Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 18
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Tarnie, and for a moment there was a slightly embarrassed silence between them.
‘Right, well, we’ll be off,’ said Polly. She looked at the plate. ‘I’ll get that when you’ve finished.’
As she walked off, Tarnie suddenly seemed to remember something and called after her. Polly turned back. He was holding up a bundle wrapped in newspaper.
‘It’s a cod,’ he said. ‘I gutted it for you. Fry it up in a bit of butter and lemon and it’ll be right good.’
Neil eeped excitedly.
‘It’s not for you, young man,’ he said. ‘It’s for your mistress.’
Polly took the cold package as the peace offering it was.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Have a good night.’
Tarnie looked at the great cluster of dark grey clouds that had sprung up whilst they were talking, obliterating the weak sunlight of earlier like a menacing bully.
‘I don’t think it’s going to be a good night at all,’ he said.
Although Polly still had her laptop – it was so old and huge the creditors hadn’t wanted it – and some DVDs to play in it, she found that actually, as she ate the fish – which did indeed taste divine with nothing more than a little lemon and salt and pepper, cooked in the last of her olive oil – and a salad made, for the first time in years, from individual lettuce leaves rather than an expensive plastic bag, she was quite happy just to sit by the window, watching as the weather lowered and the rain started to clatter against the cobblestones and the harbour walls, and the wind made the entire house rattle and creak. She saw the fishing boats, looking tiny against the might of the flailing sea, puttering one by one out into the ocean, their lights growing feebler as they bobbed along. Soon she was no longer able to identify the Trochilus, as it weaved in and out of the line and into the chill and unforgiving night. She shivered and thought of the men out there in that tiny boat under the huge sky as the stars began to pop out, only to be covered again by the hastening clouds and the roaring wind.
After supper, out of nothing other than sheer mischief, she kneaded up another batch of bread and set it to rise next to Neil’s cardboard nest. Then she climbed into bed and fell asleep straight away.
She didn’t know what woke her this time.
Most likely it was Neil, shuffling about in his box. She sat bolt upright, the sheet she’d hung over the windows only partly keeping out the light swooshing over her then vanishing, leaving the room once more in darkness. The waves crashed against the harbour wall; it was windy out, but not stormy. Some instinct took her to the window, and she pulled the sheet aside, not entirely awake.
Outside was blackness. Seawater had spattered against the windows and the taste of salt was in the air; Polly had left the window very slightly open. She craned to see outside rather than her own sleepy reflection.
Suddenly, as the lighthouse beam flitted past, she saw it. An outline – a figure, a mere shadow – standing on the quay, staring out over the water. Not moving, not doing anything; just standing stock still.
Polly jumped, startled, dazzled by the light, which was now gone. She couldn’t refocus her eyes in time, and everything was dark. Who would be out there at this time of night, standing in the dark? Chilled by the night air and the motionless figure, she waited ninety interminable seconds for the lighthouse to complete its cycle. But this time as the light came over, there was nothing and nobody there. The harbour was deserted, its dock empty of boats – the fish must still be running – the causeway invisible, Mount Polbearne an island once again, being gradually reclaimed by the sea. Polly shook her head. It must have been a trick of the light. She crawled thankfully back into her warm bed.
The next morning the entire thing had slipped from her mind like a dream.
Chapter Eight
The next day dawned chilly but sunny; the attic rooms were cold. Polly checked Neil’s bandage (he hopped over towards her quite happily now, and she skritched him behind the ears) as she toasted the tiny bit of leftovers from yesterday’s bread in a toaster she found out a little too late hadn’t been cleaned out since the royal wedding before the last royal wedding.
It didn’t, however, detract from the quality of the bread. It had a rich nuttiness, a perfectly balanced crumb, and tasted sweet and wholesome, with a quick swoosh of lovely butter melting on the top. Neil immediately left his tuna and hopped over to explore what she was eating, and she fed him some crumbs straight from her fingers.
‘Even better than fish?’ she said, smiling, then got up to pop in some more, and reminded herself to clean the toaster.
After breakfast, she cleared up and sat by herself looking out of the window. This was a novelty in itself. She had never really been alone, from her grotty flat shares back at college, through the shared house with Kerensa, to the years in the flat with Chris. The silence – apart from the wheeling gulls – was soft and amazing. She realised she hadn’t charged her phone, or even thought about it. She probably ought to do that. But after the last few months of dodging creditors, or taking phone calls for Chris that he just couldn’t deal with ‘right at this moment, Pol, can’t you SEE I’m busy, for Chrissakes?’, and basically feeling the entire time like she was on the run from a pack of hungry wolves, the relief of it all being over, even if she’d been left with next to nothing, felt like a blessing, a moment of solace.
Of course, there was a limit to how long she could go on staying here. She had a tiny allowance and a short lease, but if one of her shoes got a hole in it, she was completely screwed. She needed a job. A real, proper job. She needed an internet connection and a computer and an updated CV and a vehicle of some sort, she guessed.
In her fantasy, there would be some little business nearby in desperate need of a local office manager who would let her work flexible hours for when the tide was high, or pay her enough so that she could move back to the mainland. Many of the prettier villages up the Cornwall and Devon coastline had attracted hi-tech start-ups whose employees liked to code all night and surf all day. But this southern inlet didn’t really have the surf, or the quaintness, or the cool cafés those people liked to hang out in. Which meant she’d probably end up commuting back to Plymouth – which meant she’d need a car, though she wasn’t quite sure how that would work, given that she couldn’t get financing or use a credit card. Alternatively she’d have to catch the bus every day, which would take ninety minutes by the time it wound round all the local villages and she couldn’t always time it against the tide. Kerensa had been right. She had been far too headstrong.
‘Right, well, we’ll be off,’ said Polly. She looked at the plate. ‘I’ll get that when you’ve finished.’
As she walked off, Tarnie suddenly seemed to remember something and called after her. Polly turned back. He was holding up a bundle wrapped in newspaper.
‘It’s a cod,’ he said. ‘I gutted it for you. Fry it up in a bit of butter and lemon and it’ll be right good.’
Neil eeped excitedly.
‘It’s not for you, young man,’ he said. ‘It’s for your mistress.’
Polly took the cold package as the peace offering it was.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Have a good night.’
Tarnie looked at the great cluster of dark grey clouds that had sprung up whilst they were talking, obliterating the weak sunlight of earlier like a menacing bully.
‘I don’t think it’s going to be a good night at all,’ he said.
Although Polly still had her laptop – it was so old and huge the creditors hadn’t wanted it – and some DVDs to play in it, she found that actually, as she ate the fish – which did indeed taste divine with nothing more than a little lemon and salt and pepper, cooked in the last of her olive oil – and a salad made, for the first time in years, from individual lettuce leaves rather than an expensive plastic bag, she was quite happy just to sit by the window, watching as the weather lowered and the rain started to clatter against the cobblestones and the harbour walls, and the wind made the entire house rattle and creak. She saw the fishing boats, looking tiny against the might of the flailing sea, puttering one by one out into the ocean, their lights growing feebler as they bobbed along. Soon she was no longer able to identify the Trochilus, as it weaved in and out of the line and into the chill and unforgiving night. She shivered and thought of the men out there in that tiny boat under the huge sky as the stars began to pop out, only to be covered again by the hastening clouds and the roaring wind.
After supper, out of nothing other than sheer mischief, she kneaded up another batch of bread and set it to rise next to Neil’s cardboard nest. Then she climbed into bed and fell asleep straight away.
She didn’t know what woke her this time.
Most likely it was Neil, shuffling about in his box. She sat bolt upright, the sheet she’d hung over the windows only partly keeping out the light swooshing over her then vanishing, leaving the room once more in darkness. The waves crashed against the harbour wall; it was windy out, but not stormy. Some instinct took her to the window, and she pulled the sheet aside, not entirely awake.
Outside was blackness. Seawater had spattered against the windows and the taste of salt was in the air; Polly had left the window very slightly open. She craned to see outside rather than her own sleepy reflection.
Suddenly, as the lighthouse beam flitted past, she saw it. An outline – a figure, a mere shadow – standing on the quay, staring out over the water. Not moving, not doing anything; just standing stock still.
Polly jumped, startled, dazzled by the light, which was now gone. She couldn’t refocus her eyes in time, and everything was dark. Who would be out there at this time of night, standing in the dark? Chilled by the night air and the motionless figure, she waited ninety interminable seconds for the lighthouse to complete its cycle. But this time as the light came over, there was nothing and nobody there. The harbour was deserted, its dock empty of boats – the fish must still be running – the causeway invisible, Mount Polbearne an island once again, being gradually reclaimed by the sea. Polly shook her head. It must have been a trick of the light. She crawled thankfully back into her warm bed.
The next morning the entire thing had slipped from her mind like a dream.
Chapter Eight
The next day dawned chilly but sunny; the attic rooms were cold. Polly checked Neil’s bandage (he hopped over towards her quite happily now, and she skritched him behind the ears) as she toasted the tiny bit of leftovers from yesterday’s bread in a toaster she found out a little too late hadn’t been cleaned out since the royal wedding before the last royal wedding.
It didn’t, however, detract from the quality of the bread. It had a rich nuttiness, a perfectly balanced crumb, and tasted sweet and wholesome, with a quick swoosh of lovely butter melting on the top. Neil immediately left his tuna and hopped over to explore what she was eating, and she fed him some crumbs straight from her fingers.
‘Even better than fish?’ she said, smiling, then got up to pop in some more, and reminded herself to clean the toaster.
After breakfast, she cleared up and sat by herself looking out of the window. This was a novelty in itself. She had never really been alone, from her grotty flat shares back at college, through the shared house with Kerensa, to the years in the flat with Chris. The silence – apart from the wheeling gulls – was soft and amazing. She realised she hadn’t charged her phone, or even thought about it. She probably ought to do that. But after the last few months of dodging creditors, or taking phone calls for Chris that he just couldn’t deal with ‘right at this moment, Pol, can’t you SEE I’m busy, for Chrissakes?’, and basically feeling the entire time like she was on the run from a pack of hungry wolves, the relief of it all being over, even if she’d been left with next to nothing, felt like a blessing, a moment of solace.
Of course, there was a limit to how long she could go on staying here. She had a tiny allowance and a short lease, but if one of her shoes got a hole in it, she was completely screwed. She needed a job. A real, proper job. She needed an internet connection and a computer and an updated CV and a vehicle of some sort, she guessed.
In her fantasy, there would be some little business nearby in desperate need of a local office manager who would let her work flexible hours for when the tide was high, or pay her enough so that she could move back to the mainland. Many of the prettier villages up the Cornwall and Devon coastline had attracted hi-tech start-ups whose employees liked to code all night and surf all day. But this southern inlet didn’t really have the surf, or the quaintness, or the cool cafés those people liked to hang out in. Which meant she’d probably end up commuting back to Plymouth – which meant she’d need a car, though she wasn’t quite sure how that would work, given that she couldn’t get financing or use a credit card. Alternatively she’d have to catch the bus every day, which would take ninety minutes by the time it wound round all the local villages and she couldn’t always time it against the tide. Kerensa had been right. She had been far too headstrong.
