Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 30
The tide was starting to come in and a wave splashed her briskly on the face as she bent down to check that Gillian was still breathing. The woman’s long hair was now adorned with fronds of seaweed. Polly swore as Gillian slipped from her grasp, but the woman did not wake, and Polly started to panic, thinking that her hard work might be in vain. The lighthouse beam swept past again, and she wondered if they could see her from up there. Then she remembered that there was nobody actually in there now; they were all automated these days. That was no help; bloody hell, you needed someone there to sound the alarm when stuff like this happened.
The light somehow gave her an extra burst of energy; just enough to heave Gillian on to the slip. She didn’t like to think of how much bruising there was going to be, but from then on it was much easier, without the waves splashing at her and the perishing cold water lapping at her ankles.
At last she reached the top, and bent over to catch her breath. She wondered what to do. Why on earth didn’t she have any of the fishermen’s numbers? But then they weren’t here anyway, she remembered; they were miles away from any mobile phone mast, any sign of habitation at all, out in the middle of the Irish Sea.
She glanced round the deserted town again, pulling off her jacket to cover the drenched woman. She needed help, and fast, and having to explain herself to any of the suspicious villagers would take too long.
Tearing back to the house, she charged upstairs. She turned on the kettle and grabbed some blankets for warmth, then snatched up her phone to dial 999. As she did so, she noticed the jar of honey still sitting on top of one of the meagre kitchen units. Huckle’s telephone number was printed on the label.
She would call him first. He’d know what to do. She realised she was basing this supposition on absolutely nothing, but she didn’t have much time. She poured boiling water into a mug, hoisted the blankets in her other arm and tore back downstairs again as fast as she could, balancing everything and dialling Huckle’s number at the same time.
It rang for so long Polly started to think that maybe it was disconnected, but finally she heard the familiar drawl, slower and sleepier than ever.
‘Er, yeah?’
‘Huckle?’
‘Yip?’
‘Huckle, it’s me… Polly.’
‘Oh… yeah. Right. Sorry. Thought someone had mucked up their time zones again.’
‘Huckle, I need you —’
‘Um, you know I’m not really —’
‘Shut up! I need you to come to Polbearne. Mrs Manse fell into the water!’
‘She did what?’
‘That old woman. She fell into the water.’
Polly was by now trying to take off the woman’s sodden housecoat and didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation.
‘Huckle. Come now, I’m on the harbour.’ She checked the causeway. It was still clear.
‘Er, right, okay.’
She rang off, then checked Mrs Manse. She was breathing, and was starting to stir. Polly was suddenly not keen for the woman to come round to find Polly stripping her clothes off. She dialled 999. They were helpful and said they’d be about half an hour; they told her to take off Gillian’s clothes and replace them with blankets, and to give her a hot drink – no alcohol – if she could sit up.
That was easier said than done. Every time Polly managed to get a blanket around her, Gillian shook it off again. She was clearly confused; she was muttering to herself and struggling to get up. Polly was having huge problems holding her.
Suddenly a throaty roar burst through the tiny town. Polly jumped up, startled. The noise was monstrous, bouncing off the old slate walls and the cobbles. Holding Mrs Manse firmly by the shoulder, she peered into the darkness, trying to see what the hell it was.
Roaring round a corner at an angle came something from the 1940s: a classic motorcycle frame in a dark burgundy colour with a small engine at the front and black spoked wheels; attached was a side car, also painted burgundy.
‘What the hell?’ said Polly. On top of it was perched the large figure of Huckle, and the contraption was moving at an incredible rate, its enormous roar resonating through the town. Polly finally began to see lights come on in people’s bedrooms. Oh, thanks for coming when you heard me shouting my head off, she thought to herself.
Rather dramatically, like a skier coming to rest, Huckle skidded to a stop in front of her. The large round headlamp at the front of the bike blinded her, and Polly put up her hand to shield her eyes.
‘Ow,’ she said.
Huckle hopped off, removing his vintage black helmet and shaking out his slightly too long yellow hair.
‘What is that?’ said Polly. Mrs Manse was still struggling to get away.
‘It’s a jet ski,’ said Huckle. ‘Seriously, that’s what you got me down here to ask?’
He turned his attention to the old woman, crouching next to her on the slipway.
‘Now, what’s going on with y’all?’ he said, his voice slow and kind. He took Mrs Manse’s lumpy body in his arms and miraculously made her seem small and light. Polly let her go with some relief and rubbed the circulation back into her arms.
Mrs Manse seemed to calm down immediately and said a few names, none of which Polly recognised.
‘Have you got anything for her to drink?’ said Huckle. ‘Maybe we should give her a drink. Is the ambulance coming?’
‘The ambulance is coming, and yes!’ said Polly, feeling pleased. She handed over the mug of boiled water. Mrs Manse tasted some, then spat it out.
‘I think you’re on the mend,’ said Huckle. ‘What happened, Pol? Did you two get in another fight?’
‘You’re not serious?’ said Polly. ‘What, you think I pushed an old lady into the sea?’
‘I don’t know you very well.’
Polly gave him a flat stare.
‘Okay, okay.’
He looked at Mrs Manse.
‘So what happened?’
Polly sighed. ‘Oh God, I’m going to have to explain this to the ambulance crew too, aren’t I? And probably the police.’
‘The police?’ frowned Huckle.
‘I saw her standing there – I didn’t know it was her, really, she was too far away. I shouted out – I just yelled at her to see who it was. And I think I gave her a fright. She slipped.’
Polly swallowed.
The light somehow gave her an extra burst of energy; just enough to heave Gillian on to the slip. She didn’t like to think of how much bruising there was going to be, but from then on it was much easier, without the waves splashing at her and the perishing cold water lapping at her ankles.
At last she reached the top, and bent over to catch her breath. She wondered what to do. Why on earth didn’t she have any of the fishermen’s numbers? But then they weren’t here anyway, she remembered; they were miles away from any mobile phone mast, any sign of habitation at all, out in the middle of the Irish Sea.
She glanced round the deserted town again, pulling off her jacket to cover the drenched woman. She needed help, and fast, and having to explain herself to any of the suspicious villagers would take too long.
Tearing back to the house, she charged upstairs. She turned on the kettle and grabbed some blankets for warmth, then snatched up her phone to dial 999. As she did so, she noticed the jar of honey still sitting on top of one of the meagre kitchen units. Huckle’s telephone number was printed on the label.
She would call him first. He’d know what to do. She realised she was basing this supposition on absolutely nothing, but she didn’t have much time. She poured boiling water into a mug, hoisted the blankets in her other arm and tore back downstairs again as fast as she could, balancing everything and dialling Huckle’s number at the same time.
It rang for so long Polly started to think that maybe it was disconnected, but finally she heard the familiar drawl, slower and sleepier than ever.
‘Er, yeah?’
‘Huckle?’
‘Yip?’
‘Huckle, it’s me… Polly.’
‘Oh… yeah. Right. Sorry. Thought someone had mucked up their time zones again.’
‘Huckle, I need you —’
‘Um, you know I’m not really —’
‘Shut up! I need you to come to Polbearne. Mrs Manse fell into the water!’
‘She did what?’
‘That old woman. She fell into the water.’
Polly was by now trying to take off the woman’s sodden housecoat and didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation.
‘Huckle. Come now, I’m on the harbour.’ She checked the causeway. It was still clear.
‘Er, right, okay.’
She rang off, then checked Mrs Manse. She was breathing, and was starting to stir. Polly was suddenly not keen for the woman to come round to find Polly stripping her clothes off. She dialled 999. They were helpful and said they’d be about half an hour; they told her to take off Gillian’s clothes and replace them with blankets, and to give her a hot drink – no alcohol – if she could sit up.
That was easier said than done. Every time Polly managed to get a blanket around her, Gillian shook it off again. She was clearly confused; she was muttering to herself and struggling to get up. Polly was having huge problems holding her.
Suddenly a throaty roar burst through the tiny town. Polly jumped up, startled. The noise was monstrous, bouncing off the old slate walls and the cobbles. Holding Mrs Manse firmly by the shoulder, she peered into the darkness, trying to see what the hell it was.
Roaring round a corner at an angle came something from the 1940s: a classic motorcycle frame in a dark burgundy colour with a small engine at the front and black spoked wheels; attached was a side car, also painted burgundy.
‘What the hell?’ said Polly. On top of it was perched the large figure of Huckle, and the contraption was moving at an incredible rate, its enormous roar resonating through the town. Polly finally began to see lights come on in people’s bedrooms. Oh, thanks for coming when you heard me shouting my head off, she thought to herself.
Rather dramatically, like a skier coming to rest, Huckle skidded to a stop in front of her. The large round headlamp at the front of the bike blinded her, and Polly put up her hand to shield her eyes.
‘Ow,’ she said.
Huckle hopped off, removing his vintage black helmet and shaking out his slightly too long yellow hair.
‘What is that?’ said Polly. Mrs Manse was still struggling to get away.
‘It’s a jet ski,’ said Huckle. ‘Seriously, that’s what you got me down here to ask?’
He turned his attention to the old woman, crouching next to her on the slipway.
‘Now, what’s going on with y’all?’ he said, his voice slow and kind. He took Mrs Manse’s lumpy body in his arms and miraculously made her seem small and light. Polly let her go with some relief and rubbed the circulation back into her arms.
Mrs Manse seemed to calm down immediately and said a few names, none of which Polly recognised.
‘Have you got anything for her to drink?’ said Huckle. ‘Maybe we should give her a drink. Is the ambulance coming?’
‘The ambulance is coming, and yes!’ said Polly, feeling pleased. She handed over the mug of boiled water. Mrs Manse tasted some, then spat it out.
‘I think you’re on the mend,’ said Huckle. ‘What happened, Pol? Did you two get in another fight?’
‘You’re not serious?’ said Polly. ‘What, you think I pushed an old lady into the sea?’
‘I don’t know you very well.’
Polly gave him a flat stare.
‘Okay, okay.’
He looked at Mrs Manse.
‘So what happened?’
Polly sighed. ‘Oh God, I’m going to have to explain this to the ambulance crew too, aren’t I? And probably the police.’
‘The police?’ frowned Huckle.
‘I saw her standing there – I didn’t know it was her, really, she was too far away. I shouted out – I just yelled at her to see who it was. And I think I gave her a fright. She slipped.’
Polly swallowed.
