Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 32

Past Jayden standing open-mouthed, a pot of tea brewing carefully next to him on the countertop. Polly’s world crashed around her as she mutely followed Malcolm to the back door.
‘Now, you could consider taking me to an industrial tribunal,’ said Malcolm, so excited by this that spittle came out of his mouth. ‘But I can tell you now, you won’t win. I’ve been in four industrial tribunals, and I’ve never won. You never win. I can tell you that for nothing.’
Polly didn’t even look at him. She concentrated on holding Neil, who had started to flutter and was obviously distressed by her distress. She couldn’t allow this to happen; couldn’t upset him after his operation.
‘Sssh,’ she crooned to the little bird. ‘Sssh.’
Malcolm shook his head.
‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I think you’re crazy. I really think you are.’
They got to the door.
‘I’ll pay you to the end of the week,’ said Malcolm. ‘Out of the goodness of my heart. But I don’t want to see you here again.’
‘Oh lord,’ said Polly, barely realising she was talking out loud. ‘You are such a pig.’
As Malcolm spluttered and prepared to retaliate, Polly walked numbly on, past the beautiful grey-painted frontage with its looped italic writing:
The Little Beach Street Bakery
Proprietor, Ms P. Waterford
Established 2014
That didn’t last long, she found herself thinking. It had all crumbled to dust.
They had a little gas heater in the cupboard, and Polly found it and switched it on. It wasn’t just Neil who was cold. She fed him the crumbs of some rolls she had sealed up in plastic, and gave him some salt water to drink. He lapped at it dispiritedly, and – she was prepared this time – threw up again, but she rubbed his feathers and there was definitely a spark back in his eye as he started hopping round the room a little bit.
‘You’re amazing,’ she said. ‘Fabulous recovery.’
Huckle came in and saw her face.
‘What’s wrong? Isn’t he better?’
‘It’s not that,’ said Polly, dissolving. ‘He’s going to be all right, but… I’ve lost everything.’ She burst into tears.
Huckle took her in his arms.
‘Well you’ve still got me and Neil.’
Polly shook her head.
‘Patrick was really cross with me. He says I have to let him live wild, otherwise something else is just going to eat him.’
Huckle blinked.
‘I mean, I can’t be with him every second of the day,’ said Polly. ‘Although I will now, seeing as I have nothing else to do.’
Huckle stared at her.
‘Don’t worry about it now. Everything will be okay.’
‘But I’m going to be thirty-three years old! And I have nothing!’
‘That’s totally not true. You have lots of things.’
‘And it’s all being taken away from me. It’s a disaster.’
‘Hey, sweetie. This isn’t how you are. It won’t last, I promise. You don’t do this.’
‘What don’t I do?’ sniffed Polly, as Huckle opened a bottle of wine, poured her a glass, looked carefully at it, then poured in some more.
‘You don’t moan. You just roll up your sleeves and get on with things. That’s what you did when you came here. That’s what you did when I went back to the States. You just keep going and everything works out. Because you are magnificent,’ said Huckle.
‘But I work and I work and I work, and it just doesn’t. What if this is the end of the road for me, Huckle? I can’t stay here now. What am I going to do? Before I got that job, I was starving to death.’
‘Well I’ll take a job,’ said Huckle.
‘Yes, in London or New York or Savannah,’ said Polly.
‘All the hell holes,’ said Huckle, gravely.
He put his arms around her.
‘Trust yourself,’ he said. ‘Trust that you are talented, and that people like that. Put the hours in. And it will all come good.’
‘And then some prick who would eat a deep-fried towel turns up and ruins it all,’ said Polly.
‘There’s no point being bitter that there are wankers in the world,’ said Huckle. He sounded funny saying wanker in his thick Southern accent. ‘If there weren’t any wankers, you wouldn’t know how to spot the nice people.’
He paused for a few seconds.
‘Also, you know, you did walk into a catering area covered in bird sick.’
‘I was in a state of heavy emotional distress,’ said Polly. ‘But God, I know. I know.’
She stared out across the sea. The sky was turning a deep purple on the horizon, fading upwards to a light pink. It was utterly beautiful.
‘Okay,’ she said to the little puffin, glancing at her watch, trying to be the capable woman Huckle seemed to think she was; trying to do whatever she could. ‘Come on, you, you need to take your antibiotics.’
She squeezed the right number of drops on to some toast and watched as he cheerfully pecked away at it.
‘He’s going to be okay,’ said Huckle. ‘Thank God. Have you heard from that woman and her cat?’
Polly shook her head.
‘No. I think she should keep out of my way. She nearly killed my bird, and she lost me my job.’
‘Well I don’t think that’s entirely fair,’ said Huckle.
‘And Huckle…’ Polly took a deep breath. ‘Dubose was there.’
‘What do you mean, he was there?’
‘He was there. In her bed.’
Huckle’s face turned stony.
‘He went after a vulnerable woman?’
‘Oh I’m sure it wasn’t like that.’
They heard feet ascending the lighthouse steps. Polly stared at Huckle.
‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t let us have any more trouble today.’
Huckle looked back at her.
‘But he’s got a girlfriend at home!’
The steps continued upwards. The tread was measured, careful; defeated-sounding.
‘Did he… did he cause this?’
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘That cat was a menace. I was just a bit… surprised to see him there, that’s all.’