St Mary’s in three-quarters of an hour, give or take. Things will calm down a bit then.’
‘Still three-quarters of an hour?’ she said. ‘B-but the isles look so close.’ At least they had seemed close ten minutes previously when she’d staggered back, for the third time, from the washrooms into the ferry’s café. The low islands – reminding her of black beetles – had appeared on the horizon for a few seconds before vanishing again as the ship plunged into the trough of the next huge wave.
‘Give or take. We’ll be passing the Eastern Isles and St Saviour’s soon and if the tide’s right we could be there in half an hour, but we can’t go through the lagoon today. Tide’s not right. We have to sail round and come into St Mary’s the long way.’ Mr Twit was obviously a multi-tasker, chewing and talking at the same time, while crumbs sprayed from his mouth and settled on her jeans.
The boat juddered as a wave smacked into it. ‘Oh God …’
‘You do look green round the gills, girl, but it’ll soon be over. Bet you’ve had no breakfast, either. Why don’t you get something down you? I can get you a pasty if you want? You’re in luck. Café hasn’t sold out of them today.’
At any other time, she’d have laughed at being called a ‘girl’, which didn’t happen that often now she was thirty-three. But right now, smiling was out of the question, as was laughing, sitting down, standing up, talking or basically existing.
Mr Twit thrust the pasty under her nose. ‘Here, have a taste of this.’
‘No … thank … yeuerghhhh!’
Poppy had just enough time to open the sick bag before she threw up in it, narrowly avoiding Mr Twit’s trousers, though looking at the stains on them, a bit of pebble-dashing might not have made any difference. And anyway, right now she didn’t care about anything apart from getting off this rollercoaster ride from hell and onto dry land.
When she’d finished retching, she glanced up, hoping that wasn’t dribble on her chin, or worse. ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ (she wasn’t) ‘I couldn’t help it.’
Mr Twit grinned. Mercifully, he’d finished chewing his pasty so his mouth was empty. ‘Better out than in, I always say. Been a bit lively on here, even I’ll admit, though nothing to what it’s like in the winter.’
‘Really?’ She dug a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped her mouth.
The man grinned. ‘Oh, yes. Was on here once in a March gale. Struck us halfway across. Even the crew were queasy. Had to shut the café, so I never got my fried brekkie. I love a slice of juicy black pudding, me. Hey, you’re looking a bit iffy again. Shall I fetch you a bottle of water?’
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Mr Twit couldn’t do anything unspeakable with a bottle of water and she didn’t know if she could manage to queue at the café desk and pay for the water without barfing. ‘Thanks, I’ll just go and freshen up in the washroom first.’ She also needed to dispose of the sick bag and find a fresh one – if they hadn’t run out. Otherwise, there was always her tote bag. ‘Let me give you some money,’ she said, reaching for her purse.
‘Don’t you worry. It’s my treat. Welcome to Scilly.’
Mr Twit patted her on the back, and although she didn’t know him from Adam, and had been revolted by his pasty munching, she didn’t mind.
Ten minutes later, she made it back to her seat, where Mr Twit had a bottle of chilled Cornish spring water waiting. He handed it over and refused once again to let her pay for it. She sipped the water and felt slightly better. On a scale of one to ten – ten being ‘Death, come quickly’ – she was now at level eight. At last, there was something positive to take from this whole experience. She’d agonised over a lot of horrendous decisions over the past few weeks, but one thing was clear. She was never setting foot on a boat, of any kind, ever again.
‘Thanks. That’s helped.’
‘Best take it outside if I were you, get a blow of fresh air now we’re near to land. The sun’s out and you’ll find the ride more comfortable now we’re between the isles. I’ll come outside with you and point out some of the sights, if you like? Take your mind off things?’
He held out his hand and she shook it limply.
‘I’m Trevor, by the way. Not the best start to your holiday, is it, love?’
She managed a weak smile. ‘I’m Poppy McGregor and um … I’m not on holiday.’
St Mary’s quay was a scene of organised chaos. The Islander crew were already unloading bags and freight, including, Poppy presumed, her own worldly goods – or at least the ones she’d been able to pack into half a dozen crates. These had been loaded into a small shipping container in Penzance by the removals company the previous evening. The removals people and the onboard crew had assured her that the crates would be transferred onto the St Piran’s freight boat, the Herald, and shipped over to the island that same afternoon.
If she was being honest, Poppy would almost have given all her stuff away if she could only have got off the ferry, but now she was on dry land, she was looking forward to unpacking her own things and settling in.
She spotted a board that was chalked up with the names of different ‘tripper’ boats and water taxis that ferried people around the various islands. However, she didn’t even want to think about how she was going to get to St Piran’s yet. She certainly had no intention of finding a lift over until her stomach settled, so she slung her backpack on her shoulders and headed towards civilisation.
Beyond the harbour, a higgledy-piggledy line of buildings was Hugh Town, the tiny capital of St Mary’s. She could only see the backs of the pubs, shops and cafés, all hugging the long sweep of pale beach that curved around a small headland. The clouds were low and grey and the rain reduced to a half-hearted drizzle.
Poppy had a good imagination and a creative soul, but no matter how hard she tried, the scene before her didn’t look anything like the white sands and turquoise waters of her last visit to the isles – or anything like Archie Pendower’s paintings. Today, Hugh Town could have been any small harbour town on a wet and windy day, but nowhere was at its best on a miserable day like this, especially after the journey she’d had.
She’d soon feel brighter after a cup of tea and a good night’s rest in the little flat above the Starfish Studio. She couldn’t believe she was finally going to sleep in the very place she and Dan had dreamed of since that sunny day almost three years previously. The Starfish was the place they’d given up their old lives for. The place that Dan had persuaded her to make her dream too – before abandoning it and her for another woman a month before they were due to move.
Even though Dan had sounded so passionate about the idea on their journey home, she’d fully expected his holiday enthusiasm to evaporate, but it hadn’t – in fact, it had crystallised into an active plan to start a new life by the seaside. They’d spent the following two years searching for a business to run on the islands or, failing that, in Cornwall. They’d registered with every property agent and even visited a few places but none had been suitable. Then, around nine months ago, one of the Scilly agents had tipped them off that the lease on the Starfish Studio might become available.
Apparently, Archie Pendower and his assistant were finding it too much to run the gallery and gift shop and Archie wanted to concentrate on his painting alone. It seemed
