Little Beach Street Bakery Read online

  As if in a dream, Polly moved to the door, pulling a blanket off the sofa, unable to help herself.

  Outside, the moon made everything brighter than it had seemed inside; it was quite easy to see. The waves were high again, pounding the harbour wall, but nothing like as bad as they had been the night before. It was cold, though; she wrapped her checked blanket around her head and shoulders and tried not to think about how cold it would be out at sea.

  She moved closer to the figure. Mrs Manse, as usual, was standing as still as a statue. Polly swallowed, but did not speak, simply standing beside her.

  After five minutes of scanning the horizon, of waiting for the lighthouse beam to swing round, Polly felt her teeth begin to chatter.

  ‘This is how it is,’ came the voice from beside her. Mrs Manse didn’t sound her usual snappy, angry self. She sounded resigned, sad, serious. ‘This is how it is. We stand and we wait. We women. This is what we do.’

  Polly looked at her.

  ‘Does it help?’

  Mrs Manse shrugged. ‘It doesn’t bring them back.’

  Polly nodded. ‘But you think it might?’

  Mrs Manse was silent for a long time. The lighthouse beam swung round again. Finally she spoke.

  ‘I don’t know what else to do,’ she said.

  Polly bit her lip.

  ‘I always thought,’ said Mrs Manse quietly, ‘that if I don’t come one night, that will be the night he comes home… with the very last of his strength, only just enough to climb the harbour wall… and if I’m not here to help him, he won’t make it.’

  Polly understood that completely.

  Mrs Manse turned suddenly, her large body stoic and unmoving in the wind.

  ‘Please,’ she said, in more urgent tones. ‘Please go home. Don’t get like me.’

  ‘But I need to wait for them,’ said Polly.

  Mrs Manse shook her head. ‘Not like this,’ she said, with desperation in her voice. ‘Please. Not like this. Don’t do this to yourself.’

  Polly pulled the blanket more tightly round her.

  ‘I can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘But wishing doesn’t do it,’ said Mrs Manse crossly. ‘Don’t you see? Wishing doesn’t do it.’ She looked Polly straight in the face. ‘Please,’ she said, imploring her now. ‘Please go home.’

  Polly gazed out one last time, scanning the horizon. Her head felt fuzzy, full of cotton wool.

  ‘Please,’ said Mrs Manse. ‘Don’t. Don’t be like me.’

  Polly looked at the old woman, who, shaking now, was so desperate to escape from the trap of her life, but so unable to. It was like Polly was suddenly waking up. What was she doing? This wouldn’t help Tarnie, or anybody else.

  ‘Can you… Do you want to come home with me?’ she said. ‘Have some tea?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Mrs Manse, shaking her head. ‘But you can. Please. Go. While you still can.’

  ‘I can’t leave you out here.’

  ‘You have to,’ said Mrs Manse. ‘It’s all right. I know what I’m doing.’ She bravely attempted a half-smile, her eyes still on the dark horizon.

  Without thinking about it, Polly put her arms around the woman and gave her a tight squeeze, then she pressed her lips to Gillian Manse’s lined cheek.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Back in the flat, Polly settled in her chair again, warming up with the blanket over her. Oh Lord, where were they? A part of her thought they couldn’t possibly survive another night out there, another night like this. She tried to imagine them dead; all their energies and worries dispelled into nothing. The idea of them blanked out was odd, shocking. She had been here less than four months, and already they were part of her life.

  At about five she must have dozed off again, because when she woke up, it was to a huge noise, and light was streaming in.

  There was a bang. Then another bang. Polly jumped. What the hell? What was happening now? Her first thought was that the big boat was breaking up in the water, being pulled apart by the waves. But the noise was closer to home. Then she thought it was the fishermen, hungry and home, crashing at the door. Or, a darker side of her suggested, returned drowned, banging on the window…

  Her eyes popped open in a huge adrenalin rush of panic and fear.

  It took her a few moments to focus as dawn light flooded the room. The bang came again. She looked at the window, and gasped.

  Outside, a small black bird with a large orange beak was frantically trying to get her attention.

  She ran to open the window. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. But there it was: on his leg – grubby and covered in who knows what from what had evidently been a long journey – was a plastic seal, with the words ‘Huckle’s Honey’.

  ‘NEIL!’ she screamed, as the window went up and the little puffin hurled himself into her arms. ‘NEIL!’

  The bird flapped his wings happily and made an eeping noise. Polly covered him in kisses. He smelled a little oily and fishy and the best thing ever as she shed tears on to his feathery head. He put up with the affection for quite a while, rubbing the side of his head frantically against her finger, but his eyes were darting around the room.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ said Polly, realising. ‘Of course you are. You’ve flown a REALLY long way. Come on.’

  Her untouched supper was at the top of the bin, so she fished it out and put it on a plate. Neil eeped happily and dived into the food. Once he’d eaten his fill and drunk water from a saucer, he flew happily round the sitting room, as if rechecking his territory, returning every now and then to peck at the crumbs.

  ‘I am so pleased to see you,’ Polly said, unable to stop her happy grin as he returned to perch cheerfully on her shoulder, like a pirate’s parrot. ‘You’ve got too thin.’

  She tickled his tummy.

  ‘Not enough white carbohydrates. Too much seaweed and fish. Better for your brain, but you still came back, huh?’

  Kerensa appeared, yawning, at the doorway.

  ‘Are you talking to a bird?’ she said. ‘Or am I still asleep?’

  ‘Not just any bird,’ said Polly. ‘Look! It’s my bird! He flew right across the county to come back to me! He made it all the way! Neil, you’re amazing.’ She smothered him in kisses.

  ‘Er, okay,’ said Kerensa, recoiling slightly. She glanced around the room. ‘Any news?’

  Polly grabbed her phone.

  ‘No messages,’ she said. ‘The system’s back up. But there’s no…’

  All her joy at seeing Neil again suddenly evaporated. Her whole body slumped. ‘Oh GOD, Kerensa. Oh God.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Kerensa hurriedly. ‘A cup of tea. And something to eat.’

  Polly slumped back into her chair, Neil hopping all over her making concerned noises. As Kerensa went to put on the kettle, however, they heard a noise. A strange noise coming from outside.

  ‘What’s that?’

  It was the tolling of a bell from the old ruined church. It was the only piece of the steeple still standing. Not pealing, as Polly heard on Sundays, when people came from all around to the ancient place of worship that some said pre-dated Christianity altogether. It was not wedding bells, or happy, joyful Easter bells. This was a low, repeated tolling, a dong dong dong. It sounded dolorous and sad.

  ‘What is that?’ repeated Kerensa, forgetting the tea. They both pulled on their clothes – Polly couldn’t remember seeing Kerensa with bed-head before – and ran downstairs, Neil in Polly’s arms.

  Everyone else in the village was also down on the harbour, milling around, rubbing their eyes, some in pyjamas, some hastily pulling on mismatched jumpers. It was just after 6 a.m.

  At first, there was nothing to see. Then, slowly, a tiny dark shape appeared on the horizon. It picked up speed gradually, then came into focus.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Polly.

  A murmuring started up amongst the crowd.

  The boat arced back and forth over the waves, which were
just starting to glisten in the sunlight.

  ‘It’s almost like they’re… showing off,’ said Kerensa. ‘Hmmm.’

  And sure enough, as the boat came closer, they could see that it was the Riva.

  ‘But they came in last night,’ said Polly.

  ‘They dropped you off last night,’ said someone who’d obviously been there. ‘Then they went out again.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  As if in answer, the Riva turned, and the girls caught sight of a huge spotlight attached to the front.

  The boat was getting closer and closer, setting up plumes of surf. Finally, the bell still tolling its deep, ponderous note, it whizzed to a flashy halt in front of the harbour wall. Reuben waved merrily from the driver’s seat as Polly, and everyone else, frantically checked the number of people in the back.

  Not counting Huckle’s yellow head, there were four passengers.

  Four.

  But the fishing boat that had chugged out of Polbearne two nights ago had left with five people on board.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Everyone at the harbour wall immediately surged forward in silence. The entire village was there. Two ambulances were lined up waiting. Huckle was off the boat first, looking tired but pleased, and put down his arm to help the other men up on to the jetty.

  First was Archie, the softly spoken bosun. His face was pale grey and drawn, his eyes dancing around the harbour as if he didn’t recognise where he was. The paramedics ran forward with silver blankets. As he limped his way very slowly up the pier, everybody started to clap. Somone surged forward with a cup of tea to press into his hand, and somebody else gave him a tot of whisky.

  Next was Kendall, looking even younger under his big yellow hat. His mother came charging down the cobbled road in her slippers, screaming and yelling, and his four brothers – all of whom had been on board the other fishing boats that had already safely returned – let out great cheers and yells. Polly couldn’t see over people’s heads, and even with Neil pecking at them, she couldn’t get through the throng to see what was happening. Her heart was pounding harshly through her chest, her breath coming in gasps as she struggled to see.

  John was next, and there was a collective gasp as his two young children ran to him, screaming, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ He was wobbly on his feet as he knelt down and let them fly into his arms. Polly glanced over the heads of the crowd and spied Mrs Manse, standing back. Her face was as impassive as ever.

  Finally, strapped to a stretcher that two ambulancemen had taken on to the jetty, came Jayden, looking very pale and drained, one leg at a strange angle under its blanket. He was barely conscious.

  And then the boat was empty.

  Without thinking, Polly charged through the crowd towards the jetty to see for herself, to check – and was caught, suddenly, strongly, in the huge bear-like arms of Huckle, who held her tight in his strong embrace.

  ‘What?’ she said, briefly struggling, but Huckle was so big and strong, there wasn’t much she could do. He twisted her close to him and whispered, ‘Hush now’ in her ear. ‘Hush.’

  Still wriggling, Polly turned her head, and suddenly she understood. Because standing at the empty boat, keening, her entire body doubled over in a paroxysm of grief, was a petite red-headed woman, and Polly knew instantly who she was.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Polly. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘We’re not done,’ said Huckle fiercely, exhaustion clear in every line on his face. Indeed, the lifeboat was already firing up down the slip. But Polly, her eyes clouded by tears, was looking over at the returned fishermen, in a huddle with their families, friends, reporters. Their faces, after the first excitement at being home, were grim. Polly found she couldn’t stay where she was and indicated to Huckle. They limped over together.

  Kendall was talking. His young face had aged ten years. Someone was supporting Tarnie’s… Polly couldn’t think of her as his widow; she could barely think at all. Her insides had turned to ice water; it was the worst, the most terrifying news she could ever have conceived of.

  Kendall was incoherent with grief, even as the television cameras rolled in his face.

  ‘He wouldn’t… he couldn’t… He had to get Jayden on, he wouldn’t let him… It was all…’ He dissolved into weeping. Polly had to put it together herself, later, from the newspapers, as she and Kerensa sat silently in the flat, staring out at the empty harbour, the milling journalists, the confused tourists.

  When the Trochilus had reached the centre of the storm – it was far worse than the reports had predicted; worse, in fact, than the region had seen for thirty years, a catastrophic differential of high and low pressure colliding at speed – their mast had broken and they had realised their situation was hopeless. Polly imagined them being tossed about like driftwood on waves higher than a three-storey building, lifting them up and hurling them violently down again. She couldn’t bear it.

  They had launched the life vessel at the very last moment – Polly remembered Tarnie telling her it was always best to stay on a ship if you possibly could – but the mast had snapped off and landed on Jayden’s leg, smashing it horribly. They had tried desperately to keep the lifeboat and the ship together, and Tarnie would not leave Jayden’s side until he’d freed him. With huge effort, he had managed to get Jayden into the lifeboat – Polly could see it all vividly, knew Tarnie would never have given up on Jayden, knew that he was doing for Jayden what he was never able to do for his friend Jim Manse – but by that time the fishing boat was nearly under. Even as the men had desperately tried to grab Tarnie’s arm, even as they had thrown out ropes and hands and inflatables, the suction of the boat had pulled him down. The lifeboat too had been sucked beneath the waves, but when it had resurfaced – the pyramid-shaped yellow survival vessel eventually doing its job and righting itself – there was nothing else in the tumult of the tossing seas but the occasional piece of flotsam. The storm and the current had carried them further and further away as they had sat in a dazed silence, trying to keep Jayden conscious, struggling to deal with the loss of their captain, their livelihood, their entire world.

  The last lifeboat had returned after another twenty-four-hour stint. It was needed elsewhere and decisions had to be made.

  Boiling the kettle for the hundredth time, staring out of the window, listlessly kneading bread, Polly could not bear to think what it had done to Selina when she’d heard that news.

  And people came. Everyone needed to talk about it, again and again and again. The worst thing was that without a body there could be no funeral, no laying to rest. But people needed to talk about what had happened, needed to grieve, and they congregated around Polly’s shop.

  Everyone in the town had their own story, their own version of events. Someone had had a premonition in a dream; someone else had had a visit from a ghost. Nobody seemed to know exactly what was going on with Jayden, the boy who hated fishing. He was in hospital in Plymouth, and would recover, and the hospital had told the people from all over the country who were sending gifts and cards to understand that there were so many of them they might be shared amongst other patients.

  Something, it was clear, needed to be planned, but as an incomer – and worse, one who had a connection to the deceased she desperately didn’t want spread any further – Polly didn’t think it was down to her to do it.

  ‘But we should do something,’ she said.

  They didn’t have a vicar on the island, but a local woman had offered to do a service in her church in Looe. Kerensa argued that they should hold it in the ancient church high up on Mount Polbearne itself, even though it had been deconsecrated long ago.

  Selina had gone back to her mother’s on the mainland, and whilst they couldn’t begin to share her pain, nonetheless the local community had to acknowledge it – hers, and the pain of the men left behind, who felt guilty, as well as having been terrified to within an inch of their lives.

  On the Monday morning of the second week after the accident,
the phone rang. Polly was elbow-deep in flour and asked Kerensa – who had come to Polbearne again to be with her friend – to answer it.

  ‘Hello, Pol,’ said Reuben, sounding sleepy. ‘Wassup?’

  ‘It’s not Polly,’ said Kerensa. ‘It’s Kerensa.’

  There was a hurried shaking noise at the other end of the phone. When Reuben spoke again, he sounded a lot more awake and had dropped his voice by about an octave.

  ‘Well hull-oo,’ he said, as manfully as he could muster. Kerensa rolled her eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ said Kerensa. ‘We were thinking of having a commemoration of the boat and Tarnie. We’re probably going to have it in Polly’s shitty little apartment. You can come if you like.’

  ‘Oi!’ shouted Polly crossly. Neil hopped up and down in the sink, where he was amusing himself. In amongst everything else, Polly had managed to find time to call the sanctuary.

  ‘Er, hi. I think I have one of your birds that’s escaped?’ she’d said.

  It was the same cheery Kiwi girl as before.

  ‘Oh! You know, we haven’t missed it. We’ve got, like —’

  ‘A million and a half, I know. But this one is wearing a special honey tag.’

  ‘I remember you! Are you the one who loved your puffin?’

  ‘I think every puffin deserves to be loved,’ said Polly.

  ‘Yeah. But don’t you live on the south coast?’

  ‘I do,’ said Polly proudly. ‘He made it all the way home.’

  She waited for the girl to be incredibly impressed and say something about how Neil was the most amazing puffin she’d ever heard of.

  ‘Well,’ said the girl. ‘You can bring him back if you like.’

  Polly looked at Neil. The bird regarded her with his beady black eyes. He eeped quietly.

  ‘You know,’ she said. ‘I think we’re all right.’