Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 29
Chapter Ten
Polly couldn’t sleep that night. She tossed and turned, occasionally crying a little. She couldn’t believe that things had gone from bad – very bad – to worse. All she was trying to do was meet some people and make herself feel better – and baking very much did make her feel better. To meet such nastiness and resistance was just… She would have to move back to Plymouth. She was going to be made homeless anyway; she had absolutely no doubt that that evil, nasty woman was going to make sure she was evicted. AND, it struck her, she’d probably lose her security deposit too. A chilling fear hit her that she seemed to be in freefall. She had no security; where would she end up? Living on benefits in one of Plymouth’s big tower blocks, with barbed-wire fences and foul-smelling lifts and great big dogs roaming free and drug-takers in the alleyways?
Or squeezing in back with her mum in Rochester in the little overheated house she’d grown up in; her mum who had been so proud of her professional, college-educated daughter with the nice middle-class man and the nice office career and they run their own business don’t you know, and they’ve just bought one of those spanking new waterside executive apartments and… It would be shameful for her mum, given all the boasting she liked to do to her friends. It would be shameful for Polly. Oh Lord.
Some anxieties were much, much worse at night and come the morning sun seem manageable; could vanish like bad dreams with the first cup of coffee, or be rationalised away into the business of the day, when the brain didn’t have the chance to mull over mistakes and missed opportunities, regrets and worries for the future. Polly sensed that her problems were not the type that were going anywhere in a hurry. If only she hadn’t made all that extra bread just to spite Gillian Manse and, if she were honest with herself, show off. If only she hadn’t talked back to her, then the woman would have left her alone and she wouldn’t be facing imminent homelessness. Oh God.
Even though it was freezing in the unheated room, she got up, carefully pulling her duvet around her, and hopped into the sitting room and over to the kettle. A hot drink would help. She would put the light on and read a book; do anything in fact to take her mind off things and stop her stupid brain from whirring. She switched on the immersion heater. It took two hours to warm up for a bath, but that was okay, she could have it in the morning if she fell asleep again. Somehow, though, she knew she wasn’t going to fall asleep again. She would just have to deal with that. She had nothing to do tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. If she had to sleep in, she could. Even Neil was out for the count, eyes shut tight in his little box. She was all alone.
Still with the duvet on, she crept to the window to look out. There wasn’t much to see, but the fishing boats all being out gave her a feeling that she wasn’t alone: that out there, somewhere, Tarnie, Jayden, Archie and the rest were wide awake, drinking tea too, maybe, among the silvery scales and fluttering fins of the shoal; stitching up nets, or heaving in the great piles of ice from the ice machine to keep their cargo fresh for the morning markets all the way down the coast to Penzance.
With everything else in her head, she had forgotten Jayden’s silly story about the ghost woman until she actually got to the window. As the lighthouse beam swept across, her adrenalin surged, but she was feeling so exhausted and grim about things, she no longer had the energy to be actually scared by the supernatural; her real life, she reflected, was already frightening enough.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark of the harbour: the stones, the moon reflecting on the water – the night was unusually clear – a few cars parked up, the street lamps extinguished… then she saw it. She craned her neck and peered more closely, her heart threatening to erupt through her chest. There it was. A figure, in the same position, standing on the wall, stock still, staring out to sea, like a statue.
Polly’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced back into the room, quickly, to reassure herself that her familiar things were still there; had not faded to some past time of long ago. Her eyes were dazzled once again, and she blinked once, twice to accustom herself to the dark. Then she steeled herself, and opened the window. The rattle seemed incredibly loud in the night-time air, but Polly didn’t care; fear and anxiety were making her reckless. She leaned out, craning to see the figure.
‘OI!’ she shouted. ‘OI!!’
The figure turned round suddenly in shock. As it did so, the great lighthouse beam swept over again, and Polly watched in horror as the figure slipped and fell, its skirts fluttering in the wind, its long hair streaming out behind it.
There was no time to think. Polly grabbed her jacket and threw it on over her pyjamas, then thrust her feet into a pair of boots before tearing out of the door, thundering down the stairs. That was not an apparition, or something she’d dreamt. There was someone out there, on this cold, blowy, scuddy night.
Down on the street, temporarily disorientated, she wished she’d brought a torch. The moon was nearly full, but the dark shapes had taken on new dimensions and she wasn’t precisely sure where along the harbour wall she was headed. Finally she came upon a gap, looked down – and gasped.
There, lying in the shallow water, was the bulky shape of none other than Mrs Manse. Without the fierce bun, her hair was long; her roundness was concealed by the flowing nightdress and housecoat she was wearing. Polly knelt down next to her. She was breathing, but as the lighthouse beam swept over them, Polly saw that she was bleeding from a gash on her head. She had to get her out of the water; it was absolutely freezing.
‘Gillian,’ she hissed. ‘Gillian! Oh my God, I am SO SORRY.’
The woman didn’t stir. Polly sighed. Where the hell were five burly fishermen when she needed them? She looked up at the buildings along the front. The flats above the rest of the old shops were all empty. She needed her phone. But if she ran back to fetch it, it might be too late… No. She would have to do this herself.
She bent down and grabbed the large woman under her arms, and heaved with all her might. Over and over again the sea tried to suck the woman back, as if demanding her. Each time, Polly swore mightily and tried to get a bit more traction. And finally, incredibly slowly, she managed to pull her, little by little, out of the waves – they were both soaking now – and towards the landing slip. She called out for help a few times, but soon gave it up as a waste of puff and energy; she just had to get on with this on her own.
Polly couldn’t sleep that night. She tossed and turned, occasionally crying a little. She couldn’t believe that things had gone from bad – very bad – to worse. All she was trying to do was meet some people and make herself feel better – and baking very much did make her feel better. To meet such nastiness and resistance was just… She would have to move back to Plymouth. She was going to be made homeless anyway; she had absolutely no doubt that that evil, nasty woman was going to make sure she was evicted. AND, it struck her, she’d probably lose her security deposit too. A chilling fear hit her that she seemed to be in freefall. She had no security; where would she end up? Living on benefits in one of Plymouth’s big tower blocks, with barbed-wire fences and foul-smelling lifts and great big dogs roaming free and drug-takers in the alleyways?
Or squeezing in back with her mum in Rochester in the little overheated house she’d grown up in; her mum who had been so proud of her professional, college-educated daughter with the nice middle-class man and the nice office career and they run their own business don’t you know, and they’ve just bought one of those spanking new waterside executive apartments and… It would be shameful for her mum, given all the boasting she liked to do to her friends. It would be shameful for Polly. Oh Lord.
Some anxieties were much, much worse at night and come the morning sun seem manageable; could vanish like bad dreams with the first cup of coffee, or be rationalised away into the business of the day, when the brain didn’t have the chance to mull over mistakes and missed opportunities, regrets and worries for the future. Polly sensed that her problems were not the type that were going anywhere in a hurry. If only she hadn’t made all that extra bread just to spite Gillian Manse and, if she were honest with herself, show off. If only she hadn’t talked back to her, then the woman would have left her alone and she wouldn’t be facing imminent homelessness. Oh God.
Even though it was freezing in the unheated room, she got up, carefully pulling her duvet around her, and hopped into the sitting room and over to the kettle. A hot drink would help. She would put the light on and read a book; do anything in fact to take her mind off things and stop her stupid brain from whirring. She switched on the immersion heater. It took two hours to warm up for a bath, but that was okay, she could have it in the morning if she fell asleep again. Somehow, though, she knew she wasn’t going to fall asleep again. She would just have to deal with that. She had nothing to do tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. If she had to sleep in, she could. Even Neil was out for the count, eyes shut tight in his little box. She was all alone.
Still with the duvet on, she crept to the window to look out. There wasn’t much to see, but the fishing boats all being out gave her a feeling that she wasn’t alone: that out there, somewhere, Tarnie, Jayden, Archie and the rest were wide awake, drinking tea too, maybe, among the silvery scales and fluttering fins of the shoal; stitching up nets, or heaving in the great piles of ice from the ice machine to keep their cargo fresh for the morning markets all the way down the coast to Penzance.
With everything else in her head, she had forgotten Jayden’s silly story about the ghost woman until she actually got to the window. As the lighthouse beam swept across, her adrenalin surged, but she was feeling so exhausted and grim about things, she no longer had the energy to be actually scared by the supernatural; her real life, she reflected, was already frightening enough.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark of the harbour: the stones, the moon reflecting on the water – the night was unusually clear – a few cars parked up, the street lamps extinguished… then she saw it. She craned her neck and peered more closely, her heart threatening to erupt through her chest. There it was. A figure, in the same position, standing on the wall, stock still, staring out to sea, like a statue.
Polly’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced back into the room, quickly, to reassure herself that her familiar things were still there; had not faded to some past time of long ago. Her eyes were dazzled once again, and she blinked once, twice to accustom herself to the dark. Then she steeled herself, and opened the window. The rattle seemed incredibly loud in the night-time air, but Polly didn’t care; fear and anxiety were making her reckless. She leaned out, craning to see the figure.
‘OI!’ she shouted. ‘OI!!’
The figure turned round suddenly in shock. As it did so, the great lighthouse beam swept over again, and Polly watched in horror as the figure slipped and fell, its skirts fluttering in the wind, its long hair streaming out behind it.
There was no time to think. Polly grabbed her jacket and threw it on over her pyjamas, then thrust her feet into a pair of boots before tearing out of the door, thundering down the stairs. That was not an apparition, or something she’d dreamt. There was someone out there, on this cold, blowy, scuddy night.
Down on the street, temporarily disorientated, she wished she’d brought a torch. The moon was nearly full, but the dark shapes had taken on new dimensions and she wasn’t precisely sure where along the harbour wall she was headed. Finally she came upon a gap, looked down – and gasped.
There, lying in the shallow water, was the bulky shape of none other than Mrs Manse. Without the fierce bun, her hair was long; her roundness was concealed by the flowing nightdress and housecoat she was wearing. Polly knelt down next to her. She was breathing, but as the lighthouse beam swept over them, Polly saw that she was bleeding from a gash on her head. She had to get her out of the water; it was absolutely freezing.
‘Gillian,’ she hissed. ‘Gillian! Oh my God, I am SO SORRY.’
The woman didn’t stir. Polly sighed. Where the hell were five burly fishermen when she needed them? She looked up at the buildings along the front. The flats above the rest of the old shops were all empty. She needed her phone. But if she ran back to fetch it, it might be too late… No. She would have to do this herself.
She bent down and grabbed the large woman under her arms, and heaved with all her might. Over and over again the sea tried to suck the woman back, as if demanding her. Each time, Polly swore mightily and tried to get a bit more traction. And finally, incredibly slowly, she managed to pull her, little by little, out of the waves – they were both soaking now – and towards the landing slip. She called out for help a few times, but soon gave it up as a waste of puff and energy; she just had to get on with this on her own.
