Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 15
‘A what?’
‘A puffling. A baby puffin.’
‘Oh!’ said Polly. ‘That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Well, cute or not, he needs to be with his loomery.’
‘His what?’
‘His loomery. It’s the name for a group of puffins.’
‘A loomery of puffins,’ said Polly. ‘That’s lovely. It sounds like one of those really weird independent albums my ex used to buy.’
She smiled, a touch wryly. Aha, thought Patrick. An ex. That probably explained a lot.
‘Or an improbability,’ he added. ‘That’s the other word. An improbability of puffins. But I don’t like that so much; there’s nothing improbable about puffins, there’s billions of the damn things.’
The little puffin opened his bright orange beak and croaked. Patrick leant over to a drawer, took out some fish food and put some down for him to peck.
Polly sighed. ‘So I have to give him up,’ she said sadly.
‘Well, no point in doing it until he’s fixed,’ Patrick said. ‘He can’t fly. Do you think you could look after him until he’s better?’
‘Yes!’ said Polly, delighted. ‘Yes, I think I could. How long will that be?’
‘Two or three weeks?’ said Patrick. ‘He seems quite happy. Birds are much more likely to die of fright than anything else.’
‘I think this puffin is pretty chilled,’ said Polly.
‘All right. Don’t get attached, though, okay? When he’s ready to fly away, you’ll have to let him go.’
‘Story of my life,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Don’t give him a name.’
‘Okay.’
Polly stood up to go.
‘How much do I owe you?’
Patrick waved his hand.
‘I didn’t do anything; you’re the nurse. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Seriously?’ said Polly. ‘Thank you SO much.’
He was surprised at the vehemence of her gratitude. Her clothes weren’t super-expensive, but they weren’t that cheap either.
‘Just don’t make a habit of it,’ he said. ‘You foster a seagull, you’ll know all about it.’
‘Okay, fine,’ said Polly, still happy. ‘I don’t suppose I could get him a lead, could I?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Patrick, half smiling as he ushered her out of his office. There were two cats in the waiting room, hissing at one another like clawed snakes.
‘Right. He’ll probably want to fly off of his own accord, but if he’s still around in three weeks, bring him back in.’
‘Will do,’ said Polly, and finally she smiled. He’d been right, thought Patrick. She did have a lovely smile. He wondered what had made it disappear.
Polly continued to feel more cheerful than she had in a while, walking up the little high street with the puffin in the box. She took the route down towards the harbour again and headed along past the boats. Tarnie’s boat, the Trochilus, was in harbour, and she was looking at it when she ran into the man himself.
‘Hello, hello,’ he said as she tripped over a cobblestone and nearly stumbled into his arms. His beard brushed the top of her head. ‘You’re looking a bit more cheery.’
Polly winced at the memory. ‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ she admitted.
‘That book you lent me is a bit strange,’ he said, in his odd thick accent. Polly liked it.
‘Oh, you’ve started it!’
‘Not a lot to do when you’re heading out to sea. Then, suddenly, a LOT to do.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think whoever wrote it might have been dabbling in things he shouldn’t have.’
Polly smiled. ‘Interesting. I think he was just a bit peculiar.’
‘More’n a bit, I’d say. Who’s this, then?’
Polly glanced into the box. The bird was looking up at her expectantly, as if waiting to be introduced.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m, er… Fostering a puffin.’
Tarnie frowned. ‘Is this like a joke someone’s playing on you for being the new girl in town? You have to tell me if they’re being mean to you.’
‘No, no,’ said Polly, and she told him the whole story.
‘Well, I never heard of anyone keeping a seabird as a pet before,’ said Tarnie. ‘They taste pretty good though, puffins.’
‘No!’ said Polly. ‘Ssh! I’ll have to cover his ears and I’m not sure where they are.’
‘He’s an Icelandic grey,’ said Tarnie. ‘Durnt speak English.’
‘Oh, okay. Don’t eat puffins.’
‘You eat duck, don’t you?’
‘This conversation is over.’
Tarnie chucked the bird under the chin. ‘Well, you’re obviously smitten,’ he said. ‘Got a name for him yet?’
‘No,’ said Polly dubiously. ‘The vet told me not to give him one.’
‘You can’t just call him “the puffin”. What about Pete?’
‘Peter Puffin?’ said Polly. ‘Not sure. Sounds a bit like a newsreader. What about Muffin?’
‘MUFFIN?’ said Tarnie. ‘I can’t believe you’d inflict that on the poor thing. All the other birds will laugh their heads off at him.’
‘Or think it’s cool,’ said Polly. ‘Having an actual name, instead of “Puffin nine million and seventy-two”.’
‘Ha, you could call him Stud,’ said Tarnie. ‘Stud Puffin, get it?’
‘I do,’ said Polly. ‘And I think it’s offensive.’
Tarnie smiled and found a stone in his pocket. He turned quickly and threw it far off out to sea.
‘I don’t think he should have a cute name,’ mused Polly. ‘It’ll be weird to be a named puffin. I’ll give him something that will make him feel safe.’
The puffin wobbled forward in his box.
‘Like Neil.’
‘Neil?’
‘Yes. Good solid, honest name. Neil the puffin.’
Neil shook out the feathers on his uninjured side.
‘See, he likes it.’
‘You’re nuttier than the girl in that book,’ said Tarnie.
‘A puffling. A baby puffin.’
‘Oh!’ said Polly. ‘That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Well, cute or not, he needs to be with his loomery.’
‘His what?’
‘His loomery. It’s the name for a group of puffins.’
‘A loomery of puffins,’ said Polly. ‘That’s lovely. It sounds like one of those really weird independent albums my ex used to buy.’
She smiled, a touch wryly. Aha, thought Patrick. An ex. That probably explained a lot.
‘Or an improbability,’ he added. ‘That’s the other word. An improbability of puffins. But I don’t like that so much; there’s nothing improbable about puffins, there’s billions of the damn things.’
The little puffin opened his bright orange beak and croaked. Patrick leant over to a drawer, took out some fish food and put some down for him to peck.
Polly sighed. ‘So I have to give him up,’ she said sadly.
‘Well, no point in doing it until he’s fixed,’ Patrick said. ‘He can’t fly. Do you think you could look after him until he’s better?’
‘Yes!’ said Polly, delighted. ‘Yes, I think I could. How long will that be?’
‘Two or three weeks?’ said Patrick. ‘He seems quite happy. Birds are much more likely to die of fright than anything else.’
‘I think this puffin is pretty chilled,’ said Polly.
‘All right. Don’t get attached, though, okay? When he’s ready to fly away, you’ll have to let him go.’
‘Story of my life,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Don’t give him a name.’
‘Okay.’
Polly stood up to go.
‘How much do I owe you?’
Patrick waved his hand.
‘I didn’t do anything; you’re the nurse. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Seriously?’ said Polly. ‘Thank you SO much.’
He was surprised at the vehemence of her gratitude. Her clothes weren’t super-expensive, but they weren’t that cheap either.
‘Just don’t make a habit of it,’ he said. ‘You foster a seagull, you’ll know all about it.’
‘Okay, fine,’ said Polly, still happy. ‘I don’t suppose I could get him a lead, could I?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Patrick, half smiling as he ushered her out of his office. There were two cats in the waiting room, hissing at one another like clawed snakes.
‘Right. He’ll probably want to fly off of his own accord, but if he’s still around in three weeks, bring him back in.’
‘Will do,’ said Polly, and finally she smiled. He’d been right, thought Patrick. She did have a lovely smile. He wondered what had made it disappear.
Polly continued to feel more cheerful than she had in a while, walking up the little high street with the puffin in the box. She took the route down towards the harbour again and headed along past the boats. Tarnie’s boat, the Trochilus, was in harbour, and she was looking at it when she ran into the man himself.
‘Hello, hello,’ he said as she tripped over a cobblestone and nearly stumbled into his arms. His beard brushed the top of her head. ‘You’re looking a bit more cheery.’
Polly winced at the memory. ‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ she admitted.
‘That book you lent me is a bit strange,’ he said, in his odd thick accent. Polly liked it.
‘Oh, you’ve started it!’
‘Not a lot to do when you’re heading out to sea. Then, suddenly, a LOT to do.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think whoever wrote it might have been dabbling in things he shouldn’t have.’
Polly smiled. ‘Interesting. I think he was just a bit peculiar.’
‘More’n a bit, I’d say. Who’s this, then?’
Polly glanced into the box. The bird was looking up at her expectantly, as if waiting to be introduced.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m, er… Fostering a puffin.’
Tarnie frowned. ‘Is this like a joke someone’s playing on you for being the new girl in town? You have to tell me if they’re being mean to you.’
‘No, no,’ said Polly, and she told him the whole story.
‘Well, I never heard of anyone keeping a seabird as a pet before,’ said Tarnie. ‘They taste pretty good though, puffins.’
‘No!’ said Polly. ‘Ssh! I’ll have to cover his ears and I’m not sure where they are.’
‘He’s an Icelandic grey,’ said Tarnie. ‘Durnt speak English.’
‘Oh, okay. Don’t eat puffins.’
‘You eat duck, don’t you?’
‘This conversation is over.’
Tarnie chucked the bird under the chin. ‘Well, you’re obviously smitten,’ he said. ‘Got a name for him yet?’
‘No,’ said Polly dubiously. ‘The vet told me not to give him one.’
‘You can’t just call him “the puffin”. What about Pete?’
‘Peter Puffin?’ said Polly. ‘Not sure. Sounds a bit like a newsreader. What about Muffin?’
‘MUFFIN?’ said Tarnie. ‘I can’t believe you’d inflict that on the poor thing. All the other birds will laugh their heads off at him.’
‘Or think it’s cool,’ said Polly. ‘Having an actual name, instead of “Puffin nine million and seventy-two”.’
‘Ha, you could call him Stud,’ said Tarnie. ‘Stud Puffin, get it?’
‘I do,’ said Polly. ‘And I think it’s offensive.’
Tarnie smiled and found a stone in his pocket. He turned quickly and threw it far off out to sea.
‘I don’t think he should have a cute name,’ mused Polly. ‘It’ll be weird to be a named puffin. I’ll give him something that will make him feel safe.’
The puffin wobbled forward in his box.
‘Like Neil.’
‘Neil?’
‘Yes. Good solid, honest name. Neil the puffin.’
Neil shook out the feathers on his uninjured side.
‘See, he likes it.’
‘You’re nuttier than the girl in that book,’ said Tarnie.
