Christmas at Polkerran Point (The Little Cornish Cove #3)

Chapter One

O Little Town of Polkerran,

How Steep We See Thee Lie

Gemma Merriott scanned the departures board at Paddington station as she hefted an oversized bag onto her shoulder. Fifteen minutes until her train left, and she looked around the concourse, her attention soon caught by the shelves of confectionery in WH Smith.

‘Shall I?’ It was a frequent but pointless debate. ‘Silly girl.’

A passing traveller threw Gemma a wary look.

‘Not you!’ she reassured the woman, who ducked her head and hurried away. Walking over to browse the familiar brands, Gemma sent a regretful look after the disappearing figure. She needed to curb the instinct to talk out loud. It had become a thing during the ghastly period of living alone in her tiny flat during lockdown a few years ago. Somehow, she’d never quite managed to break the habit.

Purchases made, Gemma headed for the platform, tugging her roller-bag and trying not to notice the pull on her leg from her recent mishap.

Although it was only early November, hints of the season to come were emerging. There were giant baubles hanging from the steel rafters, an artificial tree – currently devoid of lights or decoration – near the seating area opposite Pret A Manger, and the aroma of pumpkin spice coffee wafting over from a nearby stall.

Gemma’s eye was caught by a group of young women excitedly taking selfies with a tall, lean man with dark-brown hair. If her train hadn’t been about to depart, she might have edged closer to try to work out who he was.

‘I suppose he’s a famous actor or something,’ Gemma mused aloud, turning her steps towards the platform.

She double-checked the ticket wallet on her phone, and felt a rush of love for her parents as she fetched up by the relevant coach. They’d paid for her journey but hadn’t told her the seat was in first class.

She turned to push down the handle on the roller-bag, wincing as it bumped against her leg.

‘May I assist?’

A smartly dressed elderly gentleman, sporting a navy, double-breasted coat and a fedora – which he raised as Gemma met his keen gaze – gestured towards her bag. He had an erect frame and, when he smiled, she could see the traces of a once-handsome man.

‘Oh!’ Before Gemma could decide if it was okay to accept the help of someone so much older, he’d lifted her heavy bag onto the train with ease, doffing his hat at her ‘thank you’ before continuing down the platform with a sprightly step.

She eyed the compartment with pleasure, taking in its generous aisle and comfortable-looking seats, then stowed the bag behind her own seat. There was no way she’d risk leaving it in the luggage storage area by the door, even if this was first class. Not after what happened last month…

Popping her holdall into the rack, Gemma flopped into the seat and stared out of the window, recalling the recent journey she’d made as part of her now curtailed travelling adventures: a coach from Naples to Milan.

She’d been full of anticipation for the next stage of her trip, step two of a six-month sabbatical from her boring, predictable job at the bank stretching before her – Milan to Venice, then onwards by train to Slovenia, Croatia and Montenegro.

Her spirits dipping, Gemma dragged her gaze from the window to the almost empty carriage. There would be no continental travel for a while, not with her passport reduced to ashes, along with everything she’d had with her. They all meant nothing, however, in light of the loss that hurt the most – the only piece of jewellery of any value she owned, given to her by her grandmother before she died.

It had been consumed by the same flames, melted into oblivion, and Gemma closed her eyes, lost in the memory of the motorway collision and subsequent fire, barely five miles into the ill-fated journey.

She vaguely registered an announcement by the train manager, but it was only as she detected movement around her that she stirred and lifted her eyelids.

A young couple had taken seats across the aisle and, as the beeping indicated the locking of the doors, the selfie man Gemma had seen earlier came into the carriage from the opposite end, a well-worn bag slung across his body. He was probably mid-thirties, sporting designer torn jeans, a leather jacket, a close-fitting T-shirt and hair a little longer than was the current vogue.

Gemma reached for her bag, digging around for her earlier purchase. It was only eleven and the catering trolley wouldn’t be along yet, but it was always the right time for chocolate.

As she straightened, the train began to pull out of the station, and she realised leather-jacket man had fetched up in front of her. He studied his phone and then the seat numbers, but must have sensed her attention, his dark eyes roaming across Gemma’s features. His brow furrowed, and she half expected him to tell her she was in the wrong seat, but, before she could reach for her phone to check, he moved past and took one out of her sight.

Gemma hastily grabbed her phone anyway, using the camera on reverse to study her face. Had she got a smudge on her nose or something? The face of an ingénue stared back, with thickly lashed, guileless green eyes and pale skin with a dusting of freckles across the nose and cheekbones. People frequently assumed she was younger than her years, meek and innocent – until she proved otherwise.

She moved her head from side to side. Her tousled curls looked as untamed as ever, the platform lights flickering on her rich auburn colouring as the train swept out of the station, heading west. Gemma raised a hand to touch the tender place on her cheek that had been all colours of the sun until a few days ago. To be fair, it did still have a yellowish tinge.

‘Nothing to see here,’ she said, albeit quietly, placing the phone on the table.

Then she sighed.

Leather-jacket man was speaking to someone on his phone, but, although his voice had a deep, pleasing timbre, Gemma reached for her earphones.

It was a four-hour journey to Par in Cornwall, and the last thing she needed was being forced to listen to a stranger bemoan the misfortune of having to travel by public transport.

Ten minutes before Gemma’s train was due into Par, a WhatsApp arrived from her Aunt Jean.

Love, I’m so sorry! Car won’t start. Can you get a cab and I’ll

refund you when you get here? They’ll take a card. xx

Silently thanking the heavens the banks had been so swift in replacing her destroyed cards, Gemma searched Google, then called the taxi firm at the top of the list. After three attempts and no luck, she’d run out of local numbers and the train was slowing on its approach to the station.

Shoving her new phone into her pocket, she grabbed her bag and holdall, tugging at the roller-bag until it emerged from behind her seat.

As she stepped down onto the platform, Gemma shivered. There was a typical Cornish mizzle in the air, which meant her hair would soon resemble the disorder of a hillside of autumn bracken.

She fished out her mobile again.

‘The taxis are out on school runs, Auntie Jay, so it’ll be a while before one gets to me. Unless there’s a bus from here to the cove?’ She tried to sound hopeful, but weariness seemed to have control of her vocal cords.

Jean Lovelace’s response was soothing, but Gemma’s attention was drawn by a hand placed gently on her arm.

‘Hold on, Auntie.’ Gemma lowered the phone and smiled at the elderly gentleman who’d helped with her bag earlier. ‘Are you okay? Can I help you at all?’

The attractive smile came again.

‘Forgive the interruption, but are you heading for Polkerran Point? You mentioned the cove.’

‘Well, I was, but—’

‘Then, may I offer you a lift? I’m heading there myself. My car isn’t far, I shall fetch it.’

‘That would be so kind. Auntie Jay’ – Gemma spoke into the phone again – ‘a sweet man is offering me a lift.’ She huffed a laugh. ‘Yes, he looks respectable.’ She lowered her voice, although the man was walking briskly towards the car park and wouldn’t have overheard. ‘He must be about eighty, so I think I’m safe.’

Hanging up, she spotted leather-jacket man again, having a heated exchange on the phone, pacing to and fro, and when the call ended he muttered an expletive, then noticed Gemma.

‘Sorry.’ He didn’t sound it.

An elegant, polished vintage Jaguar glided to a halt in front of Gemma.

‘How gorgeous!’ She beamed at the gentleman as he emerged from the driver’s side and walked round to open the door for her. ‘What’s her name?’

The man looked amused. ‘Why is it ladies love to name their cars?’

Leather-jacket man, who was leaning against the building now, scrolling on his phone, raised his head. ‘Who knows? They’re all a mystery to me.’

The older man eyed the younger. Then his gaze narrowed as he scanned the handsome features. ‘Enlightening.’ He turned back to Gemma, taking the handle of the roller-bag. ‘May I also put the other one in the boot?’

He indicated the large holdall on her shoulder and, instinctively, Gemma’s hand grasped it. ‘No. I mean, yes. I think.’

She watched him stow away her bags, striving to breathe evenly.

Don’t worry. You’re not losing them all over again.

‘I’m Benedict, but go by Ryther.’ He bowed his head. ‘At your service. May I ask whose company I have on the drive to Polkerran?’

‘Gemma. Pleased to meet you.’

They shook hands, but, as Ryther held the door open for Gemma to take the passenger seat, leather-jacket man materialised by his side.

‘Did you say Polkerran? Any chance of a lift? The car I booked hasn’t turned up and all the taxis are out—’

‘On school runs. I feel your pain,’ interjected Gemma, but the man ignored her, his brow furrowing as he scanned the features of the car owner.

‘Have we met before?’

Ryther observed the younger man in an assessing manner for a moment. ‘If we had, I am certain it would have stuck in our mutual memories. You are more than welcome to a lift if the cove is also your destination.’

‘Westerleigh Cottage. Do you know it?’

For a moment, Ryther stilled, his body rigid, a hand clenched on the open car door. Then he stirred.

‘Of course.’

As leather-jacket man stowed his bag alongside Gemma’s in the boot, she toyed with offering him the front seat – he did, after all, have long legs – but Ryther ushered her into the seat and firmly closed the door, leaving his other passenger to fold himself into the back.

‘I’m Matt, by the way.’ The younger man stuck his hand between the headrests and Ryther shook it.

‘Ryther, and this is Gemma.’ He turned on the ignition, then patted the polished walnut dashboard as the car purred into motion. ‘And this is the Lady Margarethe.’

It was a ten-minute drive from the station to the cove – the locals’ affectionate term for Polkerran Point. Gemma, used to her aunt’s erratic driving, which was in complete contrast to the Lady Margarethe’s stately progress, tuned out the voices of the men and leaned back against the leather seat, turning her head to peer into the falling dusk.

The mizzle had become a steady downfall, and the repetitive swish of the windscreen wipers, the pattering of the rain on the roof and the murmur of conversation all conspired in Gemma’s tired mind. Her lids drooped and she drifted, until one of the wheels hit a pothole, and her eyes flew open.

‘Forgive me, my dear,’ Ryther intoned quietly. ‘This old lady doesn’t have the modern suspension of younger models.’

It didn’t seem right, when he had been so kind, to point out ‘my dear’ was considered patronising nowadays. To be honest, Gemma felt touched by it.

‘She’s a majestic beauty.’

A small sound escaped the man in the back seat, and Gemma glared at him in the rear-view mirror but decided against comment. He didn’t exactly exude happiness and who knew what was going on in his life? Odds were, they wouldn’t meet again, and it certainly didn’t seem fitting to pick an argument in front of the Lady Margarethe.

Before long, they had reached the road leading down to Polkerran Point, and Gemma sat forward as the car swept past the cemetery and began to descend.

‘If you drop me at the end of Potter’s Meadow, before you head down into the village, I’ll be fine.’

‘I will drop you at the door, Gemma. This weather is thoroughly unpleasant. Humour an old man, if you will.’

Conceding, Gemma gave directions to the house, and was touched once more when Ryther insisted she remain inside until he had retrieved her luggage. Matt said nothing as she exited the car; his attention was with his phone again.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Ryther.’ Gemma hesitated, then placed a kiss on the elderly man’s cheek, and his eyes twinkled as he took her hand in his and patted it.

‘It’s a long time since I was able to rescue a damsel in distress, my dear. It was my absolute pleasure.’

With that, he was gone, back to the beautiful green Jag, and Gemma, not enjoying the cold rain splattering her face, shuffled the holdall further onto her shoulder, grabbed the handle of the roller-bag and hurried up the path as fast as her aching leg allowed.

‘I’m here, Auntie Jay,’ she called as she opened the door to the small porch.

‘There you are!’ Jean swept Gemma into a warm embrace. ‘I’m so sorry, my lovely. I think it’s only a flat battery, but I don’t have jump leads. A neighbour is popping round this evening to see if he can get it going.’ Releasing her niece, she urged her into the house. ‘Leave the bags in the hall, let’s get you a hot drink and you can fill me in on what happened in Italy. Your mum told me some of it. What an awful experience for you!’

Gemma hung her coat on the bottom of the stairs and trailed after her aunt into the kitchen, comforted by the aroma of something hearty being prepared for dinner.

The die had been cast. Gemma’s plans had fallen foul. Instead of exploring pastures new, she would be in the small Cornish village of Polkerran Point for the foreseeable, and, as her aunt had been kind enough to invite her to stay, it was only fair she heard first-hand all that had happened.