Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 24
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The phone was an old-fashioned thing they’d inherited when they’d bought the property, with big buttons that used to connect it to the RNLI. It looked quite excitingly cool, like a sixties retro piece of spy kit, and had a satisfyingly deep bell, which now thrummed through Polly’s chest like a chime of doom.
She picked up the receiver anxiously.
‘Hello?’
The voice on the other end sounded tremulous and nervous. Polly desperately hoped they were about to ask her for a minicab so she could go back to bed. They didn’t.
‘Hello… is your name Polly Waterford?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, feeling a horrible ominous cold shiver run through her. ‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Carmel.’
The voice was shaky, but deep. The name meant nothing to Polly.
‘I’m… I’m… a friend of your father’s.’
Her father. Polly flashed back to herself as a small child, asking her mother where her daddy was, drawing pictures of him at school, and being told that there was nothing to ask about; that they were a family and that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?
And Polly would say of course, they were totally a family and it was all fine, anything to stop her mum from getting too upset, moving the subject on as quickly as she possibly could so as to keep things nice and calm and happy.
Then, as she got older, she would go into the kitchen and whip up yet another batch of bread, kneading the dough so furiously her knuckles went white.
She knew that her parents had been together very briefly and that her father had cut off contact before she’d been born; that he paid some money on the condition that he never saw her – something Polly found particularly difficult – and that Doreen often said she didn’t want his stupid money but of course they needed it nonetheless.
And that was all she knew about him. She didn’t know where he lived, she didn’t know what he looked like or what his relationship with her mother had been like. She had never received a letter or a present from him. She assumed he was just some Jack the Lad who’d come to town, had his fun and probably never given it another thought.
As she’d grown older, she had wondered why her mother had never met someone else. Doreen had only been twenty-four when Polly had been born – plenty of time to start again. People did it all the time. She didn’t think her father had been abusive, and she knew they hadn’t been married. It was like her mum was stuck on this thing that had happened to her when she was very young – a man had got her pregnant and hadn’t stayed – as if this was 1884, not 1984.
Throughout her schooldays Polly had seen absolutely loads of her friends’ parents remarry or couple up again – some more than once – with occasionally hair-raising results. But it had never happened to her mother.
When she was in her teens, she’d kind of gone looking for her father online, but every time she found someone who might be him – Tony Stephenson wasn’t an uncommon name, after all; Waterford was her mother’s name – she’d panicked and hadn’t dared take it any further.
She didn’t know what was out there; she didn’t know what she might uncover. What if he had an entire family who looked like her but who he’d stayed with, who he loved? How would she feel about that? Would they even want to know her? Did she mean anything to him other than a long-forgotten direct debit? Did he ever think about her? Or was she just a night of fun he barely recalled, now too busy with all his other children having happy loud Christmases round the fire while she sat with her mum, her nana and occasionally her awkward Uncle Brian watching BBC One, as Nana didn’t trust the other channels.
School had helped so much – she could pretty much pretend he was dead, it didn’t make much difference – and then first pouring herself into the business with her ex, Chris, and after that the amazing surprise of moving somewhere so out of the way and finding so much happiness doing something as basic as baking bread for a living, something she actually cared about: all of these things had changed her beyond recognition and she had been too busy living her own life and being an adult to care any more. Sometimes, when she saw a father tenderly pick up his daughter and carry her proudly on his shoulders, she might feel a tiny pang, but it had been going on too long now for it to hurt much. Some people got two parents, some started out with two and lost one; everyone was different. But you couldn’t lose what you’d never had, and she wasn’t going to let it get in the way of her happiness.
Well, that was what she’d thought, until now; until this telephone call.
‘I’m so sorry,’ came the voice again. ‘It’s just… I’m afraid he’s not well. And he’s been asking for you.’
Polly swallowed.
‘Where are you?’
‘Ivybridge.’
Devon. No distance away, not at all. Basically just up the road. All that time. He’d have seen her maybe; in the South West Post, where they’d run an article last year. Had he read it and thought about her? Or… well, who knew?
‘Whereabouts?’ she stuttered.
‘In the hospital, darling,’ said the tremulous voice. ‘He’s in the hospital in Plymouth.’
Polly blinked. She felt a rush of emotion that at first she couldn’t quite work out. Then she realised. It was part worry and sadness, but a lot of it was anger. How dare he come into her life right now, making emotional demands on her like this? How dare he?
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then the voice again, which was sweet, with a Welsh tinge.
‘I would… I’m sure he’d… Polly, I’m sorry. I would totally understand if you weren’t in the least bit interested.’
Polly’s anger was growing.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, quite brusquely. Behind her she felt a touch on her shoulder. It was Huckle, groggy and confused-looking at the fierce expression on her face.
She pressed his hand with hers to let him know she appreciated it, then shooed him away with a serious look.
‘I’m… I’m his wife,’ came the voice.
‘Right,’ said Polly. ‘So he married you and you don’t actually have a clue about him at all? He didn’t bother to tell you any of this stuff when he finally grew up? That he already had a daughter? That didn’t cross his mind?’
She picked up the receiver anxiously.
‘Hello?’
The voice on the other end sounded tremulous and nervous. Polly desperately hoped they were about to ask her for a minicab so she could go back to bed. They didn’t.
‘Hello… is your name Polly Waterford?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, feeling a horrible ominous cold shiver run through her. ‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Carmel.’
The voice was shaky, but deep. The name meant nothing to Polly.
‘I’m… I’m… a friend of your father’s.’
Her father. Polly flashed back to herself as a small child, asking her mother where her daddy was, drawing pictures of him at school, and being told that there was nothing to ask about; that they were a family and that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?
And Polly would say of course, they were totally a family and it was all fine, anything to stop her mum from getting too upset, moving the subject on as quickly as she possibly could so as to keep things nice and calm and happy.
Then, as she got older, she would go into the kitchen and whip up yet another batch of bread, kneading the dough so furiously her knuckles went white.
She knew that her parents had been together very briefly and that her father had cut off contact before she’d been born; that he paid some money on the condition that he never saw her – something Polly found particularly difficult – and that Doreen often said she didn’t want his stupid money but of course they needed it nonetheless.
And that was all she knew about him. She didn’t know where he lived, she didn’t know what he looked like or what his relationship with her mother had been like. She had never received a letter or a present from him. She assumed he was just some Jack the Lad who’d come to town, had his fun and probably never given it another thought.
As she’d grown older, she had wondered why her mother had never met someone else. Doreen had only been twenty-four when Polly had been born – plenty of time to start again. People did it all the time. She didn’t think her father had been abusive, and she knew they hadn’t been married. It was like her mum was stuck on this thing that had happened to her when she was very young – a man had got her pregnant and hadn’t stayed – as if this was 1884, not 1984.
Throughout her schooldays Polly had seen absolutely loads of her friends’ parents remarry or couple up again – some more than once – with occasionally hair-raising results. But it had never happened to her mother.
When she was in her teens, she’d kind of gone looking for her father online, but every time she found someone who might be him – Tony Stephenson wasn’t an uncommon name, after all; Waterford was her mother’s name – she’d panicked and hadn’t dared take it any further.
She didn’t know what was out there; she didn’t know what she might uncover. What if he had an entire family who looked like her but who he’d stayed with, who he loved? How would she feel about that? Would they even want to know her? Did she mean anything to him other than a long-forgotten direct debit? Did he ever think about her? Or was she just a night of fun he barely recalled, now too busy with all his other children having happy loud Christmases round the fire while she sat with her mum, her nana and occasionally her awkward Uncle Brian watching BBC One, as Nana didn’t trust the other channels.
School had helped so much – she could pretty much pretend he was dead, it didn’t make much difference – and then first pouring herself into the business with her ex, Chris, and after that the amazing surprise of moving somewhere so out of the way and finding so much happiness doing something as basic as baking bread for a living, something she actually cared about: all of these things had changed her beyond recognition and she had been too busy living her own life and being an adult to care any more. Sometimes, when she saw a father tenderly pick up his daughter and carry her proudly on his shoulders, she might feel a tiny pang, but it had been going on too long now for it to hurt much. Some people got two parents, some started out with two and lost one; everyone was different. But you couldn’t lose what you’d never had, and she wasn’t going to let it get in the way of her happiness.
Well, that was what she’d thought, until now; until this telephone call.
‘I’m so sorry,’ came the voice again. ‘It’s just… I’m afraid he’s not well. And he’s been asking for you.’
Polly swallowed.
‘Where are you?’
‘Ivybridge.’
Devon. No distance away, not at all. Basically just up the road. All that time. He’d have seen her maybe; in the South West Post, where they’d run an article last year. Had he read it and thought about her? Or… well, who knew?
‘Whereabouts?’ she stuttered.
‘In the hospital, darling,’ said the tremulous voice. ‘He’s in the hospital in Plymouth.’
Polly blinked. She felt a rush of emotion that at first she couldn’t quite work out. Then she realised. It was part worry and sadness, but a lot of it was anger. How dare he come into her life right now, making emotional demands on her like this? How dare he?
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then the voice again, which was sweet, with a Welsh tinge.
‘I would… I’m sure he’d… Polly, I’m sorry. I would totally understand if you weren’t in the least bit interested.’
Polly’s anger was growing.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, quite brusquely. Behind her she felt a touch on her shoulder. It was Huckle, groggy and confused-looking at the fierce expression on her face.
She pressed his hand with hers to let him know she appreciated it, then shooed him away with a serious look.
‘I’m… I’m his wife,’ came the voice.
‘Right,’ said Polly. ‘So he married you and you don’t actually have a clue about him at all? He didn’t bother to tell you any of this stuff when he finally grew up? That he already had a daughter? That didn’t cross his mind?’
