Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 69

He’d made his position very clear. She prodded, as she kneaded, at her deepest, darkest fear: that he was happier in America than he was at home with her. She couldn’t help feeling this way. She knew he was working hard, but even so. Life had, she fondly imagined, to be easier there.
They didn’t have any of the comforts of the modern world in Polbearne, not really. One motorbike, one tatty old falling-down lighthouse in desperate need of care and attention; no Wi-Fi or theatre or culture or even half-decent television reception; one half of a career that earned pennies and finished at eleven o’clock every morning…
She tried not to let her tears plop into the dough. Even Rob Harrison, the very early-morning DJ, couldn’t perk her up. She loved Huckle, loved him to bits, but she also loved her job, she loved Mount Polbearne, her life was here: everything she’d made herself, everything she’d built up from nothing. And she was accepted here, finally – well, more or less: this was her home.
Her heart churned as she kneaded the dough, her brain going round and round on a track. It was a great relief when Jayden, bless his heart, did indeed arrive at 5 a.m., which meant she had to dry her tears as quickly as she was able. He did a thorough scrub-down of the kitchen, which helped a lot, whilst also mentioning excitedly that he’d popped into the post office on the mainland and said he was available, and had spoken to the postman there who’d had the Mount Polbearne route for twenty years, even though it drove him crazy with the lack of street names and the fact that half the surnames were the same, and the many, many hours he’d spent waiting for the tide to turn so he could get his delivery in, and the heaviness of lugging his bag across on his bicycle, which was not at all designed to be ridden on slippery wet cobbles, and he hated that damn island and if it was up to him, the villagers would all have to make their way across to the mainland like normal bloody people if they wanted their mail, it was an absolute bloody scandal and had given him sciatica. Anyway, that was everything he had to say on the subject. So, the postie was coming up for retirement, and Jayden had come away with an application form, which was making him quite excited. He reckoned he could start at Polly’s at five, do his rounds and be finished with his two jobs for the day by nine.
‘So I’ll be getting double bubble AND have my whole day to myself,’ he said, with some satisfaction. ‘That’ll be the life for me. And I’ll save up. For the best damn car Mount Polbearne’s ever seen.’
‘Mount Polbearne’s only got four cars,’ Polly pointed out. It really wasn’t worth bringing them over from the mainland: there was nowhere to drive to, plus the salt water and sea air ate through the metal in about six months. Plus insurance was utterly insane. So insane, in fact, that Polly was highly suspicious that anybody who had a car was actually insured at all.
‘Well mine will easily be the best car, then, won’t it?’ said Jayden, with unavoidable logic, as they carried the half-baked fresh loaves downstairs to fill Nan the Van to the rafters. By now it was pink and golden outside, the heavy clouds of yesterday dispersed; it was going to be the most beautiful day.
‘So can Huckle come back now?’ Jayden said.
‘Oh for God’s sake, can everyone stop asking me that?’
Jayden’s friendly, boyish face crinkled.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That must make you sad.’
‘Yes, it does,’ Polly said weakly.
‘Can’t you just tell him to come back now you’ve got your super van? And me working for you, and that stunning model girl.’
‘Selina?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hang on, I thought Flora was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen in your life and she’d completely broken your heart.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jayden. ‘But I appreciate… well, most ladies really.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jayden shyly. ‘I didn’t meet many growing up. Only got brothers, then with the fishing… I think you’re all lovely. You all smell so nice.’
‘Uh, all right,’ said Polly hurriedly.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean you. You’re my boss.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Anyway, I hope Huckle comes back soon,’ said Jayden. ‘I really miss him.’
‘Thank you, Jayden,’ said Polly, pushing open the lighthouse door. She only locked it in the summer during the daytime, and that was only after she’d come home once to find a family of wide-eyed holidaymakers in her sitting room, with the father extemporising, ‘… and then one day the lighthouse keepers simply vanished without a trace’, at which she’d had to shoo them out, which had scared the children of the party, who thought she was the lighthouse ghost. Since then she’d had a ‘Private Property’ sign put up at the bottom of the steps, even though a) she thought it looked a bit mean and petty, given that the view really did belong to everyone, and b) it didn’t stop people coming up the steps anyway, walking right round the lighthouse and patting her van.
As they reached the van, she got such a shock, she nearly dropped her tray. They both stood and stared at it together. On the closed side – the side facing the sea, away from the lighthouse – scrawled in huge, angry letters was the word ‘SLAG’.
‘Oh God,’ said Polly. ‘Oh my. Oh dear.’
Carefully, before she dropped them, she put the loaves on the ground, and her hands flew to her mouth.
Jayden shook his head.
‘Who on earth would do that?’
He turned to her.
‘There was no one here when I came up. But I didn’t see it, it’s facing the other way, and it was dark.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘Why would you? Oh God. Oh God, who would…’
There was a pause.
‘Malcolm,’ said Polly and Jayden at the same time.
‘He must have found out how well the van is doing,’ said Polly. She’d gone completely white.
‘And that you’ve given me a job,’ said Jayden.
Polly shook her head. The word was so abrasive, so shocking and nasty.
Jayden ran back into the lighthouse and re-emerged with some cleaning products and a brush, but it was no use, they couldn’t get it off. It was properly done with spray paint. The entire van would need to be resprayed.