Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 16
‘You’re jealous of my puffin,’ said Polly.
‘If you say so,’ said Tarnie. ‘Bring him down to the boat later. I’ll give him a bit of herring.’
‘I will,’ said Polly.
Back in the little flat, the dough had swollen up to twice its normal size. Polly kneaded it again, sat down for forty minutes – she slightly fell asleep – then woke up and lit the terrifying oven, which set itself alight with a whomping noise. She ladled the sticky mixture into a battered old blackened pot she’d found in a drawer underneath the oven. It had a suspicious patina from decades of use, but she had nothing else. Hopefully it wouldn’t be poisonous. She wiped it round with olive oil to try and stop the bread sticking, and crossed her fingers. Then she took a deep breath and tackled the bathroom again. The first scrub hadn’t quite got it all; she’d discovered the linoleum, but had ignored the end bit of the long, narrow room, which was carpeted.
Is there anything worse, she thought, than carpets in bathrooms? Carpets in bathrooms with loose roof tiles that let the rain in from time to time; bathrooms that have played home to a passing population of temporary renters, bachelors, bedsittees, people with no vested interest in the place at all. She glanced underneath the horrible cheap squares. The original floorboards were still there. And it wasn’t a bad size for a bathroom, with another window looking up into the town. She imagined pale blue tongue and groove all down the walls; a claw-foot bath on a raised platform, so you could sit and watch the boats bob about whilst you were in the tub; some pretty shells maybe… She wrenched herself back from her silly reverie to concentrate on the matter at hand, which was a) to clean the place enough so that she didn’t catch some revolting disease; b) to sort herself out and find a proper job; c) to get over… well. Deal with things. Get back on her feet. Stop embarrassing her friends by bursting into tears every time she had two glasses of wine. Find inner peace.
HAHAHA. Polly picked up a square of cheap office carpet with mysterious-looking brown stains on it, and damp newspaper from 1994, and sighed.
Still, at least there was a good smell coming from the kitchen, which overlaid the numerous less pleasant ones she was uncovering. She kept her rubber gloves on and emptied bucket after bucket of dirty water down the drain until the bathroom was, if not sparkling, at least not reminiscent of some upsetting BBC2 documentary about a substandard housing estate that was about to be hit with a wrecking ball.
Finally, she stood up and stretched. She could finally see her reflection in the mirror – she looked pink and a bit flushed. She’d run water into the sink for Neil, deciding, having checked over his feathers, that he was a very clean puffin, without too many vermin. She tried to smile at herself. It had been a while since she’d smiled properly, she thought. Two furrows seemed to have landed between her eyebrows without her noticing, as if she constantly held her face in a worried frown. Perhaps she did. She smiled again – okay, she was looking a bit mad now – then headed into the main room of her odd little home.
Inside the oven, her loaf – it was a cottage loaf, with a smaller round head on top – had risen beautifully and was a gorgeous golden brown. It smelled absolutely heavenly. She slid it out of the oven with the only oven gloves that came to hand: a horrible old mucky tea towel – she’d definitely have to start a laundry pile, she decided – and turned it upside down, tapping it lightly on the bottom. It sounded crisp and fresh.
Polly felt much more cheerful suddenly, reflecting that she had done two things that morning – well, three if you counted Neil’s bandage – that had turned out well: she had cleaned the bathroom and made some bread. It probably wouldn’t seem much to anybody else, she thought, but it was a big step for her.
When the bread was cool enough, she cut it into thick doorsteps and spread it with butter and a little jam she’d brought with her. Then, putting Neil back in his box – he didn’t seem to mind this at all, though Polly wondered in passing if he might sit on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, then discarded the thought as being a) ridiculous, b) messy, c) bad for Neil and d) confusing, given that her name was Polly to begin with – she headed down to the harbour.
The fishermen were mending nets in the weak afternoon sunlight and gathered round her shouting cheerful hellos, which pleased her a lot.
‘What’s this, then?’
‘Er, I made some bread.’
‘You made it? Yourself?’ said Jayden.
‘No, I found it in my new flat,’ said Polly. ‘Of course I made it. Would you like some?’
Tarnie grinned at her. ‘Want some tea?’
In two ticks, there were chipped blue and white enamel cups, filled from an urn with ridiculously strong tea. Polly was given milk and two sugars without being asked. Then everyone tucked into the bread and jam, and Tarnie made good on his promise to produce some herring for Neil, so everyone was happy.
‘This is fantastic,’ said one of the boys. Someone else with his mouth full agreed.
‘I’ve never had home-made bread before,’ said the youngest, Kendall, the pink-cheeked boy, who could barely grow a beard.
‘Really?’ said Polly. ‘Do you like it?’
He shrugged. ‘I like anything really.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Tarnie. ‘This is brilliant. It’s really good. Do you know what it could do with, though?’
‘You could get some of that nutter’s honey for it,’ said Jayden.
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ said Tarnie.
‘Whose honey?’
‘The only other person to move to the region in years,’ said Tarnie. ‘When everyone else is getting the hell out – excuse my language.’
‘That’s not language,’ said Polly happily. She was incredibly pleased with how the bread had turned out. It didn’t taste at all like when she’d made it back in Plymouth. It had a deeper, richer flavour. She wondered, slightly anxiously, if it could be anything to do with the old burned black oven and the old burned black dishes. Hmm. And the fact that she’d cried into the dough, she remembered. She flushed a little pink.
‘Well it is – you’re blushing,’ said Tarnie.
‘I’m not really,’ she said. ‘Who’s the honey person?’
‘He’s weird,’ said Jayden.
‘If you say so,’ said Tarnie. ‘Bring him down to the boat later. I’ll give him a bit of herring.’
‘I will,’ said Polly.
Back in the little flat, the dough had swollen up to twice its normal size. Polly kneaded it again, sat down for forty minutes – she slightly fell asleep – then woke up and lit the terrifying oven, which set itself alight with a whomping noise. She ladled the sticky mixture into a battered old blackened pot she’d found in a drawer underneath the oven. It had a suspicious patina from decades of use, but she had nothing else. Hopefully it wouldn’t be poisonous. She wiped it round with olive oil to try and stop the bread sticking, and crossed her fingers. Then she took a deep breath and tackled the bathroom again. The first scrub hadn’t quite got it all; she’d discovered the linoleum, but had ignored the end bit of the long, narrow room, which was carpeted.
Is there anything worse, she thought, than carpets in bathrooms? Carpets in bathrooms with loose roof tiles that let the rain in from time to time; bathrooms that have played home to a passing population of temporary renters, bachelors, bedsittees, people with no vested interest in the place at all. She glanced underneath the horrible cheap squares. The original floorboards were still there. And it wasn’t a bad size for a bathroom, with another window looking up into the town. She imagined pale blue tongue and groove all down the walls; a claw-foot bath on a raised platform, so you could sit and watch the boats bob about whilst you were in the tub; some pretty shells maybe… She wrenched herself back from her silly reverie to concentrate on the matter at hand, which was a) to clean the place enough so that she didn’t catch some revolting disease; b) to sort herself out and find a proper job; c) to get over… well. Deal with things. Get back on her feet. Stop embarrassing her friends by bursting into tears every time she had two glasses of wine. Find inner peace.
HAHAHA. Polly picked up a square of cheap office carpet with mysterious-looking brown stains on it, and damp newspaper from 1994, and sighed.
Still, at least there was a good smell coming from the kitchen, which overlaid the numerous less pleasant ones she was uncovering. She kept her rubber gloves on and emptied bucket after bucket of dirty water down the drain until the bathroom was, if not sparkling, at least not reminiscent of some upsetting BBC2 documentary about a substandard housing estate that was about to be hit with a wrecking ball.
Finally, she stood up and stretched. She could finally see her reflection in the mirror – she looked pink and a bit flushed. She’d run water into the sink for Neil, deciding, having checked over his feathers, that he was a very clean puffin, without too many vermin. She tried to smile at herself. It had been a while since she’d smiled properly, she thought. Two furrows seemed to have landed between her eyebrows without her noticing, as if she constantly held her face in a worried frown. Perhaps she did. She smiled again – okay, she was looking a bit mad now – then headed into the main room of her odd little home.
Inside the oven, her loaf – it was a cottage loaf, with a smaller round head on top – had risen beautifully and was a gorgeous golden brown. It smelled absolutely heavenly. She slid it out of the oven with the only oven gloves that came to hand: a horrible old mucky tea towel – she’d definitely have to start a laundry pile, she decided – and turned it upside down, tapping it lightly on the bottom. It sounded crisp and fresh.
Polly felt much more cheerful suddenly, reflecting that she had done two things that morning – well, three if you counted Neil’s bandage – that had turned out well: she had cleaned the bathroom and made some bread. It probably wouldn’t seem much to anybody else, she thought, but it was a big step for her.
When the bread was cool enough, she cut it into thick doorsteps and spread it with butter and a little jam she’d brought with her. Then, putting Neil back in his box – he didn’t seem to mind this at all, though Polly wondered in passing if he might sit on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, then discarded the thought as being a) ridiculous, b) messy, c) bad for Neil and d) confusing, given that her name was Polly to begin with – she headed down to the harbour.
The fishermen were mending nets in the weak afternoon sunlight and gathered round her shouting cheerful hellos, which pleased her a lot.
‘What’s this, then?’
‘Er, I made some bread.’
‘You made it? Yourself?’ said Jayden.
‘No, I found it in my new flat,’ said Polly. ‘Of course I made it. Would you like some?’
Tarnie grinned at her. ‘Want some tea?’
In two ticks, there were chipped blue and white enamel cups, filled from an urn with ridiculously strong tea. Polly was given milk and two sugars without being asked. Then everyone tucked into the bread and jam, and Tarnie made good on his promise to produce some herring for Neil, so everyone was happy.
‘This is fantastic,’ said one of the boys. Someone else with his mouth full agreed.
‘I’ve never had home-made bread before,’ said the youngest, Kendall, the pink-cheeked boy, who could barely grow a beard.
‘Really?’ said Polly. ‘Do you like it?’
He shrugged. ‘I like anything really.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Tarnie. ‘This is brilliant. It’s really good. Do you know what it could do with, though?’
‘You could get some of that nutter’s honey for it,’ said Jayden.
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ said Tarnie.
‘Whose honey?’
‘The only other person to move to the region in years,’ said Tarnie. ‘When everyone else is getting the hell out – excuse my language.’
‘That’s not language,’ said Polly happily. She was incredibly pleased with how the bread had turned out. It didn’t taste at all like when she’d made it back in Plymouth. It had a deeper, richer flavour. She wondered, slightly anxiously, if it could be anything to do with the old burned black oven and the old burned black dishes. Hmm. And the fact that she’d cried into the dough, she remembered. She flushed a little pink.
‘Well it is – you’re blushing,’ said Tarnie.
‘I’m not really,’ she said. ‘Who’s the honey person?’
‘He’s weird,’ said Jayden.
