Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 48
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‘Quite,’ said Polly. ‘Here.’
She served the fresh bread at the rough wooden table, spread with melting butter over its light-crumbed soft centre, the well-kneaded crust crispy and nutty. A spoonful of honey over the top and a huge mug of tea (Polly disliked tea mugs that held less than about a pint) completed the simple repast. The early-morning sun shone in through the windows.
‘Oh my God,’ said Selina. ‘Oh my God, this is absolutely perfect.’
She tore into the bread with her little, very white teeth. Polly smiled. It felt undeniably good to be feeding people again.
‘Well it should be,’ she pointed out. ‘You made it.’
‘Oh my,’ said Selina. ‘Well I am brilliant.’
Polly smiled again.
‘Eat as much as you like,’ she said, holding up a large tray piled with thick honey sandwiches and an empty mug. ‘I’m just going to see the fishermen.’
She could see their boats chugging across the horizon. She hoped they had had a good night.
‘What’s the cup for?’
‘Fishermen make the best tea on earth,’ said Polly. ‘I always fill up from their urn.’
The boys were cold, hungry, exhausted and entirely delighted to see Polly again.
‘I thought you’d gone for ever,’ said Kendall. ‘I thought you might go and live with your bird.’
Archie snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Kendall. You mean with Huckle.’
Kendall looked at Archie.
‘Could have been either, I say.’
‘Good God,’ said Polly. ‘What kind of a crazy lady do you think I am? Don’t answer that.’
Fortunately they were all busy chewing.
‘How’s business?’ she asked Archie, who just shook his head. He still looked so unhappy.
‘I’m doing my best,’ he said, then drew closer to her. ‘I just… I just wish…’
‘What?’ said Polly.
‘Nothing,’ said Archie miserably.
‘Tell me.’
He looked at her.
‘Can I?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well last night… you know it was a little choppy?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’m just… I just get so scared.’ He looked away. ‘I’m… I’m terrified, Polly. I really am. I feel I have no business being in charge of the boat or the men or anything like that.’
‘But you’re doing a great job! Everyone thinks you’re brilliant!’
‘That’s because I’ve never been tested,’ said Archie, with feeling. ‘They haven’t found me out.’
‘Hush,’ said Polly. ‘Anyway, everyone feels like that.’
Archie held up a sandwich.
‘Easy for you to say,’ he said. ‘When you can make stuff like this.’
Now that Polly was feeling more in the swing of things, she headed to the mainland – where they had a decent Internet connection – to meet Reuben, who had been drafted in to help with Operation Van.
They met in a little café in Looe, where all the men had beards and wore lumberjack shirts and the drinks were served in jam jars. Polly found this very peculiar.
Reuben turned up forty minutes late, which was all right, as it gave her time to go through all the vans that were on offer. Almost all of them were old burger vans that looked heavily engrimed with the grease of a thousand late-night drunks stumbling out of nightclubs, but Polly wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. They ranged a lot in price, from two and a half thousand upwards, but Huckle had been adamant that they use his money to get exactly what they needed.
‘If you’re going to do this,’ he said, ‘you have to do it right.’
She also had a file open to list the things she needed to do. The actual baking economics she could do in her sleep; she had worked long enough to know exactly what she needed and how much she needed to charge. In fact, with fewer staff, no rent and few fixed costs, she could get away with less than the bakery.
And as she had no regular clientele to service, she could concentrate on the stuff with the slightly bigger profit margin – sandwiches and pizza as well as the loaves – and leave the cakes and buns to Malcolm’s plastic patrol. She would, in any case, need to make a very clear case to the town hall that she was not doing the same as the existing businesses; she was going to try and license it as a snack bar.
She scrolled through the list of bedraggled-looking second-hand vans, her heart sinking slightly as she did so. Each one, she thought, represented someone’s hopes and dreams come to nothing; their brilliant catering idea turned to dust. Who did she think she was to suddenly start something up in the middle of nowhere and expect it to work? Was she mad?
She couldn’t think like this, however. She couldn’t. This was their best option at this point – her only option as far as she could tell – and Huckle was busting a gut thousands of miles away just so she could have this opportunity. She scrolled through page after page of trucks that sold pasties and dirty white converted caravans… and then she saw it.
She looked at it. Then she looked away. Then she looked at it again, her negativity forgotten.
Piaggio Porter 2010, it said.
It was markedly more expensive than all the other trucks there. But…
It was a converted VW-style camper van, in a two-tone colour scheme of dark red and white. One side slid open to reveal rails of baking trays, just like in the bakery. Behind them was a professional wood-burning oven. On the other side was a window that opened out to sell through, with a canopy over it. It looked to be in absolutely perfect nick; the description announced that it had been kitted out to sell pasties two years before, at a cost of £30,000. Whether this was true or not Polly couldn’t say, but it looked absolutely perfect. Which was probably, she reflected, why it was twice as expensive as everything else for sale in the category.
She was still looking at it when Reuben came in. She had been worried about him; worried that he’d have lost his swagger, his chippy requirement to tell everyone how well he was doing. But she needn’t have been; as she was ordering her second, shamefully expensive elderflower and ginger beer drink, he bounced in on his ridiculous limited edition Kanye West trainers – Polly only knew this because he’d mentioned the fact so repeatedly she was surprised the insolvency people hadn’t taken them away – his wide, freckled Norman Rockwell face as cheery as ever.
She served the fresh bread at the rough wooden table, spread with melting butter over its light-crumbed soft centre, the well-kneaded crust crispy and nutty. A spoonful of honey over the top and a huge mug of tea (Polly disliked tea mugs that held less than about a pint) completed the simple repast. The early-morning sun shone in through the windows.
‘Oh my God,’ said Selina. ‘Oh my God, this is absolutely perfect.’
She tore into the bread with her little, very white teeth. Polly smiled. It felt undeniably good to be feeding people again.
‘Well it should be,’ she pointed out. ‘You made it.’
‘Oh my,’ said Selina. ‘Well I am brilliant.’
Polly smiled again.
‘Eat as much as you like,’ she said, holding up a large tray piled with thick honey sandwiches and an empty mug. ‘I’m just going to see the fishermen.’
She could see their boats chugging across the horizon. She hoped they had had a good night.
‘What’s the cup for?’
‘Fishermen make the best tea on earth,’ said Polly. ‘I always fill up from their urn.’
The boys were cold, hungry, exhausted and entirely delighted to see Polly again.
‘I thought you’d gone for ever,’ said Kendall. ‘I thought you might go and live with your bird.’
Archie snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Kendall. You mean with Huckle.’
Kendall looked at Archie.
‘Could have been either, I say.’
‘Good God,’ said Polly. ‘What kind of a crazy lady do you think I am? Don’t answer that.’
Fortunately they were all busy chewing.
‘How’s business?’ she asked Archie, who just shook his head. He still looked so unhappy.
‘I’m doing my best,’ he said, then drew closer to her. ‘I just… I just wish…’
‘What?’ said Polly.
‘Nothing,’ said Archie miserably.
‘Tell me.’
He looked at her.
‘Can I?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well last night… you know it was a little choppy?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’m just… I just get so scared.’ He looked away. ‘I’m… I’m terrified, Polly. I really am. I feel I have no business being in charge of the boat or the men or anything like that.’
‘But you’re doing a great job! Everyone thinks you’re brilliant!’
‘That’s because I’ve never been tested,’ said Archie, with feeling. ‘They haven’t found me out.’
‘Hush,’ said Polly. ‘Anyway, everyone feels like that.’
Archie held up a sandwich.
‘Easy for you to say,’ he said. ‘When you can make stuff like this.’
Now that Polly was feeling more in the swing of things, she headed to the mainland – where they had a decent Internet connection – to meet Reuben, who had been drafted in to help with Operation Van.
They met in a little café in Looe, where all the men had beards and wore lumberjack shirts and the drinks were served in jam jars. Polly found this very peculiar.
Reuben turned up forty minutes late, which was all right, as it gave her time to go through all the vans that were on offer. Almost all of them were old burger vans that looked heavily engrimed with the grease of a thousand late-night drunks stumbling out of nightclubs, but Polly wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. They ranged a lot in price, from two and a half thousand upwards, but Huckle had been adamant that they use his money to get exactly what they needed.
‘If you’re going to do this,’ he said, ‘you have to do it right.’
She also had a file open to list the things she needed to do. The actual baking economics she could do in her sleep; she had worked long enough to know exactly what she needed and how much she needed to charge. In fact, with fewer staff, no rent and few fixed costs, she could get away with less than the bakery.
And as she had no regular clientele to service, she could concentrate on the stuff with the slightly bigger profit margin – sandwiches and pizza as well as the loaves – and leave the cakes and buns to Malcolm’s plastic patrol. She would, in any case, need to make a very clear case to the town hall that she was not doing the same as the existing businesses; she was going to try and license it as a snack bar.
She scrolled through the list of bedraggled-looking second-hand vans, her heart sinking slightly as she did so. Each one, she thought, represented someone’s hopes and dreams come to nothing; their brilliant catering idea turned to dust. Who did she think she was to suddenly start something up in the middle of nowhere and expect it to work? Was she mad?
She couldn’t think like this, however. She couldn’t. This was their best option at this point – her only option as far as she could tell – and Huckle was busting a gut thousands of miles away just so she could have this opportunity. She scrolled through page after page of trucks that sold pasties and dirty white converted caravans… and then she saw it.
She looked at it. Then she looked away. Then she looked at it again, her negativity forgotten.
Piaggio Porter 2010, it said.
It was markedly more expensive than all the other trucks there. But…
It was a converted VW-style camper van, in a two-tone colour scheme of dark red and white. One side slid open to reveal rails of baking trays, just like in the bakery. Behind them was a professional wood-burning oven. On the other side was a window that opened out to sell through, with a canopy over it. It looked to be in absolutely perfect nick; the description announced that it had been kitted out to sell pasties two years before, at a cost of £30,000. Whether this was true or not Polly couldn’t say, but it looked absolutely perfect. Which was probably, she reflected, why it was twice as expensive as everything else for sale in the category.
She was still looking at it when Reuben came in. She had been worried about him; worried that he’d have lost his swagger, his chippy requirement to tell everyone how well he was doing. But she needn’t have been; as she was ordering her second, shamefully expensive elderflower and ginger beer drink, he bounced in on his ridiculous limited edition Kanye West trainers – Polly only knew this because he’d mentioned the fact so repeatedly she was surprised the insolvency people hadn’t taken them away – his wide, freckled Norman Rockwell face as cheery as ever.
