.

She watches the barmaid closely. Are her cheeks fuller, a little rosier? Is the skirt, always short, always snug, pulling even tighter across her belly? When was the last time she took a cigarette break? Come to think of it, has she smoked at all over the last week?

Alison is not the sort to jump to conclusions, but she makes a perfectly natural deduction based on these observations.

Kit, sitting on a bar stool, beams at Hannah for the entire evening. He appears ruddy-faced and chipper, so Alison guesses he either doesn’t know yet, or he’s young and stupid enough to be happy about it, bless him.

Over the next few days this information escapes and runs free.

When Bobby next pops in for a burger on his way home Alison might mention this juicy piece of information, knowing he will only take it as a logical supposition rather than gospel, and that he’s unlikely to spread it further. Alison isn’t one to gossip, but this is a word to the wise – Bobby needs to be forewarned if one of the experienced staff is likely to leave him in the lurch. However management might frame it officially (according to the law of the land), privately there is a resigned weariness if staff disappear on maternity leave. Within a small team, resentments can brew. 194

Alison might also say something to Emma as she wrangles her kids and Christie’s lads into a booth to shovel piles of chips in their faces. Emma is looking after her friend’s brood yet again, because Christie is ‘under the weather’, and Alison can guess what that means. Emma runs the island’s Starfish Playgroup, and she will appreciate having a heads-up that there might be another mini member joining in the not-too-distant future, because their grant might be cut otherwise. Few seem to be breeding on the islands right now. ‘Don’t tell another soul,’ whispers Alison.

However, Emma might say something to a few, indeed all the other mums over the course of the following week as they drop off and collect their kids, plus those who come to the meeting to plan a tea party at the community centre to keep the little ones out of the way of the main gig-race celebrations in the pub, which get a bit lairy at this time of year, sometimes slipping into total carnage.

 

Never have so many eyes scrutinised Hannah’s belly.

‘She’s got her claws into that tall visitor from Falcon …’

‘Could be anyone’s though …’

‘Do you reckon she’ll leave the island …?’

By Thursday morning, Hannah is confused when Farmer Michael insists on taking the two heavy shopping bags from her as she’s on her way back from the Co-op on St Mary’s, saying she’s looking blooming, telling her to take care of herself.

The rumour continues worming its way around the island. 195

*

On the Thursday lunchtime, Beatrice Wallace has managed to secure a much-needed massage at the island’s spa. The tittle-tattle in the Cow Shed, as it’s locally known, is seeded by Emma’s friend Sasha, who does most of the beauty treatments.

Sweet Sasha pauses while browsing online bargains from ASOS to tell the massage therapist, Jason, the latest. He isn’t the best masseur, but Joan, spa owner and reiki master, has already departed to make the epic trek up to see her family in Liverpool – unwilling to deal with gig-week chaos, thank you very much, for Joan no longer drinks and is thus an anomaly.

Jason, whose ambition is to work on a luxury yacht (being obsessed with Below Deck as he is), has no idea who Beatrice is in relation to Hannah, and later that afternoon, in reply to Beatrice’s languid ‘What’s new around here, darling?’ (asked with zero interest, but it’s only polite to chat to staff), cheerfully chirrups the gossip that has thrilled him – Toff from Made in Chelsea has been spotted at the Hell Bay Hotel! – before casually unleashing the grenade, ‘Oh, and the barmaid’s preggers.’

The body beneath his hands stiffens.

‘Which one?’ asks the client, a Mrs Beatrice Wallace from Falcon – the notes say demanding, but tips usually good.

‘Hannah,’ replies Jason, kneading the client’s rigid shoulder muscles.

Mrs Wallace sits up suddenly, spilling her towel onto the floor, saying she feels faint. Jason has to hurry and fetch her a glass of cucumber water.

There is no tip.