Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 88

‘Why not?’ said Polly, getting up, concerned. She moved forward. ‘It wasn’t me, Malcolm, I didn’t take any of your business. The people that came to me weren’t even from here. And I’m sorry I thought you did that to my van. I really am.’
‘No,’ said Malcolm. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with you. Although how could you think I would do that to your van? Don’t answer that.’
‘Hmm,’ said Polly. ‘So what was it then?’
‘I took a little bit of money,’ said Malcolm. He looked sullen and very much like the child he must once have been. ‘Just a tiny bit, to get by. Nothing really. Just a bit of petty cash.’
He held up the box and his face took on a sly look.
‘I’m taking what’s left.’
‘You stole from your own mother?’ said Huckle, aghast.
‘Just…’ Malcolm sighed. ‘I saw this really, really nice trumpet.’
Reuben blinked.
‘Did you get it?’
‘No,’ said Malcolm. ‘I was saving up for it. Then Flora wanted me to buy her a stupid mixer, Christ knows what for, and… well, it got slightly out of control.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Polly. ‘Oh dear, Malcolm, that was stupid.’ She shook her head. ‘Such a waste. It was a lovely little business here. Lovely.’
‘You can probably have it back if you like,’ mumbled Malcolm. ‘All she’s done is bend my ear about how much better it did under you and what an idiot I am. That’s all I’ve had off my mum my whole life.’
Reuben went up to him.
‘How much is this trumpet you want?’
Malcolm sighed. ‘Six hundred and ninety-nine pounds. I’ll never get it now.’
Reuben took out his wallet and uncreased a bunch of notes.
‘Reuben!’ said Polly, shocked at the sight.
‘What?’ said Reuben. ‘This is all foreign money anyhow. It just looks like bumwad to me.’
He peeled off seven notes and handed them over to Malcolm.
‘Now, take this, buy a trumpet and FIND YOUR AWESOME,’ he commanded.
‘Find my what?’
‘FIND YOUR AWESOME.’
‘Awesome?’
‘Say it. Be the best trumpet player in the world.’
‘Say I’m awesome?’
‘Say you’re awesome. Come on, say it.’
‘I’m awesome?’
‘YOU’RE AWESOME.’
‘I’m awesome,’ mumbled Malcolm.
‘SHOUT!’
‘I’M AWESOME!’
‘And again!’
Malcolm moved towards the causeway, heading for the mainland.
‘I’M AWESOME!’
‘YOU’RE AWESOME!’
‘I’M AWESOME!’
‘YOU’RE AWESOME!’
‘I’m awesome,’ came fading across the sea.
‘Numbnuts,’ said Reuben.
A couple of months later, Jayden was merrily cleaning behind the oven with the fervour of a man in love when he found something: it was a CD, labelled ‘Flora’.
He went up to the old bakery, where Polly had commanded Flora to do nothing but bake all day, whatever she liked, the more experimental the better. Flora was working on cherry coconut biscuits, with Jayden writing the results down in a little book of recipes. They were an outstanding team. A lank strand of hair had fallen out of her hairnet and was swaying in front of her face. Jayden had learned better than to tell her how beautiful he found it.
Jayden asked her about the CD and she said she didn’t know what it was; Malcolm had given it to her and she’d never bothered to stick it on because she didn’t like him very much, and Jayden said did she like him that much and she blushed and said he was all right, which was very much the best compliment Jayden had ever had from a woman under seventy years old ever, and the fact that it was from the most beautiful girl anyone in Polbearne had ever seen made him happier than he’d have thought possible.
Then they did stick it on, and discovered what it was: it was Malcolm, playing the trumpet. Great big streams of silver notes cascaded out of the speakers: jolly tunes, marching tunes, and sad, melancholy laments that tugged at the soul. It was beautiful.
Chapter Thirty-One
Polly was nowhere to be found in the sitting room when Huckle went looking for her just before bed. Tonight, several weeks on from the storm, the moon was clear, and the stars popped out above them. He had meant to tempt her up on to the gantry again, where the light was once again shining out clean and bright over the town and the rocks, keeping them safe. The workmen had repaired all the broken glass panes, put in a fresh generator that should never fail, and left a full instruction manual. And four storm lanterns.
Instead he found her, of course, in the kitchen. Her sleeves were rolled up and dusty with flour, and she was rolling out cheese croissants for the morning, equally spaced on the big wooden work surface. He watched her for a while, busy, hard at work, totally absorbed, oblivious to his presence.
‘Aren’t you meant to be wearing a hairnet?’ he finally teased, gently. She looked up and grinned at him.
‘I have VERY CLEAN HAIR. In a ponytail, you will notice. Please don’t call environmental health, I’ve had enough problems.’
‘Do you really think she’ll let you have Nan the Van next to the shop?’ asked Huckle, smiling.
‘I’ve been saying it for years: Mount Polbearne needs coffee. Good coffee. And I’m going to do it. Well, Selina’s going to do it.’
‘So you’re expanding?’
Polly smiled. ‘Well, don’t you think it will be good?’
‘More work for you.’
‘I like work,’ said Polly. ‘Also, we’re going to do a lot of honey teas. So you’d better get to work as well, mister.’
He was not in the slightest bit worried about this. He came over and kissed Polly lightly on the back of her neck.
‘Come to bed,’ he said.
‘Eleven minutes.’ She smiled at him. ‘Quicker if you stick all these trays in the dishwasher.’
‘It’s done,’ he said, helping her clean up, the two of them gently chatting, watching the setting sun through the window.
Later, in bed, just before she came up, he took the crumpled piece of paper out of his wallet one last time and stared at it. It was the advertisement for the engagement ring he had seen, flicking through Candice’s expensive magazine in her front room that day; the ring that he had been saving for, had wanted to present to her triumphantly: a rock on a rock, he had planned to say, which sounded better in his head than when he’d tried it out in front of the mirror.