Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 23
Polly was aware that her family was strange. Kerensa had been raised by her mother, Jackie, entirely on her own, and it had all worked out fine. She knew the circumstances of why her dad had left, and she even saw him from time to time. It was tough, but it was how it was.
It wasn’t like that in Polly’s house. There, a mysterious shroud of silence covered everything. Her grandparents, with whom they had lived when Polly was little, had stiffened if Polly ever mentioned her father, so she had learned early not to ask questions, although she’d been extremely curious.
And unlike Jackie, who had dated and eventually married a lovely man called Nish, for whom Polly and Kerensa had been giggly, rather naughty bridesmaids, Doreen had never moved on, nursing her parents until they’d died within six months of each other, using them as an excuse not to have a social life really, or have any friends of Polly’s round. The house was always quiet. Not much changed there: the same cross on the wall; the same school picture of Polly at six, with her strawberry-blonde hair and missing tooth, against a bright blue background; her mother’s circled Radio Times in the tidy magazine rack beside the floral sofa.
It was school that had saved her. There was a local school that had been founded for orphans hundreds of years ago. Now it was a posh private school, but it still had a mission to take in fifty or so children missing a parent every year on scholarships. Her primary school had suggested it, and she’d managed to pass the exam.
The school itself was academic, backbitey, a tough environment of lots of clever children jostling to take first place. And the gulf between the paying pupils and the parentless charity cases was absolutely huge; socially unbridgeable.
But Polly soon found she didn’t care about that, because in the intake of scholarship children she made so many friends, among them Kerensa. They became an almost impenetrable group who bonded closer than glue. They felt affinity with the young motherless princes; as they became teenagers they got drunk on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day round each other’s basements; they looked out for one another and stuck together, because they had all experienced something children shouldn’t have to.
That was one of the reasons why it had been so shocking for everyone when Polly had upped and moved to Cornwall. Thankfully Kerensa had moved too and kept in touch. It was also why what was happening now was so awful. If Reuben found out, and if he decided to have nothing to do with the baby, then the cycle would start again, and both Kerensa and Polly knew how much they wanted to break it.
And it was why Polly was finding it so very difficult to take the next step with Huckle.
The little red terrace was spotlessly clean as always. Frosties, her mother’s cat, who was pure black with cream paws that looked like they’d been dipped in milk, was sitting on the windowsill, behind the net, watching her carefully. She was not an affectionate cat. Polly thought her mum should get a little dog like the old ladies in Mount Polbearne, something that would jump up and down and yap and be happy to see her and give her enthusiastic licks and cuddles. But Frosties lived up to her name and treated her mother with a casual disdain, like much of the rest of the world.
Unlike Kerensa’s mother, Doreen had never dated again, despite looking perfectly presentable for her age (and even if she hadn’t, Polly thought, plenty of people found other partners later in life). Her existence had contracted to the local street, the church, the high street shops. Polly didn’t know if it was a bad life, but it was certainly a small one. Her mother was scared of everything: the internet, public transport, people who weren’t the same colour as her; everything. In contrast, amongst Polly’s peer group, they dared each other, expanded their horizons, travelled far. Because they knew life was fragile, they embraced it rather than retreated from it. And that had opened up a great chasm between Polly and her mother. She couldn’t even ask, really, what her father had been like, or her mother would start to cry.
Best not to, then, all things considered.
So she nipped in quickly whilst Kerensa was in John Lewis, and said hello, and invited her mother to Reuben’s for Christmas, and Doreen of course immediately declined. Then they sat in near silence, and Polly felt, as ever, how much there was to say and how little ever actually got said. She wanted to ask her mother, ‘Should I get married? Should I have a child? Is it worth it? What do you think? Would I manage it? Could I?’
But Doreen had nothing to say on the subject, and Polly didn’t know how to ask.
Chapter Thirteen
The phone ringing at night was a horrible thing.
First of all it was so freezing, and only Polly would ever wake because Huckle was so used to her keeping weird hours late at night. So there was no point in her prodding him, even though statistically speaking it was far more likely to be his parents forgetting the time difference.
Also there was the panic factor. Already Polly could feel her heart beating far too fast. Phones shouldn’t ring late at night unless you were expecting something nice, like your friend having a baby in Australia or something. Polly was not expecting anything like that.
She experimentally stretched her foot out of the bed. The cold air felt sharp, like a knife. She hoped they weren’t going to get ice on the inside of the windows again. Neil had tried to sleep in the fireplace.
She made a grab for one of Huckle’s enormous jumpers and leapt into some Ugg boots. She had a massive and, she felt, very valid objection to Ugg boots on aesthetic grounds – she had once seen a picture of a celebrity wearing them on what had looked like a really sweaty beach and had been opposed to them ever since – but the Cornish climate had somehow allowed them to worm their way in when Kerensa had given her a pair, seeing as she had six pairs and was feeling sorry for her poor relation. Kerensa looked fine in Ugg boots; she had legs like sticks. They did not suit, Polly felt, the more curvaceous lady.
However, they were very useful under the circumstances, she thought now as she ran down the cold stone stairs. One of these days she was going to miss a step and trip and slip all the way down, but for now she knew every inch of them; every missing lip and worn section where generations of lighthouse keepers’ boots had marched patiently up and down.
The phone was not stopping. Probably not a wrong number then, she thought glumly. Her mum was all right, wasn’t she? She’d seen her a couple of days ago, and it wouldn’t be like her to be up after nine p.m., unless Midsomer Murders was on, a programme Polly thought entirely unsuitable for her nervous mother, though she wouldn’t be told.
It wasn’t like that in Polly’s house. There, a mysterious shroud of silence covered everything. Her grandparents, with whom they had lived when Polly was little, had stiffened if Polly ever mentioned her father, so she had learned early not to ask questions, although she’d been extremely curious.
And unlike Jackie, who had dated and eventually married a lovely man called Nish, for whom Polly and Kerensa had been giggly, rather naughty bridesmaids, Doreen had never moved on, nursing her parents until they’d died within six months of each other, using them as an excuse not to have a social life really, or have any friends of Polly’s round. The house was always quiet. Not much changed there: the same cross on the wall; the same school picture of Polly at six, with her strawberry-blonde hair and missing tooth, against a bright blue background; her mother’s circled Radio Times in the tidy magazine rack beside the floral sofa.
It was school that had saved her. There was a local school that had been founded for orphans hundreds of years ago. Now it was a posh private school, but it still had a mission to take in fifty or so children missing a parent every year on scholarships. Her primary school had suggested it, and she’d managed to pass the exam.
The school itself was academic, backbitey, a tough environment of lots of clever children jostling to take first place. And the gulf between the paying pupils and the parentless charity cases was absolutely huge; socially unbridgeable.
But Polly soon found she didn’t care about that, because in the intake of scholarship children she made so many friends, among them Kerensa. They became an almost impenetrable group who bonded closer than glue. They felt affinity with the young motherless princes; as they became teenagers they got drunk on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day round each other’s basements; they looked out for one another and stuck together, because they had all experienced something children shouldn’t have to.
That was one of the reasons why it had been so shocking for everyone when Polly had upped and moved to Cornwall. Thankfully Kerensa had moved too and kept in touch. It was also why what was happening now was so awful. If Reuben found out, and if he decided to have nothing to do with the baby, then the cycle would start again, and both Kerensa and Polly knew how much they wanted to break it.
And it was why Polly was finding it so very difficult to take the next step with Huckle.
The little red terrace was spotlessly clean as always. Frosties, her mother’s cat, who was pure black with cream paws that looked like they’d been dipped in milk, was sitting on the windowsill, behind the net, watching her carefully. She was not an affectionate cat. Polly thought her mum should get a little dog like the old ladies in Mount Polbearne, something that would jump up and down and yap and be happy to see her and give her enthusiastic licks and cuddles. But Frosties lived up to her name and treated her mother with a casual disdain, like much of the rest of the world.
Unlike Kerensa’s mother, Doreen had never dated again, despite looking perfectly presentable for her age (and even if she hadn’t, Polly thought, plenty of people found other partners later in life). Her existence had contracted to the local street, the church, the high street shops. Polly didn’t know if it was a bad life, but it was certainly a small one. Her mother was scared of everything: the internet, public transport, people who weren’t the same colour as her; everything. In contrast, amongst Polly’s peer group, they dared each other, expanded their horizons, travelled far. Because they knew life was fragile, they embraced it rather than retreated from it. And that had opened up a great chasm between Polly and her mother. She couldn’t even ask, really, what her father had been like, or her mother would start to cry.
Best not to, then, all things considered.
So she nipped in quickly whilst Kerensa was in John Lewis, and said hello, and invited her mother to Reuben’s for Christmas, and Doreen of course immediately declined. Then they sat in near silence, and Polly felt, as ever, how much there was to say and how little ever actually got said. She wanted to ask her mother, ‘Should I get married? Should I have a child? Is it worth it? What do you think? Would I manage it? Could I?’
But Doreen had nothing to say on the subject, and Polly didn’t know how to ask.
Chapter Thirteen
The phone ringing at night was a horrible thing.
First of all it was so freezing, and only Polly would ever wake because Huckle was so used to her keeping weird hours late at night. So there was no point in her prodding him, even though statistically speaking it was far more likely to be his parents forgetting the time difference.
Also there was the panic factor. Already Polly could feel her heart beating far too fast. Phones shouldn’t ring late at night unless you were expecting something nice, like your friend having a baby in Australia or something. Polly was not expecting anything like that.
She experimentally stretched her foot out of the bed. The cold air felt sharp, like a knife. She hoped they weren’t going to get ice on the inside of the windows again. Neil had tried to sleep in the fireplace.
She made a grab for one of Huckle’s enormous jumpers and leapt into some Ugg boots. She had a massive and, she felt, very valid objection to Ugg boots on aesthetic grounds – she had once seen a picture of a celebrity wearing them on what had looked like a really sweaty beach and had been opposed to them ever since – but the Cornish climate had somehow allowed them to worm their way in when Kerensa had given her a pair, seeing as she had six pairs and was feeling sorry for her poor relation. Kerensa looked fine in Ugg boots; she had legs like sticks. They did not suit, Polly felt, the more curvaceous lady.
However, they were very useful under the circumstances, she thought now as she ran down the cold stone stairs. One of these days she was going to miss a step and trip and slip all the way down, but for now she knew every inch of them; every missing lip and worn section where generations of lighthouse keepers’ boots had marched patiently up and down.
The phone was not stopping. Probably not a wrong number then, she thought glumly. Her mum was all right, wasn’t she? She’d seen her a couple of days ago, and it wouldn’t be like her to be up after nine p.m., unless Midsomer Murders was on, a programme Polly thought entirely unsuitable for her nervous mother, though she wouldn’t be told.
