Chapter One #2
a pity. And Jules had seemed so nice on the phone too, breathlessly thanking her for stepping in at the last moment, apologizing
that she and Roman would not be there to greet her, but explaining that they would leave the keys for the shop with a friend
who ran the restaurant across the street.
There were heavy clouds, purple with yellow underbellies, pressing low onto the horizon now. Would it rain? Would it snow,
even? Being January, that was entirely plausible . . . The tourist information definitely seemed to be positioning Portneath
as a summer holiday destination. It was probably one of those seaside towns that was derelict and bleak through the winter. Most of the
“excellent independent stores” and fancy restaurants probably didn’t even bother opening until Easter. Great. No wonder Jules
and Roman had decided to vacate until the beginning of August. If she were them, she would probably do the same.
Her mind swirling with these bleak thoughts, Petra rested her head against the glass and gazed unseeing at the countryside, the craggy, desolate landscape of Dartmoor perfectly echoing her plummeting mood.
This must be Bodmin Moor, she thought bleakly.
Would she be able to see Jamaica Inn from the train?
Somehow that didn’t fit with the mental image of its dour isolation, captured so beautifully in du Maurier’s novel.
Which brought her back to thinking about pirates again.
Or smugglers, anyhow. Weren’t they basically the same thing?
Petra was hazy about job titles. But—pushing pirates out of her mind—as the train wended slowly on its way, taking her to her fate, she punished herself with a well-worn litany of every self-inflicted catastrophe over the whole of her twenty-eight years to date.
It was quite the list. The unifying aspect was—as usual—her inability to engage her brain before opening her mouth.
Would she ever learn not to detonate her own life through a misspeak, or—as in this case—a mistype? Doubtful.
As she continued to castigate herself, Petra’s eyelids grew heavy, and the view grew blurry.
She had better not fall asleep and end up in Penzance.
“Wait! Don’t! Stop! I mean, don’t go!” Petra shouted desperately, as she scrambled for the door, having woken to see part
of a platform place name outside the windows—a place name that definitely started with a P.
She threw her backpack onto the platform and launched herself after it, just as the whistle blew and the train started to pull away.
Landing heavily, she lay prone and winded, trying to decide whether she had injured herself.
After gathering her wits, she started to get up but froze as a voice bellowed:
“Stay down! Don’t move.”
Petra squeaked in alarm. What fresh hell was this?! Had she just thrown herself headlong into a police raid? A gunfight? At
a little country railway station? What were the chances? Terrified, she hunched and put her arms over her head. Feeling a
heavy hand on her shoulder, she jumped violently.
“Whoa, easy . . .” came that deep voice again with its very un-Devonshire Scottish burr. “That was a hell of a—actually, I
don’t even know what that was—just take it really slow,” the voice counseled. “You could be injured.”
It was rather a lovely voice, she decided, authoritative and soothing. The kind of voice that made you feel safe.
“Where am I?” she asked, still not daring to move.
“What? Did you hit your head?” the man replied anxiously. “You’re in Portneath. Okay—let’s not panic—what’s the last thing
you remember?”
“Portneath? Oh, thank God for that. I fell asleep, thought I’d ended up in Penzance,” Petra chattered, feeling much better.
Finally, something had started to go right. “Ow! Oof, ouch!” she exclaimed as she tentatively stirred, not at all enjoying
having to put all her weight on her bashed-up knees, but then she urgently wanted to remove her right boob from whatever in
her backpack had been sticking into it. Plus, it wasn’t practical to just stay there for what remained of the day.
“Here, let me . . .” A hand under her elbow propelled her to standing as if by magic. Strong too, eh? Very promising.
Petra turned to thank her savior but, as she caught sight of him, her jaw dropped and her eyes bulged in amazement. Well! This may not be Penzance, but who would have thought . . . “Omigod, you’re a pirate!” she blurted, thrilled.
The man—several inches taller than her, with an abundance of chestnut brown, wavy hair—may or may not have been handsome.
It was hard to tell what was going on under the proliferation of facial hair, although the heavy brows framed a compelling
pair of eyes. Entranced by them, Petra noticed they were—appropriately enough—the color of the sea on a stormy day. A long,
greenish-but-might-once-have-been-black great coat, somewhat moth-eaten, and dun-colored wide-legged trousers tucked into
thick socks and chunky black boots together lent a swashbuckling air. A thick black-leather belt with a brass buckle did not—sadly—sport
a cutlass, but other than that, the picture was absolutely joyful.
“Um—no—not a pirate,” the man replied at last, apparently taken aback.
“Are you sure?” Petra pressed him.
“Yes, thanks.”
“But definitely dressed as one, though,” Petra doubled down. “Filming a movie?” she scanned the area for the usual filmmaking
paraphernalia. “Actor?” she went on. “Maybe just an extra? Nothing wrong with that . . .” Wow, he had a fabulously piratical
glower, she observed delightedly. He was totally wasted as an extra, for sure.
Although they did seem to be alone on the platform, which was weird. Usually filming meant crowds of people and tons of equipment.
“Nope,” he said. “Not a pirate. Not even pretending to be a pirate.”
“Children’s party?” she hazarded, slow to process what he was saying. Although, to be fair, he looked a bit too scary to be a kids’ entertainer.
“This,” he said heavily, gesturing at himself, “is not a costume. These are my clothes,” he emphasized.
“Then, why . . . ?” Petra was genuinely confused. Sure, he was missing the tricorn hat, she conceded. And the parrot. And
the wooden leg . . . Doubt began to creep in. Could it possibly be that she had done it again? She stifled a groan. Nice start,
Petra.
“And please stop jumping out of moving trains,” he added stiffly. “Because, as far as I can tell, you’re not in the movies, either. And get those skinned knees cleaned up, okay?” At that, with one last glare, he turned, striding
down the platform, long coat flapping, his rear view radiating offense.
Petra groaned, hanging her head. There she went again, with her unerring ability to insult everyone. She should come with
a government health warning. Although he need not have been quite so annoyed. It wasn’t like she had called him a pedophile or anything. He got off lightly. As far as she was concerned, being
called a pirate was a compliment. And anyway, people shouldn’t go around with bushy beards and swirly coats. It wasn’t that
much of a leap. Other people were bound to get confused. Maybe even people who hadn’t just been dreaming about them. Maybe.
Sighing, she hoicked her backpack up onto her back.
By the time she was ready to look for the station exit, he had vanished.