Summer on the Little Cornish Isles: The Starfish Studio. Phillipa Ashley

his tracks. ‘St Piran’s? Tomorrow? I’ve only just got back in the country.’

      ‘We know, darling, but it will only take a day.’

      ‘Or two,’ his dad added. ‘A week, tops.’

      ‘You’ll be back home with us in Cornwall before you know it.’ His mum was using her soothing ‘nursey’ voice. It was the one she saved for her patients and ‘difficult’ conversations with the family, thereby instantly raising everyone’s blood pressure. Jake was anything but soothed.

      ‘Hang on, I have to get my camera kit,’ he said.

      He jostled aside a red-faced father wearing a hat with corks and grabbed his camera bag with his free hand. Muttering an apology, he lugged his bag to safety and put the phone to his ear again.

      ‘S-sorry, M-mum. I’m s-still here.’

      ‘Jake? What’s going on? You sound very out of breath.’

      ‘I j-just rescued my k-kit from the carousel.’ He rested his bag against his bruised knee. ‘Mum, did you really say you want me to fly off to St Piran’s tomorrow?’

      ‘Yes, love. We’ve booked you onto the afternoon flight and Fen’s expecting you. You don’t mind, do you? I know it will be hard, but it’s been almost three years since you-know-what now, not that it makes things much easier, of course. Like I say, we wouldn’t dream of asking you if it wasn’t urgent, but you’d be doing us – and more importantly Grandpa – the biggest favour in the world.’

      Jake opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. He stared at the phone screen before dragging a reply out of the depths against every urge to say: ‘No chance on the planet am I ever setting foot on St Piran’s again as long as I live.’

      ‘If you really need me, of course I’ll help.’

      He felt his mother’s sigh of relief down the phone. ‘Oh, thank goodness for that. We’d half feared you’d say no. I’m glad you can help. And let me say, you facing up to St Piran’s might even turn out to be a good thing for everyone.’

      Great. Bloody great. Jake was still muttering to himself when he stepped onto the quayside at St Piran’s harbour. From Heathrow, he’d caught a train straight to his parents’ place, where his grandpa was recovering, and spent the evening catching up with them. The next day he’d whizzed by his own flat, repacked his rucksack and camera bag, and the following morning taken the first helicopter to Scilly.

      Although the last thing he’d wanted to do was spend his ‘break’ on St Piran’s, he’d kept his true feelings hidden, for his grandpa’s sake. Besides, it surely wouldn’t take long to hand over a set of keys, show this Poppy McGregor and Dan Farrow the basics of the Starfish Studio and then escape.

      It was hard to believe that only two days previously, he’d been in Auckland after a six-week photography expedition to some of the remoter parts of New Zealand and Australia. He’d been looking forward to spending some time at his own place in the coastal village of St Agnes, a few miles from his parents’ home in Perranporth. His flat and attached studio was more of a base than a home these days, as he’d spent most of the past few years travelling the world on professional photography assignments or leading tours for keen amateurs.

      He’d filled his time with travel and work, worried that if he stopped to think about the terrible events of that summer’s day on St Piran’s, almost three years before, he might crumble and break apart. But even Jake couldn’t keep working forever and finally he now had a couple of months free before he jetted off on his next project. Going to St Piran’s wasn’t how he’d imagined starting his break but he wasn’t intending to hang around.

      There was only one other passenger on the boat as it docked at the harbour, a guy with an Eastern European accent who said he was helping out behind the bar at the island pub, the Moor’s Head. He didn’t speak much to Jake, which was a relief; at least one person here didn’t know his ‘tragic past’ and wasn’t going to offer their sympathy.

      The barman hurried up the slope towards the pub, while Jake took a more leisurely pace, steeling himself for the next few days. Halyards clanked, gulls squabbled outside the fish shed and he could hear the distant chug of a tractor in a field somewhere. From the harbour, he headed straight for Fen Teague’s cottage. As Grandpa Archie’s near neighbour and closest friend, Jake knew she’d have been waiting to see him ever since she’d heard he was coming over on a ‘mercy dash’, as his mum called it.

      Fen’s place was one of a row of old fisherman’s cottages, perched on the road that led from the harbour to the tiny village that was St Piran’s only real settlement. He had the presence of mind to duck as he entered the sitting room of her cottage, straight from the road – the only road – on St Piran’s.

      She’d obviously been watching for him because she gave him a bear hug as soon as he got through the door.

      ‘Hello, Jake! How was your journey? My, you look thin! Worn out too but very brown. Now, let me make you a nice cup of tea.’

      ‘Hmm. Lovely.’ Jake let Fen’s comments wash over him and hugged her back. He’d known her his entire life and it was best to bend like a willow in the wind as far as Fen was concerned.

      Fen brought in the tea tray and placed it on the coffee table. Jake winced as she stirred the pot vigorously as if it was a cauldron of witch’s brew. He’d seen at least three teabags go in. He’d obviously turned into a softy since he’d left home, more used to delicate herbal teas or artisan coffee, but builder’s strength was how his grandpa had always liked his cuppas.

      While Fen splashed milk into two faded Cornish-ware mugs in the kitchen, he turned his attention to the painting propped up against the gateleg table under the window. Even though the work was only half finished, it was still a beautiful picture. It showed the tiny harbour of St Piran’s on a late February afternoon with a storm threatening. The contrast of spring sunlight on the boats and the looming clouds was so striking and evocative that he could almost feel the keen wind tugging at his hair and taste the salt on the air. The picture had all his grandad’s trademark deftness of touch and eye for light and colour, but the ugly splodge of yellow paint across the bottom corner disturbed him. That definitely wasn’t Archie’s style.

      Fen joined him in the cottage sitting room and set the mugs down on the old Ercol coffee table.

      ‘It’s a shame about Grandpa letting go of the Starfish,’ he said, looking at the picture again. He was still fixated by the yellow scar of paint.

      Fen put her hands on her hips and rested her fingers on the edge of the canvas. ‘Archie is eighty-two, Jake. You have to expect these things. He’s already had a good innings. I knew the studio was getting too much for him, but I must admit I never thought your grandpa would actually sell it,’ said Fen.

      ‘I suppose the fall finally helped him make his mind up … Was this the picture he was working on when he fell?’

      ‘Yes. Pity about that smudge. Apparently, Archie’s brush marked the canvas when he slipped over on the wet cobbles of the harbour. He said he was trying to stand back and get a better view, poor thing. Still, I suppose it’s lucky he got away with a broken hip …’ Fen’s face crumpled. ‘It’s a long road to recovery when you’re getting on like your grandpa is and I know he’s better off with your mum and dad but I do miss him. It’s been two weeks since his fall and I was hoping he’d come home soon.’

      ‘I’m sure he misses you too. In fact, I know he does.’ Jake put his arm around Fen’s bony shoulders. She’d never had any spare meat on her lean frame after a lifetime spent working in her market garden on St Piran’s and, until recently, helping Archie with the studio. In her late seventies now, she was still on the go all the time. However, Jake didn’t recall her being quite this thin – but then again, it had been two years since he’d last seen her. Or was it longer than that? Jake racked his brains. It had been March – so just over two years – when he’d last made it back to St Piran’s to visit his