Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 35

‘Who’s that?’ she said, pushing open her window. It was a glorious day, fluffy clouds bouncing across the horizon like children on their way to the beach.
It was Huckle, on his ridiculous motorbike. He had pushed his goggles up on to his helmet.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘How you doing?’
‘Fine,’ said Polly, taking a deep breath of sea air. ‘What are you doing?’
He looked confused. ‘It’s today, remember?’
Polly shook her head. It was hardly like her diary had been stuffed with social engagements.
‘Er, no?’
‘Neil.’
‘What about Neil?’
‘We’re taking him to the sanctuary. We arranged it on Saturday?’
Polly had completely forgotten. In fact, she realised in dismay, she’d pretended to herself it wasn’t happening at all.
Polly’s first inclination was to say no. No no no. Now that Neil could fly, he liked to follow her around more than ever before. He was at war with the kettle and danced around it as it boiled; even though she told him to keep away, he tended to prance up towards it as it whistled, and occasionally peck the side aggressively. On one occasion he had succeeded in clicking it off, which he obviously saw as a major triumph.
‘Move, you,’ said Polly, clicking it on now, to Neil’s bossy consternation. She couldn’t believe she’d put this to the back of her mind, even with everything else that was going on. But she couldn’t keep a puffin as a pet. It was wrong. It was cruel. Everyone had said so.
Still, it seemed to have come so soon. She stroked his feathers and absent-mindedly fed him a little of the leftover brioche. Neil snuggled in to her finger as if he knew.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ she said crossly. ‘Okay, let’s get this over with.’
‘You look like you lost a quarter and found a nickel,’ said Huckle when she finally emerged, after a very quick shower and shrugging into her favourite faded jeans and old Converses.
Polly just looked sad.
‘Come on,’ said Huckle. ‘You know, where I grew up, you couldn’t get too attached to the animals.’
‘What was that, a farm?’ said Polly, crossly.
‘Er, yeah. A farm,’ said Huckle.
There was a short silence. Polly looked at the sidecar.
‘Am I seriously meant to be getting in this thing?’
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘Just follow me. Neil can fly and carry you in his claws.’
He handed her a retro black helmet with a little bib on the top of it like the front of a cap, and a large round pair of goggles.
‘Has a German warplane crash-landed in a nearby field?’ asked Polly.
‘Thank you, Huckle,’ said Huckle. ‘For giving up your own time and effort to try and help somebody else.’
Taking a deep breath, Polly jammed the helmet down over her curls and levered herself into the sidecar. It was surprisingly comfortable; a leather cushion ran all the way along the inside and her legs were stretched straight out, so that it was like a luxury sleeping bag. Once she had settled Neil, who had his head out of his box, looking around him, Huckle revved the throttle, put his foot down – he was wearing large black boots – and the machine took off.
It was just as noisy from the inside; it startled the birds from the trees. She also hadn’t expected it to create such a stir. Every street they went along people pointed, children laughed, and old men smiled to see them. Polly felt it was a little like being famous.
The causeway was open, its bricks shining in the morning sun, and then they were across, and Huckle opened her up on the quiet country lanes. They sped round bends, past great fields of meadowsweet; herds of uninterested cows, standing round their water troughs chatting; and some beautiful palomino ponies, galloping through a hilltop field. Above them as they began to cross the peninsula, the sharp caws of the seagulls gave way to sparrowhawks circling flawlessly in the air, and spring thrushes chirruping in the hedgerows. Rabbits flashed across the road in little bobs of soft fur and the wind whipped across the bike, although in her cosy sidecar, with its helpfully provided blanket, Polly wasn’t cold at all.
If it hadn’t been for the task ahead – she kept her hands tightly clasped round Neil’s box – she would have loved the ride. From time to time Huckle would turn to her, as if to check she was enjoying it, but it was far too noisy to do anything other than nod, at her sudden glimpse of a sunlit cove and bouncing water appearing through the hills, or an old grey Cornish stone farmhouse that could look both austere and cosy, with its slate roof amid the rolling green. Being so close to the road meant she felt part of the country she was travelling through, and although they saw few cars, cyclists and walkers all seemed please to see them, some even waving. She was exhilarated by the time she saw the turn-off, a brown National Trust sign with ‘Puffin Sanctuary,’ written on it. Her heart sank. Don’t think about it, she told herself. Think about other things. She glanced at Huckle’s long thighs, supremely confident in charge of the bike. Okay, maybe not that.
The countryside up here to the north was far rockier and wilder; the wind more chilling. This side of Cornwall gave on to the Irish Sea, with its cold storms and wild cresting waves. A perfect environment for a cold-water bird, she told herself. Think how much fun he was going to have with his one point four million new best friends.
She had thought, before she left, about doing something to Neil to mark him somehow, in case she ever wanted to visit him again. She supposed she could ask them when they got there, but they might think she was stupid. And she could hope he’d remember her, but that really WAS stupid. He was a bird, she was a girl. It was never supposed to work out. She smiled ruefully at the thought and swayed into the turns and twists of the little road – the bike was actually quite a smooth ride, once you got used to how close to the tarmac you were.
Huckle had rung ahead, and there was a nice young girl with a sturdy netball-playing figure and a no-nonsense Kiwi accent expecting them.
‘Let’s take a look at the little fella, then,’ she said, lifting Neil with practised ease out of his box. Neil glanced back at Polly in a panic.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s okay.’
‘So, broken wing?’ The girl was handling him gently and attentively, checking him all over. ‘You’ve done a really nice job, yeah?’