Page 2 of A Fresh Start on Crumcarey
Russell hadn’t even bothered to officially split up with her – he’d just upped and left. Postcards still arrived now and then from the exotic locations his new job took him to… but he never came back, not even to visit.
Maggie didn’t really understand the point of the cards. Perhaps they made him feel better about abandoning her at the edge of the world in a house with very little roof. Or maybe he reallydidmean to come back one day. She shuddered. He was most definitelynotwelcome.
Of course, Maggie knew she could have sold up and moved back down south. It would have probably been the sensible thing to do. In fact, the minute she’d admitted to her friends what had happened, they’d practically demanded she got on with it pronto. If she’d been any closer, she had a feeling they might have turned up en mass and physically dragged her back to her old stomping grounds.
As much as she was grateful for their staunch support from a distance - Maggie was glad they hadn’t. She’d already fallen in love with the island and its big skies, lolling seals and cheeky puffins. She even loved its mad weather – when it wasn’t ripping the tarpaulins off the roof. Maggie wasn’t sure of much – but she did know that she didn’t want to live anywhere else.
That said… she didn’t want to live like this anymore, either.
Letting out a long sigh, Maggie checked her watch again.
‘Shoes. Shoes would be good right now,’ she muttered, mooching through the cottage and doing her best not to look tooclosely at her surroundings as she went. Her dream home was fast deteriorating into a nightmare, and she could do without the sight of it causing any more flutterings of anxiety right now.
It had been a long time since she’d looked at her early drawings of the place – outlining a cute, cosy cottage full of light and charm. She’d shut her grand plans in a plastic box long before Russell had left, and by this point, Maggie could barely remember the sense of hope she’d felt when she’d sketched them.
Now, her sad cottage was little more than a ruin. It was at least eighty per cent tarpaulin, and the remaining twenty per cent was made up of expanding spray foam and bits of hardboard tacked to the walls in an attempt to stop the outside from feeling quite so…inside.
Every time she made a grocery run, Maggie grabbed another can or two of foam. It didn’t help much, and she was under no illusions… the cottage was slowly crumbling around her ears. One thing was for sure, there was no way it would make it through another winter in one piece. Not without help.
Clambering across her mattress that lay directly in front of the door to her bedroom – the only spot where she could guarantee she wouldn’t get dripped on while she slept - Maggie started hunting around for a semi-decent pair of shoes that weren’t covered in paint, silicon sealant or expanding foam.
Olive had told her not to worry too much about what to wear to work – but Maggie wanted to look at least halfway presentable. Even that was going to be a challenge considering she lived in a cross between a barn and a construction site! She’d already had to pull on a ridiculous pair of black skinny jeans that hadn’t seen the light of day since she’d moved to the island… but clean shoes were going to be even trickier to find.
Sure enough, the only pairs hiding in the corner of her bedroom with the spiders were her wellies and her safety boots—and there was no way she was going to turn up to work wearing either! They were both grubby, grotty and splattered in paint.
Maggie was sure she had a pair of lightweight black pumps around somewhere. They were so unbelievably impractical against Crumcarey’s less-than-clement weather conditions that she hadn’t worn them since the move… which meant there was a slim chance they might still be vaguely presentable.
‘What did I do with them?’ she muttered, heaving herself back to her feet and swiping at the dust on her knees. Maybe she’d binned them. She certainly hadn’t seen them for a long time…
‘Ah ha!’
Dashing through to the bathroom, Maggie grabbed the giant plastic clip-lock tub where she stashed her towels, washcloths and bedding to keep them from getting damp. Hoisting it out of the way, she uncovered a second, identical tub underneath. It was full to the brim with random bits and bobs she’d wanted to save from the less-than-loving attention of the leaky roof.
‘Bingo!’ she cheered, popping off the lid and dragging the pair of pumps out from beneath an ancient teddy bear onesie. They were mercifully clear of paint splatters, and even better – they were dry.
‘Hmm… speaking of dry…’
Grabbing a stack of buckets from beside the sink, Maggie eyeballed the exposed underside of the roof slates, hunting for the tell-tale patch of sky visible through the cracks. As soon as she spotted the sliver of grumpy-looking clouds overhead, she popped one of the buckets directly beneath it. There was a good chance it might rain while she was at work, and she didn’t fancy the idea of having to grab a mop the minute she got home.
Heading back through to the open plan kitchen and living room, Maggie quickly deployed the rest of the buckets in the usual spots - just in case. She had tarpaulins covering the worstof the leaks, but the way the rain came down some days, they simply didn’t stand a chance. Besides, a couple of the tarps needed replacing - again. It was yet another job she needed to add to her ever-expanding list that resembled more of a scroll by this point. In fact, she needed to remember to ask Olive if she’d order some more for her.
‘Tarpaulin Girl strikes again,’ she sighed, flopping down onto the beaten-up old sofa to pull on her pumps. She knew that was the locals’ pet name for her…
Maggie breathed out a slow sigh of relief as the butterflies finally eased up a bit. It was possibly the weirdest thing in the world to offer any kind of comfort… but surely the fact that she’d been given a nickname must mean she’d been accepted by the locals… at least a little bit?
Maggie shrugged. Either way, there were definitely worst things to be called.
CHAPTER 2
LUKE
Rolling his shoulders, Luke threw down the oily rag he’d been using to wipe his hands and yawned. He needed a break. He’d been on the go since the sun came up… and he wasn’t planning on stopping until it got dark. Not while there were people to help and jobs to do… and there werealwaysplenty of jobs to keep him busy when he visited Crumcarey!
Still, a scalding-hot cup of coffee and a pastry or two were definitely in order right now. Luckily, working on Olive’s two hire cars out in the car park of The Tallyaff meant the tasty treats were inveryeasy reach.
Gently closing the bonnet of the car lovingly called theCow Taxiby the locals – on account of the rather pungent scent that clung to its interior – Luke yawned again. He hadn’t stopped since he’d arrived on the island a little over three weeks ago. Not that he minded, of course. Luke liked to be busy.
First, he’d focused on helping Connor with the re-fit of the ferry during the day, while his evenings were taken up with settling into one of the barns up at the farm. The farmhouse was plenty big enough for him of course, but night times there were filled with terrifying grunts, groans and growls that drifted from his uncle’s bedroom. McGregor, his uncle’s scruffy little terrier,got all the blame, but Luke was pretty sure they were both involved.
