Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 80

Then Polly threw up all over the harbour wall.
Another figure came up to the group, gesticulating and pointing. Wearily Polly turned her head in his direction. Oh lord, it was Malcolm. What on earth could he possibly want now?
To her amazement – she hadn’t been able to hear what he was saying, the roar of the wind in her ears was still so strong; in fact, she had begun to think it would never leave her – the group began to follow him, even Patrick, who had been working on the limp forms of the little boy and the man. Two strong arms, one either side, grabbed Polly and dragged her along with them, but she was barely there.
‘I have to go,’ she muttered. ‘I have to go back. I have to light the lamps. I have to show the light in the lighthouse…’
She looked down and was surprised to find her fingers were still holding tight to the lantern. It no longer worked – it had either been bashed or saturated, or the batteries had run out – but it was still there.
‘It’s okay,’ said Muriel’s soothing voice. ‘The ladies are taking storm lanterns down there. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.’
And indeed, although the wind was still high and furious, and the rain still squalled, the thunder wasn’t quite so frequent and the lightning was more and more of an afterthought as what felt like the entire village traipsed along the harbourside.
The Little Beach Street Bakery was lit up by candles and all the torches that could be found. It was also incredibly warm. Malcolm had opened up the unused kitchen at the back and turned on every oven. Polly realised just how freezing she’d been.
Someone scrambled off to make great big vats of tea. It was the single best cup of tea Polly had ever tasted, the single best anything, as she sat in an armchair that someone had brought in, dimly watching as people got busy. Nobody spoke to her; if they went past, they just patted her gently on the head or the arm, making sure she was all right. She was quite happy about this. There would be talking, and police, and recriminations, and explanations, and her mother to calm down, and oh lord, Huckle. But for now she had her tea, plus she was watching, anxiously, for signs of life in the rescued pair.
Nobody knew how long they’d been in the water; Polly, when asked, described how she had seen the figures on the wrecked boat from the lighthouse, and that couldn’t have been more than forty minutes, maybe half an hour, earlier, which seemed astonishing to her: surely it had taken hours? Apparently not.
On the other hand, in water this wild and cold, it really didn’t take long, particularly in children. Patrick looked worried, and was sweating in the all-encompassing warmth of the bakery.
The little boy suddenly coughed and moved his head, then, just as Polly had done, threw up a vast amount of sea water all over the floor.
One of the women shuffled between the little boy and his dad, who was still unconscious, to stop him seeing him.
Patrick sat down at the boy’s head.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Josephus,’ said Polly, suddenly remembering. ‘His name is Josephus.’
‘Josephus?’ said someone doubtfully.
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘That’s why I remembered it.’
‘Josephus?’ said Patrick softly.
The little boy opened his eyes dully. He couldn’t seem to focus.
‘Hello there,’ said Patrick. The boy blinked.
‘Cold,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s why we’re getting you nice and warm.’
‘Where’s my mum?’
‘Um,’ said Patrick. ‘Let’s just get you nice and cosy.’
‘I want my mum.’
‘Sssh,’ said Patrick, not knowing what else to say. ‘We’re looking for your mummy.’
The boy tried to sit up and was sick again.
‘Is this because I was bad?’ he said. ‘Daddy said not to go near the side of the boat. Is it because I went near the side of the boat?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Patrick, ‘Absolutely not. Come here.’
And he lifted the child, wrapped in his blanket, his limbs still blue with cold, towards the open oven.
‘Ow,’ said Josephus as the blood started to flow back into his nerve endings and bring them back to life. ‘Ow, that hurts.’
‘We’re going to get you something good to drink,’ promised Patrick.
‘Fanta?’ said Josephus.
‘No,’ said Patrick calmly. ‘Not Fanta.’
Muriel brought some very milky tea and handed it over. From the floor there came a groan. The man was stirring too.
‘DADDY!’ said the boy, seeing him. He tried to get up, but his limbs wouldn’t hold him. ‘DADDY!’
Patrick carried the boy over to his dad. The man moved his head from side to side.
‘Wake up, Daddy!’ said the boy, his fingers going to the man’s eyes.
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Patrick, leaning forward, but not before the man had indeed opened his eyes.
‘Josephus?’ he said. ‘Is that you, Josephus?’
‘DADDY!’
The little boy flung his arms round his father’s neck as the man closed his eyes; not, thankfully, lapsing into unconsciousness again, but simply with howling gratitude. He tried to lift his arms to put them round the boy, but couldn’t manage.
‘Right, you two,’ said Muriel practically. ‘Closer to the ovens, please. You’re not the only reprobates who need to be brought back to life tonight.’
Someone brought in a bottle of whisky.
‘None of that,’ ordered Patrick. ‘It’s not good for blood flow, cuts it down.’
‘Um,’ said Muriel. ‘Actually it’s for Polly, Selina and everybody else.’
Polly took the bottle. Selina had gone upstairs to change and had come down looking thin and very young in a jumper that was far too big for her. She glanced at Polly anxiously. The two of them were both shaking. Polly got up on wobbly legs and held Selina, then they both sat back down in the big armchair as other people fussed around Josephus and his father. Polly took a huge slug of the whisky. Whilst she actually preferred the taste of sea water – and both made her splutter about the same amount – she enjoyed the sudden heat that spread through her to her toes, and the way her fingers started to gradually uncurl. She leaned against Selina, and they both stared into the flames of the wood-burning stove.