Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 27
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‘You are such a lazy boy,’ said Polly, rubbing his feathers affectionately.
What to do? What to do? The idea of not lighting her amazing wood-burning oven every morning made her so sad. Of course she could stay in bed longer, but that was scant consolation to someone about to lose the only job she’d ever loved. The town would no longer smell, early in the morning, of heavenly fresh baked bread, bread with a crunch you could feel on the outside giving way to a soft and yielding inside.
When the fishermen came in early in the morning, their fingers stiff and red from gutting fish in ice on the quayside, she took real delight in pressing warm rolls and hot cups of coffee into their hands, seeing the gratitude on their faces. Would it be the same when fresh, expensive salted butter didn’t melt into the delicate crumb? When the plastic bread bought in en masse, filled with preservatives, emulsifiers, colouring and all the rest, flopped lifelessly and congealed into a flavourless grey mush that stuck to the roof of your mouth? Would that be the same?
Maybe she should call Janet, she thought. But she remembered how Janet had looked at her sons at Gillian’s funeral; the pride with which she had referred to Malcolm as a ‘businessman’; the fact that she had never once come to visit her sister in Mount Polbearne, never once returned to the town of her birth in all the time Polly had been there; clearly didn’t have the faintest interest in what the bakery did or how it functioned as long as it supplemented as efficiently as possible her meagre pension. And, Polly suspected, gave Malcolm something useful to do.
She clambered over the rocks and on to the beach. The skeleton of the tanker that had been wrecked last year – in the same storm that had claimed Tarnie’s life, and destroyed most of the fishing fleet – was still there, a rusting carcass. Some people said it was an eyesore, that it ought to be cut into pieces and taken away (every bit of its cargo, including 15,000 rubber ducks, had already been removed). But it was also an odd kind of tourist attraction – people travelled from a long way away to have a look at it, and many amateur divers came up on the weekend to wreck-dive, even though this was considered to be an extremely dangerous and foolhardy enterprise.
Polly sat down, took out her flask of coffee and paper bag containing a cream puff and looked out at the wreck with a shiver. She rather liked it, in a creepy kind of way. She knew it was a bit ugly, dumped in the bay like a leftover piece of Meccano, but something about its rusting hulk and pathetic angle in the water made her contemplative and a little melancholy. It had started to feel part of Mount Polbearne: the tip of the iceberg amongst the many wrecks that lay beneath the surface of the water, seduced and then led horribly astray by her rocky shores and deadly coves.
Neil hopped over to look into the paper bag with interest. Polly watched him nudge it with his beak, practically an expert, pushing at it to get at the goodies inside.
‘Neil!’ she said, affectionate but still exasperated. ‘You are SO greedy.’
Neil looked at her enquiringly, then picked up the bag with his beak and brought it over to her.
‘Seriously?’ said Polly. ‘Seriously? You do this now? You fetch?’ She looked at him. ‘I’m not sure whether you’re some kind of a bird genius, or whether I should be getting really worried about you.’
She fished about in the bag.
‘Here,’ she said, breaking him off a little of the cream puff. The pastry was lighter than air and utterly delicious. Polly finished hers in a millisecond, then gave Neil the bag with the crumbs in it. He immediately turned it upside down on his head and started staggering about blindly on the rocks.
‘Neil!’ said Polly. ‘Neil, get back here.’
His wings were fluttering wildly inside the little bag, and he knocked over her flask with all her coffee in it. Polly swore and finally caught up with him, plucking the bag off. Neil shook his head sharply and fluttered up and down in the air to make sure his wings still worked.
‘Don’t put bags on your head,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t talk to strangers, don’t let anyone touch your special area, and ESPECIALLY don’t put bags on your head. How many times have we been through this? And fly over the road, don’t walk.’
There was a laugh from somewhere right behind her. Nobody was normally about this early; Polly whirled round. Selina was just behind her, dressed in workout gear. She waved.
‘God, you gave me a fright,’ said Polly.
‘Sorry,’ said Selina. ‘But the little guy… it was pretty funny.’
‘Oh, I’ve told him and told him,’ said Polly. ‘Whenever I can’t find that puffin, he’s inside a bag somewhere.’
Selina smiled and moved forwards.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I appreciate anything that makes me laugh. Sorry if it’s a suffocating bird.’
‘What are you doing?’ said Polly.
Selina rolled her eyes.
‘If I tell you, promise not to tell anyone?’
‘Totally.’
‘Well, my therapist thinks I should do yoga. And get lots of fresh air. So I’m trying to combine the two, even though it makes me feel like a total idiot when I do. I creep out before anyone’s awake.’
‘Oh no, I think that’s good,’ said Polly. ‘You can’t do it in the flat?’
Selina shook her head.
‘God, no, there’s… well, lots of reasons. And the floor makes me do a roly-poly.’
‘Yes, it would,’ said Polly, thinking of the wobbly old incline. ‘Well, I’d offer you some cream puff, but I think we’re kind of out.’
‘And your coffee’s gone,’ said Selina, looking at the knocked-over flask. ‘You can come and have some at mine if you like.’
‘I would like,’ said Polly, pleased. ‘I’ve just been sitting here mired in my own thoughts, which are all rubbish.’
‘That never happens to me,’ said Selina, winking, and they walked off together, a slightly chastened Neil hopping behind them.
Polly explained the bakery situation to Selina as they clambered back over the rocks, feeling even in the telling that a little bit of the weight was lifting off, even if no immediate solutions were presenting themselves.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Selina, which was actually very helpful under the circumstances. ‘They’re total morons. They’ll run the place into the ground.’
What to do? What to do? The idea of not lighting her amazing wood-burning oven every morning made her so sad. Of course she could stay in bed longer, but that was scant consolation to someone about to lose the only job she’d ever loved. The town would no longer smell, early in the morning, of heavenly fresh baked bread, bread with a crunch you could feel on the outside giving way to a soft and yielding inside.
When the fishermen came in early in the morning, their fingers stiff and red from gutting fish in ice on the quayside, she took real delight in pressing warm rolls and hot cups of coffee into their hands, seeing the gratitude on their faces. Would it be the same when fresh, expensive salted butter didn’t melt into the delicate crumb? When the plastic bread bought in en masse, filled with preservatives, emulsifiers, colouring and all the rest, flopped lifelessly and congealed into a flavourless grey mush that stuck to the roof of your mouth? Would that be the same?
Maybe she should call Janet, she thought. But she remembered how Janet had looked at her sons at Gillian’s funeral; the pride with which she had referred to Malcolm as a ‘businessman’; the fact that she had never once come to visit her sister in Mount Polbearne, never once returned to the town of her birth in all the time Polly had been there; clearly didn’t have the faintest interest in what the bakery did or how it functioned as long as it supplemented as efficiently as possible her meagre pension. And, Polly suspected, gave Malcolm something useful to do.
She clambered over the rocks and on to the beach. The skeleton of the tanker that had been wrecked last year – in the same storm that had claimed Tarnie’s life, and destroyed most of the fishing fleet – was still there, a rusting carcass. Some people said it was an eyesore, that it ought to be cut into pieces and taken away (every bit of its cargo, including 15,000 rubber ducks, had already been removed). But it was also an odd kind of tourist attraction – people travelled from a long way away to have a look at it, and many amateur divers came up on the weekend to wreck-dive, even though this was considered to be an extremely dangerous and foolhardy enterprise.
Polly sat down, took out her flask of coffee and paper bag containing a cream puff and looked out at the wreck with a shiver. She rather liked it, in a creepy kind of way. She knew it was a bit ugly, dumped in the bay like a leftover piece of Meccano, but something about its rusting hulk and pathetic angle in the water made her contemplative and a little melancholy. It had started to feel part of Mount Polbearne: the tip of the iceberg amongst the many wrecks that lay beneath the surface of the water, seduced and then led horribly astray by her rocky shores and deadly coves.
Neil hopped over to look into the paper bag with interest. Polly watched him nudge it with his beak, practically an expert, pushing at it to get at the goodies inside.
‘Neil!’ she said, affectionate but still exasperated. ‘You are SO greedy.’
Neil looked at her enquiringly, then picked up the bag with his beak and brought it over to her.
‘Seriously?’ said Polly. ‘Seriously? You do this now? You fetch?’ She looked at him. ‘I’m not sure whether you’re some kind of a bird genius, or whether I should be getting really worried about you.’
She fished about in the bag.
‘Here,’ she said, breaking him off a little of the cream puff. The pastry was lighter than air and utterly delicious. Polly finished hers in a millisecond, then gave Neil the bag with the crumbs in it. He immediately turned it upside down on his head and started staggering about blindly on the rocks.
‘Neil!’ said Polly. ‘Neil, get back here.’
His wings were fluttering wildly inside the little bag, and he knocked over her flask with all her coffee in it. Polly swore and finally caught up with him, plucking the bag off. Neil shook his head sharply and fluttered up and down in the air to make sure his wings still worked.
‘Don’t put bags on your head,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t talk to strangers, don’t let anyone touch your special area, and ESPECIALLY don’t put bags on your head. How many times have we been through this? And fly over the road, don’t walk.’
There was a laugh from somewhere right behind her. Nobody was normally about this early; Polly whirled round. Selina was just behind her, dressed in workout gear. She waved.
‘God, you gave me a fright,’ said Polly.
‘Sorry,’ said Selina. ‘But the little guy… it was pretty funny.’
‘Oh, I’ve told him and told him,’ said Polly. ‘Whenever I can’t find that puffin, he’s inside a bag somewhere.’
Selina smiled and moved forwards.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I appreciate anything that makes me laugh. Sorry if it’s a suffocating bird.’
‘What are you doing?’ said Polly.
Selina rolled her eyes.
‘If I tell you, promise not to tell anyone?’
‘Totally.’
‘Well, my therapist thinks I should do yoga. And get lots of fresh air. So I’m trying to combine the two, even though it makes me feel like a total idiot when I do. I creep out before anyone’s awake.’
‘Oh no, I think that’s good,’ said Polly. ‘You can’t do it in the flat?’
Selina shook her head.
‘God, no, there’s… well, lots of reasons. And the floor makes me do a roly-poly.’
‘Yes, it would,’ said Polly, thinking of the wobbly old incline. ‘Well, I’d offer you some cream puff, but I think we’re kind of out.’
‘And your coffee’s gone,’ said Selina, looking at the knocked-over flask. ‘You can come and have some at mine if you like.’
‘I would like,’ said Polly, pleased. ‘I’ve just been sitting here mired in my own thoughts, which are all rubbish.’
‘That never happens to me,’ said Selina, winking, and they walked off together, a slightly chastened Neil hopping behind them.
Polly explained the bakery situation to Selina as they clambered back over the rocks, feeling even in the telling that a little bit of the weight was lifting off, even if no immediate solutions were presenting themselves.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Selina, which was actually very helpful under the circumstances. ‘They’re total morons. They’ll run the place into the ground.’
