Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 24
It was under a street light, it took her completely by surprise and she jumped.
‘Um, what if I am?’ she said warily.
‘I caught Muriel with some. I’m Jim Baker, I run the post office.’
‘Oh,’ said Polly. It occurred to her that she could get some new baking tins sent to her. This might help.
And that was how her little business started, completely illicitly. Every night she would prepare large batches, in different combinations: plain white for the boys, who were unadventurous; a poppy seed here and there; some honey and raisin which, toasted and with a scrape of local yellow butter, was absolutely heavenly. In the morning she would scuttle about delivering them, taking her payment in small amounts; small amounts she desperately needed. And the worry of applying for other jobs, or about what was coming next, started to recede a little.
Four weeks later, the sun was coming up earlier and earlier in the morning, and Polly had read everything in her library, and she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. She couldn’t bear it, but it was cruel to hold on to him. It was time to take Neil’s bandage off.
He’d become such a part of her life, hopping about cheerily, pecking his way through the crumbs, splashing about in the sink. Polly knew she’d been warned not to get too attached, but she couldn’t help feeling this was a happy bird. He squawked cheerfully whenever she appeared, he let her ruffle his feathers and scratch behind his ears and he happily sat on her knee when she finally rigged up her old laptop to watch DVDs. She put off and put off going back to the vet, but she couldn’t do it for ever. This was a baby. He needed to be with his own kind, even though it was going to be a wrench.
She attempted to remove the tape herself, but he screeched loudly and hopped away from her, and she wasn’t confident she could do it alone. So she made another appointment with Patrick, who had seen her around town carrying a backpack that seemed to move a suspicious amount. He’d also heard various rumours about her prowess in baking and smelled certain delicious smells when walking down by the harbour, but he had to live in this town just like everybody else, so he didn’t want to bring it up directly.
His heart sank when they marched proudly into his consulting room, Neil perched happily on Polly’s shoulder.
‘Isn’t this exactly what I told you not to do?’ he said gruffly, his hand brushing his bald patch, as it always did when he was irritated.
‘Um, kind of,’ said Polly. There was no hint of a smile today; she looked very sad.
‘I bet you’ve even given him a name.’
‘Um,’ said Polly.
Patrick stretched out a hand towards the bird. Neil tilted his head to one side and hopped a little closer to Polly’s ear.
‘Come on, little fella,’ said Patrick. ‘Come on, come with me.’
In the end, Polly held on to Neil whilst Patrick expertly clipped off the bandage. At first Neil didn’t know what to do, and pecked hard at his feathers as if seeing them for the first time. Then he experimentally moved his wing up and down. Patrick felt the tiny bones.
‘Well, he seems to have recovered fine. Nice job. He’s looking healthy too, lovely bright eyes, glossy feathers.’
Polly beamed with pride.
‘Now all you have to do is throw him out of a window.’
Patrick regretted saying that.
‘I’m not throwing him out of a window,’ said Polly. She couldn’t bear the idea of sending Neil out into the freezing cold and driving rain; the weather had changed again. She had learned too that whatever temperature the forecast said it would be on the mainland, she could take off another five degrees for Mount Polbearne.
‘It’s what he’s meant to do,’ said Patrick. ‘Puffins are flock animals. He needs to be with his group, that’s how they’re wired. It’s cruel to separate them. It’s like keeping a tiger in a zoo.’
Polly nodded. ‘I see. I realise that.’
Patrick softened his tone. ‘Look, come on. Let’s give him a little shot out of my window, okay? It’s on the ground floor, so even if he doesn’t manage it, he won’t fall any distance.’
It was true enough: because of the steep angle of the road, there was only a couple of feet between Patrick’s office window and the cobbles below. A few passers-by stopped to watch the man and woman with the little bird.
‘Okay, come on, wee fella,’ said Patrick gently but firmly.
‘I can’t watch,’ said Polly, covering her eyes.
Neil perched on the old stone window ledge and looked around cautiously. He pecked at his feathers again; Polly wondered if they were itchy. A sudden shaft of sunlight illuminated the cobbled street outside. Neil hopped to the edge and looked over, then glanced round at Polly, as if seeking approval.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Go on, little man.’
Neil hopped up and down nervously. Patrick pushed him a little bit forwards and Polly winced.
‘Come on,’ said Patrick.
There was a long pause, and then, finally, Patrick gently tipped Neil over the edge. Polly gasped, ready to be furious with him, but the little bird, after seeming to hover in the air for a moment, ready to plummet, like something out of a cartoon, suddenly regained his momentum and flapped his wings furiously, ending up descending in a side-to-side motion before coming gently to rest.
‘Yay!’ said Patrick and Polly as the little puffin looked around, as if surprised at what he’d done. They gave him a round of applause, then Polly let her hands drop, sadly.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘I guess that’s that.’
‘You know there’s a puffin sanctuary on the north coast?’ said Patrick.
‘I know. Well, there you go then,’ said Polly dejectedly.
Patrick looked at her shrewdly. ‘You did well,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Polly.
She looked at Neil, who was vainly trying to hop back up the wall. She stretched an arm down and he jumped on to her hand, then gamely fluttered up and down to show her what he could do.
‘Yes, yes, you’re very clever,’ she said, smiling sadly. ‘Thanks, Doc.’ She took out her purse.
‘Actually,’ said Patrick, scratching his head, ‘I heard…’
‘Mmm?’
‘I heard you were…’ He glanced round. ‘I heard you could get bread in?’
‘Um, what if I am?’ she said warily.
‘I caught Muriel with some. I’m Jim Baker, I run the post office.’
‘Oh,’ said Polly. It occurred to her that she could get some new baking tins sent to her. This might help.
And that was how her little business started, completely illicitly. Every night she would prepare large batches, in different combinations: plain white for the boys, who were unadventurous; a poppy seed here and there; some honey and raisin which, toasted and with a scrape of local yellow butter, was absolutely heavenly. In the morning she would scuttle about delivering them, taking her payment in small amounts; small amounts she desperately needed. And the worry of applying for other jobs, or about what was coming next, started to recede a little.
Four weeks later, the sun was coming up earlier and earlier in the morning, and Polly had read everything in her library, and she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. She couldn’t bear it, but it was cruel to hold on to him. It was time to take Neil’s bandage off.
He’d become such a part of her life, hopping about cheerily, pecking his way through the crumbs, splashing about in the sink. Polly knew she’d been warned not to get too attached, but she couldn’t help feeling this was a happy bird. He squawked cheerfully whenever she appeared, he let her ruffle his feathers and scratch behind his ears and he happily sat on her knee when she finally rigged up her old laptop to watch DVDs. She put off and put off going back to the vet, but she couldn’t do it for ever. This was a baby. He needed to be with his own kind, even though it was going to be a wrench.
She attempted to remove the tape herself, but he screeched loudly and hopped away from her, and she wasn’t confident she could do it alone. So she made another appointment with Patrick, who had seen her around town carrying a backpack that seemed to move a suspicious amount. He’d also heard various rumours about her prowess in baking and smelled certain delicious smells when walking down by the harbour, but he had to live in this town just like everybody else, so he didn’t want to bring it up directly.
His heart sank when they marched proudly into his consulting room, Neil perched happily on Polly’s shoulder.
‘Isn’t this exactly what I told you not to do?’ he said gruffly, his hand brushing his bald patch, as it always did when he was irritated.
‘Um, kind of,’ said Polly. There was no hint of a smile today; she looked very sad.
‘I bet you’ve even given him a name.’
‘Um,’ said Polly.
Patrick stretched out a hand towards the bird. Neil tilted his head to one side and hopped a little closer to Polly’s ear.
‘Come on, little fella,’ said Patrick. ‘Come on, come with me.’
In the end, Polly held on to Neil whilst Patrick expertly clipped off the bandage. At first Neil didn’t know what to do, and pecked hard at his feathers as if seeing them for the first time. Then he experimentally moved his wing up and down. Patrick felt the tiny bones.
‘Well, he seems to have recovered fine. Nice job. He’s looking healthy too, lovely bright eyes, glossy feathers.’
Polly beamed with pride.
‘Now all you have to do is throw him out of a window.’
Patrick regretted saying that.
‘I’m not throwing him out of a window,’ said Polly. She couldn’t bear the idea of sending Neil out into the freezing cold and driving rain; the weather had changed again. She had learned too that whatever temperature the forecast said it would be on the mainland, she could take off another five degrees for Mount Polbearne.
‘It’s what he’s meant to do,’ said Patrick. ‘Puffins are flock animals. He needs to be with his group, that’s how they’re wired. It’s cruel to separate them. It’s like keeping a tiger in a zoo.’
Polly nodded. ‘I see. I realise that.’
Patrick softened his tone. ‘Look, come on. Let’s give him a little shot out of my window, okay? It’s on the ground floor, so even if he doesn’t manage it, he won’t fall any distance.’
It was true enough: because of the steep angle of the road, there was only a couple of feet between Patrick’s office window and the cobbles below. A few passers-by stopped to watch the man and woman with the little bird.
‘Okay, come on, wee fella,’ said Patrick gently but firmly.
‘I can’t watch,’ said Polly, covering her eyes.
Neil perched on the old stone window ledge and looked around cautiously. He pecked at his feathers again; Polly wondered if they were itchy. A sudden shaft of sunlight illuminated the cobbled street outside. Neil hopped to the edge and looked over, then glanced round at Polly, as if seeking approval.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Go on, little man.’
Neil hopped up and down nervously. Patrick pushed him a little bit forwards and Polly winced.
‘Come on,’ said Patrick.
There was a long pause, and then, finally, Patrick gently tipped Neil over the edge. Polly gasped, ready to be furious with him, but the little bird, after seeming to hover in the air for a moment, ready to plummet, like something out of a cartoon, suddenly regained his momentum and flapped his wings furiously, ending up descending in a side-to-side motion before coming gently to rest.
‘Yay!’ said Patrick and Polly as the little puffin looked around, as if surprised at what he’d done. They gave him a round of applause, then Polly let her hands drop, sadly.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘I guess that’s that.’
‘You know there’s a puffin sanctuary on the north coast?’ said Patrick.
‘I know. Well, there you go then,’ said Polly dejectedly.
Patrick looked at her shrewdly. ‘You did well,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Polly.
She looked at Neil, who was vainly trying to hop back up the wall. She stretched an arm down and he jumped on to her hand, then gamely fluttered up and down to show her what he could do.
‘Yes, yes, you’re very clever,’ she said, smiling sadly. ‘Thanks, Doc.’ She took out her purse.
‘Actually,’ said Patrick, scratching his head, ‘I heard…’
‘Mmm?’
‘I heard you were…’ He glanced round. ‘I heard you could get bread in?’
