‘Have you come over on the Islander? I heard it was a bit lively on there today,’ the boatman said, taking her fare.
‘Lively’ to Poppy meant a packed club on a hot Ibiza night, or the encore of the headline act at Glastonbury. It didn’t mean three hours of puking in the middle of the Atlantic. But she managed a smile. It was a small community and she wanted to make a good impression.
‘A bit.’ She smiled.
‘Are you on holiday?’ the boatman asked her, pointing to her overnight bag.
‘Not really. I’m starting a business on St Piran’s.’
His brow ceased but then he nodded. ‘Ah, yes. You must be Poppy. We’ve all heard about you.’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘You’re very brave to take on old Archie’s place. Shame he had to give it up, but that fall has really taken the wind out of his sails. He must be missing his studio and the boat, not to mention Fen, but I expect he’s being well looked after by his son and daughter-in-law on the mainland.’
‘Fen?’ Poppy had no idea who Fen was and she’d only met Archie once, that day at the gallery. She hadn’t spoken to him since. All negotiations had been done through a Scilly-based rental agent and by email with Archie’s grandson, Jake Pendower. She could still picture the smiling eyes, the light behind their dark intensity.
‘Fen Teague. His lady friend.’ The boatman winked. ‘Though no one knows for certain … You’re sure to meet her when you get to St Piran’s. She’s been looking after the studio while Archie’s away. Supposed to be looking after it. Fen’s not exactly a spring chicken herself and he had a fall and broke his hip a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Really? I didn’t know that.’
‘Not had much luck, the Pendowers. Poor old Archie was widowed when Jake was a lad and then there’s the thing with Jake and his fiancée.’
‘His fiancée?’ Poppy asked, remembering Jake’s comment about going to meet her.
The boatman grimaced. ‘Yes. Terrible it was. The whole island felt Harriet’s loss.’ He sighed. ‘Welcome to Scilly, anyway. I guess you won’t want a return.’
‘Not today,’ she said, still reeling from the news that Jake’s fiancée had died. She’d been about to ask the boatman more, but he’d moved on. When had this tragedy happened? How? If it was recent, dealing with Jake Pendower was going to be very difficult. The poor guy – his fiancée was probably a similar age to Poppy herself … After this bombshell, she wondered what else awaited her on the other side of the water. She had no idea that Archie had broken his hip, or that Fen was in charge of the studio or that terrible luck seemed to stalk the Pendowers like some malign spectre.
God, what if the studio itself was cursed? Let’s face it, she was hardly arriving under the happiest of circumstances herself. When the boatman had said he’d ‘heard all about her’, she’d been dreading him asking where her partner was … Still, she’d have to get used to answering, especially when she met this Fen, who was expecting her and Dan to turn up. Why hadn’t she just come clean and told the agent and the Pendowers that she’d be alone? Then again, did it really matter to them? It was her decision to make the move on her own.
After the boatman had collected the birdwatchers’ fares, the boat inched away from the quay and puttered across the harbour, past the Islander, which loomed above her. Jake’s loss wasn’t far from her mind. Even though she didn’t know him at all, it was always shocking to hear of the death of someone, especially someone so young, but as she began the final leg to St Piran’s, more immediate and practical thoughts loomed larger and reminded her how isolated she was.
If she wanted to travel to the mainland, she’d have to fork out for the plane or helicopter – not that she’d be leaving St Piran’s for a while. She’d burnt her boats and sunk her savings into the Starfish and her new lifestyle. She had to make a go of this. She would make a go of it – she wouldn’t give Dan or the Temptress the satisfaction of limping back home.
The boat bobbed gently as it headed out of the harbour. Poppy’s tum bobbed in sympathy and she gripped the edge of the bench. Please let me make it without throwing up, she begged silently. She could see St Piran’s with its ancient church tower. She was nearly there.
The hailer from the cabin crackled into life as the skipper addressed them. Poppy sank back into her hood, closing her nostrils as the stench of marine diesel filled the air and spray spattered her face.
‘We should be at St Piran’s in twenty minutes, give or take, landing at the Main Town jetty today. We leave from the Lower Town jetty this afternoon, so don’t forget or you’ll be spending longer than you wanted on the island. It might be a bit spicy today, so hold on to your hats. If we do need to evacuate the vessel for any reason, the emergency exits are here, here and here.’ The boatman waved his arms in the general direction of the grey waters of the harbour and the open sea.
Poppy huddled down into her jacket. Setting out alone on an open boat to a remote island and a new business that seemed to attract disaster, she was half wondering if she should take the emergency exits right now and head straight back to the Midlands.
Jake almost fell into the studio. He’d had to push very hard to persuade the outer door to budge at all because the wood must have swollen in the damp of a Scilly spring. Archie hadn’t been back to the studio since his fall, and the building had been shut up a lot over the off-season. Archie tended to use the rear entrance into his work area.
Sunlight streamed through the door and made the scale of the problem clear. The Starfish Studio was almost unrecognisable and he had around six hours to sort it out. Leo sauntered past him and jumped up onto the window ledge, mentally rubbing his paws together and thinking: ‘I’m looking forward to watching this.’
Jake walked deeper in, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of damp and wincing at the peeling, discoloured walls and dusty display plinths, half of which were bare. Fen had confessed to him that over the past couple of seasons, some visitors had found the studio shut when it was advertised as open. The artists who supplied work had expressed dismay at the conditions their work was displayed in. Although big fans of Archie, some had already decided not to send any more work to the Starfish and its cases and walls were growing bare. He wondered if Poppy and Dan knew the full story? He sighed. No matter how much he loathed the task, it was now his job to let them know.
First, he had to clear away the crates of paintings Fen had mentioned.
Steeling himself, he walked into the work area at the rear of the gallery. The large worktable was a snapshot of the time before his grandpa’s fall. There were drawings, and tubes of paint scattered on the table and a half-finished canvas on the easel that already provided a great framework for cobwebs. Everything was in place, waiting for its owner to return at any minute, but, of course, he never had and now it was frozen in time.
The crates of pictures Fen had described were lined up at one end of the work area and he found the one intended for him almost immediately, as it had an envelope taped to the top, addressed to Jake, in Archie’s spidery handwriting.
Jake sighed. He wasn’t sure why Archie had left the paintings for him now, unless as Fen had suggested, Archie had had
