Magnús hadn’t been at all aware that plenty of the women – and many of the men – he’d encountered during his brief time in England so far had in fact been smiling and staring in admiration, thinking him a rugged kind of attractive they weren’t used to.
Back home, Magnús’s height and breadth was pretty standard stuff, as was his shorn head and beard (easy to look after, he thought, but unintentionally really kind of attractive), but here in the south of England his piercing blue-grey irises and robust, impressive bearing provoked many people who saw him to draw the same salacious, thirsty conclusion: this was a fierce-eyed Viking invader.
That was not what Jowan was thinking as he handed over the keys. He was thinking the newcomer sullen, sad even, noting the way his broad shoulders slumped as he made his way up the shop’s stone steps, his stare fixed on the peeling sky-blue paint on the door which back in the summer had been bright and glossy.
Jowan eyed the man, unsure what to do. Was he cross about the state of the place? He was only young, just shy of thirty maybe; he should be springing up those steps and excited for his holiday like the others usually were.
Jowan felt the need to defend his little bookish kingdom. ‘Repaintin’s a springtime job, for after the winter frosts have done their worst. No point even thinking about maintenance at the moment, ’specially not with storms predicted.’
The man seemed not to hear him so Jowan gave up and said the words he always said as he bade his guests goodbye and good luck.
‘It’s your bookshop to do as you like with. Remember, every guest changes the display on the table by the till on their last day to reflect their own readin’ taste, and you must leave it for the next bookseller to keep in place during their fortnight – nice little tradition we have here, a legacy of your stay. You’ll see Kim and Karamo, who were with us before you, liked home décor and lifestyle books, so that’s what they’ve left for you. Otherwise, do as you please, same goes for the café.’
Still Magnús Sturluson wasn’t smiling in the dazed, can-hardly-believe-my-luck kind of way that the other guests usually did. In fact, he was a bit sick-looking.
Even Aldous – who these days loved meeting new people – wasn’t giving this guy the time of day. The little dog hadn’t been offered so much as a scratch behind the ear. Everyone liked giving him a fuss now he’d had a makeover and a new lease of life at the hands of Elliot, the village’s new vet.
Even when Magnús turned the key in the lock and the little bell over the doorting-tingedin the shop’s papery stillness he failed to turn to Jowan and grin like all his dreams were coming true at once.
‘She’s all yours,’ Jowan said again, as always feeling like he was bestowing the most wonderful gift in his possession.
Magnús only nodded, thanked Jowan and waited in silence on the threadbare doormat until the shop owner had accepted that this was all he was getting in the way of exuberance.
He and Aldous turned and plodded off towards the Siren’s Tail where Bella and Finan were bringing their new Christmas ales on line and would be looking for a taste-tester.
‘Right you are then,’ Jowan called back. ‘Number’s by the till if you need uz.’
But the shop door was already shut.
Chapter Two
Alone at Sea
Alexandra Robinson had been at sea for seven days now and so far she’d managed to avoid all human contact, except for one brief stop at Penzance where she’d bought enough provisions to keep herself alive, if not exactly thriving. She’d been careful not to say a word to anyone during that brief shopping spree, trying to act inconspicuous as she scrabbled nervously in her purse for change at the Co-op’s self-checkout.
She couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure there wasn’t a search party out looking for her and she couldn’t face being recognised.
There’d been no mention over her radio of a runaway ferrywoman, so it was unlikely they’d launched the lifeboats. At least she hoped they hadn’t.
Perhaps she should have put in a quick call to let someone know she was fine, but there was no one she wanted to talk to. Besides, that wasn’t part of her plan to cut herself off entirely and get as far away as possible from Port Kernou.
What would they think if they could see her now, transformed by a week at sea? She knew her lips were cracked and her skin papery, and her hair hadn’t had a proper wash since the day she’d run away. Quick, chilly dunks in salt water had turned her long, thick hair – still bleached from the summer sun – into crisp strands. No matter. Nobody could see her out here.
Everything was damp on board theDagalien, Alex’s twenty-seven-foot river cruiser, which, even though a relic of her father’s from the 1980s, was perfectly adequate for her impromptu sea escapade. The rear cabin allowed her to sleep in relative comfort. There was a fresh water supply and a kettle for coffees and instant ramen (though she’d have given almost anything for a proper roast dinner about now), and even a porta-potty behind a folding door but still, the boat hadn’t been designed for luxury, or to facilitate a heartbroken woman’s mad dash to get the hell out of Cornwall.
Until now, it had barely deviated from its easy back and forth over the Fal estuary where Alex had operated her ferry service for tourists and locals for eight long years, having taken it over from her dad when he passed away just as she was fresh out of high school with a clutch of A-levels, finding herself orphaned at aged eighteen and with a house and ready-made business to run.
Running away, or rather, sailing away, had seemed the only rational thing to do last week and she hadn’t been at sea long enough for the frenzied state to pass. She was still fizzing with anger and hurt, but there was a sneaking sense of shame and guilt emerging that she didn’t like and was trying to ignore.
Coming home from a long day’s ferrying to find your boyfriend hurriedly buttoning his shirt while your best friend cowers on the sofa will do that to a woman; make them inclined to bolt.
Alex hadn’t stopped to think. She hadn’t said a word. She’d turned on the heel of her flat boots (Ben was sensitive of his five feet seven inches in comparison to her six foot, so she’d been wearing flats for ages) and run all the way back to the jetty. Here, she’d drawn the wet weather canopy over the cockpit and clipped it into place before starting up the motor and gliding right out of the Roseland peninsula, where she’d lived for all of her twenty-six years, leaving Port Kernou far behind.
She’d consulted her charts and set a slow northerly course around the headland, hugging the land but trying not to draw attention to herself, a lone boatswoman in a vintage tub.
She had no idea where she was going or what she’d do when she got there, and all the while she shouted livid curses out into the waves, damning Eve, the woman she’d considered her best friend since she’d rocked up in Alex’s village only a year ago to run the post office. She’d suspected Ben had fancied her from the start. Damn him as well, she told the dark water.
Eve had always seemed so sad and so put-upon. Alex would spend hours by the ferry mooring listening to her bemoaning her scruffy, inattentive, layabout husband who she supported with her wages. Their son spent a few hours a week at pre-school and Eve’s husband Maxwell was proving to be an at-home daddy of the ‘bare minimum effort’ type. Alex had absorbed it all, and felt truly sorry for her friend.
