Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 85
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Slowly, incredibly slowly, he rolled on, straining for a glimpse of the pinky-yellow stones beneath the vehicle. A wake opened up behind him, the water rolling here and there as he prayed for the grip of the jeep’s tyres and tried to gauge where exactly he was with reference to the town’s walls.
He said a short prayer. At one point he came too close to the edge of the road, and felt the tyres lose purchase. For a second he thought this was it, that it was all over, but his hands automatically jerked the wheel and the car righted itself. Huckle let out a massive pent-up gasp and inadvertently pushed on the accelerator too hard, causing the car to spurt a little through the water and requiring him to pull back on course equally quickly. His pulse rate was going through the roof and he had to force himself to keep to the endless slow and steady pace.
There was one lone figure out and about, he saw, as he eventually approached, very, very gingerly, like a man on a high wire, the little road next to the jetty on Mount Polbearne. It was Patrick the vet, out walking his dog and picking up rubbish, starting on what would be a huge clean-up process. He tipped his hat as Huckle, shaking slightly, his brow damp with sweat, turned into the car park, breathing heavily as he pulled on the handbrake.
‘Hello there,’ said Patrick, as if they were just passing in the street. ‘Is that one of those car boats, then?’
‘No,’ said Huckle faintly. ‘No, it’s not one of those car boats.’
‘Hmm,’ said Patrick. ‘Well, you sailed it nicely, anyway. You should have been here last night, you can’t imagine what it was like. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve lived here fifty-eight years.’
‘I heard,’ said Huckle, wild-eyed suddenly. ‘Have you… I mean, where’s Polly?’
Patrick wrinkled his forehead.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can’t remember where she went.’
He looked around in astonishment as Huckle pushed past him and tore off along the harbour.
‘I was going to say,’ he added, ‘after the amazing things she did last night. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve had enough sleep. I wish the bakery was open to give me a cup of coffee.’
‘POL!’
The door to the lighthouse was lying open, and Huckle charged up the stairs, drenched in sweat. The place was in disarray. Tools were lying about as if they’d been thrown down. He burst into the sitting room. It was a mess: cups and plates lying about. But no Polly. It was as if she’d simply disappeared. Huckle’s heart was in his mouth. What had happened here?
‘POLLY!’
He charged up and down, but there was no sign of her. He shook his head. Where was she? He noticed the van – it must be Nan the Van, he thought – as he ran back outside. No wonder it had been so cheap; Polly hadn’t mentioned it was half painted green with bog-standard paint. He shook his head and raced on past it.
The doors of the Little Beach Street Bakery were open too, but there was no food in any of its windows. Malcolm was standing outside disconsolately. His night of popularity had been just about the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he had been very sad when they had all gone off to the pub, not even inviting him. He looked around with a sigh, only to see a huge, wild-eyed blond man bearing down on him. He had only met Huckle once, and didn’t remember who he was.
‘YOU!’ the giant roared. ‘YOU! Where the fuck is Polly? You took her shop, you took her job, you’ve made a total balls-up of it by all accounts, and you have bloody ruined her life and…’
He ran out of breath.
‘Where the fuck is she?’
Huckle knew he shouldn’t really be taking his frustration out on Malcolm, but he couldn’t help himself.
‘Seriously, tell me, you little fat lump!’
Malcolm quivered. Like all bullies, he was a terrific coward, always had been. Plus, Flora had disappeared last night, leaving him to turn off the ovens and tidy up all the pools of water and coats and jackets that were everywhere, which was more work, frankly, than he liked to undertake at any one time. As he had climbed the dark and lonely road to Mrs Manse’s chilly, dank old flat and her creaking bed with its dusty counterpane, he had sworn that that was it, he was done with this bloody place.
And that was before this man started shouting at him in the street.
‘Where is she?’
Malcolm wanted to say, how the hell should I know, but all the fight had gone out of him. He was done. Tiredly he jerked his thumb towards the flat above the shop.
‘She’s up there,’ he said wearily, just as a great slosh of water overflowed from his clogged-up drain, which Polly had always got Jayden to do after a rainstorm, and cascaded down the back of his one suit.
Huckle stared up at the window of her old flat.
‘You’re sure?’
Malcolm blinked crossly and was about to say something sarcastic, but Huckle had already dashed past him like he wasn’t even there. As he turned away to try and dry himself off, the sun came out.
Chapter Thirty
Polly had absolutely no idea where she was when she woke up, but the sun was dazzling through the window, the light reflecting off the water, as if the storm had been nothing more than a dream. She shook her head. Where was she? What was going on? What was that loud banging on the door?
She sat up, then groaned. Her ribs were on fire; it was agony this morning, far worse than it had been last night. And her head was full, overspilling. She had a quick panic about missing the morning bread, before remembering there was no bread that morning; could not be. She jumped up. It must be Selina banging at the door. She must have locked her out last night. Oh goodness, she hadn’t meant to. Well at least she hadn’t disturbed the bed.
Polly moved carefully towards the door, rubbing her face, which was still streaked in salt. Her hair was a mass of untameable frizz, which was going to need some serious work to get it back to normal. Well she could think about that later.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she shouted, her voice still cracked and hoarse. ‘I must have let the snub lock fall…’
Her voice trailed off as she opened the door. To her total and utter shock, there, shining golden in the morning light, somehow taller and broader than she remembered, was Huckle.
‘Oh my God,’ she croaked. Then again, ‘Oh my God.’
Huckle looked a total state. He was wearing a stained shirt. His shoes and trousers were soaking wet. His hair was sticking up, his eyes were red and puffy. He was covered in stubble. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
He said a short prayer. At one point he came too close to the edge of the road, and felt the tyres lose purchase. For a second he thought this was it, that it was all over, but his hands automatically jerked the wheel and the car righted itself. Huckle let out a massive pent-up gasp and inadvertently pushed on the accelerator too hard, causing the car to spurt a little through the water and requiring him to pull back on course equally quickly. His pulse rate was going through the roof and he had to force himself to keep to the endless slow and steady pace.
There was one lone figure out and about, he saw, as he eventually approached, very, very gingerly, like a man on a high wire, the little road next to the jetty on Mount Polbearne. It was Patrick the vet, out walking his dog and picking up rubbish, starting on what would be a huge clean-up process. He tipped his hat as Huckle, shaking slightly, his brow damp with sweat, turned into the car park, breathing heavily as he pulled on the handbrake.
‘Hello there,’ said Patrick, as if they were just passing in the street. ‘Is that one of those car boats, then?’
‘No,’ said Huckle faintly. ‘No, it’s not one of those car boats.’
‘Hmm,’ said Patrick. ‘Well, you sailed it nicely, anyway. You should have been here last night, you can’t imagine what it was like. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve lived here fifty-eight years.’
‘I heard,’ said Huckle, wild-eyed suddenly. ‘Have you… I mean, where’s Polly?’
Patrick wrinkled his forehead.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can’t remember where she went.’
He looked around in astonishment as Huckle pushed past him and tore off along the harbour.
‘I was going to say,’ he added, ‘after the amazing things she did last night. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve had enough sleep. I wish the bakery was open to give me a cup of coffee.’
‘POL!’
The door to the lighthouse was lying open, and Huckle charged up the stairs, drenched in sweat. The place was in disarray. Tools were lying about as if they’d been thrown down. He burst into the sitting room. It was a mess: cups and plates lying about. But no Polly. It was as if she’d simply disappeared. Huckle’s heart was in his mouth. What had happened here?
‘POLLY!’
He charged up and down, but there was no sign of her. He shook his head. Where was she? He noticed the van – it must be Nan the Van, he thought – as he ran back outside. No wonder it had been so cheap; Polly hadn’t mentioned it was half painted green with bog-standard paint. He shook his head and raced on past it.
The doors of the Little Beach Street Bakery were open too, but there was no food in any of its windows. Malcolm was standing outside disconsolately. His night of popularity had been just about the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he had been very sad when they had all gone off to the pub, not even inviting him. He looked around with a sigh, only to see a huge, wild-eyed blond man bearing down on him. He had only met Huckle once, and didn’t remember who he was.
‘YOU!’ the giant roared. ‘YOU! Where the fuck is Polly? You took her shop, you took her job, you’ve made a total balls-up of it by all accounts, and you have bloody ruined her life and…’
He ran out of breath.
‘Where the fuck is she?’
Huckle knew he shouldn’t really be taking his frustration out on Malcolm, but he couldn’t help himself.
‘Seriously, tell me, you little fat lump!’
Malcolm quivered. Like all bullies, he was a terrific coward, always had been. Plus, Flora had disappeared last night, leaving him to turn off the ovens and tidy up all the pools of water and coats and jackets that were everywhere, which was more work, frankly, than he liked to undertake at any one time. As he had climbed the dark and lonely road to Mrs Manse’s chilly, dank old flat and her creaking bed with its dusty counterpane, he had sworn that that was it, he was done with this bloody place.
And that was before this man started shouting at him in the street.
‘Where is she?’
Malcolm wanted to say, how the hell should I know, but all the fight had gone out of him. He was done. Tiredly he jerked his thumb towards the flat above the shop.
‘She’s up there,’ he said wearily, just as a great slosh of water overflowed from his clogged-up drain, which Polly had always got Jayden to do after a rainstorm, and cascaded down the back of his one suit.
Huckle stared up at the window of her old flat.
‘You’re sure?’
Malcolm blinked crossly and was about to say something sarcastic, but Huckle had already dashed past him like he wasn’t even there. As he turned away to try and dry himself off, the sun came out.
Chapter Thirty
Polly had absolutely no idea where she was when she woke up, but the sun was dazzling through the window, the light reflecting off the water, as if the storm had been nothing more than a dream. She shook her head. Where was she? What was going on? What was that loud banging on the door?
She sat up, then groaned. Her ribs were on fire; it was agony this morning, far worse than it had been last night. And her head was full, overspilling. She had a quick panic about missing the morning bread, before remembering there was no bread that morning; could not be. She jumped up. It must be Selina banging at the door. She must have locked her out last night. Oh goodness, she hadn’t meant to. Well at least she hadn’t disturbed the bed.
Polly moved carefully towards the door, rubbing her face, which was still streaked in salt. Her hair was a mass of untameable frizz, which was going to need some serious work to get it back to normal. Well she could think about that later.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she shouted, her voice still cracked and hoarse. ‘I must have let the snub lock fall…’
Her voice trailed off as she opened the door. To her total and utter shock, there, shining golden in the morning light, somehow taller and broader than she remembered, was Huckle.
‘Oh my God,’ she croaked. Then again, ‘Oh my God.’
Huckle looked a total state. He was wearing a stained shirt. His shoes and trousers were soaking wet. His hair was sticking up, his eyes were red and puffy. He was covered in stubble. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
