The Moor’s Head was located on the highest point of St Piran’s and it was the centre of island life, along with the community hall and post-office-cum-shop. As Poppy walked up the hill with Jake, he pointed out the combined fire service/ambulance/coastguard station next to the pub and explained that all the ‘staff’ were people from the island.
‘So basically, that’s anyone under ninety,’ he said as they walked past the station and into the neighbouring pub.
Letting her go ahead, he ducked under the lintel and into the interior. The sun was setting and the lights were on inside, supplementing the final rays that could penetrate the small windows. According to a sign on the wall, there had been an alehouse on the site for over five hundred years.
‘And some of the regulars have been propping up the bar ever since,’ said Jake with an eyebrow raise. He went on to introduce her to various locals, while others had no qualms about coming forward and telling Poppy all about themselves.
A petite redhead a few years older than Poppy made her way through the regulars, a glass of orange juice in hand and with an obvious baby bump.
‘Hi. I’m Maisie from the Driftwood Inn. Welcome to St Piran’s,’ she said, smiling broadly.
‘Thanks,’ said Poppy. ‘I’ve heard a lot about your pub.’
‘All good I hope? We haven’t seen much of Jake lately …’
She glanced at Jake, wondering how he’d take this, but he seemed OK and pretty relaxed with the question. Poppy sensed he must know Maisie well.
Maisie smiled at him. ‘Nice to see you back, Jake. How’s Archie?’
‘He’s OK. It’s a slow process but you know …’
Maisie nodded. ‘We miss him over at the Driftwood. I hope he’s on the mend soon. Pass on our good wishes.’
‘I’m sure he misses you too. How many paintings do you have now?’
‘Plenty, but there’s always room for more. They’re beautiful. I gave one to Patrick at Christmas.’
‘I did hear congratulations are in order. When’s the little Samson due?’ he asked.
Maisie patted her bump. ‘Mid July. Sorry, Patrick’s not here with me. He has rowing practice.’ She touched his arm. ‘Your grandpa told me you’d been photographing whale sharks on the Ningaloo Reef late last year. I think Patrick’s been there and I’m sure he’d love to see you while you’re here. How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I’m taking a break before my next assignment. Visiting family and helping with the handover of the Starfish to Poppy.’
‘I’m glad you’re keeping it open,’ said Maisie to Poppy. ‘We have a community trust on Gull Island that clubs together to renovate some of the properties. Shout up if you need some help with the studio and we’ll sort something out.’
This was such an unexpected and generous offer, Poppy wasn’t sure how to respond and Jake stayed silent. ‘Um … that’s kind, but I’m afraid I don’t have the budget for much professional help. I’m going to have to do almost everything myself, with Jake and Fen’s help, of course. They’ve been very kind.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about the money. We’re a cooperative and we all help each other. I’m sure you can repay us somehow.’
Poppy laughed. ‘I could use the help, but I don’t have that many useful skills to offer in return when it comes to building work itself, unless you count writing exciting articles about spouts and downpipes.’
‘That’s niche.’ Maisie raised an eyebrow.
Poppy laughed again. ‘I was the PR manager at a building products company.’
‘Ohhh. PR? Great. You could always help with the Gull Island website or the newsletter, then? Or edit some of the small-business sites? God knows, we need the literary inspiration, and if you can make downpipes sound exciting, I’m sure you could work wonders for a pub or B&B,’ said Maisie, who seemed to be a ball of energy and ideas. ‘We’ll find you something to do … talking of which, I have to go and speak to the landlord about the Low Tide Festival later in the year.’
Poppy already knew that the festival was a big thing for the islands. For just a few days a year, the spring tide – which Poppy had learned had nothing to do with actual spring but meant ‘springing’ back and forth – exposed the sea bed between St Piran’s and St Saviour’s. For a few hours, you could walk between the islands almost without getting your feet wet.
‘I’ve heard it’s a big occasion,’ she said.
‘About as big as it gets on St Piran’s. If the weather’s good, we can have hundreds of people and the Driftwood is planning to do a joint pop-up bar and food with the Moor’s Head.’
‘What? On the middle of the channel?’
Maisie laughed. ‘Yup. Right on the seabed. Why don’t you nip over to the Driftwood for a coffee or a glass of wine soon and I’ll tell you more?’
‘Sounds good.’ Poppy resolved to take Maisie up on her offer.
Maisie was about to say goodbye and leave when they were almost deafened by loud barking and shouts from the entrance to the bar.
‘Oh God …’ Maisie lowered her voice. ‘It’s Hugo. Lucky you. Speak soon. Take care, Jake, and send our love to your grandpa.’
She hurried back to her table as a youngish guy in a Barbour and brogues walked into the middle of the pub.
‘Bas-il!’ His voice was a bellow. Seconds later, a sleek Labrador shot past his legs and into the bar. The dog ran straight to Poppy, its claws clattering on the boards. Basil sniffed her bare knees.
Hugo groaned and tried to catch Basil’s collar but the dog dodged out of reach.
‘Sorry! He’s a terrible reprobate. Still, lucky he’s not windy today. That dog’s bowels are a law unto themselves. Costs me a fortune in charcoal tablets.’ Hugo rolled his eyes and held out his hand. ‘Hugo Scorrier, from the Petroc Luxury Resort. Pleased to meet you.’
Poppy shook his outstretched hand, realising that while Hugo looked like an old country squire, he was actually not that much older than her. She sensed Jake beside her silently laughing at the unnecessary detail about the dog’s flatulence problems.
Hugo’s tone changed when he spoke to Jake. ‘Hello, Jake. Good to see you back on St Piran’s again. How are you bearing up these days?’
Jake shook Hugo’s hand too. ‘I’m OK, thanks.’
‘Staying with us long?’
‘Not sure. I’m here to sort out the handover of the studio to Poppy while my grandpa’s out of action.’
‘Hmm. Shame about Archie. Hope the old chap’s up and about soon.’ He gave Poppy a closer look, the sandy moustache on his top lip wrinkling. ‘I thought you were taking over the place with your boyfriend?’
Wow. Everyone really did know her business, thought Poppy, dismayed at being asked this question so soon after she’d walked into the bar. Still, it was probably best to get the pain over with quickly. ‘I was … but we’ve gone our separate ways. I’ll be opening it on my own,’ she said, surprised at how confident she sounded. Inside, her stomach twisted into knots.
Hugo winced. ‘Ouch. That’s very brave. The old place needs a lot of work, if you don’t mind me being frank.’ Hugo shot Jake a conciliatory smile. ‘I really admire Archie’s work, but you have to admit the Starfish Studio has been going downhill for quite a while.’
‘It’s nothing we can’t sort,’ said Poppy, sensing Jake simmering with annoyance next to her.
‘We? I thought you said you were on your own?’
‘I’m giving Poppy a hand and Fen’s helping too, and from what I’ve seen so far, her plans for the studio are going to totally revitalise it,’ Jake said.
She could have high-fived him. ‘Yes, we – I – have some exciting plans for the Starfish and Jake’s a huge help. Until he leaves for his next assignment, that is.’
‘Hmm. I admire your enthusiasm. I’ll look forward to seeing the results. Well, our guests at Petroc Resort could be some of your biggest potential customers. It’s an upmarket place with discerning visitors who’re always keen to patronise the local arts scene. I could help you publicise the gallery. Once it’s up to scratch, of course.’
‘Thanks. Sounds like a promising opportunity,’ said Poppy. She couldn’t afford to dismiss Hugo’s offer, but she had a feeling she’d rather not get too involved with him, either. ‘Oh!’ She let out a squeak of horror as she felt something warm and wet against her leg. Glancing down, she found Basil back at her feet and gazing up at her with adoration. A glistening trail of drool linked his jowls and the hem of her dress.
‘Basil, that’s disgusting. I must apologise for my dog’s appalling habits.’ Hugo whipped a large red hanky from the pocket of his jacket and handed it to Poppy. She took some comfort that it must be clean because it still had the creases ironed into it.
‘Thanks, but I think I have a tissue in my bag.’
‘No, I insist. Please.’ He glared at Basil. ‘There’s no hope for you, hound.’
By her side, Jake was trying not to laugh. ‘I expect he was only being friendly.’ Jake ruffled Basil’s ears. ‘He’s a lovely dog. How old is he, Hugo?’
‘Almost two now.’ Hugo’s eyes lit up with pleasure at the praise of Basil. ‘I keep trying to train him but it seems hopeless. He does what he damn well pleases.’
Basil snuffled in delight as Jake stroked his ears and Poppy wiped the drool from her dress and knee.
‘He’s lovely,’ said Poppy. ‘Shall I wash your hanky?’
‘God no, keep it. Least I can do.’
Poppy struggled not to laugh. Hugo sounded like the presenter of a daytime antiques show.
‘Anyway, here’s my card. Let’s meet up sometime.’
Poppy pocketed the card and Hugo moved to the other side of the pub where he seemed to know everyone. She bought a round of drinks while Jake managed to find a table. Once seated, they studied the menus.
‘Told you it would be a baptism of fire,’ Jake whispered behind the menus. ‘But at least you’ll get it all over in one go.’
A couple of hours later, Poppy’s head was spinning. She must have met the entire population of St Piran’s and more characters from the other islands. Maisie’s laid-back Aussie partner, Patrick, turned up along with Jess and Adam who ran the Flower Farm on St Saviour’s. Even Jake seemed surprised when he heard that Adam, who used to be the island postman, had decided to help run the farm with Jess – and even more so when he found out that Jess’s twin brother, Will, had left the farm to travel the world with a Cambridge graduate who’d come to work for him.
All the gossip was new to Poppy, who kept reminding herself that this was the rebirth of her life now. Telling people that she and Dan had split up and that she was running the studio on her own became easier as the evening wore on. Most of the locals were far more eager to share banter and gossip about their neighbours than pry into her background, so she went with the flow, listened politely and laughed.
She guessed the occasion must be harder for Jake, who had to endure an endless stream of questions about Archie, which she could tell he didn’t mind – and about Harriet, which she was sure he found painful. He kept his responses to a few brief words, smiling his appreciation of their sympathy and declaring firmly that he was only here for a short time, while steering the conversation onto some of his recent exotic trips. Poppy lost count of the number of people who told him he was ‘mad’ but sounded very envious of his adventures anyway.
The other major bonus of the evening was that two of the artists she’d contacted and wanted to talk to turned up to the Darts Night.
Rowan Pentire was an up-and-coming ceramicist who lived in a chalet behind the pub. Poppy spotted Rowan while she was queueing at the bar, having recognised him instantly from his website, and bought him a pint. Rowan, in his early twenties, had auburn hair tied back in a ponytail and was wearing flip-flops and a skull-headed toe-ring. He seemed very chilled about Poppy’s plans, and happy to go along with all her suggestions for selling his work.
‘Do you want to come around and take a look at the space once we’ve renovated it?’ she asked.
‘Sure, but I’m cool with whatever you do.’
‘I’ll email the terms to you. The commission will be forty per cent,’ she said, aware that Archie had been charging thirty-five. Even so, forty was on the lower side for a gallery. Most asked for fifty per cent and even as high as seventy. ‘But I think it will be a much more attractive environment for your work and hopefully that will mean added sales.’
‘Whatever.’ Rowan waved his hand airily. ‘I’ll drop in when I’m next around. I’ve been working on some new pieces.’
‘That sounds exciting. I love your work and the pieces that are already in the gallery.’
‘Thanks.’ Rowan left to chat up a girl at a corner table.
Poppy heaved a sigh of relief that her first encounter with one of her ‘stable’ of artists had gone so well. If only they were all that straightforward.
After dinner, Jake introduced her to a group of three people who included the silversmith, Araminta, aka ‘Minty’, Cavendish who lived on St Mary’s where she had her own established studio. Poppy knew from her website bio that she was in her late thirties. Her platinum hair had been dip-dyed aubergine at the ends and cut with an asymmetric fringe, that was a work of art in itself. She wore black jeans, a man’s white shirt with the cuffs folded back and had an air of cool confidence that Poppy found mildly intimidating.
Poppy almost drooled when she saw the fabulous silver pendant around Minty’s neck with its solid silver starfish and the bracelet composed of tiny silver sea creatures. The bracelet jingled as Minty swept her fringe off her face. Poppy knew from past sales records that Minty’s jewellery sold like hot cakes, but Fen had confessed that she had stopped sending pieces to the Starfish a year before because it ‘sadly, was no longer the right environment for her work’.
Jake strode right up to her table, with Poppy in tow. He’d warned her that Minty – a local personality with a reputation that went way beyond the isles in arty circles – might be a tough nut to crack. ‘Hi, Minty,’ he said, with a smile.
Minty’s eyes lit up and she jumped up and threw her arms around him. ‘Oh my God. I’d lost all hope of seeing you again. You poor boy …’ she said, standing back. ‘Although you’re looking pretty good tonight.’
Minty’s friends, one male and one female, both smiled and eyed Jake admiringly.
‘Did you know,’ said Minty, who didn’t even seem to have noticed Poppy, ‘that Jake and his family are descended from sailors shipwrecked on the islands after the Spanish Armada?’
Jake groaned. ‘Oh God, no. That’s just a myth.’
‘What? Is this true?’ Poppy burst out.
Minty finally noticed her. ‘It’s abso-bloody-lutely true. The Armada was scattered by the wind around Scilly. Besides, just look at those to-die-for espresso eyes and that hair – like a raven’s wing. Jake must have Spanish heritage. Archie too. In fact, the Pendowers have lived on St Piran’s for generations. Apart from Jake, of course.’
Minty’s eyes gleamed wickedly and her two friends seemed completely rapt. Poppy held her breath. Given that Jake had left and decided not to come back because of a boating accident, she thought Minty was sailing close to the wind with her teasing – and that wasn’t a pun. But now she came to think of it – and looked at him closely – Jake might very well have Spanish heritage.
Jake laughed uneasily. ‘I don’t think there’s any record of any Armada ships being wrecked off Scilly. Most ended up off Ireland and Scotland.’
‘That means nothing. The sailors could easily have rowed ashore from a more distant wreck.’ Minty was clearly enjoying herself. ‘And anyway, your grandfather’s always telling the Armada tale to tourists, so it must have some truth in it.’
Jake let out a snort. ‘That’s because Grandpa always gets a free pint out of it.’
‘You’re so naughty, Minty,’ said her male companion.
‘That’s why you like me.’ Minty smirked, then her attention switched to Poppy and her eyes narrowed. ‘Aha. Are you Jake’s new Significant Other?’ she asked.
‘No!’ Poppy got the word out just before Jake. ‘I’m Poppy McGregor, the new owner of the Starfish Studio. Jake was going to introduce me because I love your work and I was hoping you’d let us stock your pieces in the gallery again. I’ve already started renovating it and I have some fabulous plans. I think it would be perfect for your wonderful jewellery.’
Minty’s eyes widened. Poppy had surprised herself, but once the words had started, they rushed out in a torrent. ‘That’s some sales pitch, but I have my own studio … and with the greatest respect to Archie, Jake …’ she said, ‘the Starfish Studio hasn’t been a great showcase for my work lately. Or anyone’s.’
‘But it will be,’ said Poppy. ‘I can promise you that. Why not come over next week when we’ll have it well underway? Have a coffee and a chat and see how it’s going.’ She had the feeling that if she could get Minty on board, others would follow.
‘Have you had much gallery experience?’ Minty asked.
‘I worked in a gallery during my student vacations.’ Poppy declined to mention her own jewellery making efforts. Somehow, she didn’t think Minty would be impressed.
‘On Scilly?’
‘No. At a craft centre in Staffordshire.’
‘Staffordshire?’ Minty made the place sound like some kind of hell. ‘The market’s a lot different down here. And with respect, I’m guessing that was some time ago.’
Poppy covered her annoyance with a laugh, deciding a charm offensive was the best method of attack with Minty. ‘Oh, centuries ago. Actually, it was just within this century. But at least it gave me a good grounding in the way a gallery works. And, of course, I’ve done a lot of research since then. I’ve contacted some of the local artists and Fen and Jake have given me some insight into how the market operates for the Starfish and what the opportunities are …’ Minty and her mates stared at Poppy as if they were judging a wonky Showstopper cake on the Bake Off. She ploughed on anyway. ‘But above all I’m passionate about my ethos for the Starfish Studio.’
Minty arched an eyebrow. ‘Which is?’
‘High-quality pieces, carefully curated from island artists. Archie’s work will still be at the heart of the gallery alongside talented established artists like yourself and up-and-coming stars like Rowan.’
Jake spoke. ‘And of course, I’m going to start offering exclusive limited-edition prints of my own work to Poppy.’
Poppy just managed to stop her mouth from falling open. This was the first she’d heard of the offer, but Minty had fired up her wicked side and she quickly gathered herself and ran with the idea. ‘Of course. Jake only allows a handful of select galleries to show his work,’ she said, improvising.
‘A handful of select galleries?’ Minty smiled and Poppy cringed at her own words, which were all she could think of on the spur of the moment.
Minty darted a sly glance at Jake. ‘Well, if Jake has so much obvious faith in you, then maybe I might have to reconsider. I’ll certainly come and take a look at your plans, but I’m not promising anything.’
Poppy smiled sweetly. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘So, when exactly are you leaving us again?’ Minty directed this at Jake, now that Poppy guessed she’d served her purpose as entertainment for the evening.
By now, Jake must have heard the question so many times, he could have worn a sandwich board saying: ‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Let’s hope it’s a while. I’ll make sure I come over while you’re still around. It’s been way too long.’ Minty reached out and patted Jake’s hand. ‘You poor boy.’
Poppy wondered if Jake was squirming but decided Minty must know him very well.
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, then spoke more boldly. ‘And I can understand your concerns about new owners taking over the studio. I had my doubts when I first heard from my grandpa.’
Just in time, Poppy stifled a gasp at Jake’s frankness, but he quickly qualified his statement.
‘Now I’ve met Poppy and seen her commitment to the studio and how hard she’s prepared to work, I have total confidence that she’ll make a success of it. With the support of her artists, of course.’
Minty smiled. ‘Like I said, I’m happy to support her. If I’m confident the studio is the right home for my work.’
Poppy was rapidly wishing she didn’t need Minty’s jewellery in the Starfish. She didn’t quite know whether she liked the woman or not, though that was irrelevant to whether she exhibited her work, she supposed. Then again, hadn’t she declared that her ethos was to only show the work of artists she admired and respected? Hmm. She might have to compromise on that with Minty Cavendish.
Some of the artists she’d known back in the day had been difficult characters, to put it mildly, and you could hardly expect creative types to conform to convention. Her old boss at the craft centre had told her it was part of the job to nurture a stable of artists – even those you longed to tell to ‘shove their creations up their arses’.
‘I hope you’ll call round at the Starfish soon?’ Poppy said with a secret smile, fondly remembering her old boss’s rants.
Minty was all sweetness again. ‘Of course. I’m always willing to give the Starfish a try, if your plans are as good as they sound. Especially as Jake has given it – and you – such a glowing endorsement.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jake. ‘And if you’ll excuse us, I want to introduce Poppy to the vicar.’
The bar emptied quickly as anyone who wanted to take their boats home had to catch the tides. Shortly afterwards, Poppy and Jake themselves left, chatting about the people they’d met on the short walk back to the harbour. At the back of her mind, she couldn’t stop wondering if it was Poppy’s enthusiasm for the Starfish that had swayed Minty – or her passion for Jake.
More importantly, why had he offered to take some new photographs for the gallery if he wasn’t planning on staying long on St Piran’s and, as she suspected, didn’t really want to be here at all?