Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 63
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Polly filled an old urn that she found in the back of the shop, and Muriel brought four boxes of dusty, unsold, commemorative Mount Polbearne teapots, a ton of plastic cups and some milk from the minimart. They carried down the table from upstairs and set it up in front of the bakery, offering free tea and bread to anyone who needed it. The boys who were doing shifts on the RNLI boat came back chilled and shivering and despondent; helicopters were covering the area, but the fishing zones were widespread. Television crowds had already sprung up, even though the causeway was barely passable. They were taking the long way round by boat, or forcing SUVs through the water, however dangerous this was. The storm had been widespread, but Polbearne and its men had taken the brunt of the devastation; they had been ground zero.
Finally, at 11 a.m., there was some good news: Free Bird, one of the ships in the fleet, had let off its emergency beacon and the rescuers had somewhere to head for. The boat had been blown more than thirty kilometres from its normal fishing grounds; its electronic equipment had been knocked out, its mast was broken and all the nets were gone. No one on board had seen Trochilus or the other two boats.
Free Bird was towed back to shore, and crowds lined the harbour to cheer it in. Crying wives held up children, who were unsure what was going on but were taking happy advantage of the free buns and cuddles. Polly looked up from handing out food – she had put some more loaves in, and a large batch of buns; she would have to square it with Mrs Manse later, but she didn’t know what else to do – and checked her phone for the millionth time for a signal. Oh God. It might technically be summer, but the water was so cold out there in the depths, certainly cold enough to kill a man. With a start, she remembered her dream the night before: being pulled down, far into the depths, the light fading and turning to black. She found her hands shaking; it couldn’t have been a vision, surely. She didn’t believe in those sorts of things.
The day went on endlessly. At two, rescuers found the survival capsule – a kind of tent boat – of the Lark, with all five men on board, bobbing towards Devon. The Lark itself had sunk without a trace; they had only just made it out in time. They were driven back to Polbearne by the Devonshire police, quiet, pale and shaking as they were met by their families. Likewise the Wiverton, whose emergency beacon had got stuck and hadn’t worked. An eagle-eyed helicopter pilot spotted the bobbing neon-yellow shape in the water and managed to winch the men to safety.
‘HEY!’
Polly looked up, bleary-eyed. She had baked and handed out food all day, waiting, waiting for news. She blinked. This was the last person she had expected to see.
‘What are you doing here?’
Kerensa made an innocent face. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? They’ve filled the place with unbelievably hot helicopter pilots.’
She came closer to Polly.
‘Are you okay?’
Polly shrugged. ‘One of the boats isn’t back yet.’
‘Is it the one with the sexy beardy?’
Polly swallowed and nodded. Several people from the village came up to pat her shoulder and thank her for her contribution.
‘Move over,’ said Kerensa, and she started buttering rolls. ‘I can’t believe you aren’t charging for this. It’s no way to run a business. Actually you should charge treble to all the rubberneckers.’
Polly gave her a look.
‘Okay, okay, just saying.’
A substantial figure approached slowly, holding a large tray. Polly squinted in the watery sunlight.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Kerensa. ‘Oh, is it the old boot?’
‘Ssh,’ said Polly as Mrs Manse came into earshot. She looked at what Polly was doing and sniffed. Polly bit her lip, worried that she was going to get a telling-off. This wasn’t her business, after all; she didn’t get to make these kinds of decisions. Mrs Manse surveyed the makeshift stall, surrounded by people – it had become something of a focal point – and harrumphed crossly. Then she banged down the large tray. It held the entire day’s selection of cream horns and fancies.
‘I’ll need that box back in the morning,’ was all she said before turning round and marching back up the road.
‘Well, well,’ said Kerensa, as Polly started handing out cakes to hungry crew and passing children.
As evening fell and the RNLI boat came back for the sixth time, empty-handed, Polly felt her fears beginning to grow again. During the day, as the other boats had been recovered without much worse than some bruised ribs and a couple of broken wrists, cuts and bruises here and there and a bit of exposure, her hopes had steadily risen until it had felt as if any second now Tarnie and his boys would turn up in a police car, full of stories about their adventure.
But it was getting late. The rescued fishermen who’d managed to prise themselves away from home were all in the pub, and the rest of the villagers and the media had gathered round to hear their stories – which would inevitably get more and more thrilling as the evening went on, and the boys became braver in their cups.
Every tea bag, every drop of milk, every last bun was gone when Polly shut up shop and packed everything away.
‘Come on,’ said Kerensa. ‘Let’s take a walk. I want to see the salvage boat anyway.’
‘The tanker?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘You want to see a boat lying on its side?’
‘Now you put it like that – yes.’
Polly didn’t want to go to the pub, didn’t want to hear about everyone else’s close brush with death, endure people asking her if she’d heard anything, assuming she would have because of course they all knew about her and Tarnie… No, she couldn’t do that.
‘Okay,’ she said.
The sky was now soft and golden-hued. The sea was quietening down. It was almost impossible to believe the force and power of what had ripped through just a few short hours before. Polly had never given the weather much of a thought when she had lived in Plymouth. It was wet or dry, that was all. But here she lived so close to the thin line between the land and the sea. The sea dictated everything: whether they could cross the causeway, whether the men could work, even whether she could leave the building. It was part of the warp and weft of everyone there. As she and Kerensa tramped across the dunes in silence, she understood finally what it actually meant to have the sea running through your veins.
Finally, at 11 a.m., there was some good news: Free Bird, one of the ships in the fleet, had let off its emergency beacon and the rescuers had somewhere to head for. The boat had been blown more than thirty kilometres from its normal fishing grounds; its electronic equipment had been knocked out, its mast was broken and all the nets were gone. No one on board had seen Trochilus or the other two boats.
Free Bird was towed back to shore, and crowds lined the harbour to cheer it in. Crying wives held up children, who were unsure what was going on but were taking happy advantage of the free buns and cuddles. Polly looked up from handing out food – she had put some more loaves in, and a large batch of buns; she would have to square it with Mrs Manse later, but she didn’t know what else to do – and checked her phone for the millionth time for a signal. Oh God. It might technically be summer, but the water was so cold out there in the depths, certainly cold enough to kill a man. With a start, she remembered her dream the night before: being pulled down, far into the depths, the light fading and turning to black. She found her hands shaking; it couldn’t have been a vision, surely. She didn’t believe in those sorts of things.
The day went on endlessly. At two, rescuers found the survival capsule – a kind of tent boat – of the Lark, with all five men on board, bobbing towards Devon. The Lark itself had sunk without a trace; they had only just made it out in time. They were driven back to Polbearne by the Devonshire police, quiet, pale and shaking as they were met by their families. Likewise the Wiverton, whose emergency beacon had got stuck and hadn’t worked. An eagle-eyed helicopter pilot spotted the bobbing neon-yellow shape in the water and managed to winch the men to safety.
‘HEY!’
Polly looked up, bleary-eyed. She had baked and handed out food all day, waiting, waiting for news. She blinked. This was the last person she had expected to see.
‘What are you doing here?’
Kerensa made an innocent face. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? They’ve filled the place with unbelievably hot helicopter pilots.’
She came closer to Polly.
‘Are you okay?’
Polly shrugged. ‘One of the boats isn’t back yet.’
‘Is it the one with the sexy beardy?’
Polly swallowed and nodded. Several people from the village came up to pat her shoulder and thank her for her contribution.
‘Move over,’ said Kerensa, and she started buttering rolls. ‘I can’t believe you aren’t charging for this. It’s no way to run a business. Actually you should charge treble to all the rubberneckers.’
Polly gave her a look.
‘Okay, okay, just saying.’
A substantial figure approached slowly, holding a large tray. Polly squinted in the watery sunlight.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Kerensa. ‘Oh, is it the old boot?’
‘Ssh,’ said Polly as Mrs Manse came into earshot. She looked at what Polly was doing and sniffed. Polly bit her lip, worried that she was going to get a telling-off. This wasn’t her business, after all; she didn’t get to make these kinds of decisions. Mrs Manse surveyed the makeshift stall, surrounded by people – it had become something of a focal point – and harrumphed crossly. Then she banged down the large tray. It held the entire day’s selection of cream horns and fancies.
‘I’ll need that box back in the morning,’ was all she said before turning round and marching back up the road.
‘Well, well,’ said Kerensa, as Polly started handing out cakes to hungry crew and passing children.
As evening fell and the RNLI boat came back for the sixth time, empty-handed, Polly felt her fears beginning to grow again. During the day, as the other boats had been recovered without much worse than some bruised ribs and a couple of broken wrists, cuts and bruises here and there and a bit of exposure, her hopes had steadily risen until it had felt as if any second now Tarnie and his boys would turn up in a police car, full of stories about their adventure.
But it was getting late. The rescued fishermen who’d managed to prise themselves away from home were all in the pub, and the rest of the villagers and the media had gathered round to hear their stories – which would inevitably get more and more thrilling as the evening went on, and the boys became braver in their cups.
Every tea bag, every drop of milk, every last bun was gone when Polly shut up shop and packed everything away.
‘Come on,’ said Kerensa. ‘Let’s take a walk. I want to see the salvage boat anyway.’
‘The tanker?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘You want to see a boat lying on its side?’
‘Now you put it like that – yes.’
Polly didn’t want to go to the pub, didn’t want to hear about everyone else’s close brush with death, endure people asking her if she’d heard anything, assuming she would have because of course they all knew about her and Tarnie… No, she couldn’t do that.
‘Okay,’ she said.
The sky was now soft and golden-hued. The sea was quietening down. It was almost impossible to believe the force and power of what had ripped through just a few short hours before. Polly had never given the weather much of a thought when she had lived in Plymouth. It was wet or dry, that was all. But here she lived so close to the thin line between the land and the sea. The sea dictated everything: whether they could cross the causeway, whether the men could work, even whether she could leave the building. It was part of the warp and weft of everyone there. As she and Kerensa tramped across the dunes in silence, she understood finally what it actually meant to have the sea running through your veins.
