Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 22
‘Wanna taste?’ he said, proffering the wooden winder. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, so he took it back and showed her, shaking off most of the honey from the end so he could get it out of the jar.
‘Now this is apple blossom. You plant different types of flowers, you see, so you get different types of honey. I kind of experiment, move the hives around.’
Polly licked the honey off the winder. It was absolutely sensational. It had a warm depth and heart to the flavour that she’d never tasted before; not as sweet as commercial honey, but gentler and more satisfying.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Isn’t it?’ His face looked animated. ‘Hang on, let me get some of the orange flower.’
That was just as good: light and fruity, and a pure golden colour.
‘So I don’t understand,’ said Polly. ‘Are you putting the accent on, or did you just pitch up on your horse like a cowboy and say’ – she tried to do his voice – ‘“Well hey, little missie, I’m a here to be a doing your honey”?’
Huckle laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t exactly like that. Are you from round here?’
‘I am not,’ said Polly. ‘I’m from Plymouth.’
‘That’s only forty miles away!’ said Huckle. ‘Trust me, where I come from, that’s local.’
‘Well where I come from, it’s a different world,’ said Polly.
‘Sure enough,’ said Huckle. ‘Well. Anyway. This is the old beekeeper’s cottage. They’ve been making honey here in some form or other for getting on for two hundred years. So they knew which flowers to grow and where to keep things and so on. It was just falling into disrepair when I found it.’
‘But what brought you here?’ said Polly. It seemed so unlikely.
Huckle glanced at his watch. ‘Ma’am, that is a bit of a long story.’
Polly waited for him to start telling it, then, when she realised he had absolutely no intention of doing so, she flushed and jumped up. She’d gatecrashed this man’s house, fallen asleep in his garden, and now was patently overstaying her welcome.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, nonetheless getting to his feet. ‘It was an honour to meet you. And Neil.’
Neil pooed on some of the daisies and tried to eat some others.
‘Sorry,’ said Polly. ‘He’s only a toddler really.’
Huckle smiled. ‘It’s weird, it makes me miss my dog.’
‘Ha,’ said Polly. ‘You look like a man who’d have a dog.’
‘What, like I shed hair?’
‘No, just…’
She was going to ask what had happened to his dog, but he’d already indicated that he didn’t want to talk any more, and she wasn’t going to pry.
‘I’d better be going.’
He walked her to the gate with three jars of honey, which he refused to take money for, on the promise that she’d bake him some bread.
‘If you come to Mount Polbearne, I’m living in the house on the harbour above the old bakery,’ she said shyly.
‘That place?’ He looked horrified. ‘I thought they’d condemned it.’
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘They’ve condemned me to it, that’s all.’ She tried to make it sound like a joke, but it came out with a little crack in her voice. Huckle looked at her for a moment.
‘Well, I would say a bakery is a great place for you to be,’ he said. ‘That other place… ugh.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘She’s already given me the evil eye.’
‘You gotta watch out for those evil eyes,’ said Huckle.
‘You do,’ agreed Polly.
Polly mused on the strange man all the way home. No wonder the fishermen called him weird. He was weird. Who lived in the middle of nowhere? How could he afford to eat, giving away pots of honey like that? Why had he been so welcoming, then wanted her to leave as soon as she asked him any questions about himself? A horrifying thought struck her. Maybe he’d thought she was coming on to him. After all, he wasn’t that much older than her. Oh God, surely not.
She felt her face flush from more than the sunshine. Yes, he looked nice, but the very idea… Plus it had been years since she’d had to flirt with anyone, except the bailiff to get him off the phone. She and Chris had been together for such a long time, and they hadn’t even really formally broken up, she reminded herself. She would have to make it clear to the American at the first opportunity. She tried to figure out a way to get this across without making everything worse, and couldn’t. She tramped all the way home, picking up more rosemary from the fields, and popping in to the friendly little minimart that sold everything, for more bread flour. The woman there, a cheery type, looked a bit concerned when she saw Polly back again, making the same purchase.
‘That’s the last of the bread flour,’ she said. ‘I’m all out now.’ She paused. ‘Do you… do you bake a lot of bread?’
Polly internally rolled her eyes.
‘Why, is it dangerous?’
The woman tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘Only, we have a local bakery…’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Polly, then, feeling defiant, ‘I don’t like their bread, it’s horrible.’
The woman glanced around, as if the evil tentacles of Gillian Manse might be everywhere.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Only, I don’t want to upset anyone.’
‘You’ll upset me if you stop stocking bread flour,’ said Polly.
The woman smiled meekly. ‘It comes in a job lot with the other stuff. I don’t… I’m not really supposed to order it, but it’s for the tourists… not that we get many this time of year. I mean, no one in the village would actually bake bread…’
Polly didn’t want to make enemies, given that she’d just arrived and didn’t know a soul. ‘How about we fill up the hole here with another type of flour,’ she said. ‘So you can’t see it’s empty.’
‘What…’ The woman was tentative. ‘What kind of bread do you make?’
‘Now this is apple blossom. You plant different types of flowers, you see, so you get different types of honey. I kind of experiment, move the hives around.’
Polly licked the honey off the winder. It was absolutely sensational. It had a warm depth and heart to the flavour that she’d never tasted before; not as sweet as commercial honey, but gentler and more satisfying.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Isn’t it?’ His face looked animated. ‘Hang on, let me get some of the orange flower.’
That was just as good: light and fruity, and a pure golden colour.
‘So I don’t understand,’ said Polly. ‘Are you putting the accent on, or did you just pitch up on your horse like a cowboy and say’ – she tried to do his voice – ‘“Well hey, little missie, I’m a here to be a doing your honey”?’
Huckle laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t exactly like that. Are you from round here?’
‘I am not,’ said Polly. ‘I’m from Plymouth.’
‘That’s only forty miles away!’ said Huckle. ‘Trust me, where I come from, that’s local.’
‘Well where I come from, it’s a different world,’ said Polly.
‘Sure enough,’ said Huckle. ‘Well. Anyway. This is the old beekeeper’s cottage. They’ve been making honey here in some form or other for getting on for two hundred years. So they knew which flowers to grow and where to keep things and so on. It was just falling into disrepair when I found it.’
‘But what brought you here?’ said Polly. It seemed so unlikely.
Huckle glanced at his watch. ‘Ma’am, that is a bit of a long story.’
Polly waited for him to start telling it, then, when she realised he had absolutely no intention of doing so, she flushed and jumped up. She’d gatecrashed this man’s house, fallen asleep in his garden, and now was patently overstaying her welcome.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, nonetheless getting to his feet. ‘It was an honour to meet you. And Neil.’
Neil pooed on some of the daisies and tried to eat some others.
‘Sorry,’ said Polly. ‘He’s only a toddler really.’
Huckle smiled. ‘It’s weird, it makes me miss my dog.’
‘Ha,’ said Polly. ‘You look like a man who’d have a dog.’
‘What, like I shed hair?’
‘No, just…’
She was going to ask what had happened to his dog, but he’d already indicated that he didn’t want to talk any more, and she wasn’t going to pry.
‘I’d better be going.’
He walked her to the gate with three jars of honey, which he refused to take money for, on the promise that she’d bake him some bread.
‘If you come to Mount Polbearne, I’m living in the house on the harbour above the old bakery,’ she said shyly.
‘That place?’ He looked horrified. ‘I thought they’d condemned it.’
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘They’ve condemned me to it, that’s all.’ She tried to make it sound like a joke, but it came out with a little crack in her voice. Huckle looked at her for a moment.
‘Well, I would say a bakery is a great place for you to be,’ he said. ‘That other place… ugh.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘She’s already given me the evil eye.’
‘You gotta watch out for those evil eyes,’ said Huckle.
‘You do,’ agreed Polly.
Polly mused on the strange man all the way home. No wonder the fishermen called him weird. He was weird. Who lived in the middle of nowhere? How could he afford to eat, giving away pots of honey like that? Why had he been so welcoming, then wanted her to leave as soon as she asked him any questions about himself? A horrifying thought struck her. Maybe he’d thought she was coming on to him. After all, he wasn’t that much older than her. Oh God, surely not.
She felt her face flush from more than the sunshine. Yes, he looked nice, but the very idea… Plus it had been years since she’d had to flirt with anyone, except the bailiff to get him off the phone. She and Chris had been together for such a long time, and they hadn’t even really formally broken up, she reminded herself. She would have to make it clear to the American at the first opportunity. She tried to figure out a way to get this across without making everything worse, and couldn’t. She tramped all the way home, picking up more rosemary from the fields, and popping in to the friendly little minimart that sold everything, for more bread flour. The woman there, a cheery type, looked a bit concerned when she saw Polly back again, making the same purchase.
‘That’s the last of the bread flour,’ she said. ‘I’m all out now.’ She paused. ‘Do you… do you bake a lot of bread?’
Polly internally rolled her eyes.
‘Why, is it dangerous?’
The woman tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘Only, we have a local bakery…’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Polly, then, feeling defiant, ‘I don’t like their bread, it’s horrible.’
The woman glanced around, as if the evil tentacles of Gillian Manse might be everywhere.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Only, I don’t want to upset anyone.’
‘You’ll upset me if you stop stocking bread flour,’ said Polly.
The woman smiled meekly. ‘It comes in a job lot with the other stuff. I don’t… I’m not really supposed to order it, but it’s for the tourists… not that we get many this time of year. I mean, no one in the village would actually bake bread…’
Polly didn’t want to make enemies, given that she’d just arrived and didn’t know a soul. ‘How about we fill up the hole here with another type of flour,’ she said. ‘So you can’t see it’s empty.’
‘What…’ The woman was tentative. ‘What kind of bread do you make?’
