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‘Sam?’ Evie’s hand was on her arm. ‘Are you all right? Will you come?’
Sam forced a smile to her lips. ‘Yes … yes. Why not? Let’s go … but actually, I’ve got another idea.’
‘What’s that, my love?’ said Evie softly.
All eyes turned to Sam and before she could chicken out, she spoke her thoughts as they tumbled through her brain.
‘This might be mad but … why don’t we kill two birds with one stone? Go to the event, but treat it as a research trip too? I mean, look around us. The town’s going downhill fast right at a time when local people need help. We need to attract more visitors and really put this place on the map. Make it famous for something.’
‘Yeah, but for what? We’re just another Cornish harbour town with vicious seagulls, weird locals and crap weather,’ said Zennor.
Sam had to smile. ‘We’re not just another town. We’re unique. We have character – and characters – and dramatic weather that makes the headlines. We could be as famous as Padstow or Mousehole or St Ives. Why shouldn’t we be?’
Drew put his pint down. ‘I like your way of thinking, but famous for what?’
‘For our festival. I think we should have our own.’
Eyes widened. Zennor snorted. Troy blew out a long breath. ‘But who’s going to organise it? Sounds like a lot of work and disruption to me, maid.’
Troy was right, of course, but it was too late. The idea had taken root in Sam’s mind and was gathering energy and power like a great wave bearing down on the harbour. She couldn’t shake off the thought that her mum would have been at the centre of a festival if she’d been here. As the town band reached a crescendo of ‘Trelawney’, Sam imagined her dancing on the quayside, smiling and laughing.
Evie was right too, and her mum would have agreed. Sam was working too hard. She was only twenty-one and she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, a business, young sibling to support through college, another who’d come out of jail and she never saw. Organising a festival would be hard work but it would be fun too, and be a fitting way to honour her mum’s memory and maybe bring a bit of sparkle back to the town and her life.
‘We’re going to organise it,’ she declared, buoyed by bravado. ‘Us lot. We’re going to get it off the ground and we’re going to make a big success of it.’ She threw a glance at Drew. ‘Because storms or not, we have to do something to help Porthmellow.’
Chapter One
Early May, Eleven Years Later
The 10th Porthmellow Food Festival
June 29-30 – Porthmellow Harbour
Don’t miss our biggest and best ever festival!
Over 100 food, drink & craft stalls – live music all day
Chef’s Theatre with cooking demonstrations including
Star Chef Kris Zachary of BBC Weekend Kitchen Show
‘Cornwall’s coolest food event’ – The Sunday Times
Sam brushed rainwater from the laminated poster in her hand. Ten years. That was a third of her life. How could they have flown by so fast?
She still had to pinch herself at how the festival had grown since that first mad idea outside the Smuggler’s Tavern. Blinking raindrops from her eyes, she tried not to look down. She was only six feet up on the stepladder, but it was more than enough for someone who hated heights at the best of times. This was most definitely not the best of times. The rain and wind had been torrential since she’d set out from the cottage at six a.m., hoping to get the posters up before she had to get things going at Stargazey Pie. It was hard to believe it was the start of May.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to clip the cable tie around a council sign warning people not to drive off the quay. One false move and she could topple onto the cobbles or plunge through the deck of the Marisco. Now, that would go down really well with Drew: a great big Sam-shaped hole in his precious boat. Her fingers were slippery and numb with cold, but she wanted to have the posters up now spring was – allegedly – well underway. Hordes of people would start to flock to the town and hopefully flock back again at the end of June for the festival.
‘Woof! Woof! Woooffffff!’
Sam gripped the ladder as deafening barks rang out across the harbour. Her foot slipped and she had to let go of the poster to hang on. It fell onto the wet cobbles and into a large oily puddle. Still holding on for dear life, Sam twisted round to see a Rottweiler jumping up and drooling as it tried to sniff – or possibly taste – her feet.
A woman in a long leather coat and a Megadeth T-shirt glared up at Sam as she struggled to hold the beast back. Sam steeled herself. ‘Morning, Bryony. Mizzly out here today, isn’t it?’
Bryony prodded the laminated poster with the toe of her Doc Martens. ‘I’d hoped you’d decided to give the festival a rest for a year.’ The dog barked again so Bryony ramped up her own volume. ‘My Sacha hates all the noise and smells.’
Bryony stroked Sacha’s head while Sam tried to let the words wash over her. It didn’t do to argue with Bryony, Cornwall’s self-declared canine expert and the most unlikely metal fan on the planet. Woe betide anyone who dared question her views on dogs, music … or the festival, or tourists, or the weather, or anything else. Sam had often thought that if Professor Stephen Hawking had ever visited Porthmellow, Bryony would have been sure to take issue with his theories on black holes. She lived in a small house not far from Wavecrest Cottage. Sam often heard Sacha barking from fifty metres away.
Spotting a rare gap in Bryony’s tirade, Sam dived in while she could. ‘Well, the festival does bring lots of people into the town who might not otherwise come. Local people and tourists and it’s put Porthmellow on the map as a foodie and arty haven.’
Bryony huffed. ‘Arty? The crowds are horrible and the music is trash. Sometimes I think I should close up altogether and leave town for a week.’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ muttered Sam, then instantly regretted taking the bait. She couldn’t afford to deliberately rile people in her position as festival chairman so she kept her tone firm but polite. ‘You know that the people spend loads of money in the galleries and other businesses while they’re at the festival,’ she said. Including yours, Sam wanted to add, knowing full well that Bryony’s Grooming Parlour did a roaring trade at festival time. Funnily enough, despite her objections to the festival, she hadn’t yet made good on her yearly threat to clear out while it was on.
‘Sacha almost choked on a wooden chip fork after the last one,’ said Bryony. ‘Probably left behind by some idiot watching that crappy folk band.’
‘I’m sorry Sacha was ill but the chip fork might have been from anywhere and we do our best to clear everything up. You know we’re all volunteers …’ Bryony curled a lip, and Sam gave up. ‘Would you mind passing me that poster?’ she asked.
‘I’ve got to open up. Some of us have proper jobs.’ Bryony rubbed her dog’s head. ‘Come on, Sacha, sweetheart. We’ve got a standard poodle and two cocker spaniels to lick into shape this morning.’
Bryony marched off with Sacha, leaving Sam still two feet off the ground. She’d known Bryony since her schooldays and so she ought to be used to her grumpiness by now. While there were people who didn’t like the festival, Bryony was probably one of the most vocal. By and large, the villagers had been very supportive, but as her mum used to say, ‘you can’t please all of the people all of the time’. Over the years, Sam had seen plenty of snide comments on the festival Facebook page, and more recently, Instagram and Twitter. When it had happened the first time, she’d been annoyed and upset but she’d toughened up since. Anyway, she didn’t care. Getting the festival up and running had been a lifesaver at a time when she desperately needed something to throw herself into and, just as important, it really had helped to revive the town.
The rain crackled on her waterproof and ran down the gutters, threatening to wash her poster down a drain. She scrambled off the ladder to retrieve it, but another figure, this time in a scarlet waterproof, white jeans and flowery wellies, darted forward and fished it from the gutter before Sam reached it. Sam smiled. A friendly face was just what she needed after her encounter with the prophet of doom.
‘Here you go. I saw Bryony barking at you. Has she been a pain?’ Sam’s friend Chloe handed over the poster. Chloe was a newcomer to Porthmellow, having moved from Surrey the previous autumn after her divorce. Chloe had been an events organiser and still did some freelance work for her former company. Despite her tiny stature, she was a bundle of energy, endlessly brimming with ideas. Sam was convinced she was powered by some kind of nuclear reactor.
