Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 44
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‘And me,’ pointed out Polly. ‘I want you to dabble in me.’
Huckle smiled. ‘Oh well, obviously. But you know, you are much more than just a hobby to me, Polly Waterford.’
They stood, both very still. The railway station – a branch line, with hardly any services; Huckle would have to change to even get to the London train – was utterly deserted. Birds of all sorts could be heard singing in the hedgerows. Bushes grew over the platform edges, and the long-abandoned tea room had dandelions and daisies bursting through every crack in the concrete. The hum of the electric lines emphasised the heavy stillness of the morning. It felt like a storm was on the way.
Polly blinked.
‘You know what I reckon?’ Kerensa had said a couple of nights earlier, as they had gloomily shared a bottle of Mount Polbearne’s cheapest white wine (from the grapes of several former Soviet bloc territories, according to the label).
‘What do you reckon?’ Polly had said.
‘I reckon all this hardship’s going to be good for you. I reckon he’s going to propose.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Polly had said vehemently. ‘How would we pay for a wedding? Sell a kidney?’
‘It’s not about the wedding,’ said Kerensa.
‘Says you,’ said Polly. Kerensa’s wedding had been a Kardashian-style extravaganza that had left everyone broken, tearful and exhausted, which Polly still doubted had been Kerensa’s original intention.
‘Don’t ask me what kind of house we could have had back in Plymouth for the price of that wedding,’ growled Kerensa. ‘I have decided not to think like that for the sake of inner peace.’
She took a large slug of the tongue-stripping wine.
‘This also helps towards inner peace.’
Polly nodded. ‘Anyway. God, no, with everything else going on, it’s way, way not on the agenda. We haven’t even discussed it.’
Kerensa raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, but before he goes… he’ll want to do something, won’t he?’
Polly had shaken her head. She hadn’t ever felt that she and Huckle… Well, she certainly hadn’t envisaged a big white wedding day – Polly was always happier in the kitchen, behind the scenes. Having to be a bridesmaid at Kerensa’s wedding had been quite enough fuss for one lifetime. But she did, sometimes, in her quieter moments, think of a blond, golden-skinned chubby baby boy (and a lot of stair gates).
But she had never brought it up, and Huckle had certainly never mentioned it, and the timing couldn’t possibly be worse, so she had put it out of her mind completely.
‘Neh,’ she said, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t really feel. It had taken Huckle a long time to get over his last girlfriend, Candice, and a long time to get ready to commit. She didn’t want to push things. ‘I am not in the least bit fussed about all that. At least, not compared to the two million other things I have to fuss about right now.’
Kerensa knocked back a bit more of the wine.
‘Quite right,’ she said tipsily. ‘For richer for poorer is a right fricking pain in the arse.’
Not a breath of wind stirred the heavy foliage, the wild thyme that grew unconstrained up the rusting fence of the old branch line, the vast field of daisies that made up the bank. Polly and Huckle looked at one another. It was as if there was nobody else in the entire universe; as if, like in Where the Wild Things Are, the vines had claimed the world all around.
Huckle took a step towards her, and lifted her chin with his strong hand. His eyes were amused, as always, that clear blue that looked out on a world he expected to be good to him and, as a result, generally was. But today there was sadness in them too, and concern.
Polly swallowed and tried not to think of her conversation with Kerensa. She suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing her faded old rolled-up dungarees with a floral shirt underneath. She couldn’t possibly have known that Huckle thought she looked lovelier than she would in the priciest ballgown imaginable; he would carry this image of her in his heart. The sun was glinting on her hair, and he pulled her close and gently kissed the freckles on her nose, and realised, suddenly, that there was so much he wanted to say, but if he started, if he even tried to get the words out, then he would start to cry, and he wouldn’t get on the train, and they would be in an even worse situation than they were in already.
So even though he saw Polly’s eyes on him, wide and slightly confused, he still couldn’t speak, right up to the second when there was a faint push of wind, then a whistle, then a roar, and the train with its out-of-date rolling stock with the hand-operated doors slowly pulled up.
‘Huckle…’ Polly was saying, when suddenly out of the carriages spilled a huge party, a massive group of young men and women, all giggling and carrying champagne; the men in morning dress, the women in colourful dresses and hats and fascinators, all laughing and shouting at the tops of their voices, as behind them at the front of the station drew up, seemingly out of nowhere, a fleet of smart black cars with blue and pink ribbons tied to them.
‘A wedding,’ murmured Polly. It must be taking place in one of the grand hotels down on the coast – a very smart thing by the looks of it. The train nearly totally emptied, and, amidst the noise and colour of the huge gang, Huckle climbed aboard, carefully hauled up his kitbag, then leant his big shaggy head out of the pull-down window.
‘Polly,’ he said. She looked at him hopefully, eyes wide, holding on to his hand. But he was too far up to kiss, and neither of them could believe it when the guard blew the whistle and the train started to move, slowly, with so much left unsaid between them and so much left unkissed, and Polly started to speed up with the train, but that was silly of course, and all she could say was ‘Goodbye!’ and all he could do was lean out, shouting, ‘I’m coming back! I’m coming back!’ in a way that sounded to Polly like he was trying to convince someone, possibly her, possibly himself. And then, in a breath on the falling wind: ‘I love you.’
And then the train was a dot on the green horizon, and Polly turned away, into the great, happy, celebrating throng, who were chattering excitedly and loading themselves into cars, which swept off gaily down the little railway lane, to whoops and cheers and a cork popping out of a bottle. Polly watched them go, then trudged in the same direction, to sit and wait for a bus that would never come; to go home to a lighthouse where everything that was light had been extinguished.
Huckle smiled. ‘Oh well, obviously. But you know, you are much more than just a hobby to me, Polly Waterford.’
They stood, both very still. The railway station – a branch line, with hardly any services; Huckle would have to change to even get to the London train – was utterly deserted. Birds of all sorts could be heard singing in the hedgerows. Bushes grew over the platform edges, and the long-abandoned tea room had dandelions and daisies bursting through every crack in the concrete. The hum of the electric lines emphasised the heavy stillness of the morning. It felt like a storm was on the way.
Polly blinked.
‘You know what I reckon?’ Kerensa had said a couple of nights earlier, as they had gloomily shared a bottle of Mount Polbearne’s cheapest white wine (from the grapes of several former Soviet bloc territories, according to the label).
‘What do you reckon?’ Polly had said.
‘I reckon all this hardship’s going to be good for you. I reckon he’s going to propose.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Polly had said vehemently. ‘How would we pay for a wedding? Sell a kidney?’
‘It’s not about the wedding,’ said Kerensa.
‘Says you,’ said Polly. Kerensa’s wedding had been a Kardashian-style extravaganza that had left everyone broken, tearful and exhausted, which Polly still doubted had been Kerensa’s original intention.
‘Don’t ask me what kind of house we could have had back in Plymouth for the price of that wedding,’ growled Kerensa. ‘I have decided not to think like that for the sake of inner peace.’
She took a large slug of the tongue-stripping wine.
‘This also helps towards inner peace.’
Polly nodded. ‘Anyway. God, no, with everything else going on, it’s way, way not on the agenda. We haven’t even discussed it.’
Kerensa raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, but before he goes… he’ll want to do something, won’t he?’
Polly had shaken her head. She hadn’t ever felt that she and Huckle… Well, she certainly hadn’t envisaged a big white wedding day – Polly was always happier in the kitchen, behind the scenes. Having to be a bridesmaid at Kerensa’s wedding had been quite enough fuss for one lifetime. But she did, sometimes, in her quieter moments, think of a blond, golden-skinned chubby baby boy (and a lot of stair gates).
But she had never brought it up, and Huckle had certainly never mentioned it, and the timing couldn’t possibly be worse, so she had put it out of her mind completely.
‘Neh,’ she said, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t really feel. It had taken Huckle a long time to get over his last girlfriend, Candice, and a long time to get ready to commit. She didn’t want to push things. ‘I am not in the least bit fussed about all that. At least, not compared to the two million other things I have to fuss about right now.’
Kerensa knocked back a bit more of the wine.
‘Quite right,’ she said tipsily. ‘For richer for poorer is a right fricking pain in the arse.’
Not a breath of wind stirred the heavy foliage, the wild thyme that grew unconstrained up the rusting fence of the old branch line, the vast field of daisies that made up the bank. Polly and Huckle looked at one another. It was as if there was nobody else in the entire universe; as if, like in Where the Wild Things Are, the vines had claimed the world all around.
Huckle took a step towards her, and lifted her chin with his strong hand. His eyes were amused, as always, that clear blue that looked out on a world he expected to be good to him and, as a result, generally was. But today there was sadness in them too, and concern.
Polly swallowed and tried not to think of her conversation with Kerensa. She suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing her faded old rolled-up dungarees with a floral shirt underneath. She couldn’t possibly have known that Huckle thought she looked lovelier than she would in the priciest ballgown imaginable; he would carry this image of her in his heart. The sun was glinting on her hair, and he pulled her close and gently kissed the freckles on her nose, and realised, suddenly, that there was so much he wanted to say, but if he started, if he even tried to get the words out, then he would start to cry, and he wouldn’t get on the train, and they would be in an even worse situation than they were in already.
So even though he saw Polly’s eyes on him, wide and slightly confused, he still couldn’t speak, right up to the second when there was a faint push of wind, then a whistle, then a roar, and the train with its out-of-date rolling stock with the hand-operated doors slowly pulled up.
‘Huckle…’ Polly was saying, when suddenly out of the carriages spilled a huge party, a massive group of young men and women, all giggling and carrying champagne; the men in morning dress, the women in colourful dresses and hats and fascinators, all laughing and shouting at the tops of their voices, as behind them at the front of the station drew up, seemingly out of nowhere, a fleet of smart black cars with blue and pink ribbons tied to them.
‘A wedding,’ murmured Polly. It must be taking place in one of the grand hotels down on the coast – a very smart thing by the looks of it. The train nearly totally emptied, and, amidst the noise and colour of the huge gang, Huckle climbed aboard, carefully hauled up his kitbag, then leant his big shaggy head out of the pull-down window.
‘Polly,’ he said. She looked at him hopefully, eyes wide, holding on to his hand. But he was too far up to kiss, and neither of them could believe it when the guard blew the whistle and the train started to move, slowly, with so much left unsaid between them and so much left unkissed, and Polly started to speed up with the train, but that was silly of course, and all she could say was ‘Goodbye!’ and all he could do was lean out, shouting, ‘I’m coming back! I’m coming back!’ in a way that sounded to Polly like he was trying to convince someone, possibly her, possibly himself. And then, in a breath on the falling wind: ‘I love you.’
And then the train was a dot on the green horizon, and Polly turned away, into the great, happy, celebrating throng, who were chattering excitedly and loading themselves into cars, which swept off gaily down the little railway lane, to whoops and cheers and a cork popping out of a bottle. Polly watched them go, then trudged in the same direction, to sit and wait for a bus that would never come; to go home to a lighthouse where everything that was light had been extinguished.
