Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 54
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Polly thought, going back to the lighthouse again, how lonely it’d be to turn up with something so fantastic – Nan the Van! – when Huckle wasn’t there to exclaim how brilliant it was, nor Neil to hop around it and give it a good old explore. Maybe it would be tonight, she thought. Maybe tonight the little puffin would find his way home. Maybe he’d gone via Reuben’s old place. He liked it there too. But he was coming back. She knew it.
When she finally got Huckle on the phone, he sounded absolutely exhausted, but very pleased.
‘Did you really bargain him down to half price?’ he said incredulously. ‘Polly, you didn’t show him your legs, did you?’
‘No!’ said Polly. ‘It just turns out I am a naturally brilliant negotiator. Amazing, huh? You didn’t think I had it in me.’
‘Hmm,’ said Huckle. ‘What does she look like under the bonnet?’
‘Um, great,’ said Polly. It hadn’t even occurred to her to look at the engine, and she wouldn’t have known what to look for if she had.
‘Pol,’ said Huckle. ‘You are lying to me! Are you sure you haven’t actually brought home a packet of magic beans that you’re going to plant in the garden and the man said a van would definitely grow out of them?’
‘No!’ said Polly. ‘I’d send you the photo if the Internet connection didn’t mean it would take eight hours to arrive.’
‘Eight hours is fine,’ said Huckle. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘It’s not magic beans.’
‘Is it possibly two halves of two different vans, soldered together?’
‘I can’t believe you doubt my amazing powers of negotiation,’ said Polly. ‘Also I wish I’d told you I got it for four grand and pocketed the difference.’
‘Adding theft to lying,’ mused Huckle. ‘You are a naughty girl.’
Polly smiled.
‘Will I be properly punished when you get home?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Huckle, staring at the great big pile of government forms and paperwork he’d brought home from town, which should all have been completed months ago. ‘I expect so.’
‘Can’t you come home now? Now we’ve got the van? I can get loads of supplies with the rest of the money, and Jayden says he doesn’t see why I shouldn’t have all the leftover herbs and spices from the bakery, seeing as they don’t bake fresh any more – it wouldn’t be stealing, they don’t use them, they’re just sitting there. So we could just start, and you could come home.’
‘Businesses don’t just start,’ said Huckle. ‘You took over a going concern before. It doesn’t normally work like that. You’re going to have ages when you’ll have quiet days and off days and nobody even turning up. It’s not even the summer season yet. You’ll need cash to keep you going through that. Council tax is due. And the TV licence, even though, one, I have no idea why you Brits have to pay money for the TV, and two, you never watch it.’
‘Force of habit,’ mumbled Polly. ‘Also, if you don’t pay it, they put you in prison.’
‘I am so glad I have committed my life to this place,’ said Huckle gravely. Polly heard doors opening and chatter in the background. ‘Okay, I have to go.’
‘Uh, totally,’ said Polly, as if she too were busy, rather than having absolutely nothing to do for the entire evening except rattle round an empty lighthouse, half watching telly with dreadful reception, feeling alone, and fighting – and eventually giving in to – the desire to eat the rest of the gingerbread. ‘Bye, my love.’
‘And to you,’ said Huckle.
Huckle hung up the phone and headed back into the farmhouse kitchen. Clemmie was sitting there wearing an old linen dress, her stout boots by the door. She was looking tired and beaten down. She looked up at Huckle, her voice soft, and very Southern.
‘Huckle, while he was over there… did he… I mean, was there another girl?’
Huckle put his hands up.
‘You’d have to ask him,’ he said. He absolutely didn’t want to get involved in this kind of thing. Clemmie’s soft eyes grew even sadder, as she passed him a huge plate of ribs with a baked potato. She sighed.
‘You know, you could pass the farm on,’ said Huckle. ‘Once I’ve got it sorted out. Once it’s on its feet again. You could sell the stewardship as a going concern, head back to the city.’
Clemmie shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘This is ours.’
Then she looked up at him and touched her stomach.
‘And this is ours too.’
She hadn’t even been showing.
‘Oh, Clem,’ said Huckle, his heart nearly breaking for her. He wanted to hunt down his brother and knock some sense into him.
‘Does he know?’
She shook her head.
‘I want to tell him face to face.’
Huckle thought painfully of his promise to Polly: to sort things out, to make a little money, to come straight home. Suddenly he resented being stuck in the steamy humidity of Georgia whilst Polly was sitting on a rock enjoying the fresh sunshine and chill wind of his beloved Cornwall. He wanted to be there with her.
He cleared the table for Clemmie, who immediately fell asleep in an armchair. He put a blanket over her and went upstairs. But he couldn’t sleep. There was no air conditioning in the tiny spare room.
He lay awake listening to the cicadas, worrying – what if Dubose didn’t come back? What would he do then? – and listing all the work that had to be done the next day. Having grown up on a farm, Huckle was under no illusion as to how tough it was. Which was why his mother was so desperate for him to be out of the game, into an office job. But being indoors was no use to him either. Really he just wanted to be… He thought back to a day the previous year – in fact it must have been Polly’s birthday, the real one, not a silly fake one. It had been the day he had finally got that fricking bath installed.
They couldn’t afford the lovely claw-foot bath that Polly craved – the bathroom had a window out to sea, and she dreamt of lying and gazing out across the water. But then, a few days before her birthday, Huckle had been clearing out some old hives from a grand house that had been sold off for apartments. The builders had moved in, and he had seen it. It wasn’t the fancy type that everyone wanted to pretend was reclaimed; it was a genuine, ancient, enormous old copper can, the type that at one time wouldn’t even have been plumbed in. He regarded it with awe.
When she finally got Huckle on the phone, he sounded absolutely exhausted, but very pleased.
‘Did you really bargain him down to half price?’ he said incredulously. ‘Polly, you didn’t show him your legs, did you?’
‘No!’ said Polly. ‘It just turns out I am a naturally brilliant negotiator. Amazing, huh? You didn’t think I had it in me.’
‘Hmm,’ said Huckle. ‘What does she look like under the bonnet?’
‘Um, great,’ said Polly. It hadn’t even occurred to her to look at the engine, and she wouldn’t have known what to look for if she had.
‘Pol,’ said Huckle. ‘You are lying to me! Are you sure you haven’t actually brought home a packet of magic beans that you’re going to plant in the garden and the man said a van would definitely grow out of them?’
‘No!’ said Polly. ‘I’d send you the photo if the Internet connection didn’t mean it would take eight hours to arrive.’
‘Eight hours is fine,’ said Huckle. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘It’s not magic beans.’
‘Is it possibly two halves of two different vans, soldered together?’
‘I can’t believe you doubt my amazing powers of negotiation,’ said Polly. ‘Also I wish I’d told you I got it for four grand and pocketed the difference.’
‘Adding theft to lying,’ mused Huckle. ‘You are a naughty girl.’
Polly smiled.
‘Will I be properly punished when you get home?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Huckle, staring at the great big pile of government forms and paperwork he’d brought home from town, which should all have been completed months ago. ‘I expect so.’
‘Can’t you come home now? Now we’ve got the van? I can get loads of supplies with the rest of the money, and Jayden says he doesn’t see why I shouldn’t have all the leftover herbs and spices from the bakery, seeing as they don’t bake fresh any more – it wouldn’t be stealing, they don’t use them, they’re just sitting there. So we could just start, and you could come home.’
‘Businesses don’t just start,’ said Huckle. ‘You took over a going concern before. It doesn’t normally work like that. You’re going to have ages when you’ll have quiet days and off days and nobody even turning up. It’s not even the summer season yet. You’ll need cash to keep you going through that. Council tax is due. And the TV licence, even though, one, I have no idea why you Brits have to pay money for the TV, and two, you never watch it.’
‘Force of habit,’ mumbled Polly. ‘Also, if you don’t pay it, they put you in prison.’
‘I am so glad I have committed my life to this place,’ said Huckle gravely. Polly heard doors opening and chatter in the background. ‘Okay, I have to go.’
‘Uh, totally,’ said Polly, as if she too were busy, rather than having absolutely nothing to do for the entire evening except rattle round an empty lighthouse, half watching telly with dreadful reception, feeling alone, and fighting – and eventually giving in to – the desire to eat the rest of the gingerbread. ‘Bye, my love.’
‘And to you,’ said Huckle.
Huckle hung up the phone and headed back into the farmhouse kitchen. Clemmie was sitting there wearing an old linen dress, her stout boots by the door. She was looking tired and beaten down. She looked up at Huckle, her voice soft, and very Southern.
‘Huckle, while he was over there… did he… I mean, was there another girl?’
Huckle put his hands up.
‘You’d have to ask him,’ he said. He absolutely didn’t want to get involved in this kind of thing. Clemmie’s soft eyes grew even sadder, as she passed him a huge plate of ribs with a baked potato. She sighed.
‘You know, you could pass the farm on,’ said Huckle. ‘Once I’ve got it sorted out. Once it’s on its feet again. You could sell the stewardship as a going concern, head back to the city.’
Clemmie shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘This is ours.’
Then she looked up at him and touched her stomach.
‘And this is ours too.’
She hadn’t even been showing.
‘Oh, Clem,’ said Huckle, his heart nearly breaking for her. He wanted to hunt down his brother and knock some sense into him.
‘Does he know?’
She shook her head.
‘I want to tell him face to face.’
Huckle thought painfully of his promise to Polly: to sort things out, to make a little money, to come straight home. Suddenly he resented being stuck in the steamy humidity of Georgia whilst Polly was sitting on a rock enjoying the fresh sunshine and chill wind of his beloved Cornwall. He wanted to be there with her.
He cleared the table for Clemmie, who immediately fell asleep in an armchair. He put a blanket over her and went upstairs. But he couldn’t sleep. There was no air conditioning in the tiny spare room.
He lay awake listening to the cicadas, worrying – what if Dubose didn’t come back? What would he do then? – and listing all the work that had to be done the next day. Having grown up on a farm, Huckle was under no illusion as to how tough it was. Which was why his mother was so desperate for him to be out of the game, into an office job. But being indoors was no use to him either. Really he just wanted to be… He thought back to a day the previous year – in fact it must have been Polly’s birthday, the real one, not a silly fake one. It had been the day he had finally got that fricking bath installed.
They couldn’t afford the lovely claw-foot bath that Polly craved – the bathroom had a window out to sea, and she dreamt of lying and gazing out across the water. But then, a few days before her birthday, Huckle had been clearing out some old hives from a grand house that had been sold off for apartments. The builders had moved in, and he had seen it. It wasn’t the fancy type that everyone wanted to pretend was reclaimed; it was a genuine, ancient, enormous old copper can, the type that at one time wouldn’t even have been plumbed in. He regarded it with awe.
