Little Beach Street Bakery Read online

  ‘I wonder if it’s going to land,’ Patrick said, looking up at the sky. But as the helicopter hovered there, they saw a sling rope descend with a man attached to it.

  ‘Wow,’ said Polly. The men on top of the sunken ship were waving their arms excitedly. She could make out one lying there, obviously injured.

  ‘You know,’ said Patrick. ‘What everyone could really do with is some tea and probably something to eat. Do you think you might be able to…’

  ‘Open the shop?’ said Polly before he had even finished the thought. ‘I probably should, shouldn’t I? There’s going to be loads of people down here.’

  ‘Especially if there’s oil.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  The men on top of the sunken ship were loading their injured comrade into the sling with the man from the helicopter. People were filming it on their phones. Polly wanted to watch, but she saw the sense in what Patrick was saying – people were going to need a lot of tea, the media was going to be here and she had bread in the oven. She turned round to leave.

  The other thing about having to hare back to the shop, even if she was missing all the excitement, was that she was instantly so busy she didn’t have much time to think about Tarnie and the boys, out there somewhere. Where? The sea was calmer now; they could make it back if they tried. Were they drifting? But why hadn’t they been picked up by now? Everyone was out looking for them; she’d heard it on the radio. The man on the radio was also saying it was an unprecedented storm, far worse than forecast. There were calls for the meteorological services to explain themselves, and fears for insurance companies.

  Polly filled an old urn that she found in the back of the shop, and Muriel brought four boxes of dusty, unsold, commemorative Mount Polbearne teapots, a ton of plastic cups and some milk from the minimart. They carried down the table from upstairs and set it up in front of the bakery, offering free tea and bread to anyone who needed it. The boys who were doing shifts on the RNLI boat came back chilled and shivering and despondent; helicopters were covering the area, but the fishing zones were widespread. Television crowds had already sprung up, even though the causeway was barely passable. They were taking the long way round by boat, or forcing SUVs through the water, however dangerous this was. The storm had been widespread, but Polbearne and its men had taken the brunt of the devastation; they had been ground zero.

  Finally, at 11 a.m., there was some good news: Free Bird, one of the ships in the fleet, had let off its emergency beacon and the rescuers had somewhere to head for. The boat had been blown more than thirty kilometres from its normal fishing grounds; its electronic equipment had been knocked out, its mast was broken and all the nets were gone. No one on board had seen Trochilus or the other two boats.

  Free Bird was towed back to shore, and crowds lined the harbour to cheer it in. Crying wives held up children, who were unsure what was going on but were taking happy advantage of the free buns and cuddles. Polly looked up from handing out food – she had put some more loaves in, and a large batch of buns; she would have to square it with Mrs Manse later, but she didn’t know what else to do – and checked her phone for the millionth time for a signal. Oh God. It might technically be summer, but the water was so cold out there in the depths, certainly cold enough to kill a man. With a start, she remembered her dream the night before: being pulled down, far into the depths, the light fading and turning to black. She found her hands shaking; it couldn’t have been a vision, surely. She didn’t believe in those sorts of things.

  The day went on endlessly. At two, rescuers found the survival capsule – a kind of tent boat – of the Lark, with all five men on board, bobbing towards Devon. The Lark itself had sunk without a trace; they had only just made it out in time. They were driven back to Polbearne by the Devonshire police, quiet, pale and shaking as they were met by their families. Likewise the Wiverton, whose emergency beacon had got stuck and hadn’t worked. An eagle-eyed helicopter pilot spotted the bobbing neon-yellow shape in the water and managed to winch the men to safety.

  ‘HEY!’

  Polly looked up, bleary-eyed. She had baked and handed out food all day, waiting, waiting for news. She blinked. This was the last person she had expected to see.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Kerensa made an innocent face. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? They’ve filled the place with unbelievably hot helicopter pilots.’

  She came closer to Polly.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Polly shrugged. ‘One of the boats isn’t back yet.’

  ‘Is it the one with the sexy beardy?’

  Polly swallowed and nodded. Several people from the village came up to pat her shoulder and thank her for her contribution.

  ‘Move over,’ said Kerensa, and she started buttering rolls. ‘I can’t believe you aren’t charging for this. It’s no way to run a business. Actually you should charge treble to all the rubberneckers.’

  Polly gave her a look.

  ‘Okay, okay, just saying.’

  A substantial figure approached slowly, holding a large tray. Polly squinted in the watery sunlight.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Kerensa. ‘Oh, is it the old boot?’

  ‘Ssh,’ said Polly as Mrs Manse came into earshot. She looked at what Polly was doing and sniffed. Polly bit her lip, worried that she was going to get a telling-off. This wasn’t her business, after all; she didn’t get to make these kinds of decisions. Mrs Manse surveyed the makeshift stall, surrounded by people – it had become something of a focal point – and harrumphed crossly. Then she banged down the large tray. It held the entire day’s selection of cream horns and fancies.

  ‘I’ll need that box back in the morning,’ was all she said before turning round and marching back up the road.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Kerensa, as Polly started handing out cakes to hungry crew and passing children.

  As evening fell and the RNLI boat came back for the sixth time, empty-handed, Polly felt her fears beginning to grow again. During the day, as the other boats had been recovered without much worse than some bruised ribs and a couple of broken wrists, cuts and bruises here and there and a bit of exposure, her hopes had steadily risen until it had felt as if any second now Tarnie and his boys would turn up in a police car, full of stories about their adventure.

  But it was getting late. The rescued fishermen who’d managed to prise themselves away from home were all in the pub, and the rest of the villagers and the media had gathered round to hear their stories – which would inevitably get more and more thrilling as the evening went on, and the boys became braver in their cups.

  Every tea bag, every drop of milk, every last bun was gone when Polly shut up shop and packed everything away.

  ‘Come on,’ said Kerensa. ‘Let’s take a walk. I want to see the salvage boat anyway.’

  ‘The tanker?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘You want to see a boat lying on its side?’

  ‘Now you put it like that – yes.’

  Polly didn’t want to go to the pub, didn’t want to hear about everyone else’s close brush with death, endure people asking her if she’d heard anything, assuming she would have because of course they all knew about her and Tarnie… No, she couldn’t do that.

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  The sky was now soft and golden-hued. The sea was quietening down. It was almost impossible to believe the force and power of what had ripped through just a few short hours before. Polly had never given the weather much of a thought when she had lived in Plymouth. It was wet or dry, that was all. But here she lived so close to the thin line between the land and the sea. The sea dictated everything: whether they could cross the causeway, whether the men could work, even whether she could leave the building. It was part of the warp and weft of everyone there. As she and Kerensa tramped across the dunes in silence, she understood finally what it actually meant to have the sea running through your veins.

  The other side of the headland was sti
ll buzzing with people too; Polly hadn’t seen such crowds in months. Police were setting up a cordon – she wondered why, until Kerensa pointed out that it would be to stop looting.

  ‘But if it’s all gone overboard anyway, why can’t people just have some?’ said Polly.

  ‘Because they’d fight and steal and because the next time a boat appeared on the horizon they’d wreck it?’ suggested the pragmatic Kerensa.

  ‘No they wouldn’t,’ said Polly, but some of the teens down on the beach looked a bit tasty, almost daring the police to let them have a go. On the upside, there didn’t appear to be any oil.

  ‘What are those?’ she asked, pointing to where some things were bobbing up and down in the water, tiny against the looming, ominous outline of the vast ship.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kerensa. ‘Let’s go and have a look.’

  They scrambled down to the beach, where a policeman told them to get back. Just as they were about to do so, there was a sudden loud noise and a ridiculously flashy long-nosed boat charged into view. It was made of pale brown wood and looked like something from the 1950s, but it moved like a bullet. In the back were luxurious leather seats and a low bow. It turned in front of them in a flashy arc, sending up a massive spray of water into the air.

  ‘Yeah, Officer?’ came a loud, grating familiar voice. ‘We’re here to pick up these chicks.’

  ‘Chicks?’ said Polly.

  Kerensa had already run forward to have a look. In the beautiful boat were Reuben, driving, and Huckle.

  The policeman waved the girls on.

  ‘Don’t climb on the wreck,’ he shouted. Orange patrol boats and white police boats were circling it anyway, protecting it from scavengers.

  ‘I’ll buy it,’ said Reuben crossly, reversing close into shore so the girls could splash aboard. Huckle stretched out a hand to help them in.

  ‘Nice,’ said Kerensa, looking round approvingly at the walnut-lined interior.

  ‘It’s my Riva,’ said Reuben. ‘It cost eight hundred thousand dollars; it’s just one of my little boats.’

  ‘Actually, I hate it,’ said Kerensa, turning away from him disdainfully.

  ‘Hey,’ Huckle said gently to Polly. The way she looked was worrying him: there was nothing there behind her eyes, no ready smile or warm glance. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Have you been looking for them?’ asked Polly urgently.

  ‘No,’ said Reuben. ‘We thought today would be a good day to take a pleasure fucking cruise.’

  ‘Ignore Reuben,’ said Huckle, putting his hand on her arm. ‘Of course we have.’

  Polly shook her head. ‘I couldn’t get you on the phone. Where are they? Why can nobody find them?’

  ‘They’re probably at the bottom of the ocean, like, being eaten by sharks?’ said Reuben. He put the boat in gear.

  ‘Shut up, rude friend,’ said Kerensa.

  Reuben looked at her.

  ‘You’re very attractive to me,’ he stated loudly and with no conceivable sense of embarrassment whatsoever. ‘What expensive gifts do you like?’

  Kerensa ignored him and sat as far away in the boat from him as possible. They moved slowly ahead. At first Polly couldn’t quite make out what was holding them up. Then she saw that they were pushing through something. It was very peculiar, but the water was absolutely full of…

  ‘Are those…’ she said, suddenly roused to action.

  Huckle looked at her and gave a half-smile. ‘I know. Everything else must have sunk. But…’

  Spread out for miles, under a pinkening sky, were thousands upon thousands – uncountably many – of little yellow rubber ducks. Some had moustaches, some had pink hats, some were dressed as golfers, or demons, or were wearing policemen’s helmets, but they were all little yellow ducks.

  ‘They must have been in one of the crates,’ said Huckle. ‘And burst free.’

  ‘The ducks ESCAPED?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Look at them!’ said Kerensa. ‘Roaming free!’

  ‘Not so cool for Toyota,’ said Huckle. ‘According to the internet, they had a huge shipment of cars on this boat. I don’t think they’ll be driving out of here.’

  They all looked down, wondering morbidly what was beneath the boat.

  ‘I’m going to open a diving school here,’ said Reuben suddenly. ‘It’ll be the best diving school in the world. People can dive down and pretend to drive underwater cars.’

  ‘That’s a shit idea,’ said Kerensa.

  ‘Hush,’ said Huckle. Polly didn’t say anything at all.

  They pushed through the field of yellow ducks, bobbing up and down on the water, and as they cleared the headland, Polly gasped.

  It looked like a regatta. Right across the horizon, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but boats. Tiny rowing boats, great racing sloops, fat pleasure cruisers, bright orange rescue boats, little black tenders. Every one of them patrolling the water, looking for a sign, looking for a clue, looking for the lost fishermen.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Polly.

  The Riva joined them, cruising past the little island – Polly could barely look at it – and onwards up to the main channel, where they would have to watch for ferries. They waved at other boats as they passed, but mainly kept their eyes on the water for any trace – a lifejacket, a piece of cloth, a floating radio transmitter, a piece of mast – of something that would give them a clue as to the whereabouts of the missing boat.

  Afterwards, Polly would remember this trip as if it lasted for days, even though it was only a few hours. She trailed her hand in the water – it was still warm despite the sun starting to go down – desperately scanning the horizon and staring beneath the waves, as if she could see something there if she gazed hard enough. Reuben would open up the throttle and shoot them to another space and they would look again, then go on…

  Polly couldn’t believe that Tarnie – so tough and hard, yet vulnerable underneath – could possibly be gone. He was the best captain in the fleet; all the others said so. He was so strong. He wouldn’t have let anything happen. And Jayden, so mouthy and so young, who hated fishing; and little Kendall. But they’d been raised to it; salt water ran through their veins. They had to come back, she thought fiercely; they had to.

  She scrubbed at her eyes, then trained them on the horizon again, squinting so hard into the sun she could barely see.

  ‘Darling. Wrinkles,’ said Kerensa, rubbing her back. She could see how distraught Polly was; obviously concerned for the young men she’d met, and horrified by the disaster.

  Polly looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Don’t squint,’ Kerensa told her.

  She called up front.

  ‘Us girls are going to look for the boat away from the sun. You boys do the sun side. You look good with crow’s feet.’

  ‘I look good in anything,’ said Reuben, who was sporting a horribly bright pair of pricey Oakley sunglasses.

  ‘Is that what your girlfriends tell you?’ said Kerensa.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Reuben. ‘And they’re all models, so they should know.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kerensa. ‘When they’re coked out of their heads at parties wearing two plastic bags for shoes and a swan on their heads.’

  Reuben pouted. ‘You obviously don’t get invited to those parties.’

  Kerensa gave Polly a look, but she was miles away and didn’t seem to hear what anyone was saying. Huckle watched her with concern. He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders: she was looking cold, and the sea was picking up again. The sun was setting and a chill had settled. But he didn’t want to send mixed messages, didn’t want to startle her. Instead he very gently touched her hair.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  ‘We have to find them,’ she said.

  ‘We’re doing everything we can,’ pointed out Huckle.

  Reuben had a fully packed hamper with chilled cham
pagne and fresh lobster and smoked salmon sandwiches, but nobody felt like eating. Instead they continued to cruise until it was nearly pitch black, a heavy navy darkness hanging in the air. The sea was growing rougher again, and a man with a loudspeaker hailed them from a helicopter, shouting at them to go home, that the RNLI would continue the search.

  ‘We can’t leave them out here for another night,’ said Polly, her teeth chattering.

  ‘We have to,’ said Huckle. ‘Otherwise the RNLI will be looking for us too.’

  He took off his jacket and put it round her shoulders. She didn’t notice. He looked at Kerensa.

  ‘I’m worried about her,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll take her home,’ said Kerensa, cuddling Polly close.

  Huckle would rather have taken her home himself; he didn’t want Kerensa getting her drunk on wine and making her feel worse, but he didn’t say anything. They had one of Reuben’s cars parked up on the mainland and would bring the boat again tomorrow.

  The harbour was still busy and everybody anxious when they got back: police, press, and people washing down their boats, everyone asking each other if they had any more news. Kerensa hustled Polly upstairs and into a hot bath and made her some cheese on toast, which Polly left untouched. Then Kerensa, knackered, suggested bed – it was after ten – but Polly refused. She let Kerensa have her bed, and sat by the window in the sitting room, googling the news endlessly; trawling Twitter for updates on her little phone. She watched as the crowd finally dispersed for the night, and the lights winked out along the harbourside. She felt desperately tired, but when she closed her eyes all she could see was Tarnie’s chiselled, serious face, his bright blue eyes, the cheery youth of his crew; she heard his voice telling her of the peace he only ever felt out at sea, under the stars.

  ‘Please,’ she found herself saying. ‘Please.’

  She must have dozed in her chair, because the next time she opened her eyes, the stars had moved in the sky and the earth felt muffled. She stood up and looked out of the window. There was the familiar figure, standing silhouetted on the harbour wall.