Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 76
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Sure enough, once she’d found the Allen key that unlocked the panel, she found herself staring at a mass of electrical wiring. There was nothing here she could manage at all. She swore at the panel, which didn’t help, but bending down, she did notice something against the wall: a huge, old-fashioned square fog lantern with a large battery inside it.
With trembling fingers she reached out and switched it on, and to her massive relief, it shone out: shone out so strongly, in fact, that it blinded her completely and she had to jump back.
As soon as her eyelids stopped dazzling, she moved forward again to pick it up carefully from behind. Then, pulling her damp blanket a little closer around her shoulders – it was freezing up in the big light tower without the main light on – she moved towards the window and shone the big beam out into the night.
It wasn’t much; it hardly penetrated more than twenty metres into the howling dark. But it wasn’t about what she could see, Polly reasoned. It was about, hopefully, allowing other people to see the lighthouse. Not that anyone could possibly be out there, could they? Not at sea. They couldn’t be. She toyed with the idea of walking around the room to give the illusion of the light moving, but decided this wasn’t necessarily helpful, and she had absolutely no idea how long the battery would last, and how long it would take the emergency services to get here. So instead she stood and shone it out of the window, as close as she could get to the sea. Mount Polbearne was hardly visible from up here, nothing more than ghostly wisps of light through the hazy tumbling rain. Come on, thought Polly. Come on, storm. Blow yourself out. Move on to a place where people will just lose a couple of roof tiles.
There was a sudden screeching noise behind her. Polly jumped up in the air.
‘Christ,’ she said, as it came again: a kind of feedbacky noise. She turned her head to see what the hell had made it. Somewhere on the other side of the room a red light was blinking. She headed towards it. The noise went off again.
Frowning, Polly put the big lamp down on a stool by the window and turned towards the dark room to investigate.
She saw as she came closer that it was a walkie-talkie, and her heart leapt. The outside world! Thank God!
She picked it up and fiddled with various buttons. It had obviously been plugged in and was charged.
‘Polly? Polly? Over. Polly? Polly? Over,’ came a distorted voice.
She pressed the answer button.
‘Jayden, is that you?’
There was a long pause.
‘Jayden?’
‘No.’ The voice was recognisable now. It was Selina.
‘Hey,’ said Polly. She had forgotten about Selina’s strange behaviour from earlier. ‘Are the boys there?’
‘No,’ said Selina again. And indeed, there were fewer lights out in the streets. ‘They’ve all gone over to the beach. The RNLI picked them up and they launched from there. All down the coast it’s ruinous, apparently. Mount Polbearne is the only place the boats stayed beached.’
‘Because we know,’ said Polly, pounding her fist on the old desk unit. ‘Oh God. We know.’
She took a deep breath.
‘Can you see me?’ she said.
‘Only a glimmer,’ said Selina. ‘I’m upstairs, though. If I was down at boat level… well, I don’t know. Is that all the light you have?’
‘No,’ said Polly patiently. ‘Actually the light is working, I just thought it would be funnier to leave it off.’
‘What was it like getting up there?’ said Selina.
‘Grim,’ said Polly.
There was a pause.
‘All the men out there again,’ said Polly quietly, as they both thought of another storm.
‘Archie said there were holidaymakers out there. People fiddling about in boats.’
Polly instantly remembered how beautiful the afternoon had been: all those jolly sails bobbing their way to the horizon.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. And she peered out, trying desperately to see through the maelstrom, tilting the light down to try and break through. The storm would pass, it would soon be over, and everything would be all right. All she had to do was keep tilting the light down.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Polly felt drowsy, shining the light down and around the waves below. How could the storm be showing no signs of abating? It had roared on and on for two hours now at least. She dreaded to think what the brave boys were doing down along the coast with the RNLI. Although maybe everyone was safely gathered in now.
At least Mount Polbearne had no trees – none could grow in the onslaught of the wind on the hilltops. But on the mainland surely trees would be falling, blocking roads. Tiles would be off roofs; beach huts crushed like matchsticks, or simply lifted into the air. She felt for the beachside cafés and little surfing shacks strung along the hundreds of kilometres of coastline; she wondered about the lovely little kitchen at Reuben’s old place and wondered if it could survive. Well, Cornwall had taken a pounding before, and it could take one again, she knew. The railway line would be flooded. Flights would be grounded. At least she wouldn’t have to worry that Huckle might suddenly arrive without her having shaved her legs. She used to think that might happen, back before his staying away became normality, rather than a strange occurrence.
She gazed out into the endless night. It felt like this was the world now: a howling apocalyptic void, not the gentle breezy place she considered home.
Suddenly, her eyes caught something. She blinked, not trusting them. Then she moved closer to the window. Damn this scratchy perspex: it was fine for a light to shine out of, but not so good for seeing through properly. She stared ahead, then gasped.
Out on the causeway – or rather, where the causeway was when it wasn’t buried beneath several metres of turbulent water – something white was waving in the barely discernible light. Polly cursed her underpowered lamp again, and strained her eyes to see. Something… something was moving out there. Was it a large piece of flotsam? She hoped so: something that had been torn off a big ship – a tarp or a lifebelt or something insignificant and unimportant.
But then it would not be swinging so wildly in the wind, not like that, to and fro, as if it were still attached – just – to a boom.
Just as she was swearing again, a purple light went off just beside it, like a firework, suddenly and quickly illuminating the area. A flare. Someone had let off a flare.
With trembling fingers she reached out and switched it on, and to her massive relief, it shone out: shone out so strongly, in fact, that it blinded her completely and she had to jump back.
As soon as her eyelids stopped dazzling, she moved forward again to pick it up carefully from behind. Then, pulling her damp blanket a little closer around her shoulders – it was freezing up in the big light tower without the main light on – she moved towards the window and shone the big beam out into the night.
It wasn’t much; it hardly penetrated more than twenty metres into the howling dark. But it wasn’t about what she could see, Polly reasoned. It was about, hopefully, allowing other people to see the lighthouse. Not that anyone could possibly be out there, could they? Not at sea. They couldn’t be. She toyed with the idea of walking around the room to give the illusion of the light moving, but decided this wasn’t necessarily helpful, and she had absolutely no idea how long the battery would last, and how long it would take the emergency services to get here. So instead she stood and shone it out of the window, as close as she could get to the sea. Mount Polbearne was hardly visible from up here, nothing more than ghostly wisps of light through the hazy tumbling rain. Come on, thought Polly. Come on, storm. Blow yourself out. Move on to a place where people will just lose a couple of roof tiles.
There was a sudden screeching noise behind her. Polly jumped up in the air.
‘Christ,’ she said, as it came again: a kind of feedbacky noise. She turned her head to see what the hell had made it. Somewhere on the other side of the room a red light was blinking. She headed towards it. The noise went off again.
Frowning, Polly put the big lamp down on a stool by the window and turned towards the dark room to investigate.
She saw as she came closer that it was a walkie-talkie, and her heart leapt. The outside world! Thank God!
She picked it up and fiddled with various buttons. It had obviously been plugged in and was charged.
‘Polly? Polly? Over. Polly? Polly? Over,’ came a distorted voice.
She pressed the answer button.
‘Jayden, is that you?’
There was a long pause.
‘Jayden?’
‘No.’ The voice was recognisable now. It was Selina.
‘Hey,’ said Polly. She had forgotten about Selina’s strange behaviour from earlier. ‘Are the boys there?’
‘No,’ said Selina again. And indeed, there were fewer lights out in the streets. ‘They’ve all gone over to the beach. The RNLI picked them up and they launched from there. All down the coast it’s ruinous, apparently. Mount Polbearne is the only place the boats stayed beached.’
‘Because we know,’ said Polly, pounding her fist on the old desk unit. ‘Oh God. We know.’
She took a deep breath.
‘Can you see me?’ she said.
‘Only a glimmer,’ said Selina. ‘I’m upstairs, though. If I was down at boat level… well, I don’t know. Is that all the light you have?’
‘No,’ said Polly patiently. ‘Actually the light is working, I just thought it would be funnier to leave it off.’
‘What was it like getting up there?’ said Selina.
‘Grim,’ said Polly.
There was a pause.
‘All the men out there again,’ said Polly quietly, as they both thought of another storm.
‘Archie said there were holidaymakers out there. People fiddling about in boats.’
Polly instantly remembered how beautiful the afternoon had been: all those jolly sails bobbing their way to the horizon.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. And she peered out, trying desperately to see through the maelstrom, tilting the light down to try and break through. The storm would pass, it would soon be over, and everything would be all right. All she had to do was keep tilting the light down.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Polly felt drowsy, shining the light down and around the waves below. How could the storm be showing no signs of abating? It had roared on and on for two hours now at least. She dreaded to think what the brave boys were doing down along the coast with the RNLI. Although maybe everyone was safely gathered in now.
At least Mount Polbearne had no trees – none could grow in the onslaught of the wind on the hilltops. But on the mainland surely trees would be falling, blocking roads. Tiles would be off roofs; beach huts crushed like matchsticks, or simply lifted into the air. She felt for the beachside cafés and little surfing shacks strung along the hundreds of kilometres of coastline; she wondered about the lovely little kitchen at Reuben’s old place and wondered if it could survive. Well, Cornwall had taken a pounding before, and it could take one again, she knew. The railway line would be flooded. Flights would be grounded. At least she wouldn’t have to worry that Huckle might suddenly arrive without her having shaved her legs. She used to think that might happen, back before his staying away became normality, rather than a strange occurrence.
She gazed out into the endless night. It felt like this was the world now: a howling apocalyptic void, not the gentle breezy place she considered home.
Suddenly, her eyes caught something. She blinked, not trusting them. Then she moved closer to the window. Damn this scratchy perspex: it was fine for a light to shine out of, but not so good for seeing through properly. She stared ahead, then gasped.
Out on the causeway – or rather, where the causeway was when it wasn’t buried beneath several metres of turbulent water – something white was waving in the barely discernible light. Polly cursed her underpowered lamp again, and strained her eyes to see. Something… something was moving out there. Was it a large piece of flotsam? She hoped so: something that had been torn off a big ship – a tarp or a lifebelt or something insignificant and unimportant.
But then it would not be swinging so wildly in the wind, not like that, to and fro, as if it were still attached – just – to a boom.
Just as she was swearing again, a purple light went off just beside it, like a firework, suddenly and quickly illuminating the area. A flare. Someone had let off a flare.
