Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
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Polly was so frustrated by the time Huckle got her out of there, he frogmarched her down to the Red Lion and ordered her a hot toddy. There was a roaring fire in the grate and a few fishermen on night shift sitting sleepily beside it playing dominoes. There wasn’t a jukebox in the pub, as most of the locals liked to sing a song or two after a night out, which meant the only sound was the ticking of the large ship’s clock over the mantelpiece thick with local holly, and the occasional snuffling noises from Garbo, the pub’s gigantic shaggy lurcher, who lived rather magnificently on a diet of fish and chips and the occasional spilled beer. He was less dog, more pony on the whole. That lunchtime he was stretched out in front of the fire, his paws twitching as he chased rabbits – or, more likely given the size of him, gazelles – across imaginary plains.
‘What’s up?’ said Huckle.
‘Oh God,’ said Polly. ‘I’m so, so sorry. Everything’s kind of gone… gone absolutely rubbish.’
She looked up at him and began to tell him about her day. Huckle tried to remember a time in his life when all that was important was whether the queen bee was fertilising the hive properly and whether he had enough boiled jars in stock.
‘That’s terrible, sweetie,’ he said when she’d finished.
‘Do you think Reuben would fund the puffin sanctuary?’
‘What?’
‘Do you think Reuben would fund the sanctuary?’ Polly repeated. ‘I mean, all those people will lose their jobs and nobody will look after the puffins and the sea will grow too warm and ALL THE PUFFINS WILL DIE.’
She looked a bit wobbly and as if she might burst into tears, and Huckle vowed not to buy her any more hot toddies.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’re doing too much. I said it all along. Just calm down. We’re taking Christmas off and that’s that.’
Chapter Eleven
That weekend, Huckle simply insisted that a walk was going to happen. Polly hadn’t been outside properly in daylight for about four weeks. And there was nothing like a walk for clearing heads.
‘And Neil needs the exercise,’ Huckle added.
‘So do I,’ said Polly. She was happy to go, especially as there might be a tea shop at the end of it. Or a pub.
‘No, you’re fine, it’s that puffin that’s fat,’ said Huckle, checking his phone. ‘Can Reuben come?’
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘I’m planning on bitching up him and his relations for several miles.’
There was a pause. Huckle tapped at his phone. Then he looked up.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So, anyway, he’s coming.’
‘Don’t tell him where we’re going!’
‘Ah,’ said Huckle again.
‘HUCKLE!’
She looked down.
‘We’ve got our jumpers on now,’ said Huckle.
‘Hmm,’ said Polly.
The sun was just about visible through a misty haze. Great pools of fog gathered in the fields, where birds swooped in hopeful fashion around newly planted seeds in the brown turned earth, and sheep tried to nibble the grass under heavy frost. The sky was a hazy pink, the days having the shortest possible attention span at this time of year; making the least effort. You had to get out and grab it while it was there, otherwise the wind and rain would tear in again and then you were stuck.
They were cutting through the north of Cornwall, the Tintagel path, which would take them out along the headland – it was hard where they lived to do anything really without a view of the sea – ending up just past the puffin sanctuary. Polly wanted to pop in and see how they were doing. Neil had his blue foot ribbon on just in case he decided to go off and play with his old friends, but showed no inclination to do anything except lie in his paper bag in Polly’s backpack, which rather negated the purpose of the walk: getting a fat puffin some exercise.
But Polly didn’t care as she walked along trying to match Huckle’s long strides, breathing the cold, invigorating air. Winter had more to recommend it, she realised, than she remembered. Or rather, this part of winter. February she could more or less take or leave. Once Christmas was over, it just turned into a waiting game. But now, out here in the harsh air, the sun glistening off the frosted fields, the waves pounding into the cliffs far below, Huckle’s dirty blonde hair dishevelled beneath his beanie hat, she could see why it was some people’s favourite season.
‘I like seeing roses in your cheeks,’ said Huckle, smiling at her. ‘I’d forgotten what you look like out of doors.’
‘Me too,’ said Polly. ‘It’s nice. I should come outside more often.’
Huckle smiled.
‘I miss the summer, too,’ he said. ‘When the bees are buzzing again, rather than sleeping. I feel like a spare part kicking around.’
‘A very sexy spare part,’ grinned Polly.
‘I need to earn more money,’ said Huckle. ‘I need to throw myself into that beauticians’ circuit. I really do. There’s lots to be made from organic products.’
‘But who’d look after Neil?’ said Polly. ‘Who’d look after me?’
They walked on hand in hand, until a stray brown terrier ran up cheerfully to say hello and Huckle tousled its rough fur.
‘Hello, buddy!’ he said. ‘How are you?’
The dog wagged its tail furiously, and Huckle gave Polly a look.
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘Seriously. We’re not getting a dog. Neil would pitch a fit.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Don’t want to risk it,’ said Polly.
From inside the rucksack came what seemed to be little bird snores. The dog started sniffing around it.
‘Shoo,’ said Polly. ‘You do seem to be a nice dog, but Neil’s already been in a fight or two and he doesn’t come out of them terribly well. I think it might be quite easy to chomp him by accident.’
The dog scampered off to be with some children heading in the opposite direction. They laughed and jumped up and down with their pet, then the elder boy ran to a tree and started hanging off it upside down by the knees. Huckle went quiet again and watched them, and Polly looked at him in trepidation. He felt her eyes on him and looked away. He didn’t know, truly, what her problem was, but he didn’t want to press her on it. He didn’t want to make it too much of an issue. Huckle didn’t really like issues. On the other hand, some things were important.