Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 75
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There had been a storm before. A terrible storm that had rocked Mount Polbearne, that had destroyed half of its fishing fleet and taken one of its best men. They were only just recovering. That storm, Polly had slept through; had not realised what was happening; how serious and awful things could be.
This time, she did. And this time, she was right at the heart of it.
Now Polly deeply regretted her glibness and foolishness; she had to call the coastguard, but all the lines were down and all the mobile phones knocked out. This was a freak storm – it had come from nowhere – but the fact remained that she didn’t have any way of getting in touch with someone who could make things better.
Surely they’d notice, she thought. Surely people would notice there was no lighthouse. They’d send someone straight away. It would be obvious.
Although how would they get here? The causeway was of course completely impassable, and how on earth you’d launch a boat in this… Nobody would, she thought, apart from the RNLI. Nobody would ever be out in a boat in this, it would be completely crazy.
She pulled a blanket around her shoulders, for the night was very chilly, and went back down to the bathroom.
Thank God for IKEA, Polly thought. It was… well, it was unutterably useless, but it was better than nothing. Okay, better than absolutely nothing. She had eighty-five tea lights, more or less. She gathered them up in a pillowcase and took them upstairs, all the way to the very top, to the door that led to the outside of the lighthouse.
So. The mains electricity had failed, and the back-up generator too. This was the full extent of her technical knowledge on the subject. Huckle would have known what to do. He would have kick-started it like his bloody motorbike, it would be easy for him. But she didn’t have a clue.
And thank God, she’d forgotten, but here it was: a vast old torch, hanging off the nail next to the key. She checked: it worked fine. She breathed a huge sigh of relief, then, with some trepidation, unlocked the door leading on to the walkway steps.
At first, she thought she hadn’t managed to unlock the door at all, that it was jammed: the wind was pressed against it so hard, she couldn’t open it. The storm showed absolutely no signs of subsiding. The hail had stopped, but in its place was a heavy, solid rain that drenched her as soon as she managed to finally force the door open. It banged hard against the metal stairwell, and she took a step out, carefully, on to the walkway.
The breath was stolen from her lungs; she couldn’t breathe. The water poured down on her. The lightning crackled and buzzed all the way across the sky, now on this side, now the other, racking up the pounding waves. The thunder felt as if it was directly above her head, as if someone was throwing wardrobes across the sky. She clung to the metal balustrade, convinced that at any moment she would slip and tumble down, down down the side of the lighthouse and land in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Perhaps, she thought, they would bury her in Nan the Van. She choked back a sob and tried to stop her hands from shaking, but she was utterly frozen with nerves. It took every ounce of grit and courage she had not to turn and step back into the shelter of the lighthouse and close the door, and nobody would have blamed her if she’d done exactly that.
But she did not. Whimpering just a little, in a voice that couldn’t be heard at all above the storm, she inched forward, tiny bit by tiny bit, to put her hands on the opposite balustrade. The old iron wobbled precariously in the wind, so that she thought she was going to catapult straight over the fragile guard rail. She thought, ruefully, of sunnier times, when they had run lithely up and down these stairs as if it were nothing at all. If she got out of this, she told herself, she was going to move to a bungalow. In a desert.
She set one foot on the ladder, then the other. I can do this, she told herself. I can do this. But that was before she put her head above the bulk of the building, into the little gap between the lighthouse tower and the metal scaffold of the light itself, sitting in its own cage high, high up in the air. At once, the wind smacked her in the face; it was as if it was deliberately trying to take her head off. She was utterly blinded by the rain, which fell straight into her open mouth until she was gasping. Her hair was plastered to her head; her clothes were soaked through.
Truthfully Polly couldn’t quite remember how she made it: not just the last few steps on the ladder, but the perilous, slippery walkway round to the lighthouse casing door. Grabbing the balustrades with both hands, she pushed herself on, one foot in front of the other. At one point she nearly lost her footing. Her ankle went under and she howled and swore at the pain, hopping up again, her heart in full panic mode. The torch was swinging from her mouth, her teeth clenched on the end of it, as she could not hold it and balance at the same time. It took everything she had to slowly push herself forward again one more time, and onwards.
Finally she reached the plain door at the back of the lighthouse. She had to fumble for the key in the howling wind, trying with all her might not to let go of the torch, sobbing a little from the pain in her ankle, and terrified that she would drop the key through the grating and it would tumble down the lighthouse, lost.
Eventually she managed to still her trembling hands long enough to turn the key. She fell into the lamp room, her heart pounding, and forced the door shut behind her. And then, although it was still loud outside, it felt in that darkened room that everything was still. The roaring in Polly’s ears abated to manageable levels. A couple of the smaller panes on the underside of the lighthouse construction had shattered, but the main casing was thick and intact.
But outside, oh lord, what a sight. There were no birds in the air, certainly no moon or stars, just a great boiling vat of clouds and angry water, hurtling through the sky, through the sea, until there was barely any difference between the two. And the noise, oh, the noise was unbearable even inside, because it spoke of fear, and the very real knowledge of what a storm could do to people who didn’t live soft and comfortable on the mainland.
Polly let her pillowcase full of tea lights drop, and turned on her torch, shining the light around the heavy machinery, noting the great bulb no longer rotating in its winch. She found a fuse box, but looking in it couldn’t see anything that might help, even when she flicked the switches up and down. Anyway, the entire region’s power was out, and this didn’t charge the secondary generator, so it was useless anyway.
She swallowed hard and went towards the box that said ‘Generator’ on it. She had never opened it before – legally speaking, this wasn’t even her property; it belonged to Trinity House, and she had simply signed over access rights in return for owning the space. She didn’t have the faintest clue what to do; she only knew that this was an incredibly rare occurrence.
This time, she did. And this time, she was right at the heart of it.
Now Polly deeply regretted her glibness and foolishness; she had to call the coastguard, but all the lines were down and all the mobile phones knocked out. This was a freak storm – it had come from nowhere – but the fact remained that she didn’t have any way of getting in touch with someone who could make things better.
Surely they’d notice, she thought. Surely people would notice there was no lighthouse. They’d send someone straight away. It would be obvious.
Although how would they get here? The causeway was of course completely impassable, and how on earth you’d launch a boat in this… Nobody would, she thought, apart from the RNLI. Nobody would ever be out in a boat in this, it would be completely crazy.
She pulled a blanket around her shoulders, for the night was very chilly, and went back down to the bathroom.
Thank God for IKEA, Polly thought. It was… well, it was unutterably useless, but it was better than nothing. Okay, better than absolutely nothing. She had eighty-five tea lights, more or less. She gathered them up in a pillowcase and took them upstairs, all the way to the very top, to the door that led to the outside of the lighthouse.
So. The mains electricity had failed, and the back-up generator too. This was the full extent of her technical knowledge on the subject. Huckle would have known what to do. He would have kick-started it like his bloody motorbike, it would be easy for him. But she didn’t have a clue.
And thank God, she’d forgotten, but here it was: a vast old torch, hanging off the nail next to the key. She checked: it worked fine. She breathed a huge sigh of relief, then, with some trepidation, unlocked the door leading on to the walkway steps.
At first, she thought she hadn’t managed to unlock the door at all, that it was jammed: the wind was pressed against it so hard, she couldn’t open it. The storm showed absolutely no signs of subsiding. The hail had stopped, but in its place was a heavy, solid rain that drenched her as soon as she managed to finally force the door open. It banged hard against the metal stairwell, and she took a step out, carefully, on to the walkway.
The breath was stolen from her lungs; she couldn’t breathe. The water poured down on her. The lightning crackled and buzzed all the way across the sky, now on this side, now the other, racking up the pounding waves. The thunder felt as if it was directly above her head, as if someone was throwing wardrobes across the sky. She clung to the metal balustrade, convinced that at any moment she would slip and tumble down, down down the side of the lighthouse and land in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Perhaps, she thought, they would bury her in Nan the Van. She choked back a sob and tried to stop her hands from shaking, but she was utterly frozen with nerves. It took every ounce of grit and courage she had not to turn and step back into the shelter of the lighthouse and close the door, and nobody would have blamed her if she’d done exactly that.
But she did not. Whimpering just a little, in a voice that couldn’t be heard at all above the storm, she inched forward, tiny bit by tiny bit, to put her hands on the opposite balustrade. The old iron wobbled precariously in the wind, so that she thought she was going to catapult straight over the fragile guard rail. She thought, ruefully, of sunnier times, when they had run lithely up and down these stairs as if it were nothing at all. If she got out of this, she told herself, she was going to move to a bungalow. In a desert.
She set one foot on the ladder, then the other. I can do this, she told herself. I can do this. But that was before she put her head above the bulk of the building, into the little gap between the lighthouse tower and the metal scaffold of the light itself, sitting in its own cage high, high up in the air. At once, the wind smacked her in the face; it was as if it was deliberately trying to take her head off. She was utterly blinded by the rain, which fell straight into her open mouth until she was gasping. Her hair was plastered to her head; her clothes were soaked through.
Truthfully Polly couldn’t quite remember how she made it: not just the last few steps on the ladder, but the perilous, slippery walkway round to the lighthouse casing door. Grabbing the balustrades with both hands, she pushed herself on, one foot in front of the other. At one point she nearly lost her footing. Her ankle went under and she howled and swore at the pain, hopping up again, her heart in full panic mode. The torch was swinging from her mouth, her teeth clenched on the end of it, as she could not hold it and balance at the same time. It took everything she had to slowly push herself forward again one more time, and onwards.
Finally she reached the plain door at the back of the lighthouse. She had to fumble for the key in the howling wind, trying with all her might not to let go of the torch, sobbing a little from the pain in her ankle, and terrified that she would drop the key through the grating and it would tumble down the lighthouse, lost.
Eventually she managed to still her trembling hands long enough to turn the key. She fell into the lamp room, her heart pounding, and forced the door shut behind her. And then, although it was still loud outside, it felt in that darkened room that everything was still. The roaring in Polly’s ears abated to manageable levels. A couple of the smaller panes on the underside of the lighthouse construction had shattered, but the main casing was thick and intact.
But outside, oh lord, what a sight. There were no birds in the air, certainly no moon or stars, just a great boiling vat of clouds and angry water, hurtling through the sky, through the sea, until there was barely any difference between the two. And the noise, oh, the noise was unbearable even inside, because it spoke of fear, and the very real knowledge of what a storm could do to people who didn’t live soft and comfortable on the mainland.
Polly let her pillowcase full of tea lights drop, and turned on her torch, shining the light around the heavy machinery, noting the great bulb no longer rotating in its winch. She found a fuse box, but looking in it couldn’t see anything that might help, even when she flicked the switches up and down. Anyway, the entire region’s power was out, and this didn’t charge the secondary generator, so it was useless anyway.
She swallowed hard and went towards the box that said ‘Generator’ on it. She had never opened it before – legally speaking, this wasn’t even her property; it belonged to Trinity House, and she had simply signed over access rights in return for owning the space. She didn’t have the faintest clue what to do; she only knew that this was an incredibly rare occurrence.
