Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 62

‘Don’t tell them about the shouting.’
Kate frowned. ‘Can’t promise.’
‘I know.’
They smiled and shook hands, and Kate left, and Polly sat there in the car park for another four hours.
Chapter Seventeen
Huckle was sitting uncomfortably at an elaborately set table in his ex-girlfriend’s house, which was as immaculate as a house could be. He wished he wasn’t. When Candice had heard he was back over, she’d insisted, and she was hard to say no to. It was odd, he thought. It had taken him so long to get over her, and now that he was – and she was engaged to a very fit man called Ron, who did triathlons – he could barely remember why.
Candice had invited a girl for him to sit opposite. She was blonde and giggly and patently thought she was there for Huckle, as indeed she was.
Candice wanted Huckle back home and in her social circle again; she liked him, and thought he was throwing his life away burying himself in some other country. He wasn’t engaged, he wasn’t married, he’d chosen to leave the country – all was fair in love and war, wasn’t it? And it would be quite the coup for her if she managed to match-make her hot sexy ex (there were a lot of things Candice had not liked about Huckle – his lack of ambition, the way he absolutely didn’t care about appearances or being socially acceptable. The bedroom, however, had never been a problem. She missed it more than she could ever have admitted, no matter how many triathlons Ron trained for) and get him back his high-flying consulting job. Everyone would think she was amazingly cool and she could throw such a lovely party.
‘Polly again,’ sighed Candice, after he’d slipped out to take a phone call from Cornwall. ‘Goodness, she really is quite needy, isn’t she?’
Huckle frowned. Polly had been a little down on the phone, it was true, but that was pretty normal these days. He was getting used to it.
‘She’s having it tough back there,’ he said. ‘It’s taking a bit longer for her to get this thing off the ground than she thought. I don’t know why it’s making her so miserable, though.’ He put it down to her missing him and Neil, but was surprised at her lack of natural bounce. You normally couldn’t keep her down for long.
‘Well that’s no way to run a business,’ said Candice. ‘Did you consider coming back to your old firm? You’ll make all the cash you need quite a lot quicker than at that stupid farm. Let your brother sink or swim, that’s by far the best thing for him.’ She was always interested in Huckle’s work, and gave him lots of useful advice.
Huckle shook his head. He had promised Clemmie he wouldn’t tell anyone about the baby, not even Polly. Truthfully, now that he’d got the farm working properly and turning a profit, he really ought to leave. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure how to break it to Polly, but if she was having trouble with this van, if she really couldn’t make it work, then maybe he would just have to stay anyway, just to make a living. Goddam Dubose.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Would you like me to put in a word?’
‘Not yet,’ said Huckle. It wouldn’t ever come to that – staying in the US full time to make a crust. Would it?
‘Well, have you met Lily?’
Lily smiled broadly. Her teeth were absolutely perfect, her skin the colour of honey. Huckle smiled back politely, although his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘Hi!’ said Lily. ‘I teach yoga! You look like you could do with some.’
‘Do I?’ said Huckle.
These days there is a roaring trade in ‘quaint’ – a few distressed tables, wild flowers in a jam jar, some bunting, bits of driftwood here and there, and voilà, welcome to 2015. Very wearying, I’m sure you’ll agree. So thank goodness for the lone pioneers out there determined to get a bit of proper old-fashioned grit and authenticity back into our eating.
Not for Polly Waterford the fake cosiness of so-called traditional surroundings.
She hammers out her lonely trade in a brutal, windswept car park, maintaining the purity of her perfectly baked artisan bread – and for once the term is justified, rather than being as overused as ‘organic’ was five years ago – for an incredibly select audience, if you can even find her. Regularly sworn at by tramps, and battered by weather, Polly makes bread only for herself, and if you are lucky enough to track her down and share in it, you can consider yourself a true gourmet.
She lives alone in a lighthouse,
‘I don’t live alone in a lighthouse,’ said Polly crossly in her kitchen, then realised she was speaking out loud to an empty lighthouse.
which gives her the absolute solitude and purity she requires to perfect her loaves. She is not interested in prettifying anything, not even herself, which makes the tough path she has chosen and the weather-beaten effects on her life all the more admirable and impressive.
Polly growled to herself. ‘If I’d remembered a journalist was coming, I’d have put some lipstick on. And probably washed the van.’
However, if the outside is rough, inside is very special indeed, with some of the most astonishing campagne breads, wholemeal rolls – it seems there is absolutely nothing Polly can’t tackle with her scrubbed raw hands.
The phone rang. It was Selina.
‘Darling, is that you in the paper?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘It makes me sound like a witch. A terrifyingly lonely witch.’
‘It’s amazing!’ said Selina.
‘Being a witch,’ said Polly.
‘She says you’re the most amazing find.’
‘Yeah, if you want some new spells.’
Polly’s phone beeped with a waiting call. She apologised to Selina and switched over.
‘You’re a witch!’ shouted Kerensa joyously. ‘Show us your spooky powers!’
‘Shut up!’ said Polly. ‘I’m not a witch!’
‘She totally makes you sound like one.’
‘I know,’ said Polly.
‘But, you know, it’s really good!’
Polly heaved a sigh.
‘Do you think so? It basically makes me out to be a cross between Maleficent and the A-Team.’
‘That is a stupendous thing to be,’ said Kerensa. ‘Remember, I’m a marketing guru. Also, all Reuben’s friends can come now.’