Little Beach Street Bakery Page 11

  ‘There isn’t a bus,’ said Jayden. ‘You need to get a special coach. We went there on a school trip. It’s all I remember about that entire year.’

  ‘Was it good?’ said Polly. ‘Is it a nice place to be?’

  ‘I threw up on the coach,’ said Jayden.

  ‘Ha!’ said Huckle. ‘Er, I mean, I’m sorry about your puffin.’

  Polly stroked Neil’s wings thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, her voice cracking slightly. ‘I’m getting good at letting go of things recently.’

  Everyone went quiet, then Huckle jumped up.

  ‘I can take you,’ he said.

  Tarnie looked up, as if he’d been thinking the same thing.

  ‘Have you got a car?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Huckle.

  At that precise moment, a shadow passed over the little group. Neil hopped protectively closer to Polly, who looked up, still feeling a little shaky, to be confronted by the substantial figure of Gillian Manse.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ Polly said quietly to herself.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Gillian, her harsh voice echoing off the harbour walls. ‘Doing picnics now, are we? I don’t think that’s in the lease.’

  There were crumbs everywhere. The seagulls were lined up on the wall, waiting for their chance to pounce once everyone had gone. Half-eaten bagels were lying on paper napkins.

  ‘What even IS that?’ said Gillian Manse.

  ‘It’s a bagel.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A very, very famous bread product known all over the world,’ said Polly, angry suddenly. ‘The kind of thing any baker would know about.’

  Huckle shot her a concerned look.

  ‘Well I don’t want it in this town,’ said Gillian. ‘Nothing wrong with a pasty.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with a good pasty,’ said Polly. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with people in a free country baking what they like, so STOP PESTERING ME.’

  Huckle patted her on the arm.

  ‘It’s all right, calm down.’

  Polly turned to him. ‘She’s a big bully,’ she whispered.

  Gillian’s face was stern. ‘I just don’t want anyone ruining my business!’

  ‘You’re ruining your own business, making such awful bread,’ retorted Polly.

  Tarnie stood up.

  ‘Now, ladies…’ he began.

  ‘This isn’t about “ladies’’,’ said Polly, more exasperated than ever. ‘It’s about this witch telling me what I can and cannot do in my own damn home.’

  ‘Well let’s make sure it’s not your home for much longer then,’ said Gillian.

  ‘And what’s THAT supposed to mean?’ shouted Polly.

  ‘Ssh, ssh,’ said Tarnie, trying to calm the situation down.

  ‘Exactly what I said,’ said Gillian. ‘That place is mine. I can easily get you out of there.’

  ‘For making a sandwich?’

  ‘It’s my lease.’

  The woman was bright purple in the face, absolutely flaming with shivering fury. She looked terrifying. Suddenly all the fight went out of Polly. She just wanted to sink down and forget about everything.

  Gillian bent down, picked up the last piece of bagel and hurled it straight out to sea, where it was immediately divebombed by a flock of squalling gulls. Then she turned and stalked away.

  Polly realised she was shaking.

  ‘She’s the wickedest, most horrible… She’s going to throw me out.’

  ‘She won’t,’ said Tarnie. ‘She needs the rent. She’s just an old woman, trying to get by.’

  ‘She’s a horrible witch trying to drive me out of here,’ said Polly. ‘I can’t believe you’re defending her!’

  Tarnie looked uncomfortable. ‘I know, but —’

  ‘She’s probably the reason this place is dying, if she monsters everybody who comes to live here!’

  The fishermen were starting to mutter their thanks for the food and back away.

  ‘Oh, so now I look like the crazy one,’ said Polly, cross. ‘Well, that’s just fantastic.’

  Huckle smiled, but he too headed off, leaving Polly once more alone, sitting on the harbour wall. She felt ashamed; she knew she’d overreacted, that there was no point in venting her frustration on an old woman. It just felt as though every time she started to get ahead, step up a little, move on, it all came crashing back down again.

  Chapter Ten

  Polly couldn’t sleep that night. She tossed and turned, occasionally crying a little. She couldn’t believe that things had gone from bad – very bad – to worse. All she was trying to do was meet some people and make herself feel better – and baking very much did make her feel better. To meet such nastiness and resistance was just… She would have to move back to Plymouth. She was going to be made homeless anyway; she had absolutely no doubt that that evil, nasty woman was going to make sure she was evicted. AND, it struck her, she’d probably lose her security deposit too. A chilling fear hit her that she seemed to be in freefall. She had no security; where would she end up? Living on benefits in one of Plymouth’s big tower blocks, with barbed-wire fences and foul-smelling lifts and great big dogs roaming free and drug-takers in the alleyways?

  Or squeezing in back with her mum in Rochester in the little overheated house she’d grown up in; her mum who had been so proud of her professional, college-educated daughter with the nice middle-class man and the nice office career and they run their own business don’t you know, and they’ve just bought one of those spanking new waterside executive apartments and… It would be shameful for her mum, given all the boasting she liked to do to her friends. It would be shameful for Polly. Oh Lord.

  Some anxieties were much, much worse at night and come the morning sun seem manageable; could vanish like bad dreams with the first cup of coffee, or be rationalised away into the business of the day, when the brain didn’t have the chance to mull over mistakes and missed opportunities, regrets and worries for the future. Polly sensed that her problems were not the type that were going anywhere in a hurry. If only she hadn’t made all that extra bread just to spite Gillian Manse and, if she were honest with herself, show off. If only she hadn’t talked back to her, then the woman would have left her alone and she wouldn’t be facing imminent homelessness. Oh God.

  Even though it was freezing in the unheated room, she got up, carefully pulling her duvet around her, and hopped into the sitting room and over to the kettle. A hot drink would help. She would put the light on and read a book; do anything in fact to take her mind off things and stop her stupid brain from whirring. She switched on the immersion heater. It took two hours to warm up for a bath, but that was okay, she could have it in the morning if she fell asleep again. Somehow, though, she knew she wasn’t going to fall asleep again. She would just have to deal with that. She had nothing to do tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. If she had to sleep in, she could. Even Neil was out for the count, eyes shut tight in his little box. She was all alone.

  Still with the duvet on, she crept to the window to look out. There wasn’t much to see, but the fishing boats all being out gave her a feeling that she wasn’t alone: that out there, somewhere, Tarnie, Jayden, Archie and the rest were wide awake, drinking tea too, maybe, among the silvery scales and fluttering fins of the shoal; stitching up nets, or heaving in the great piles of ice from the ice machine to keep their cargo fresh for the morning markets all the way down the coast to Penzance.

  With everything else in her head, she had forgotten Jayden’s silly story about the ghost woman until she actually got to the window. As the lighthouse beam swept across, her adrenalin surged, but she was feeling so exhausted and grim about things, she no longer had the energy to be actually scared by the supernatural; her real life, she reflected, was already frightening enough.

  Her eyes adjusted to the dark of the harbour: the stones, the moon reflecting on the water – the night was unusually clear –
a few cars parked up, the street lamps extinguished… then she saw it. She craned her neck and peered more closely, her heart threatening to erupt through her chest. There it was. A figure, in the same position, standing on the wall, stock still, staring out to sea, like a statue.

  Polly’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced back into the room, quickly, to reassure herself that her familiar things were still there; had not faded to some past time of long ago. Her eyes were dazzled once again, and she blinked once, twice to accustom herself to the dark. Then she steeled herself, and opened the window. The rattle seemed incredibly loud in the night-time air, but Polly didn’t care; fear and anxiety were making her reckless. She leaned out, craning to see the figure.

  ‘OI!’ she shouted. ‘OI!!’

  The figure turned round suddenly in shock. As it did so, the great lighthouse beam swept over again, and Polly watched in horror as the figure slipped and fell, its skirts fluttering in the wind, its long hair streaming out behind it.

  There was no time to think. Polly grabbed her jacket and threw it on over her pyjamas, then thrust her feet into a pair of boots before tearing out of the door, thundering down the stairs. That was not an apparition, or something she’d dreamt. There was someone out there, on this cold, blowy, scuddy night.

  Down on the street, temporarily disorientated, she wished she’d brought a torch. The moon was nearly full, but the dark shapes had taken on new dimensions and she wasn’t precisely sure where along the harbour wall she was headed. Finally she came upon a gap, looked down – and gasped.

  There, lying in the shallow water, was the bulky shape of none other than Mrs Manse. Without the fierce bun, her hair was long; her roundness was concealed by the flowing nightdress and housecoat she was wearing. Polly knelt down next to her. She was breathing, but as the lighthouse beam swept over them, Polly saw that she was bleeding from a gash on her head. She had to get her out of the water; it was absolutely freezing.

  ‘Gillian,’ she hissed. ‘Gillian! Oh my God, I am SO SORRY.’

  The woman didn’t stir. Polly sighed. Where the hell were five burly fishermen when she needed them? She looked up at the buildings along the front. The flats above the rest of the old shops were all empty. She needed her phone. But if she ran back to fetch it, it might be too late… No. She would have to do this herself.

  She bent down and grabbed the large woman under her arms, and heaved with all her might. Over and over again the sea tried to suck the woman back, as if demanding her. Each time, Polly swore mightily and tried to get a bit more traction. And finally, incredibly slowly, she managed to pull her, little by little, out of the waves – they were both soaking now – and towards the landing slip. She called out for help a few times, but soon gave it up as a waste of puff and energy; she just had to get on with this on her own.

  The tide was starting to come in and a wave splashed her briskly on the face as she bent down to check that Gillian was still breathing. The woman’s long hair was now adorned with fronds of seaweed. Polly swore as Gillian slipped from her grasp, but the woman did not wake, and Polly started to panic, thinking that her hard work might be in vain. The lighthouse beam swept past again, and she wondered if they could see her from up there. Then she remembered that there was nobody actually in there now; they were all automated these days. That was no help; bloody hell, you needed someone there to sound the alarm when stuff like this happened.

  The light somehow gave her an extra burst of energy; just enough to heave Gillian on to the slip. She didn’t like to think of how much bruising there was going to be, but from then on it was much easier, without the waves splashing at her and the perishing cold water lapping at her ankles.

  At last she reached the top, and bent over to catch her breath. She wondered what to do. Why on earth didn’t she have any of the fishermen’s numbers? But then they weren’t here anyway, she remembered; they were miles away from any mobile phone mast, any sign of habitation at all, out in the middle of the Irish Sea.

  She glanced round the deserted town again, pulling off her jacket to cover the drenched woman. She needed help, and fast, and having to explain herself to any of the suspicious villagers would take too long.

  Tearing back to the house, she charged upstairs. She turned on the kettle and grabbed some blankets for warmth, then snatched up her phone to dial 999. As she did so, she noticed the jar of honey still sitting on top of one of the meagre kitchen units. Huckle’s telephone number was printed on the label.

  She would call him first. He’d know what to do. She realised she was basing this supposition on absolutely nothing, but she didn’t have much time. She poured boiling water into a mug, hoisted the blankets in her other arm and tore back downstairs again as fast as she could, balancing everything and dialling Huckle’s number at the same time.

  It rang for so long Polly started to think that maybe it was disconnected, but finally she heard the familiar drawl, slower and sleepier than ever.

  ‘Er, yeah?’

  ‘Huckle?’

  ‘Yip?’

  ‘Huckle, it’s me… Polly.’

  ‘Oh… yeah. Right. Sorry. Thought someone had mucked up their time zones again.’

  ‘Huckle, I need you —’

  ‘Um, you know I’m not really —’

  ‘Shut up! I need you to come to Polbearne. Mrs Manse fell into the water!’

  ‘She did what?’

  ‘That old woman. She fell into the water.’

  Polly was by now trying to take off the woman’s sodden housecoat and didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation.

  ‘Huckle. Come now, I’m on the harbour.’ She checked the causeway. It was still clear.

  ‘Er, right, okay.’

  She rang off, then checked Mrs Manse. She was breathing, and was starting to stir. Polly was suddenly not keen for the woman to come round to find Polly stripping her clothes off. She dialled 999. They were helpful and said they’d be about half an hour; they told her to take off Gillian’s clothes and replace them with blankets, and to give her a hot drink – no alcohol – if she could sit up.

  That was easier said than done. Every time Polly managed to get a blanket around her, Gillian shook it off again. She was clearly confused; she was muttering to herself and struggling to get up. Polly was having huge problems holding her.

  Suddenly a throaty roar burst through the tiny town. Polly jumped up, startled. The noise was monstrous, bouncing off the old slate walls and the cobbles. Holding Mrs Manse firmly by the shoulder, she peered into the darkness, trying to see what the hell it was.

  Roaring round a corner at an angle came something from the 1940s: a classic motorcycle frame in a dark burgundy colour with a small engine at the front and black spoked wheels; attached was a side car, also painted burgundy.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Polly. On top of it was perched the large figure of Huckle, and the contraption was moving at an incredible rate, its enormous roar resonating through the town. Polly finally began to see lights come on in people’s bedrooms. Oh, thanks for coming when you heard me shouting my head off, she thought to herself.

  Rather dramatically, like a skier coming to rest, Huckle skidded to a stop in front of her. The large round headlamp at the front of the bike blinded her, and Polly put up her hand to shield her eyes.

  ‘Ow,’ she said.

  Huckle hopped off, removing his vintage black helmet and shaking out his slightly too long yellow hair.

  ‘What is that?’ said Polly. Mrs Manse was still struggling to get away.

  ‘It’s a jet ski,’ said Huckle. ‘Seriously, that’s what you got me down here to ask?’

  He turned his attention to the old woman, crouching next to her on the slipway.

  ‘Now, what’s going on with y’all?’ he said, his voice slow and kind. He took Mrs Manse’s lumpy body in his arms and miraculously made her seem small and light. Polly let her go with some relief and rubbed the circulation back into her arms.

  Mrs Manse seeme
d to calm down immediately and said a few names, none of which Polly recognised.

  ‘Have you got anything for her to drink?’ said Huckle. ‘Maybe we should give her a drink. Is the ambulance coming?’

  ‘The ambulance is coming, and yes!’ said Polly, feeling pleased. She handed over the mug of boiled water. Mrs Manse tasted some, then spat it out.

  ‘I think you’re on the mend,’ said Huckle. ‘What happened, Pol? Did you two get in another fight?’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ said Polly. ‘What, you think I pushed an old lady into the sea?’

  ‘I don’t know you very well.’

  Polly gave him a flat stare.

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  He looked at Mrs Manse.

  ‘So what happened?’

  Polly sighed. ‘Oh God, I’m going to have to explain this to the ambulance crew too, aren’t I? And probably the police.’

  ‘The police?’ frowned Huckle.

  ‘I saw her standing there – I didn’t know it was her, really, she was too far away. I shouted out – I just yelled at her to see who it was. And I think I gave her a fright. She slipped.’

  Polly swallowed.

  ‘Do you think they’re going to charge me with manslaughter?’

  ‘No, I’ll just sue you,’ came a growling voice.

  ‘Oh thank God,’ said Polly. ‘Thank God. I am SO sorry. But what were you doing out in the middle of such a wild night?’

  Polly did try to explain, as the ambulancemen arrived and a little police car bumped carefully across the causeway, driven by a sleepy-looking copper with a moustache. Mrs Manse was wrapped up like a turkey in silver blankets in the back of the ambulance complaining that a body couldn’t even take an innocent night-time stroll any more without being abused. Fortunately the policeman seemed disinclined to take this too seriously.

  Polly felt very dubious indeed.

  ‘She wasn’t walking! She was standing right there! And I’ve seen her there before,’ she hissed to Huckle.

  ‘That’s a nasty cut,’ said the paramedic. ‘I think you’re a bit stunned, and I hope you haven’t caught anything from being in the cold water. I think we need to take you along to the hospital for a bit.’