Little Beach Street Bakery
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‘You work in management!’
‘But the Little Beach Street Bakery… I’m doing something I love,’ said Polly. ‘And I love this place. I can’t explain; it’s magical.’
Chris made a sour face. ‘You’re burying yourself to hide from the truth.’
‘Maybe I am,’ said Polly. ‘Maybe I am. That the business failed.’ She made her voice as gentle as she could for the next words. ‘And we failed, Chris. We tried our best, but we failed.’
He looked up at her, the bags under his eyes heavy and sad.
‘Yeah, well, you know, bloody recession, fricking Tories… We’ll get back on.’
‘No,’ said Polly. She put her hand on his. ‘I wasn’t good for you. I pestered you and fussed you and you didn’t like it. You need someone you can look up to, not someone who runs around after you.’
Chris looked tearful suddenly.
‘I just want things to be back how they were.’
Polly remembered suddenly the time when they had just met. He was so handsome, so young and clever, with his portfolio full of art and design, wonderful lettering, ideas. The two of them had looked good together; they were dynamic, out to conquer the world. They were so sure of themselves. They could never again be the people they were back then.
‘I know,’ she said, feeling heartbroken, and very, very tired. ‘I know.’
Chris took the sofa, Polly the bed, but neither of them had any chance of sleep. They both lay awake, staring at the sea in Chris’s case, the ceiling in Polly’s, as everything went round and round her head. Had she made a terrible mistake by not agreeing to move back to town? Was this her last chance to live a ‘normal’ life as everyone expected: get engaged to Chris, find a nice little job in an office somewhere, maybe one day have a baby? She wasn’t getting any younger; if she didn’t do it now, would she turn into Mrs Manse? She had to resist the occasional temptation to get up and go and hold Chris and tell him yes, it would be fine, they’d be okay, they could do it, let’s just start over. Because she knew, deep down, that it would not be fine.
At four in the morning, Chris gave up and, as quietly as he could, slipped out of the apartment to find something else to do. Polly heard him go, and was about to get up and go after him when she realised, finally, that she was falling asleep, trapped in that sinking paralysis of limbs, and could not go after all.
Polly slept till eleven on Sunday morning and woke up with a start. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much sleep; she felt completely fresh, warm, almost brand new. She went to see if Chris had come back in, but there wasn’t a trace of him to be found anywhere; it was as if he’d never been there. He was always so tidy. No note, nothing.
She thought back over the previous night with a sense of rising panic before telling herself that no, she had done the right thing. She had made the right choice. She switched on her beloved coffee machine, and felt lighter. As if the worry of what to do about Chris had been an invisible burden she’d been carrying around and was now lifted. Yes, it hurt – and yes, her future was now an open book, anybody’s guess. But she had done the right thing, she knew that much. To go back now would be a second failure, and she wasn’t sure she would come through that again.
She peered out of the window and suddenly saw a crowd of villagers staring at her. She gasped and jumped back, checking that her dressing gown wasn’t gaping open. What was everyone doing there?
She scrubbed her face and dressed quickly and ran downstairs, suddenly worried. Had someone broken in? Or had one of the local teens done some graffiti? Why was everyone looking at the bakery?
When she got outside, in jeans and a striped T-shirt and bare feet – the day was promising to be scorching – she stopped short and put her hand over her mouth.
Although he was gone – and she felt instantly bad for thinking he had stormed off – Chris had left her something. Restless, unable to sleep, he had gone down to explore the shop in the early dawn light – Polly no longer locked the connecting door between the bakery and the apartment – and stumbled across some old tins of grey and white paint that were stored in the back. With his artistic eye and exquisite taste, he had painted the peeling, cracked exterior a new, soft pale grey – the same colour as her sofa – and in his lovely flowing script had written above the window:
The Little Beach Street Bakery
Proprietor, Ms P. Waterford
Established 2014
Chapter Eighteen
Summer had turned on its full beam, and every day saw families marching across the causeway with buckets and spades and shrimping nets, the children squealing if the waves made it over the cobbles, everyone hurrying as the tide came in again, the inevitable few who left it too late having to scurry, or hail one of the fishing boys.
Word had got out. The smart couple, Henry and Samantha, had bought a house at the top of the village; a large, rambling Victorian place with a huge garden, a massive greenhouse and hollyhocks climbing the walls. They were constantly bringing visitors over, on the pretext of introducing them to some of the ‘best bread in Cornwall’ but in reality to show off and swank about how they were the first second-homers to discover the place. They made a big show of how well they knew Polly, using her name constantly and suggesting new flavours for her to try, which she often would.
If the queues kept up, she was going to need an assistant – she was selling out earlier and earlier each day. Mrs Manse, as it turned out, much to Polly’s relief, turned out to be both absolutely eagle-eyed about the paperwork – which meant Polly didn’t have to do any cashing-up or accounts – and very hands-off as a boss. Polly secretly suspected that the Little Beach Street Bakery was making a lot more money than the other place. At the very least, she had noticed that Mrs Manse had bought a new fridge for cold drinks and a freezer for ice cream, and had cut her bread and sandwiches way, way back. The pasties, of course, remained.
Polly had managed to avoid Tarnie completely, which in a village of fewer than a thousand people was something of an achievement. Sometimes, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, she would hear his gruff tones early in the morning and would groan, because that meant it was time for her to get down to the ovens. She worked and she worked and she worked; her arms grew toned from kneading and lifting, and she fell into bed at night too exhausted to do much else than pass out, which was useful.
‘But the Little Beach Street Bakery… I’m doing something I love,’ said Polly. ‘And I love this place. I can’t explain; it’s magical.’
Chris made a sour face. ‘You’re burying yourself to hide from the truth.’
‘Maybe I am,’ said Polly. ‘Maybe I am. That the business failed.’ She made her voice as gentle as she could for the next words. ‘And we failed, Chris. We tried our best, but we failed.’
He looked up at her, the bags under his eyes heavy and sad.
‘Yeah, well, you know, bloody recession, fricking Tories… We’ll get back on.’
‘No,’ said Polly. She put her hand on his. ‘I wasn’t good for you. I pestered you and fussed you and you didn’t like it. You need someone you can look up to, not someone who runs around after you.’
Chris looked tearful suddenly.
‘I just want things to be back how they were.’
Polly remembered suddenly the time when they had just met. He was so handsome, so young and clever, with his portfolio full of art and design, wonderful lettering, ideas. The two of them had looked good together; they were dynamic, out to conquer the world. They were so sure of themselves. They could never again be the people they were back then.
‘I know,’ she said, feeling heartbroken, and very, very tired. ‘I know.’
Chris took the sofa, Polly the bed, but neither of them had any chance of sleep. They both lay awake, staring at the sea in Chris’s case, the ceiling in Polly’s, as everything went round and round her head. Had she made a terrible mistake by not agreeing to move back to town? Was this her last chance to live a ‘normal’ life as everyone expected: get engaged to Chris, find a nice little job in an office somewhere, maybe one day have a baby? She wasn’t getting any younger; if she didn’t do it now, would she turn into Mrs Manse? She had to resist the occasional temptation to get up and go and hold Chris and tell him yes, it would be fine, they’d be okay, they could do it, let’s just start over. Because she knew, deep down, that it would not be fine.
At four in the morning, Chris gave up and, as quietly as he could, slipped out of the apartment to find something else to do. Polly heard him go, and was about to get up and go after him when she realised, finally, that she was falling asleep, trapped in that sinking paralysis of limbs, and could not go after all.
Polly slept till eleven on Sunday morning and woke up with a start. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much sleep; she felt completely fresh, warm, almost brand new. She went to see if Chris had come back in, but there wasn’t a trace of him to be found anywhere; it was as if he’d never been there. He was always so tidy. No note, nothing.
She thought back over the previous night with a sense of rising panic before telling herself that no, she had done the right thing. She had made the right choice. She switched on her beloved coffee machine, and felt lighter. As if the worry of what to do about Chris had been an invisible burden she’d been carrying around and was now lifted. Yes, it hurt – and yes, her future was now an open book, anybody’s guess. But she had done the right thing, she knew that much. To go back now would be a second failure, and she wasn’t sure she would come through that again.
She peered out of the window and suddenly saw a crowd of villagers staring at her. She gasped and jumped back, checking that her dressing gown wasn’t gaping open. What was everyone doing there?
She scrubbed her face and dressed quickly and ran downstairs, suddenly worried. Had someone broken in? Or had one of the local teens done some graffiti? Why was everyone looking at the bakery?
When she got outside, in jeans and a striped T-shirt and bare feet – the day was promising to be scorching – she stopped short and put her hand over her mouth.
Although he was gone – and she felt instantly bad for thinking he had stormed off – Chris had left her something. Restless, unable to sleep, he had gone down to explore the shop in the early dawn light – Polly no longer locked the connecting door between the bakery and the apartment – and stumbled across some old tins of grey and white paint that were stored in the back. With his artistic eye and exquisite taste, he had painted the peeling, cracked exterior a new, soft pale grey – the same colour as her sofa – and in his lovely flowing script had written above the window:
The Little Beach Street Bakery
Proprietor, Ms P. Waterford
Established 2014
Chapter Eighteen
Summer had turned on its full beam, and every day saw families marching across the causeway with buckets and spades and shrimping nets, the children squealing if the waves made it over the cobbles, everyone hurrying as the tide came in again, the inevitable few who left it too late having to scurry, or hail one of the fishing boys.
Word had got out. The smart couple, Henry and Samantha, had bought a house at the top of the village; a large, rambling Victorian place with a huge garden, a massive greenhouse and hollyhocks climbing the walls. They were constantly bringing visitors over, on the pretext of introducing them to some of the ‘best bread in Cornwall’ but in reality to show off and swank about how they were the first second-homers to discover the place. They made a big show of how well they knew Polly, using her name constantly and suggesting new flavours for her to try, which she often would.
If the queues kept up, she was going to need an assistant – she was selling out earlier and earlier each day. Mrs Manse, as it turned out, much to Polly’s relief, turned out to be both absolutely eagle-eyed about the paperwork – which meant Polly didn’t have to do any cashing-up or accounts – and very hands-off as a boss. Polly secretly suspected that the Little Beach Street Bakery was making a lot more money than the other place. At the very least, she had noticed that Mrs Manse had bought a new fridge for cold drinks and a freezer for ice cream, and had cut her bread and sandwiches way, way back. The pasties, of course, remained.
Polly had managed to avoid Tarnie completely, which in a village of fewer than a thousand people was something of an achievement. Sometimes, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, she would hear his gruff tones early in the morning and would groan, because that meant it was time for her to get down to the ovens. She worked and she worked and she worked; her arms grew toned from kneading and lifting, and she fell into bed at night too exhausted to do much else than pass out, which was useful.
