Page 22 of One Summer

What does he mean? And why is he wearing the neck gaiter? Does he have an infectious illness? Do I need to take three steps backwards? Is he a celebrity in disguise?

‘Taking shells as souvenirs,’ he elaborates. ‘You’re damaging the ecosystem of the beach.’

‘Sorry, what?’ I say, even though I heard him perfectly well.

‘Taking shells,’ he enunciates patiently, as if I am three years old, ‘is bad for the beach.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ I say, smiling tightly.

‘Not what?’

‘Taking shells.’

‘Okay…’ he says, clearly not believing a word of this. ‘Imagine if every tourist who came to Loor took a handful of shells. There’d be none left by the end of a fortnight. That’s all I’m saying. Think about it.’

I feel myself recoil. ‘Think about it’ is possibly the most patronising thing anyone has ever said to me, which takes some doing, after working as Scotty’s assistant for all these years. It’s not just the words themselves; it’s the way this man says them, as if I’ve never had a single thought in my head and probably can’t even comprehend the concept of thinking.

‘Er, who says I’m a tourist?’ I say.

I know small towns can be closed-minded and unfriendly, but this seems ridiculous; I’ve only been on the island for about three minutes.

Not only am I not a tourist, but I was born in Cornwall, so he’s double-wrong, although I don’t know how to work this into the conversation with any degree of subtlety.

‘Your luggage, for one thing,’ he says, nodding to Nemo’s carry case and clearing his throat, phlegmily.

I swing around Nemo’s blue padded carrier, so that instead of appearing like a huge holdall, it’s clear to anyone with half a brain that it contains a cat – or as I’ve begun to think of Nemo: a non-human person.

‘What kind of tourist would bring a cat on holiday?’ I say, channelling Billy’s earlier comments to me.

He sniffs. ‘I don’t know. We see all sorts here.’

‘Well, I’ve just moved here. To live. For the foreseeable future.’

He doesn’t need to know how far into the future or the exact particulars of my tenancy agreement and in any case, I never think past tomorrow; any more than that feels too much like tempting fate.

‘Lucky Loor,’ he mumbles, which is so unaccountably rude that I feel quite aghast.

‘Yes, Loor is quite lucky to have me, actually. And for your information,’ I say, my voice now gaining authority and volume, ‘I was picking up sea glass, not shells.’

Strictly speaking, I do have a couple of shells in my pocket – no more than five, max, and all of them teeny weenie ones that couldn’t possibly make a difference to the beach ecology – but this strange outlaw-wannabe doesn’t need to know that.

‘You don’t need to be picking up anything,’ he huffs. ‘Just leave the beach alone – how about that?’

Who is this guy? Who the hell does he think he is to be accosting total strangers and critiquing their beachcombing behaviour?

‘Sea glass is manmade,’ I say. ‘So, I’m technically beach-cleaning, if you want to be specific about it. What’s it to you, anyway?’

I really wish he wasn’t wearing that bandanna, because I’d like to see his mouth, which I suspect is smirking. He shrugs. ‘I’m just protective of this island, okay?’

‘What are you – the Lord of Loor?’

I’m pleased that this stinger rolled off my tongue. I’ve never been good in arguments, and this might be my finest ever comeback.

‘No, I’m just someone who loves this place and doesn’t want it ruined by mindless idiots.’

I feel my mouth gape like a marionette.

Mindless idiots?

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