Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 23
Polly opened her bag avoiding Neil; there was a little of the focaccia left, still moist in its tea towel, that Huckle hadn’t snaffled.
‘Here,’ she said, passing it to the woman, who glanced around fearfully at the door, then snatched at a small bit.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘That’s amazing. That tastes incredible. GOD, I miss bread.’
Polly looked round. Sure enough, the little minimart didn’t sell any of the usual stacks of Mother’s Pride and breakfast rolls.
‘You don’t… you don’t…’
‘You don’t cross Gillian Manse in this town,’ said the woman, looking fearful again. ‘It’s just not worth it.’
‘Why is everyone so scared of her?’ said Polly The woman’s face turned dark and she busied herself with tidying up the Polo mints.
‘I’m Muriel, by the way,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Nice to meet you, Muriel. I’m Polly.’
Muriel turned back round to face her.
‘Oh, she had… she’s had a tough time of it. And it’s hard to keep businesses afloat here, especially in the winter.’
Polly realised the woman must be about her own age, but she looked very weary.
‘She wants everyone to stick together. The only problem is…’
‘Her bread is so horrible.’
‘Most people get used to it,’ said Muriel. ‘But…’ She looked sadly at Polly’s tea towel.
‘Okay, here’s the deal,’ said Polly. ‘You smuggle in bread flour for me to buy and I’ll cut you in on it and supply you with loaves.’ Ridiculously, she glanced upwards at the CCTV. Muriel looked at the door again. They both took on an oddly conspiratorial air.
‘Deal,’ said Muriel in a low voice. She looked at her watch. ‘This is a good time of day. After lunch but before the school rush.’
‘Roger,’ said Polly. ‘Let’s call it a loaf a week.’
Muriel pushed the bread flour towards her. ‘Here. Take this on account.’
‘I might need the stronger stuff,’ warned Polly. ‘Double 0.’
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,’ said Muriel in a low tone.
Polly wrapped the flour tightly in a plastic bag and put it in her rucksack next to a squawking Neil. Then, remembering to grab some more milk, she sidled quietly back out on to the cobbles.
Chapter Nine
That would have been it, Polly always told herself afterwards. That would absolutely have been it. She would have seen out her twelve weeks at Mount Polbearne, handed back the keys, waved goodbye to the fishing boats and headed back to Plymouth with a few stories to tell, plenty of new bread recipes and a great big dollop of R&R under her belt – she was sleeping better than she had in years. That would have been it, if she hadn’t begun to find herself in unbelievably straitened circumstances.
Before she’d left, she’d signed up at a temp agency in Plymouth, but every time she phoned them, they sounded despondent and suggested she came in. She’d been in before, though, and it had been full of glamorous students and ex-students, all of whom had amazing computer skills – she could just about manage a simple spreadsheet – and she knew she didn’t stand a chance. She said she’d take anything, but the woman had explained something about zero-hours working, whereby she had to stand by whether she was working or not, and she had recoiled in horror. No. She was a professional. She would find a professional job.
That was then. Now, as the weeks went by, she was horrified to see that in the years since she’d last applied for jobs, the entire system had changed. Everything was online, for starters; no more printed-out CVs and stamps. The etiquette had changed too, and she didn’t hear back from any of the jobs she’d applied for; not a letter, not even an email confirming that her application had been received. She tried calling one place, only to get through to a voicemail that was so full it wouldn’t even let her leave a message.
At first she thought it was bad luck – she’d updated her CV, it looked good, professional, she’d achieved… Well, ultimately it hadn’t gone her way, but she’d worked hard. Kerensa had warned her about this. ‘Don’t say you ran your own business,’ she’d insisted. ‘They’ll think you don’t really want to work with them, that you’ll be too much of a maverick.’
‘That sounds cool,’ Polly had said. ‘I like the idea of being a bit of a maverick. I’ve always been too staid, that’s my problem.’
‘Hmm,’ said Kerensa, who was privately more worried about Polly finding another job than she was about her finding a flat or a new man. The market was brutal out there. ‘Well, any time you want me to go through your CV, let me know. I’d take a couple of years off your age too.’
‘Blatantly lie?’ said Polly. ‘You think I should just lie all over my CV?’
‘Well, you have to look at it like this,’ said Kerensa. ‘Everybody lies, so if you don’t, you’re showing a terrible naivety about the nature of the real world of work. People will adjust for lies, so if you don’t lie, they’re adjusting downwards from a truthful position, and that’s awful. Like your doctor assuming that you’re lying about how much you drink.’
Polly gave her a look.
‘Just telling the truth about the world out there,’ said Kerensa.
‘I don’t want to be in the world out there!’ Polly had said with a groan. ‘I want to stay in my cosy flat, running a nice little business and dreaming about me and Chris being rich and me being on Dragons’ Den or helping Alan Sugar on The Apprentice!’
‘You don’t really dream about those kinds of things,’ said Kerensa.
‘Er, no,’ Polly had said quickly.
Actually, recently she hadn’t had many dreams at all.
And now it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Because the little money she had was incredibly hard to stretch out. It was obvious that she was baking, because you could smell it all the way down the harbour front. Tarnie had asked quietly whether, if they all chipped in, all the boats, and gave her a little bit of money every week, she would make their sandwiches. Because they didn’t like Gillian’s and they couldn’t make their own, apparently, because they were men. And of course Muriel had her loaves, and then a man snuck by one night when she was leaving the house and said, ‘Psst, are you the lady with the bread?’
‘Here,’ she said, passing it to the woman, who glanced around fearfully at the door, then snatched at a small bit.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘That’s amazing. That tastes incredible. GOD, I miss bread.’
Polly looked round. Sure enough, the little minimart didn’t sell any of the usual stacks of Mother’s Pride and breakfast rolls.
‘You don’t… you don’t…’
‘You don’t cross Gillian Manse in this town,’ said the woman, looking fearful again. ‘It’s just not worth it.’
‘Why is everyone so scared of her?’ said Polly The woman’s face turned dark and she busied herself with tidying up the Polo mints.
‘I’m Muriel, by the way,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Nice to meet you, Muriel. I’m Polly.’
Muriel turned back round to face her.
‘Oh, she had… she’s had a tough time of it. And it’s hard to keep businesses afloat here, especially in the winter.’
Polly realised the woman must be about her own age, but she looked very weary.
‘She wants everyone to stick together. The only problem is…’
‘Her bread is so horrible.’
‘Most people get used to it,’ said Muriel. ‘But…’ She looked sadly at Polly’s tea towel.
‘Okay, here’s the deal,’ said Polly. ‘You smuggle in bread flour for me to buy and I’ll cut you in on it and supply you with loaves.’ Ridiculously, she glanced upwards at the CCTV. Muriel looked at the door again. They both took on an oddly conspiratorial air.
‘Deal,’ said Muriel in a low voice. She looked at her watch. ‘This is a good time of day. After lunch but before the school rush.’
‘Roger,’ said Polly. ‘Let’s call it a loaf a week.’
Muriel pushed the bread flour towards her. ‘Here. Take this on account.’
‘I might need the stronger stuff,’ warned Polly. ‘Double 0.’
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,’ said Muriel in a low tone.
Polly wrapped the flour tightly in a plastic bag and put it in her rucksack next to a squawking Neil. Then, remembering to grab some more milk, she sidled quietly back out on to the cobbles.
Chapter Nine
That would have been it, Polly always told herself afterwards. That would absolutely have been it. She would have seen out her twelve weeks at Mount Polbearne, handed back the keys, waved goodbye to the fishing boats and headed back to Plymouth with a few stories to tell, plenty of new bread recipes and a great big dollop of R&R under her belt – she was sleeping better than she had in years. That would have been it, if she hadn’t begun to find herself in unbelievably straitened circumstances.
Before she’d left, she’d signed up at a temp agency in Plymouth, but every time she phoned them, they sounded despondent and suggested she came in. She’d been in before, though, and it had been full of glamorous students and ex-students, all of whom had amazing computer skills – she could just about manage a simple spreadsheet – and she knew she didn’t stand a chance. She said she’d take anything, but the woman had explained something about zero-hours working, whereby she had to stand by whether she was working or not, and she had recoiled in horror. No. She was a professional. She would find a professional job.
That was then. Now, as the weeks went by, she was horrified to see that in the years since she’d last applied for jobs, the entire system had changed. Everything was online, for starters; no more printed-out CVs and stamps. The etiquette had changed too, and she didn’t hear back from any of the jobs she’d applied for; not a letter, not even an email confirming that her application had been received. She tried calling one place, only to get through to a voicemail that was so full it wouldn’t even let her leave a message.
At first she thought it was bad luck – she’d updated her CV, it looked good, professional, she’d achieved… Well, ultimately it hadn’t gone her way, but she’d worked hard. Kerensa had warned her about this. ‘Don’t say you ran your own business,’ she’d insisted. ‘They’ll think you don’t really want to work with them, that you’ll be too much of a maverick.’
‘That sounds cool,’ Polly had said. ‘I like the idea of being a bit of a maverick. I’ve always been too staid, that’s my problem.’
‘Hmm,’ said Kerensa, who was privately more worried about Polly finding another job than she was about her finding a flat or a new man. The market was brutal out there. ‘Well, any time you want me to go through your CV, let me know. I’d take a couple of years off your age too.’
‘Blatantly lie?’ said Polly. ‘You think I should just lie all over my CV?’
‘Well, you have to look at it like this,’ said Kerensa. ‘Everybody lies, so if you don’t, you’re showing a terrible naivety about the nature of the real world of work. People will adjust for lies, so if you don’t lie, they’re adjusting downwards from a truthful position, and that’s awful. Like your doctor assuming that you’re lying about how much you drink.’
Polly gave her a look.
‘Just telling the truth about the world out there,’ said Kerensa.
‘I don’t want to be in the world out there!’ Polly had said with a groan. ‘I want to stay in my cosy flat, running a nice little business and dreaming about me and Chris being rich and me being on Dragons’ Den or helping Alan Sugar on The Apprentice!’
‘You don’t really dream about those kinds of things,’ said Kerensa.
‘Er, no,’ Polly had said quickly.
Actually, recently she hadn’t had many dreams at all.
And now it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Because the little money she had was incredibly hard to stretch out. It was obvious that she was baking, because you could smell it all the way down the harbour front. Tarnie had asked quietly whether, if they all chipped in, all the boats, and gave her a little bit of money every week, she would make their sandwiches. Because they didn’t like Gillian’s and they couldn’t make their own, apparently, because they were men. And of course Muriel had her loaves, and then a man snuck by one night when she was leaving the house and said, ‘Psst, are you the lady with the bread?’
