Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 65

She scrubbed at her eyes, then trained them on the horizon again, squinting so hard into the sun she could barely see.
‘Darling. Wrinkles,’ said Kerensa, rubbing her back. She could see how distraught Polly was; obviously concerned for the young men she’d met, and horrified by the disaster.
Polly looked at her uncomprehendingly.
‘Don’t squint,’ Kerensa told her.
She called up front.
‘Us girls are going to look for the boat away from the sun. You boys do the sun side. You look good with crow’s feet.’
‘I look good in anything,’ said Reuben, who was sporting a horribly bright pair of pricey Oakley sunglasses.
‘Is that what your girlfriends tell you?’ said Kerensa.
‘Yeah,’ said Reuben. ‘And they’re all models, so they should know.’
‘That’s right,’ said Kerensa. ‘When they’re coked out of their heads at parties wearing two plastic bags for shoes and a swan on their heads.’
Reuben pouted. ‘You obviously don’t get invited to those parties.’
Kerensa gave Polly a look, but she was miles away and didn’t seem to hear what anyone was saying. Huckle watched her with concern. He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders: she was looking cold, and the sea was picking up again. The sun was setting and a chill had settled. But he didn’t want to send mixed messages, didn’t want to startle her. Instead he very gently touched her hair.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
‘We have to find them,’ she said.
‘We’re doing everything we can,’ pointed out Huckle.
Reuben had a fully packed hamper with chilled champagne and fresh lobster and smoked salmon sandwiches, but nobody felt like eating. Instead they continued to cruise until it was nearly pitch black, a heavy navy darkness hanging in the air. The sea was growing rougher again, and a man with a loudspeaker hailed them from a helicopter, shouting at them to go home, that the RNLI would continue the search.
‘We can’t leave them out here for another night,’ said Polly, her teeth chattering.
‘We have to,’ said Huckle. ‘Otherwise the RNLI will be looking for us too.’
He took off his jacket and put it round her shoulders. She didn’t notice. He looked at Kerensa.
‘I’m worried about her,’ he said.
‘I’ll take her home,’ said Kerensa, cuddling Polly close.
Huckle would rather have taken her home himself; he didn’t want Kerensa getting her drunk on wine and making her feel worse, but he didn’t say anything. They had one of Reuben’s cars parked up on the mainland and would bring the boat again tomorrow.
The harbour was still busy and everybody anxious when they got back: police, press, and people washing down their boats, everyone asking each other if they had any more news. Kerensa hustled Polly upstairs and into a hot bath and made her some cheese on toast, which Polly left untouched. Then Kerensa, knackered, suggested bed – it was after ten – but Polly refused. She let Kerensa have her bed, and sat by the window in the sitting room, googling the news endlessly; trawling Twitter for updates on her little phone. She watched as the crowd finally dispersed for the night, and the lights winked out along the harbourside. She felt desperately tired, but when she closed her eyes all she could see was Tarnie’s chiselled, serious face, his bright blue eyes, the cheery youth of his crew; she heard his voice telling her of the peace he only ever felt out at sea, under the stars.
‘Please,’ she found herself saying. ‘Please.’
She must have dozed in her chair, because the next time she opened her eyes, the stars had moved in the sky and the earth felt muffled. She stood up and looked out of the window. There was the familiar figure, standing silhouetted on the harbour wall.
As if in a dream, Polly moved to the door, pulling a blanket off the sofa, unable to help herself.
Outside, the moon made everything brighter than it had seemed inside; it was quite easy to see. The waves were high again, pounding the harbour wall, but nothing like as bad as they had been the night before. It was cold, though; she wrapped her checked blanket around her head and shoulders and tried not to think about how cold it would be out at sea.
She moved closer to the figure. Mrs Manse, as usual, was standing as still as a statue. Polly swallowed, but did not speak, simply standing beside her.
After five minutes of scanning the horizon, of waiting for the lighthouse beam to swing round, Polly felt her teeth begin to chatter.
‘This is how it is,’ came the voice from beside her. Mrs Manse didn’t sound her usual snappy, angry self. She sounded resigned, sad, serious. ‘This is how it is. We stand and we wait. We women. This is what we do.’
Polly looked at her.
‘Does it help?’
Mrs Manse shrugged. ‘It doesn’t bring them back.’
Polly nodded. ‘But you think it might?’
Mrs Manse was silent for a long time. The lighthouse beam swung round again. Finally she spoke.
‘I don’t know what else to do,’ she said.
Polly bit her lip.
‘I always thought,’ said Mrs Manse quietly, ‘that if I don’t come one night, that will be the night he comes home… with the very last of his strength, only just enough to climb the harbour wall… and if I’m not here to help him, he won’t make it.’
Polly understood that completely.
Mrs Manse turned suddenly, her large body stoic and unmoving in the wind.
‘Please,’ she said, in more urgent tones. ‘Please go home. Don’t get like me.’
‘But I need to wait for them,’ said Polly.
Mrs Manse shook her head. ‘Not like this,’ she said, with desperation in her voice. ‘Please. Not like this. Don’t do this to yourself.’
Polly pulled the blanket more tightly round her.
‘I can’t think of anything else.’
‘But wishing doesn’t do it,’ said Mrs Manse crossly. ‘Don’t you see? Wishing doesn’t do it.’ She looked Polly straight in the face. ‘Please,’ she said, imploring her now. ‘Please go home.’
Polly gazed out one last time, scanning the horizon. Her head felt fuzzy, full of cotton wool.
‘Please,’ said Mrs Manse. ‘Don’t. Don’t be like me.’