Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 32
‘Or the last,’ said Kerensa. ‘Travelling bloody salesmen! Ha! That’s probably where they get their reputation.’
Polly sighed.
‘You see what I mean, though?’ said Kerensa, as they pushed on through the harsh winter night. ‘You do know a little more now. But also, if you want to see him – if you want anything to do with him – well, it’s up to you. You don’t have to ask permission. Your mum… she needs to get over it.’
‘But she’s so upset.’
‘I’ve known you a long time,’ said Kerensa. ‘And you know what? I don’t think I’ve ever known your mum not upset about something. I think that’s why you’re so cheery all the time.’
Polly was barely listening. She couldn’t help thinking how happy her mother must have been when she got the job at Dimmogs; her mum, who’d left school without many qualifications; who’d been the pride of her family when she’d landed such a posh job.
She’d lost it of course when she’d got pregnant; Polly knew that much. They’d said it was because of cutbacks and that people were buying fewer hats, but Doreen had known the truth: even in the eighties, being an unmarried mother carried a certain stigma. She’d slunk home, defeated before she’d even begun. And Polly had been paying the price ever since.
‘You remember Loraine Armstrong?’ said Kerensa, apropos of nothing.
Polly nodded. Loraine’s mum had been a young single mother too, and the pair had elicited snotty remarks and sidelong glances when they went clubbing together and to pubs, her mum often insisting to strangers after a couple of drinks that they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. Doreen had always found them horrific.
‘I reckon they had a better time than you guys did.’
Polly reflected on it.
‘I do too,’ she said finally. ‘Oh Lord. Take me home.’
As they approached Mount Polbearne, Kerensa fell silent. Polly, roused from her own deep thoughts, glanced across at her.
‘What’s on your mind?’
Kerensa swallowed.
‘Do you think that’s what Reuben would be like? If… you know. If he found out.’
‘You still don’t know for sure,’ said Polly. Kerensa stroked her huge bump, a sad look on her face. She could barely reach the steering wheel. She looked at Polly.
‘Seriously. You don’t know how badly I was ovulating that night. It was one of those times of the month where you’d fancy a tramp.’
Polly nodded. They sat in silence.
‘Because if he found out… I mean, I don’t know what he’d do.’
‘You mean – God forbid – the baby would have to grow up like me?’ said Polly.
‘No!’ said Kerensa. ‘That’s not what I meant at all. And anyway,’ she added, ‘that would be a good thing.’
Polly sighed crossly.
‘It wouldn’t be a good thing,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re going to have to tough it out. You absolutely are.’
Kerensa looked at her.
‘What if it’s born with a thick black moustache?’
‘Like we said before, invent an Italian grandfather or something. I mean it. Sort it out. Do it.’
‘You can’t tell Huckle. You can’t.’
Polly was still in two minds about it. It felt such a horrible dilemma. She wanted to tell him everything. But he was Reuben’s best friend. His best man. The only reason Kerensa had met Reuben in the first place. Yet he was also Polly’s other half, her fiancé. It was horrible. She didn’t know how he’d react – she didn’t know if he would even know himself. Could she risk it? Sometimes she thought that of course she could, it would be fine, but there was always a chance that it might not be. And then where would they all be?
Deep down she suspected it might be something only another woman would understand. A mistake on this level, something that would affect your whole life.
Huckle understood things. He was amazing. But could anybody understand this happening to their best friend?
‘I haven’t,’ she said.
‘You can’t, Pol. You can’t. If I’m to have a shot at this, you absolutely can’t.’
Polly bit her lip and thought of her mother’s hollow life. She agreed with Kerensa, but she felt entirely conflicted; entirely awful about it. About everything.
They rumbled across the causeway. The harbour lamp posts were festooned with strings of plain white lights. Mount Polbearne didn’t have much of a budget to compete with the fancier displays in the bigger towns, but the lights suited the cobbled streets, forming long dips and chains between the old-fashioned lamp posts built to withstand the spray and wind. There were red bows on the lamp posts too, and twinkling trees and candles in every window. The town looked extraordinarily lovely, filled with a deep peace; a lovely passing into the quietest season, of night and cosy beds and bright sharp stars glimmering overhead.
Kerensa drew up at the lighthouse door. The place was in darkness; Huckle must be sleeping. Polly kissed her gently on the cheek, then jumped down, wincing at the freezing air, as the Range Rover roared away.
The lighthouse was bitterly cold. She checked in on Neil underneath the kitchen table, but didn’t even stop to make a cup of tea. Huckle grunted, rather sleepily, as she moved her frozen feet towards his lovely warm body, so she rolled over, staring out of the window, where they still hadn’t got round to putting curtains up. The stars looked white and pale against the freezing air; she was blowing out steam when she breathed out, the house was so cold. She couldn’t warm up at all; couldn’t even take warmth from Huckle. Instead she just lay there, desperately wiggling her toes, trying to see a way through.
She could only think of one: carry on as normal. Sometimes, if you pretended everything was normal, you had a chance of making it so. Keep buggering on, as the saying went. She couldn’t think of anything else. Her mum would come round. They’d make it up. After all, she thought glumly, who else did they have but each other?
Work. Work would solve everything.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Huckle was surprised and pleased to see Polly up and bustling about quite merrily, apart from a slight headache.
‘Hey?’ he said cautiously.
Polly turned round with her normal smile on her face.
Polly sighed.
‘You see what I mean, though?’ said Kerensa, as they pushed on through the harsh winter night. ‘You do know a little more now. But also, if you want to see him – if you want anything to do with him – well, it’s up to you. You don’t have to ask permission. Your mum… she needs to get over it.’
‘But she’s so upset.’
‘I’ve known you a long time,’ said Kerensa. ‘And you know what? I don’t think I’ve ever known your mum not upset about something. I think that’s why you’re so cheery all the time.’
Polly was barely listening. She couldn’t help thinking how happy her mother must have been when she got the job at Dimmogs; her mum, who’d left school without many qualifications; who’d been the pride of her family when she’d landed such a posh job.
She’d lost it of course when she’d got pregnant; Polly knew that much. They’d said it was because of cutbacks and that people were buying fewer hats, but Doreen had known the truth: even in the eighties, being an unmarried mother carried a certain stigma. She’d slunk home, defeated before she’d even begun. And Polly had been paying the price ever since.
‘You remember Loraine Armstrong?’ said Kerensa, apropos of nothing.
Polly nodded. Loraine’s mum had been a young single mother too, and the pair had elicited snotty remarks and sidelong glances when they went clubbing together and to pubs, her mum often insisting to strangers after a couple of drinks that they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. Doreen had always found them horrific.
‘I reckon they had a better time than you guys did.’
Polly reflected on it.
‘I do too,’ she said finally. ‘Oh Lord. Take me home.’
As they approached Mount Polbearne, Kerensa fell silent. Polly, roused from her own deep thoughts, glanced across at her.
‘What’s on your mind?’
Kerensa swallowed.
‘Do you think that’s what Reuben would be like? If… you know. If he found out.’
‘You still don’t know for sure,’ said Polly. Kerensa stroked her huge bump, a sad look on her face. She could barely reach the steering wheel. She looked at Polly.
‘Seriously. You don’t know how badly I was ovulating that night. It was one of those times of the month where you’d fancy a tramp.’
Polly nodded. They sat in silence.
‘Because if he found out… I mean, I don’t know what he’d do.’
‘You mean – God forbid – the baby would have to grow up like me?’ said Polly.
‘No!’ said Kerensa. ‘That’s not what I meant at all. And anyway,’ she added, ‘that would be a good thing.’
Polly sighed crossly.
‘It wouldn’t be a good thing,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re going to have to tough it out. You absolutely are.’
Kerensa looked at her.
‘What if it’s born with a thick black moustache?’
‘Like we said before, invent an Italian grandfather or something. I mean it. Sort it out. Do it.’
‘You can’t tell Huckle. You can’t.’
Polly was still in two minds about it. It felt such a horrible dilemma. She wanted to tell him everything. But he was Reuben’s best friend. His best man. The only reason Kerensa had met Reuben in the first place. Yet he was also Polly’s other half, her fiancé. It was horrible. She didn’t know how he’d react – she didn’t know if he would even know himself. Could she risk it? Sometimes she thought that of course she could, it would be fine, but there was always a chance that it might not be. And then where would they all be?
Deep down she suspected it might be something only another woman would understand. A mistake on this level, something that would affect your whole life.
Huckle understood things. He was amazing. But could anybody understand this happening to their best friend?
‘I haven’t,’ she said.
‘You can’t, Pol. You can’t. If I’m to have a shot at this, you absolutely can’t.’
Polly bit her lip and thought of her mother’s hollow life. She agreed with Kerensa, but she felt entirely conflicted; entirely awful about it. About everything.
They rumbled across the causeway. The harbour lamp posts were festooned with strings of plain white lights. Mount Polbearne didn’t have much of a budget to compete with the fancier displays in the bigger towns, but the lights suited the cobbled streets, forming long dips and chains between the old-fashioned lamp posts built to withstand the spray and wind. There were red bows on the lamp posts too, and twinkling trees and candles in every window. The town looked extraordinarily lovely, filled with a deep peace; a lovely passing into the quietest season, of night and cosy beds and bright sharp stars glimmering overhead.
Kerensa drew up at the lighthouse door. The place was in darkness; Huckle must be sleeping. Polly kissed her gently on the cheek, then jumped down, wincing at the freezing air, as the Range Rover roared away.
The lighthouse was bitterly cold. She checked in on Neil underneath the kitchen table, but didn’t even stop to make a cup of tea. Huckle grunted, rather sleepily, as she moved her frozen feet towards his lovely warm body, so she rolled over, staring out of the window, where they still hadn’t got round to putting curtains up. The stars looked white and pale against the freezing air; she was blowing out steam when she breathed out, the house was so cold. She couldn’t warm up at all; couldn’t even take warmth from Huckle. Instead she just lay there, desperately wiggling her toes, trying to see a way through.
She could only think of one: carry on as normal. Sometimes, if you pretended everything was normal, you had a chance of making it so. Keep buggering on, as the saying went. She couldn’t think of anything else. Her mum would come round. They’d make it up. After all, she thought glumly, who else did they have but each other?
Work. Work would solve everything.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Huckle was surprised and pleased to see Polly up and bustling about quite merrily, apart from a slight headache.
‘Hey?’ he said cautiously.
Polly turned round with her normal smile on her face.
