Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 60
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Polly’s face lit up. Here it was! The locals! This would save her! She knew the good people of Mount Polbearne wouldn’t let her down. She could have kissed Muriel.
‘Yay!’ she said. ‘That is fantastic news! Great! What would you like! And I can drive you back over too!’
Muriel looked at the van doubtfully.
‘I think I’d rather have the walk, to be honest.’
‘It’s pissing down!’
‘Yes, well, you know. Just till you get the hang of it.’
Polly smiled. ‘All right. What are you after?’
Muriel took out a piece of paper.
‘Okay. Campagne for Patrick. Sliced white for me. Half a dozen buns for Mrs Cranford.’
Polly waited expectantly.
‘And?’
There was a slightly awkward pause.
‘Um,’ said Muriel. ‘Um, that’s it.’
‘That’s it?’ said Polly, thinking with some despair of the queues outside the bakery door; the appreciation she was so used to.
Muriel looked concerned.
‘I know, Pol,’ she said. ‘I think… you know, you’ve been away for a while. I think maybe people are just kind of getting used to you not being there. I mean, they lived without the Beach Street Bakery for a long time…’
As she wrapped up the few orders in paper bags, Polly felt her heart grow heavy. Okay, so it wasn’t that she’d expected to be hoisted on the villagers’ shoulders and paraded round the town – okay, well maybe a tiny little bit, but not really. But she had hoped… she had hoped there would be enough day-to-day trade, enough people who missed her, to make it at least financially viable, particularly out of season.
‘Well, we’re just starting out,’ she said bravely, accepting the few meagre coins Muriel passed over. ‘It’s very early days.’
‘It is early days!’ said Muriel, nodding fiercely. ‘It’s day one! And look how cute your van is.’
‘Mmm,’ said Polly, who had spent all day staring at Nan the Van and was starting to go off her.
The rain had eased off and an experimental, watery ray of sunlight poked its way through one of the thick grey clouds. It lit up the causeway, its sodden cobbles winding their way home.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a lift?’ Polly asked.
‘It looks very slippery,’ said Muriel. ‘Do you know what, you drive on, and I’ll be right behind you. Then I’ll be well positioned to get help in case of, you know. Accidents.’
‘I’m perfectly competent!’ said Polly.
And she was. She was perfectly competent. Was that going to be enough to keep her on the road, though?
Chapter Sixteen
The whole week continued grey and miserable. Every morning, Malcolm, showing much more gumption and energy than he had done hitherto, would turn up in front of the van, threatening Polly, mentioning lawyers’ letters and laughing at her stock, which diminished every day as she ran lower on supplies – she hated throwing stock away or passing it on to the fishermen for free, which wasn’t teaching them the right behaviour either.
Huckle phoned, sounding so utterly knackered that Polly couldn’t bear to tell him that they were sliding briskly into failure; she tried to be perky and upbeat, didn’t mention Malcolm’s bullying behaviour at all, just in case Huckle got the next flight back and beat him to a bloody pulp. Instead she talked about building slowly, waiting to capitalise on the season; how all it would take was a spell of fine weather.
She had no idea that Polly sounding calm and measured was far more terrifying to Huckle than her usual state of either wild enthusiasm or deep despair. He was very worried.
By the second week, Polly was really starting to question herself. She’d sold a few things – some long-distance lorry drivers had somehow made their way to her, and enjoyed the change from bacon rolls and greasy spoons, and she sent them on their way to Land’s End and Penzance and Truro with as broad a smile as she could manage, hoping against hope that they’d be able to spread the news around their communities.
But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Muriel and Patrick buying loaves and the fishermen occasionally placing orders for sandwiches was all she was getting from the town. The holidaymakers would occasionally buy a loaf out of sheer desperation, because there was nothing else this side of Mount Polbearne and it was something to do while you were waiting for the waters to recede if you turned up too early or too late to make the crossing. But people missing the road was not, she knew, a business plan. She was not making a living. Nothing like it.
She sat in the van all day, scrubbing it, doing her best to cheer up for a few customers here and there, then staring at the sea, at the walls, trying not to panic as the time ticked by, endlessly slowly, until she would finally pack up for the final tide of the day, fall into bed in the lighthouse, all alone, and start all over again the next morning. She didn’t know how long she could keep this up.
It was a slightly more promising day, the first Tuesday in June. There was an early-morning mist across the water and into Beach Street, and looking down from the lighthouse you could hardly see a thing. But the sun soon burnt it off, and it was going to be warm when the dawn had lifted, Polly could tell as she loaded the van with her morning’s efforts: a particularly good and, she knew, soon to be wasted sun-dried tomato focaccia, which came with a little tub of olive oil to dip, the sweetness and saltiness blending to make the most delicious mouthful; some light raisin iced buns, the perfect mouthful for people waiting for the tide, so she was slightly more confident about those; and a bichette studded with lardons and plenty of freshly ground black pepper, which was her concession to a bacon sandwich. If you wanted a bacon sandwich and you got one of these, she reckoned you would be pretty happy, all in all.
She drove carefully across the causeway. She knew the islanders regarded Nan with some amusement and not a little concern, but actually Polly was entirely confident about driving her. Selling things out of the side was where it all started to go wrong.
She parked up in her usual spot – the car park was getting a little busier day by day, not by much, but the season was revving itself up to get into gear. Please, she begged silently, yet again. Please let this pick up for me.
This morning, there was an unusually smart car already parked there; a sporty little white BMW with a soft top, the type of thing Kerensa used to drive before her vehicle options came down to a choice between a microscooter and walking.
‘Yay!’ she said. ‘That is fantastic news! Great! What would you like! And I can drive you back over too!’
Muriel looked at the van doubtfully.
‘I think I’d rather have the walk, to be honest.’
‘It’s pissing down!’
‘Yes, well, you know. Just till you get the hang of it.’
Polly smiled. ‘All right. What are you after?’
Muriel took out a piece of paper.
‘Okay. Campagne for Patrick. Sliced white for me. Half a dozen buns for Mrs Cranford.’
Polly waited expectantly.
‘And?’
There was a slightly awkward pause.
‘Um,’ said Muriel. ‘Um, that’s it.’
‘That’s it?’ said Polly, thinking with some despair of the queues outside the bakery door; the appreciation she was so used to.
Muriel looked concerned.
‘I know, Pol,’ she said. ‘I think… you know, you’ve been away for a while. I think maybe people are just kind of getting used to you not being there. I mean, they lived without the Beach Street Bakery for a long time…’
As she wrapped up the few orders in paper bags, Polly felt her heart grow heavy. Okay, so it wasn’t that she’d expected to be hoisted on the villagers’ shoulders and paraded round the town – okay, well maybe a tiny little bit, but not really. But she had hoped… she had hoped there would be enough day-to-day trade, enough people who missed her, to make it at least financially viable, particularly out of season.
‘Well, we’re just starting out,’ she said bravely, accepting the few meagre coins Muriel passed over. ‘It’s very early days.’
‘It is early days!’ said Muriel, nodding fiercely. ‘It’s day one! And look how cute your van is.’
‘Mmm,’ said Polly, who had spent all day staring at Nan the Van and was starting to go off her.
The rain had eased off and an experimental, watery ray of sunlight poked its way through one of the thick grey clouds. It lit up the causeway, its sodden cobbles winding their way home.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a lift?’ Polly asked.
‘It looks very slippery,’ said Muriel. ‘Do you know what, you drive on, and I’ll be right behind you. Then I’ll be well positioned to get help in case of, you know. Accidents.’
‘I’m perfectly competent!’ said Polly.
And she was. She was perfectly competent. Was that going to be enough to keep her on the road, though?
Chapter Sixteen
The whole week continued grey and miserable. Every morning, Malcolm, showing much more gumption and energy than he had done hitherto, would turn up in front of the van, threatening Polly, mentioning lawyers’ letters and laughing at her stock, which diminished every day as she ran lower on supplies – she hated throwing stock away or passing it on to the fishermen for free, which wasn’t teaching them the right behaviour either.
Huckle phoned, sounding so utterly knackered that Polly couldn’t bear to tell him that they were sliding briskly into failure; she tried to be perky and upbeat, didn’t mention Malcolm’s bullying behaviour at all, just in case Huckle got the next flight back and beat him to a bloody pulp. Instead she talked about building slowly, waiting to capitalise on the season; how all it would take was a spell of fine weather.
She had no idea that Polly sounding calm and measured was far more terrifying to Huckle than her usual state of either wild enthusiasm or deep despair. He was very worried.
By the second week, Polly was really starting to question herself. She’d sold a few things – some long-distance lorry drivers had somehow made their way to her, and enjoyed the change from bacon rolls and greasy spoons, and she sent them on their way to Land’s End and Penzance and Truro with as broad a smile as she could manage, hoping against hope that they’d be able to spread the news around their communities.
But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Muriel and Patrick buying loaves and the fishermen occasionally placing orders for sandwiches was all she was getting from the town. The holidaymakers would occasionally buy a loaf out of sheer desperation, because there was nothing else this side of Mount Polbearne and it was something to do while you were waiting for the waters to recede if you turned up too early or too late to make the crossing. But people missing the road was not, she knew, a business plan. She was not making a living. Nothing like it.
She sat in the van all day, scrubbing it, doing her best to cheer up for a few customers here and there, then staring at the sea, at the walls, trying not to panic as the time ticked by, endlessly slowly, until she would finally pack up for the final tide of the day, fall into bed in the lighthouse, all alone, and start all over again the next morning. She didn’t know how long she could keep this up.
It was a slightly more promising day, the first Tuesday in June. There was an early-morning mist across the water and into Beach Street, and looking down from the lighthouse you could hardly see a thing. But the sun soon burnt it off, and it was going to be warm when the dawn had lifted, Polly could tell as she loaded the van with her morning’s efforts: a particularly good and, she knew, soon to be wasted sun-dried tomato focaccia, which came with a little tub of olive oil to dip, the sweetness and saltiness blending to make the most delicious mouthful; some light raisin iced buns, the perfect mouthful for people waiting for the tide, so she was slightly more confident about those; and a bichette studded with lardons and plenty of freshly ground black pepper, which was her concession to a bacon sandwich. If you wanted a bacon sandwich and you got one of these, she reckoned you would be pretty happy, all in all.
She drove carefully across the causeway. She knew the islanders regarded Nan with some amusement and not a little concern, but actually Polly was entirely confident about driving her. Selling things out of the side was where it all started to go wrong.
She parked up in her usual spot – the car park was getting a little busier day by day, not by much, but the season was revving itself up to get into gear. Please, she begged silently, yet again. Please let this pick up for me.
This morning, there was an unusually smart car already parked there; a sporty little white BMW with a soft top, the type of thing Kerensa used to drive before her vehicle options came down to a choice between a microscooter and walking.
