Little Beach Street Bakery Page 4

  He looked at her, those narrow blue eyes she’d once found so attractive. She steeled herself not to cry.

  ‘Well, I am,’ he mumbled.

  Polly leant forward. ‘You are what, sweetie?’

  ‘Oh Pol, don’t make me…’

  ‘I think you might feel better if you do.’

  She held her ground. There was a long silence. Then, finally:

  ‘I’m sorry. About everything. I know it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry too. I’m sorry we couldn’t make it work. I don’t think either of us could have worked any harder.’

  ‘No,’ said Chris, holding her gaze at last. ‘No, we couldn’t have.’

  And they had, oddly, shaken hands.

  As she drove away from the crowded streets of Plymouth and hit the open A roads through the downs, the sun was shining in the rear-view mirror and Polly tried to feel she was moving into the future.

  ‘We’ll be okay, sofa,’ she said, glancing behind her.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she realised, ‘I’m the kind of woman who talks to sofas.’

  It was after lunch when she finally arrived on the island. She’d had to wait an hour this time for the causeway to open. She was absolutely, she realised, going to have to get organised with the timetables; this was really inconvenient.

  As she waited, she bit into the petrol-station sandwich she’d bought on the way. It was disgusting. One thing Polly took very seriously was her bread, and this was no good at all. While she ate, she gazed out of the window at Mount Polbearne. There were comforting-looking lights dotted here and there, their reflections shimmering in the water. From this distance you couldn’t see that things were a little dilapidated.

  At last the causeway cleared fully. Very carefully and tentatively, sure that one slip would lead her to a watery grave, she drove the van across and turned left at the car park, taking it straight to her brand-new front door – or, rightfully speaking, side door. One thing about moving to a tiny deserted nothing of a place was that she could park anywhere; there were no meters, or even lines on the road. She fumbled for the large keys Lance had handed her when she’d signed the contract (for, in the end, about five pence more than the discount she’d demanded; she had to leave him with some pride after all), and climbed out of the van. She had hired the vehicle for a few days – enough time to find someone to lug the bed upstairs, she thought – but for now she took only the absolute bare essentials. Although as these included her coffee machine, carrying everything was not that easy a job.

  As she opened the side door, she looked at the downstairs shop on Beach Street. It creeped her out a little bit. Who knew what malevolent creatures might be lurking there… She gave herself a little shake. It was only a bakery, she realised, recognising one of the shapes as an oven. The place had probably failed once it became clear that in the hierarchy of beautiful little coastal towns in the south-west of England that people wanted to visit whilst eating a sausage roll, Mount Polbearne came in at about number 5,000, and people were too nervous about the causeway flooding over to hang about for long anyway.

  The island had seemed pretty cheerless before, even with Kerensa’s bracing presence. But now, in the wet wind of a cold spring day, with nobody else around, it felt utterly desolate. The sea, which Polly had hoped would provide something relaxing and comforting to look at, was grey and choppy and angry-looking, and made her feel nothing but slightly chilled. Sighing, she put down her bags (and the coffee machine) on the stone step outside the faded wooden door, which had obviously once been green, and fumbled for the heavy key. The door swung open, creaking, and immediately banged back in the strong wind. Her pile of books was starting to flap ominously. She pushed the coffee machine in to hold the door open and went back to the van to retrieve her suitcase and a selection of black plastic bin bags. Thirty-two was, she felt, a little old to still be banging on with black plastic bin bags. She should probably have a full set of luggage that matched. Not Louis Vuitton or anything like that, but… Well. Something more than a wheelie case seemingly designed to bump down the aisle of a plane against people’s ankles. And she had a sports bag of Chris’s. It wasn’t, she reflected, much to come away with.

  The rest was boxes of bits and pieces, many more than she’d hoped. She’d started to heave them out of the van when she heard a rattling noise behind her. She glanced around, nearly toppling over a box, to see that the pile of books she’d put down by the door had been caught by a stray gust of wind and had actually taken off, pushed up, up by the force of the breeze.

  ‘AARGH!’ shouted Polly. Most of her books had gone into storage, but she had kept back a few; a very specific few. When she was feeling down in the dumps, she wanted comfort, and comforting reading, and she’d decided that the present situation called for a binge. So she’d held back her childhood books, the dusty old eighties editions she’d read so often the covers were falling off. Inside each jacket was her name and address, carefully printed: ‘Polly Waterford, age 11, 78 Elder Avenue, Plymouth, England, Europe, the world, the solar system, the galaxy, the universe.’

  There went Anne of Green Gables. And What Katy Did at School. Vet in a Spin was flipping merrily over the cobbles, along with The Dark is Rising and Daddy-Long-Legs, and Marianne Dreams…

  ‘Noooo!’ yelled Polly, dropping her box and charging after them at full pelt. She couldn’t bear to lose them.

  The books danced in the grey air as if taunting her, and headed straight for the harbour wall. Polly made a desperate lunge and managed to grab Good Wives, but Alice in Wonderland spun blithely over the wall and into the grey emptiness beyond.

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly, crushed beyond compare. ‘Oh.’

  The other books thankfully landed before they reached the sea, and she grabbed them up and hugged them close to her, then sank down on the cold stones and, uncaring, feeling this the final straw after what had been really an awful bloody lot of straw, burst into tears.

  Her father had given her that book. He had loved it when he was a child and had read it to her and explained the bits she didn’t understand, and even though it was cheap and old and easily replaceable, it wasn’t, because it had been his. When he had died of a heart attack when Polly was twenty, she had been furious; with him, and with the world, who broadly treated her as an adult who didn’t need as much support as if she’d been a child.

  Polly felt snot coming out of her nose, and wiped it on her jacket, so upset and impervious did she feel. There was no one around for miles, nobody who gave a damn for at least forty, so she didn’t care who saw her or what she looked like. She was alone, she was miserable, she was freezing and a bit wet, and she had lost her dad’s book. And how could she be heard above the wind anyway?

  Eventually her howling was interrupted by a noise she could barely hear above the waves and the weather. It sounded, oddly enough, like a cough. She stopped, swallowed unprettily and listened. The cough came again.

  Polly sat bolt upright and peered around. Behind her, standing on the wall to the left, she spied, to her horror, five men. They were wearing sou’westers with bright yellow dungarees.

  ‘Er, excuse me,’ said the first one in a Cornish accent as thick as clotted cream. They were all shuffling and looking embarrassed. Polly jumped to her feet.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, as if she hadn’t just been caught sitting outside bawling her head off like a two-year-old.

  ‘Um, is this yours?’

  The first man, who had a brown beard, red cheeks and creases round his blue eyes, held up her copy of Alice in Wonderland. He looked at her hands, which were still gripping her other books.

  Polly gave a quick, sharp nod. ‘Yes… yes, thank you.’

  He stepped forward to hand it to her. Polly put out her arms, realised immediately that she had a big snot stain on her sleeve and, in the embarrassment, dropped the rest of the books on the ground.

  They all bent down together to pick them up.

  �
��Big reader, are you?’ said the man.

  ‘Er… kind of,’ Polly managed, her cheeks flushed bright scarlet. ‘Where…’

  ‘It came down on our boat, dinnit?’ said the man, and Polly turned her head to look at the line of fishing boats clanking in the harbour. They were brightly painted green and red, with nets piled high on their bows and a scrubbed, rough-and-ready look to them. The nearest one was called Trochilus.

  ‘We thought it were books from heaven, din’t we, lads? Like, a new library idea.’

  The other men chuckled and shuffled.

  ‘It’s…’ Polly tried to pull herself together and not seem too weird and tearful. She just about had the rest of her books in a pile now. ‘It’s very good.’

  The man squinted at it.

  ‘I mostly read… well, I like books about war.’

  ‘Any specific war? Or wars in general?’ asked Polly, genuinely interested. He was incredibly tall, but his face was gentle.

  ‘Well, I reckon… just about any war will do.’

  ‘Borrow it,’ said Polly suddenly. Something that had seemed so precious only moments before had become, by light of its extraordinary resurrection, something to be shared. ‘See if you like it. There isn’t any war. But there is some chess,’ she added doubtfully.

  The man looked at it.

  ‘Well, I will then,’ he said. ‘Get pretty long, them nights.’ He nodded at the boat.

  ‘I didn’t know fishing boats went out at night,’ Polly said. The other men, still loitering and listening in, laughed.

  ‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ said the first man, straight-faced. ‘We like to catch the fish when they’re sleeping.’

  ‘Is that true?’ said Polly, forgetting to be miserable for a second.

  The man smiled. ‘So you normally walk about our town throwing books?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh… no,’ said Polly, flustered again. ‘No. I’ve just moved here.’

  ‘Why would you move here?’ said youngest of the men, who had bright pink cheeks, but the tall man – who must have been the captain – shushed him.

  ‘Welcome to Mount Polbearne then,’ he said. His eyes followed hers up to the van and the pile of boxes. ‘You’re not… you’re not moving into Mrs Manse’s old place?’

  ‘Um, the one on the corner?’ said Polly.

  ‘Aye, that’ll be right.’ The captain looked at it.

  ‘It’s haunted, that place,’ said the young man with the pink cheeks.

  ‘Ssh,’ said the captain. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I don’t believe in that kind of thing,’ said Polly stiffly.

  ‘Well that’s lucky,’ said the captain. ‘For you, anyway. Ghosts never come if you pretend you don’t believe in them. Hello. I’m Tarnie.’

  ‘Polly,’ said Polly, wiping her face fiercely.

  ‘Well, thanks for the book,’ said Tarnie. He looked over at the van parked across the road, with the sofa clearly visible poking out of the back. ‘Can we do anything for you in return?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ said Polly quickly.

  ‘You lifting that sofa up by yourself?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Polly. ‘Um. I hadn’t quite… I hadn’t…’

  ‘Come on, lads,’ said Tarnie.

  With a will, the men heaved the sofa out of the van, and, with some swearing and bother, managed to lug both it and the bed upstairs.

  Tarnie let out a low whistle as he looked around the flat.

  ‘You’re living here?’ he said.

  It looked, if possible, even worse than before. There was dust everywhere, rafters creaking, tiles shifting here and there.

  ‘It’s just temporary,’ said Polly in a rush, not wanting to have to explain her entire life.

  ‘It certainly is,’ said one of the men, who Tarnie introduced as Jayden, and they all laughed again.

  Polly looked around. ‘I… I think… Well, with a bit of work…’

  ‘And a bulldozer.’

  ‘That’ll do, Jayden,’ said Tarnie and the lad fell silent straight away.

  Polly glanced about. ‘I’d love to offer you a cup of tea…’

  The men looked hopeful.

  ‘But I don’t even know if the water’s on.’

  ‘And you lot have got bilges to rinse,’ said Tarnie.

  There was a collective groan.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Um, can I use your loo?’ asked one of them.

  ‘Of course,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oi, don’t start that,’ said Tarnie. Polly looked confused. ‘Once one starts, they’ll all want to,’ he explained.

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ said Polly.

  ‘We don’t have one, you see.’

  Polly blinked, and Tarnie looked a little embarrassed.

  ‘So, er, see you around,’ he said, holding up the book.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Polly. ‘Thanks so much… for bringing it back and helping me and…’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Tarnie, looking a little pink. ‘Can’t bear to see a lady in distress.’

  One of the young fishermen made a ‘woo’ noise and the captain swung round with a fierce look.

  ‘Right, you shower. OUT!’

  After they’d gone, Polly hauled up the last few bags. She took out her sheets and covered the sofa with them, then investigated the large box of industrial cleaning products that Kerensa had given her as a parting gift.

  ‘You work with these for forty minutes,’ she’d said fussily, and you’ll realise how absolutely terrible your life is now. Then you’ll turn round and come straight back home.’

  Polly grinned and checked the water – it was running, thank goodness, and the boiler made a very reassuring whooshing noise when she turned the hot tap – then realised that after her long drive and her cry, she was absolutely starving. Something to eat first, then she’d hit the bleach. It would be like hitting the beach, she figured. Just many, many times worse.

  The weather hadn’t really cleared up, so she put on her thickest jacket and a hat. She desperately needed a cup of coffee, even though the fishermen helping her had made her feel slightly less chilled inside than she had before.

  She took the cobbled road that led upwards and curled round into what she supposed must be the main street. There was a little newsagent’s that also sold shrimping nets and buckets and spades, all of which looked dusty and neglected; a bar with a fishing net hanging outside, and a beer garden; a butcher’s, a greengrocer’s and a hardware shop. There was a van down by the harbour that had a sign outside indicating that it sold fresh fish, but it was shut; and a little minimart-style shop that appeared to sell everything – she popped in there for some milk for her coffee, and some soup for later. Next door to that was a bakery, with some rather gummy-looking unidentifiable cakes in the front window, and a dusty wedding cake that Polly wasn’t entirely convinced was real.

  Emboldened by the first locals she’d met, she decided to venture inside. After all, if this was going to be where she was buying her bread…

  Polly was very specific about bread. She loved it. She had loved it in fashion and out of fashion; as a child, as an adult. It was her favourite part of going to a restaurant. She loved it toasted or as it was; she loved bagels, and cheese on toast, and pain d’épices, and twisted Italian plaits. She loved artisan sourdough that cost six pounds for a tiny loaf, and she loved sliced white that moulded and soaked up the juices of a bacon sandwich.

  She had started making her own bread at college, and it had become a fully fledged hobby when she and Chris had got the flat; she would spend her Saturdays kneading and pulling it, leaving it to rise. Then one day about a year ago, for his health he’d decided on no more bread; he was allergic to gluten. Given that he had been eating the stuff for thirty-four years with no negative effects whatsoever, this had seemed unlikely, but Polly had bitten her tongue and stopped making it.

  For now, though, what was she going to have to eat? Some nice local… Well, what w
as local? she wondered. Maybe a cheese scone?

  ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. She had always felt a huge affinity with bakers. Their commitment to early mornings; warm, strongly scented yeast; feeding the hungry. It had always seemed a noble profession to her. When they had gone on holiday to France once, she had driven Chris nearly demented by wanting to visit boulangeries just as he wanted to visit vineyards; to feel the difference between the various grains and local specialities.

  Behind the counter was, Polly saw, a woman who absolutely resembled her own products. If Polly had been feeling less foreign and strange, she might have found it amusing. The woman looked like a bun. She was completely circular in her flour-dusted white apron. Her face was utterly round too, folds of skin overlapping her hairnet, doughy cheeks hanging down. Her hair – very long, and streaked with grey – was tied back in a bun too. She resembled nothing more than an enormous brioche. Polly was inclined to like her.

  ‘What do you want?’ said the woman shortly, looking very bored and glancing at her watch.

  ‘Ooh, let me take a second,’ said Polly. ‘I’m new here. What do you have?’

  The woman rolled her eyes and simply nodded at the wall, where in badly spelled scrawl was a list: pan, sliced pan, pasty, cheese toastie, ham toastie, cheese and ham toastie, cheese, ham and pineapple toastie – hmm, exotic, thought Polly – fancy cakes, tea cakes, Welsh cakes and scones. As far as she could tell, there was only one sort of bread. There wasn’t, now she came to think of it, much of a smell of baking in the air; more a kind of slightly stale, starchy aura that might even be coming from the woman herself.

  ‘Um, toastie, please,’ said Polly. The petrol-station sandwich seemed a long time ago. She looked round. There was nowhere to sit and eat, and apart from a few dusty cans of Fanta, nothing to drink either.

  The woman grunted as if this was a huge chore, and barked, ‘Cheese, cheese an’ ham, cheese an’ ham an’ pineapple?’ at her.

  ‘Um, the last one, please,’ said Polly, wondering if she’d inadvertently done something offensive. But the sandwiches were cheap.