‘What’s the record book?’ asked Verity.
‘It was a record that anyone coming on or off the island used to sign,’ Clemmie replied. ‘I suppose it helped to count how many visitors came to the island each year. But it ceased many years back, as visitor numbers increased, so we’re probably clutching at straws.’
‘What are you going to do about this postcard?’ asked Amelia.
Verity shrugged. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get to know who sent it or what the story is behind it.’
‘This place must have meant something special to your granny if she told you so many stories from her time here.’
‘You’re absolutely right. Even after all these years there’s still a framed picture of the puffins hanging in our living room. The same picture that was on the postcard. It’s been hanging there for as long as I can remember.’
‘The plot thickens.’ Amelia put her hands on her heart. ‘Maybe it was some sort of forbidden love, just like Romeo and Juliet.’
‘When the postcard came, and I realised it was the same picture, I took the picture out of its frame. It was signed “W” in the same hand as on the postcard, and also dated 1972.’
‘This is full of intrigue.’ Amelia’s eyes were wide.
‘Well, at least I’ve visited Puffin Island and, in a matter of hours, fallen in love with it. I’ve had a chance to see for myself why my granny loved this place so much.’
Just then a voice was heard over the microphone in the corner. They swung their heads in the direction of the makeshift stage. Cora was standing there with a smile on her face. ‘Welcome to open mic night at The Olde Ship Inn. Sit back, enjoy a beer and the entertainment. First up, we have a stand-up comedian who is holidaying here all the way from Cornwall. Please put your hands together and give our first act, Cam, a very warm welcome.’
The pub burst into rapturous applause as a confident-looking man took to the stage.
After finishing their food, Verity and Clemmie whirled around on their stools, drinks in hand, and continued to watch the entertainment.
‘How often does this happen?’ asked Verity.
‘Once a month. It’s a very popular night amongst the locals and the tourists.’
* * *
‘It’s a very talented island,’ observed Verity, finishing her drink a while later. ‘And I have to say I’m feeling very tipsy. No more for me.’ She glanced at her watch to find that time had flown by. Knowing she had to be up in the early hours, she needed to head off soon and try to get a few hours’ sleep. ‘I’ve enjoyed every second of tonight, but I suppose I need to make a move.’
‘Believe me, you need one more drink for the road.’ Amelia was insistent. ‘There’s only one more act and it’s the act that the whole island is waiting for.’ Amelia nodded towards the door, which had just swung open. A group of giggling girls sauntered into the pub and walked towards the makeshift stage. ‘That’s the fan club.’
‘Fan club?’ queried Verity.
‘Every open mic night they arrive from Sea’s End.’
‘But why?’ asked Verity.
Amelia nodded towards Cora. ‘Because the last act is not to be missed.’
The girls began to whoop and cheer as Cora stepped up to the microphone. ‘I don’t think this last act needs any introduction.’ She smiled at the girls. ‘And open mic night would not be the same without the talent of Puffin Island’s very own singer-songwriter. Please welcome to the stage the gorgeous and uber-talented Sam Wilson.’
Verity’s mouth fell open. She hadn’t been expecting to see Sam again before she left the island. The crowd went wild and, as a thought suddenly hit her, she turned towards Clemmie.
‘Wilson.’ Verity’s eyes widened. ‘W… Wilson begins with a W.’ There was excitement in her voice. ‘Is it possible…? Does Sam have any relatives on the island?’
Clemmie shook her head. ‘No father, and his grandfather was killed in a tragic accident before he was born.’
Verity’s excitement at a possible lead deflated. ‘Oh well,’ she said, trying not to let her disappointment show, ‘it was just a thought.’
She turned back to the stage and watched the pub go wild. Like his screaming fan club, she couldn’t take her eyes off Sam. She knew he looked super sexy in a suit, but here he was looking just as good, if not better, sporting a casual look: a snug, faded vintage T-shirt that showed off every muscle of his chest and arms, tight denim jeans and battered boat shoes.
‘Bloody hell, he fits into that T-shirt perfectly,’ Verity mused. ‘Sex on legs – and he sings.’ The words had left her mouth before she could stop them.
‘Another tourist in love,’ teased Clemmie, leaning in and nudging her elbow.
