Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 14
The puffin eeped a bit, so she relented and hoisted him up, running enough soapy water in the sink to cover his feet. He liked this a lot, kicking out at the bubbles and making happy noises. Polly turned the radio on, and he seemed to like that too.
‘Right, you play,’ she said, and picked up the bread dough in her hands. It felt sticky, which was good – the stickier the dough, the lighter the bread – but it was too sticky too work with, and she sprinkled more flour underneath it. Then she set to work kneading. She pushed and pounded, pulled the dough out then folded it back again.
As she did so, she found that something odd was happening. First, a song she loved came on the radio: ‘Get Lucky’. Given how much luck she currently felt in need of, this struck her as perfect, and she turned the radio up incredibly loud. It was cheesy, but she absolutely didn’t care; it made her feel good every time she heard it. Secondly, she could see, out of the newly cleaned front windows, watery spring sunshine bouncing off the waves. A brave little sailing boat, its white sail flapping in the wind, was taking a trip out of the harbour. To her left she could hear the puffin happily splashing in his little paddling pool.
Suddenly Polly felt something. As she threw, and pushed, and kneaded, it was as if an energy was leaving her body. A bad energy. She hadn’t even realised how high her shoulders had been; how much tension there had been locked up in the knots behind her neck. They must have been hunched about her ears.
There had been no one, she realised, no one in months to put a hand on her neck, to say to her, there, there, you seem so stressed. She had spent so long trying to look after Chris; trying to keep up appearances to the rest of the world; trying not to invite pity from Kerensa and their other friends, that all her worries had stored themselves up inside her.
She stretched her arms out luxuriously, realising, as her gaze followed the little white-sailed boat bobbing out to sea, how long it had been since she had focused on anything further away than a computer screen.
And as if starting to unknot the muscles in her shoulders had caused something else to loosen too, she felt a tear plopping off the end of her nose; a great big salty tear that fell directly on to the dough.
But they weren’t the frustrated, angry tears of yesterday at the harbour, raging against the world and its horrible unfairness. These were cathartic tears; unstoppable but somehow not upsetting. She let them fall, couldn’t wipe them away even if she’d wanted to with her doughy hands, and tried instead to be, for once, in the moment – not regretting the way things had worked out, or panicking madly about the future, or thinking about what she could have done differently, or said to Chris, or worked on or planned for, but instead listening to the radio, which had changed now to another pop song she loved, and the splashing, and feeling the dough change and mould under her fingers as the sun sparkled on the now empty sea.
It wasn’t as warm outside as the sunlight might have suggested; a harsh salty wind still blew through the town. Polly left the dough to proof in a sunny spot, cleaned herself up a little, then set out with the puffin, who was slightly grumpy, under her arm to look for a vet. The woman in the grocer’s shop where she bought her milk and soup was happily a lot more polite than the woman in the bakery, and directed her to a small surgery which appeared to be shared with the doctor’s. Polly panicked for a moment when she got there about how much it was going to cost; she’d heard vets were expensive. But there wasn’t a lot she could do about it.
The vet was rather peremptory and busy, but he raised his head from his computer when she arrived with the box.
‘Um,’ she said. ‘He had a bit of an accident.’
The vet, whose name was Patrick, and who secretly hated cats, looked up at this and put on his glasses. Then he looked at the woman who’d brought the box in. Tired-looking, but pretty. Her hair was strawberry blonde and soft around her shoulder blades, her eyes were unusually green, and her lips were, at the moment, being nervously bitten, but it looked like there might be a nice smile under there.
‘Are you passing through?’ he remarked.
‘No. Yes. No,’ said the woman.
‘So you’re not sure?’
‘No. Yes. I mean…’ Polly felt flustered. She was going nuts, she told herself; she hadn’t spoken to enough people recently. ‘I mean, I’m renting a place here. Temporarily.’
Patrick frowned. ‘Why would you do that?’
Polly felt quite cross. She certainly wasn’t going to say ‘It’s all I can afford, thank you.’
‘What’s wrong with here?’ she replied instead.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ sighed Patrick. ‘It’s just, most people who come down here prefer Rock or St Ives; you know, those places.’
‘Well I’m not most people,’ said Polly.
‘No, I can see that,’ said Patrick, glancing into the box. ‘You do know this is a seabird.’
‘Good Lord, really?’ said Polly. ‘I had it down as an armadillo.’
Patrick smiled despite himself. ‘It’s just that normally… I mean, round here we don’t really suffer from a shortage of seabirds.’
‘Well there’s no shortage of cats either, but I’m sure it doesn’t stop you treating them,’ said Polly, stung.
‘That is true,’ said Patrick grimly, lifting the puffin out of the box. ‘Come on then, little fellow.’
His gruff manner belied a very gentle touch. The puffin jumped slightly, but let himself be picked up. Patrick looked at the bandage.
‘That’s not a bad job,’ he said, glancing up.
‘Thanks,’ said Polly. ‘I’m glad I took that bird rescue evening class.’
Patrick looked at her. ‘Do you know how many puffins there are at the sanctuary in the north?’ he asked.
‘No idea,’ said Polly. ‘I missed that week.’
‘About one point four million,’ said Patrick.
‘Well this is the one I like,’ said Polly stubbornly.
Patrick looked serious again. ‘You can’t keep him, you know.’ He checked under the feathers. ‘Yes, it is a he.’
Polly smiled. ‘I knew that,’ she said, tickling the puffin’s ear. ‘Why not? Is he protected or something?’
‘No, it’s just not good for him. He needs to fly and breed and grow up. He’s only a puffling.’
‘Right, you play,’ she said, and picked up the bread dough in her hands. It felt sticky, which was good – the stickier the dough, the lighter the bread – but it was too sticky too work with, and she sprinkled more flour underneath it. Then she set to work kneading. She pushed and pounded, pulled the dough out then folded it back again.
As she did so, she found that something odd was happening. First, a song she loved came on the radio: ‘Get Lucky’. Given how much luck she currently felt in need of, this struck her as perfect, and she turned the radio up incredibly loud. It was cheesy, but she absolutely didn’t care; it made her feel good every time she heard it. Secondly, she could see, out of the newly cleaned front windows, watery spring sunshine bouncing off the waves. A brave little sailing boat, its white sail flapping in the wind, was taking a trip out of the harbour. To her left she could hear the puffin happily splashing in his little paddling pool.
Suddenly Polly felt something. As she threw, and pushed, and kneaded, it was as if an energy was leaving her body. A bad energy. She hadn’t even realised how high her shoulders had been; how much tension there had been locked up in the knots behind her neck. They must have been hunched about her ears.
There had been no one, she realised, no one in months to put a hand on her neck, to say to her, there, there, you seem so stressed. She had spent so long trying to look after Chris; trying to keep up appearances to the rest of the world; trying not to invite pity from Kerensa and their other friends, that all her worries had stored themselves up inside her.
She stretched her arms out luxuriously, realising, as her gaze followed the little white-sailed boat bobbing out to sea, how long it had been since she had focused on anything further away than a computer screen.
And as if starting to unknot the muscles in her shoulders had caused something else to loosen too, she felt a tear plopping off the end of her nose; a great big salty tear that fell directly on to the dough.
But they weren’t the frustrated, angry tears of yesterday at the harbour, raging against the world and its horrible unfairness. These were cathartic tears; unstoppable but somehow not upsetting. She let them fall, couldn’t wipe them away even if she’d wanted to with her doughy hands, and tried instead to be, for once, in the moment – not regretting the way things had worked out, or panicking madly about the future, or thinking about what she could have done differently, or said to Chris, or worked on or planned for, but instead listening to the radio, which had changed now to another pop song she loved, and the splashing, and feeling the dough change and mould under her fingers as the sun sparkled on the now empty sea.
It wasn’t as warm outside as the sunlight might have suggested; a harsh salty wind still blew through the town. Polly left the dough to proof in a sunny spot, cleaned herself up a little, then set out with the puffin, who was slightly grumpy, under her arm to look for a vet. The woman in the grocer’s shop where she bought her milk and soup was happily a lot more polite than the woman in the bakery, and directed her to a small surgery which appeared to be shared with the doctor’s. Polly panicked for a moment when she got there about how much it was going to cost; she’d heard vets were expensive. But there wasn’t a lot she could do about it.
The vet was rather peremptory and busy, but he raised his head from his computer when she arrived with the box.
‘Um,’ she said. ‘He had a bit of an accident.’
The vet, whose name was Patrick, and who secretly hated cats, looked up at this and put on his glasses. Then he looked at the woman who’d brought the box in. Tired-looking, but pretty. Her hair was strawberry blonde and soft around her shoulder blades, her eyes were unusually green, and her lips were, at the moment, being nervously bitten, but it looked like there might be a nice smile under there.
‘Are you passing through?’ he remarked.
‘No. Yes. No,’ said the woman.
‘So you’re not sure?’
‘No. Yes. I mean…’ Polly felt flustered. She was going nuts, she told herself; she hadn’t spoken to enough people recently. ‘I mean, I’m renting a place here. Temporarily.’
Patrick frowned. ‘Why would you do that?’
Polly felt quite cross. She certainly wasn’t going to say ‘It’s all I can afford, thank you.’
‘What’s wrong with here?’ she replied instead.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ sighed Patrick. ‘It’s just, most people who come down here prefer Rock or St Ives; you know, those places.’
‘Well I’m not most people,’ said Polly.
‘No, I can see that,’ said Patrick, glancing into the box. ‘You do know this is a seabird.’
‘Good Lord, really?’ said Polly. ‘I had it down as an armadillo.’
Patrick smiled despite himself. ‘It’s just that normally… I mean, round here we don’t really suffer from a shortage of seabirds.’
‘Well there’s no shortage of cats either, but I’m sure it doesn’t stop you treating them,’ said Polly, stung.
‘That is true,’ said Patrick grimly, lifting the puffin out of the box. ‘Come on then, little fellow.’
His gruff manner belied a very gentle touch. The puffin jumped slightly, but let himself be picked up. Patrick looked at the bandage.
‘That’s not a bad job,’ he said, glancing up.
‘Thanks,’ said Polly. ‘I’m glad I took that bird rescue evening class.’
Patrick looked at her. ‘Do you know how many puffins there are at the sanctuary in the north?’ he asked.
‘No idea,’ said Polly. ‘I missed that week.’
‘About one point four million,’ said Patrick.
‘Well this is the one I like,’ said Polly stubbornly.
Patrick looked serious again. ‘You can’t keep him, you know.’ He checked under the feathers. ‘Yes, it is a he.’
Polly smiled. ‘I knew that,’ she said, tickling the puffin’s ear. ‘Why not? Is he protected or something?’
‘No, it’s just not good for him. He needs to fly and breed and grow up. He’s only a puffling.’
