Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 82

‘Hmm,’ said Polly. ‘Is the pop star going to buy it, then?’
‘No,’ said Muriel. ‘They wouldn’t let him put in a fireman’s pole and a helter-skelter.’
‘Why does planning say you can’t have a helter-skelter but you can have a bloody great eyesore bridge?’ said Patrick, who was picking up a bloomer. He had given two interviews to national papers (who were very in favour of maintaining Polbearne’s traditional ways, regardless of whether any of the locals wanted to go to a supermarket or not) and was feeling commensurately proud of himself.
‘Good point,’ said Polly.
She wandered over to the lighthouse after another night of being kept awake. It was as dilapidated as the rest of Mount Polbearne – or half of it, at least, given how much gentrification was going on, a gentrification which, it was occasionally pointed out to her, she had helped start. Nobody had lived in the lighthouse for a long time, since the beam had become remote control; the black and white stripes were peeling, and the little granite cottage next to it was small and functional. It was completely impractical as a project. But she couldn’t quite get it out of her head.
Every two days, rain or shine, she went to Huckle’s cottage to look after the bees. It had turned into her constitutional, her own form of exercise, until it was just out of habit, more than anything else, or some kind of weird talisman. She cleaned out beds, removed dead bees and checked on the queen; sterilised and filled the honey pots and carried them back in her rucksack, Neil sitting on some newspaper on the top. The honey continued to sell well in the shop, and she put the money aside carefully for Huckle when he came back. But she’d heard nothing; of course he wasn’t coming back. For all she knew, his ex had greeted him off the plane with open arms, apologising for breaking his heart, begging him to go back to her.
Polly came back to the harbour one afternoon after a honey trip and to her great surprise ran into Dave the temp.
‘Hello!’ she said. It was late August. Not quite so light in the morning when she got up to start the day’s baking, but still warm, and the soft summer air had a touch of cooler breeze about it. ‘How’s your girlfriend?’
‘Good!’ he said. He was looking more cheerful, although his spots were still there. ‘She had the baby early.’
‘Oh no,’ said Polly. ‘Is she all right? Did you call her Augusta?’
‘No,’ said Dave. ‘We wanted to call her September, remember?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘But I thought maybe because she was born in August…’ Her voice trailed off. Dave still looked utterly uncomprehending. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s wonderful.’
He smiled again. ‘She’s amazing.’
‘So what are you doing back here?’ asked Polly. ‘Tell me you’re not working on the new bridge. You’ll never manage it.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I heard there’s a place going on a fishing boat.’
It was true. Despite high unemployment in the area, it was still difficult to persuade men to go into fishing, which was seen as dangerous, uncomfortable and poorly paid. Jayden’s place on Archie’s new boat hadn’t been filled.
Polly looked at him sternly.
‘Dave,’ she said, not wanting to waste Archie’s time. ‘Are you sure you’re not frightened of fish?’
Dave shrugged.
‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I only really eat fish fingers. I’m frightened of sharks, though.’
‘There’s only little sharks out there,’ said Polly.
‘Little sharks are the most poisonous,’ he said. ‘Or no, hang on, is that spiders?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Polly.
Archie came over.
‘Come on then,’ he said to Dave. ‘You know this chap?’ he asked Polly.
‘Um, a bit,’ said Polly, unwilling to dump Dave in it.
‘Reckon he’s up to it?’
‘Be nice to him,’ said Polly. ‘He’s just had a baby.’
Archie’s face broke into a smile. ‘Oh congratulations,’ he said. Polly smiled to herself about what an old softie he was.
‘Have you got kids?’ asked Dave.
Archie smiled. ‘Three. Well, three plus…’
Polly turned to him.
‘No way!’
‘Yes way. And not just us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Bob at the chemist’s got another on the way. And Dave at the pub. And Muriel.’
Polly shook her head.
‘MURIEL? How far along?’
‘Yup, you got it.’
Polly thought about it.
‘Seriously? The wake?’
Archie shrugged.
‘It’s going to be the first baby boom in Mount Polbearne for about two hundred years. We’re going to need a school.’
‘No way,’ said Polly. ‘That’s amazing. And I’m guessing all the boys will be called Tarnie.’
‘Well they won’t be called Cornelius,’ grunted Archie. He turned his attention to Dave again. ‘Are you afraid of hard work?’
‘Not sure,’ said Dave.
‘Can you handle a knife?’
Dave looked dubious.
‘Oh well,’ said Archie. ‘It’ll give me some practice with babysitting. Come on then, soft lad.’
Dave followed him, rigid with terror. Polly watched, smiling, as he wobbled and slipped on the jetty. Archie had to practically lift him on board. Polly shook her head. Well. They would see.
The tide was out, and on the cobbled causeway Patrick was taking lots of photographs. It was odd, thought Polly, as she returned to her flat and sat at her window, opening a beer; the idea that the village might change from the way it had been for hundreds and hundreds of years. And that she had arrived to see the very end of it. The thought made her sad.
Her phone rang.
‘If this is someone calling me to tell me that they’re pregnant, congratulations,’ said Polly. ‘I do christening cakes.’
‘Not quite,’ said Kerensa’s overexcited voice. ‘But the next best thing…’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They had immediately convened a summit for the next day. Reuben had offered to helicopter Kerensa over, but she had declined.