Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn. Phillipa Ashley

still in the garden or coming round the side of the pub, although even if she was, he could make up some kind of excuse for being outside.

      As quietly as he could, he slipped out of the front door of the bar and made his way around the side of the building to the garden. The bucket was abandoned and Hazel had joined Ray at the top of the garden.

      Patrick spotted Maisie through the office window, standing by the desk, talking into the cordless house phone. With one final glance to check the coast was clear, he picked up the cleaning bucket and Marigolds and slipped inside the open studio. The key was on the inside of the door and with a surge of triumph, he closed it behind him and locked himself in.

      ‘Patrick McKinnon. Are you in there?’

      Patrick had only cleaned down the washbasin and had just thrust the brush down the toilet, when Maisie called through the front door. Damn. He’d hoped the conversation would have gone on longer than that.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘I was caught short while I was on the patio,’ he called. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind me using the loo as I’m going to be living here. I won’t be long.’

      Silence.

      ‘OK. I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’

      ‘I may be a while,’ he shouted, trying to sound embarrassed.

      More silence. ‘Um. Right. Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be back in a bit.’

      Cruel of him, thought Patrick, but he couldn’t stop the broad smile as he squirted bleach down the loo and started to scrub with the brush. He decided he could get away with a jaunty whistle too, and figured he had at least half an hour before Maisie would dare to return, even if she dared at all. It would be long enough to get the shower room into non-toxic condition and most of the kitchenette. He checked his watch, took a cloth and bathroom spray from the bucket ready to wipe down the cistern and seat. Just in time, he remembered not to flush the loo.