Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 35
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‘Hello!’ she said, waving at him frantically and heading over. ‘Selina’s over here!’
Selina shot her a look. Bernard looked anxious, as always.
‘How are the puffins?’ said Polly.
‘Noisy,’ said Bernard. He glanced around. ‘This is a fund-raiser, is it?’
‘For the village,’ said Polly.
‘We should do one for the sanctuary,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Polly reluctantly.
‘Can I sign you up?’
‘Probably,’ said Polly. ‘But don’t worry. I’m still doing Reuben’s Christmas to raise money for you guys. And I was thinking, Flora. In the summer, you might fancy going in and helping Bernie with the catering.’
‘Work on a bird farm?’ said Flora, shuffling her feet.
‘It’s a job,’ said Polly.
‘I can get a job anywhere,’ said Flora, and despite her sullen attitude, open-ended approach to timekeeping and total lack of initiative, you only had to taste her pastry to know that it was true; she could.
The one good thing about the stall, Polly supposed, was that they sold out early and could go. It took her a moment to compose herself enough to smile when she handed the money box over to Samantha, but she just about managed it.
Samantha, who lived in a big pile in London, as well as owning a second home in Mount Polbearne, just didn’t have a handle on actual money, and that wasn’t really her fault. So Polly smiled as widely as she could and said goodbye to everyone as she left.
‘Aren’t you coming to the pub?’ said Selina. ‘Everyone else is going to the pub. You’re coming, aren’t you?’ she said to Bernard, who looked confused, and then cheerful.
‘I can’t,’ said Polly, sighing. ‘I need to get practising for Reuben’s specialist bloody Christmas canapés. His parents arrive soon and I’m not sure I know what I’m doing.’
‘Well say hi to Kerensa for me,’ said Selina, and Polly vowed to do absolutely no such thing.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was nearly Christmas Eve, and Polly was still hard at work. She had started playing Christmas carols in the shop now; she refused to do it earlier, partly because it made it sound like a coffee shop and encouraged everyone to stay for absolutely ages, and partly because she couldn’t listen to ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ more than four hundred times per holiday season.
She hadn’t heard from Kerensa, except a quick check to see if she was okay, which she insisted she was. She’d thrown herself into baking, trying out new types of gingerbread and mincemeat treats, and decorating – the bakery was overwhelmed with a little toy wooden village, with lights inside that she’d built up to look as much like Mount Polbearne as possible. The local children were absolutely obsessed with it, and clustered around, having to be torn away by their parents, often with a sticky bun or pain au raisins in their mittened hands. It didn’t occur to Polly until much later how much her model village inspired the children of their austere little tidal island. For years afterwards they would come to look at it, and although as they grew older they could see how small and basic it actually was, they would be furious if she moved or changed the tiniest thing. Eventually they brought their own children, and the little ones would still gaze and exclaim in awe while the bigger ones shook their heads, absolutely astonished that their parents could have grown up in such entertainment-free surroundings.
But that was in the future. Now she was in a decorating frenzy, as if trying to make the whole world welcoming and cosy.
Inside the lighthouse, she’d wrapped miles of tinsel round the balustrade, was planning a vast tree and had hurled fairy lights at almost anything that moved. She’d also stocked up on Icelandic-pattern cushions and blankets for the sofa, so they could hunker down and watch Scandinavian box-set dramas whilst wearing more or less authentic Scandinavian jumpers.
Huckle just let her get on with it, a smile playing around his lips. He knew it was displacement activity and hoped it would burn itself out. He knew she needed distraction.
‘Sweetie,’ he said, late one night as they clung together in bed, bathed in the glow of eighty tiny penlights Polly had forgotten to switch off on her way upstairs, ‘you know, if you want to get rid of all that excess zeal… I mean, everything looks amazing, but I was just thinking you should channel it. I mean, we could… We could think about bringing the baby forward? Or even think about organising a wedding? I mean, my parents were asking about it… Obviously they’ll have a long way to come and…’
He could tell by the way she stiffened that he’d said the wrong thing.
‘Well I thought it was nice,’ he whispered gently in her ear. ‘My dad said… I mean, absolutely no offence to your mum or anything. And no offence to us, obviously, especially you, because you work your socks off…’
Huckle had tried working his socks off and had hated it. Ironically, since he’d started working in a very sock-free fashion, his easy charm and natural nice looks had made him just as successful as he had been in the corporate world, with none of the early-morning starts Polly had.
But even being successful in a home-made honey business is very much not one of the more financially lucrative ways to be a success. Fortunately Huckle’s wants were few; he had the same few well-made pieces of clothing in his wardrobe that only grew more faded and softer and thus rather more appealing with every passing year; he fixed up the motorbike himself if and when it needed it, and all the things he liked to do – walking, staying in, listening to unbelievably terrible MOR American rock music, drinking beer at the Red Lion, going to bed with Polly – were pretty inexpensive.
‘Anyway, they have tons of money… God knows why, they don’t deserve it. Polly, look. They’ve offered to pay for the wedding. Here. Apparently all their friends want to come to England, they think it’s quaint. We could do anything you liked. Any way you wanted.’
There was a long silence.
‘You’re not insulted, are you? I mean, I didn’t say we’d definitely take the money or anything…’
Polly shook her head.
‘Oh love. No. It’s not the money. It really isn’t – that’s so nice of them. Incredibly nice of them. I’m not proud, I’m really not remotely proud.’
Selina shot her a look. Bernard looked anxious, as always.
‘How are the puffins?’ said Polly.
‘Noisy,’ said Bernard. He glanced around. ‘This is a fund-raiser, is it?’
‘For the village,’ said Polly.
‘We should do one for the sanctuary,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Polly reluctantly.
‘Can I sign you up?’
‘Probably,’ said Polly. ‘But don’t worry. I’m still doing Reuben’s Christmas to raise money for you guys. And I was thinking, Flora. In the summer, you might fancy going in and helping Bernie with the catering.’
‘Work on a bird farm?’ said Flora, shuffling her feet.
‘It’s a job,’ said Polly.
‘I can get a job anywhere,’ said Flora, and despite her sullen attitude, open-ended approach to timekeeping and total lack of initiative, you only had to taste her pastry to know that it was true; she could.
The one good thing about the stall, Polly supposed, was that they sold out early and could go. It took her a moment to compose herself enough to smile when she handed the money box over to Samantha, but she just about managed it.
Samantha, who lived in a big pile in London, as well as owning a second home in Mount Polbearne, just didn’t have a handle on actual money, and that wasn’t really her fault. So Polly smiled as widely as she could and said goodbye to everyone as she left.
‘Aren’t you coming to the pub?’ said Selina. ‘Everyone else is going to the pub. You’re coming, aren’t you?’ she said to Bernard, who looked confused, and then cheerful.
‘I can’t,’ said Polly, sighing. ‘I need to get practising for Reuben’s specialist bloody Christmas canapés. His parents arrive soon and I’m not sure I know what I’m doing.’
‘Well say hi to Kerensa for me,’ said Selina, and Polly vowed to do absolutely no such thing.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was nearly Christmas Eve, and Polly was still hard at work. She had started playing Christmas carols in the shop now; she refused to do it earlier, partly because it made it sound like a coffee shop and encouraged everyone to stay for absolutely ages, and partly because she couldn’t listen to ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ more than four hundred times per holiday season.
She hadn’t heard from Kerensa, except a quick check to see if she was okay, which she insisted she was. She’d thrown herself into baking, trying out new types of gingerbread and mincemeat treats, and decorating – the bakery was overwhelmed with a little toy wooden village, with lights inside that she’d built up to look as much like Mount Polbearne as possible. The local children were absolutely obsessed with it, and clustered around, having to be torn away by their parents, often with a sticky bun or pain au raisins in their mittened hands. It didn’t occur to Polly until much later how much her model village inspired the children of their austere little tidal island. For years afterwards they would come to look at it, and although as they grew older they could see how small and basic it actually was, they would be furious if she moved or changed the tiniest thing. Eventually they brought their own children, and the little ones would still gaze and exclaim in awe while the bigger ones shook their heads, absolutely astonished that their parents could have grown up in such entertainment-free surroundings.
But that was in the future. Now she was in a decorating frenzy, as if trying to make the whole world welcoming and cosy.
Inside the lighthouse, she’d wrapped miles of tinsel round the balustrade, was planning a vast tree and had hurled fairy lights at almost anything that moved. She’d also stocked up on Icelandic-pattern cushions and blankets for the sofa, so they could hunker down and watch Scandinavian box-set dramas whilst wearing more or less authentic Scandinavian jumpers.
Huckle just let her get on with it, a smile playing around his lips. He knew it was displacement activity and hoped it would burn itself out. He knew she needed distraction.
‘Sweetie,’ he said, late one night as they clung together in bed, bathed in the glow of eighty tiny penlights Polly had forgotten to switch off on her way upstairs, ‘you know, if you want to get rid of all that excess zeal… I mean, everything looks amazing, but I was just thinking you should channel it. I mean, we could… We could think about bringing the baby forward? Or even think about organising a wedding? I mean, my parents were asking about it… Obviously they’ll have a long way to come and…’
He could tell by the way she stiffened that he’d said the wrong thing.
‘Well I thought it was nice,’ he whispered gently in her ear. ‘My dad said… I mean, absolutely no offence to your mum or anything. And no offence to us, obviously, especially you, because you work your socks off…’
Huckle had tried working his socks off and had hated it. Ironically, since he’d started working in a very sock-free fashion, his easy charm and natural nice looks had made him just as successful as he had been in the corporate world, with none of the early-morning starts Polly had.
But even being successful in a home-made honey business is very much not one of the more financially lucrative ways to be a success. Fortunately Huckle’s wants were few; he had the same few well-made pieces of clothing in his wardrobe that only grew more faded and softer and thus rather more appealing with every passing year; he fixed up the motorbike himself if and when it needed it, and all the things he liked to do – walking, staying in, listening to unbelievably terrible MOR American rock music, drinking beer at the Red Lion, going to bed with Polly – were pretty inexpensive.
‘Anyway, they have tons of money… God knows why, they don’t deserve it. Polly, look. They’ve offered to pay for the wedding. Here. Apparently all their friends want to come to England, they think it’s quaint. We could do anything you liked. Any way you wanted.’
There was a long silence.
‘You’re not insulted, are you? I mean, I didn’t say we’d definitely take the money or anything…’
Polly shook her head.
‘Oh love. No. It’s not the money. It really isn’t – that’s so nice of them. Incredibly nice of them. I’m not proud, I’m really not remotely proud.’
