Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 49

‘I’m sorry,’ said Polly.
‘Not your fault,’ said her mother.
‘Was it awful?’
Her mother looked at her.
‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘Until… until I saw you.’
They fell silent. The swell of the carols on the television grew louder. They were singing the Coventry Carol. It was beautiful.
‘I didn’t even get to hold you for very long… they used to whisk babies off in those days. You know it was even suggested that I give you up. That was perfectly common, perfectly normal.’
‘Did you consider it?’ said Polly, feeling daring even for asking. Her mother frowned.
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Of course not. I mean, no disrespect to women who felt they had to, none at all. But no. No, I couldn’t. And I had my parents, even if they weren’t… It took my dad a little while to come round to you…’
Polly stiffened. She had the fondest memories of her kind, reticent, pipe-smoking grandpa.
‘… five whole seconds, I seem to remember.’ She smiled to herself. ‘You were born with that hair,’ she said. ‘You looked so very like your father, straight away. But I loved you… I loved you fiercely. Everything else in my life had gone so wrong, was so awful. You… you were so right. Maybe that’s why I’ve fussed over you… worried about you too much.’
‘No you haven’t,’ said Polly uncomfortably.
Her mother shrugged.
‘You were… you are…’
The rest of the sentence hung there in the overheated room. Now the singers were bawling out, ‘Hail, thou ever blessed morn! Hail, redemption’s happy dawn! Sing to all Jerusalem! Christ is born in Bethlehem,’ as the clock ticked over, and it was practically down on Christmas morning.
‘I’m sorry. I just always wanted you to be safe, and happy,’ said Doreen. ‘By having a bit of money and a bit of freedom and some security. I mean, every parent wants that. And I never had that for you.’
Polly nodded.
‘So when you dash off buying lighthouses and giving up sensible careers and demanding that I come down and appreciate the sea air and wander about in the country and things… I do get scared. I do. I’m sorry.’
‘I understand,’ said Polly.
‘But don’t disappoint that lovely boy,’ said her mum. ‘Don’t let me or anybody else stop you from that. Ever. I’m telling you now. Forget what happened to me. You marry him and have babies and live on fresh air if you have to. Be happy. I was never brave enough to be, never brave enough to step out there. But you could be. You can, Polly. Please, please, do it for me.’
Polly nodded, and tried not to sigh.
‘Okay,’ she said.
They got up to go to bed.
At the door, Doreen stopped.
‘Did you see… did you see your father in the end?’ she asked.
Polly shook her head.
‘No, Mum,’ she said. ‘You’re my family.’
Doreen swallowed hard.
‘I’ve been too proud,’ she said. ‘I know that. It’s hard… It’s been such a long time. But if you wanted to… well. I can’t see it would make much difference now.’
Polly nodded.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Thanks. And happy Christmas.’
They embraced, and Polly winced a little at how thin her mother was, and vowed that next year she would get her down to Mount Polbearne more and insist, despite her protestations, that she sit outside the bakery with a cup of tea in her hand, and no telly, and instead enjoy the sunshine and get to say hello to the passers-by, and if she didn’t want to live her own life, necessarily, then she ought to share more of Polly’s. And that would be her Christmas gift.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Polly slept better than she had in weeks, back in her childhood single bed, with the posters of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kevin from the Backstreet Boys on the walls. Reuben had texted to say they were all staying at the Exeter ground. It was something about being back there, back home, and something about not having to get up and work the next day for highly demanding American guests and also something about the fact that it didn’t seem to matter how late she might lie awake wondering about Huckle, it wasn’t going to make a blind bit of difference, so there wasn’t really any point.
Plus, she was beyond exhausted.
She woke to, amazingly, the scent of bacon and eggs frying. Was her mother actually cooking? This was unheard of. She checked her phone. Nothing except a quick text from Reuben saying that nothing much was going on, this was super boring and rubbish, please could she make some doughnuts and bring them to the hospital, and make enough for the nurses too, please, and tell Huckle to call him because he hadn’t heard from him at all.
Polly was just starting to worry seriously about Huckle when he called.
‘Where are you?’ she said crossly, when in fact she had woken up rested, happy to be reconciled with her mum and all prepared to be sweet to him and make it up.
‘Plymouth,’ said Huckle.
‘Plymouth? Why?’
She was suddenly filled with panic that he was waiting for a train to London to catch a flight back to the US. He couldn’t be. Surely. No. No he wouldn’t, would he?
‘Why? Are you flying home?’
‘What? What are you talking about? No!’
There was a long pause, then, ‘Polly… Polly, I thought I had a home.’
‘So did I,’ said Polly miserably.
‘No… I’m just. Polly, you understand don’t you? I feel awful about all of this. Awful for Kerensa, awful for Reuben. I’m just… I’m just away working for a little while so I don’t come and put my foot in it, or say something awful, or just get upset… so we don’t fight. Do you understand?’
‘Not really. What are you doing?’
‘I told you, I’m working.’
‘It’s Christmas Day. How can you be working?’
‘It’s a city,’ said Huckle. ‘It’s a totally normal day for loads of people here. You’ve been out of the loop for too long. I have a meeting with a Jewish beauty consortium.’
‘Okay,’ said Polly.
‘Also, I thought you were working today?’
‘Apparently so,’ said Polly, glancing at the phone, which was lighting up with more orders and messages. ‘Wish me luck with my mum’s oven. I don’t think it’s been used since the Royal Wedding. The first one.’