Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 31
‘Do you think they’re going to charge me with manslaughter?’
‘No, I’ll just sue you,’ came a growling voice.
‘Oh thank God,’ said Polly. ‘Thank God. I am SO sorry. But what were you doing out in the middle of such a wild night?’
Polly did try to explain, as the ambulancemen arrived and a little police car bumped carefully across the causeway, driven by a sleepy-looking copper with a moustache. Mrs Manse was wrapped up like a turkey in silver blankets in the back of the ambulance complaining that a body couldn’t even take an innocent night-time stroll any more without being abused. Fortunately the policeman seemed disinclined to take this too seriously.
Polly felt very dubious indeed.
‘She wasn’t walking! She was standing right there! And I’ve seen her there before,’ she hissed to Huckle.
‘That’s a nasty cut,’ said the paramedic. ‘I think you’re a bit stunned, and I hope you haven’t caught anything from being in the cold water. I think we need to take you along to the hospital for a bit.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Gillian regally. ‘I have to open up the bakery.’
There was a silence.
‘Well I can tell you THAT won’t be happening in a hurry,’ said the cheery paramedic.
‘I have to. It’s what I do.’
‘And getting you better is what WE do, so I would just relax if I were you.’
‘But they need the bakery.’
‘And you should thank this young lady for having the presence of mind to get you out of the water and look after you without panicking. You shouldn’t be dancing along slippy harbour walls at your age and in your condition,’ said the paramedic. ‘This could have been a lot worse.’
Gillian Manse looked at Polly. Now she didn’t really look angry, just defeated and confused.
‘Aye,’ she said. But she didn’t sound very grateful at all.
There was no point in going back to bed. Polly and Huckle drank black coffee and sat on the harbour watching the sun coming up, talking about what had happened. The chill gradually left the air and the stars blinked out, as fingers of pink started to appear across the eastern horizon. They chatted companionably in the lightening gloom. By 5.30 the sky was yellow, pink and blue, a beautiful day coming in, the sea fresh in their nostrils, the strange events of the night already falling behind them. As they watched, a little dark blob appeared on the horizon, followed by other dark blobs, and up to the harbour’s edge came the gutters and the market men in their vans. The seagulls started to get more excited.
‘I’ll wait and tell Tarnie,’ said Polly. ‘He’s lived here for ever. If anyone knows what was going through her mind, it’s him.’
‘Sure,’ said Huckle, kicking his legs gently. ‘Plus we need to think about breakfast.’
‘Everyone will need to think about breakfast,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t have enough bread for the entire town! What are people going to toast?’
‘They’ll put it in the papers,’ said Huckle. ‘The town with no bread. The no-carb state.’
They looked at one another.
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘Plus, she’d do her nut. She’d never let me.’
‘I thought she was only interested in saving her business,’ said Huckle, swinging his long legs over the wall.
‘And having me killed,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘I don’t think it was personal,’ said Huckle, stretching and yawning. Suddenly Polly felt a ridiculous urge to run her fingers through his thick hair. Must be lack of sleep, she thought. But there was just something so masculine about him: his size, the long muscles, the warmth of his bulk close by. She glanced down.
‘I know. Just, on top of everything else that’s happened to me… it felt personal,’ she said.
‘Maybe you’ve lived a sheltered life,’ murmured Huckle, looking at her. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tangled and blown out by the wind; it looked dramatic. Her skin was pale, but it emphasised the cute freckles on her nose.
‘Not sheltered enough,’ said Polly moodily. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t run a bakery. I bake for fun, not for a job.’
‘What do you do for a job?’ asked Huckle seriously.
Polly glanced at him, then jumped up to greet the boats coming in.
Tarnie’s face was grave when he heard the news, which was already the topic of gossip and chit-chat amongst the fish traders.
‘That’s a bad business,’ he said, his blue eyes looking downcast.
‘But what… what was she doing?’ asked Polly.
‘You have to get up early in a bakery,’ said Jayden cheerfully. They had had a good catch, and the silvery fish caught the rays of the morning sun in their still-shining scales. They would be on the plates of Rock and St Ives and Truro by lunchtime.
‘Mmm,’ said Tarnie. ‘I wonder… Someone had better go to the bakery, get her bits and pieces together.’
‘Has she got friends who can do that?’ asked Polly.
Tarnie looked slightly awkward.
‘Ah yes, well, she’s always had a bit of a fiery personality, Gillian Manse.’
At this, Polly felt instantly terrible. How awful she had been, to be so angry with an old woman with no family and no friends. How spiteful to think she could come in and mess about with this woman’s livelihood. She felt absolutely dreadful suddenly, guilty and desperate to make amends. It wasn’t personal – Huckle had been absolutely right – and she had let herself channel her own bitterness and disappointment towards somebody else.
‘Er, can I help?’ she said, desperate to be useful. ‘I just feel so awful about it.’
Tarnie looked at her.
‘Actually, reckon you could,’ he said. ‘You’ll know… what a lady in a hospital bed would like, probably. I wouldn’t know that.’
Polly smiled. Obviously Tarnie didn’t have a girl of his own. She hadn’t thought it would be hard for fishermen to find girlfriends – hadn’t really thought about it at all – but she supposed the remoteness of their location, the unsociable hours…
‘Why don’t you smell of fish?’ she asked suddenly.
Tarnie looked bemused by the non sequitur.
‘What?’
‘No, I’ll just sue you,’ came a growling voice.
‘Oh thank God,’ said Polly. ‘Thank God. I am SO sorry. But what were you doing out in the middle of such a wild night?’
Polly did try to explain, as the ambulancemen arrived and a little police car bumped carefully across the causeway, driven by a sleepy-looking copper with a moustache. Mrs Manse was wrapped up like a turkey in silver blankets in the back of the ambulance complaining that a body couldn’t even take an innocent night-time stroll any more without being abused. Fortunately the policeman seemed disinclined to take this too seriously.
Polly felt very dubious indeed.
‘She wasn’t walking! She was standing right there! And I’ve seen her there before,’ she hissed to Huckle.
‘That’s a nasty cut,’ said the paramedic. ‘I think you’re a bit stunned, and I hope you haven’t caught anything from being in the cold water. I think we need to take you along to the hospital for a bit.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Gillian regally. ‘I have to open up the bakery.’
There was a silence.
‘Well I can tell you THAT won’t be happening in a hurry,’ said the cheery paramedic.
‘I have to. It’s what I do.’
‘And getting you better is what WE do, so I would just relax if I were you.’
‘But they need the bakery.’
‘And you should thank this young lady for having the presence of mind to get you out of the water and look after you without panicking. You shouldn’t be dancing along slippy harbour walls at your age and in your condition,’ said the paramedic. ‘This could have been a lot worse.’
Gillian Manse looked at Polly. Now she didn’t really look angry, just defeated and confused.
‘Aye,’ she said. But she didn’t sound very grateful at all.
There was no point in going back to bed. Polly and Huckle drank black coffee and sat on the harbour watching the sun coming up, talking about what had happened. The chill gradually left the air and the stars blinked out, as fingers of pink started to appear across the eastern horizon. They chatted companionably in the lightening gloom. By 5.30 the sky was yellow, pink and blue, a beautiful day coming in, the sea fresh in their nostrils, the strange events of the night already falling behind them. As they watched, a little dark blob appeared on the horizon, followed by other dark blobs, and up to the harbour’s edge came the gutters and the market men in their vans. The seagulls started to get more excited.
‘I’ll wait and tell Tarnie,’ said Polly. ‘He’s lived here for ever. If anyone knows what was going through her mind, it’s him.’
‘Sure,’ said Huckle, kicking his legs gently. ‘Plus we need to think about breakfast.’
‘Everyone will need to think about breakfast,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t have enough bread for the entire town! What are people going to toast?’
‘They’ll put it in the papers,’ said Huckle. ‘The town with no bread. The no-carb state.’
They looked at one another.
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘Plus, she’d do her nut. She’d never let me.’
‘I thought she was only interested in saving her business,’ said Huckle, swinging his long legs over the wall.
‘And having me killed,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘I don’t think it was personal,’ said Huckle, stretching and yawning. Suddenly Polly felt a ridiculous urge to run her fingers through his thick hair. Must be lack of sleep, she thought. But there was just something so masculine about him: his size, the long muscles, the warmth of his bulk close by. She glanced down.
‘I know. Just, on top of everything else that’s happened to me… it felt personal,’ she said.
‘Maybe you’ve lived a sheltered life,’ murmured Huckle, looking at her. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tangled and blown out by the wind; it looked dramatic. Her skin was pale, but it emphasised the cute freckles on her nose.
‘Not sheltered enough,’ said Polly moodily. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t run a bakery. I bake for fun, not for a job.’
‘What do you do for a job?’ asked Huckle seriously.
Polly glanced at him, then jumped up to greet the boats coming in.
Tarnie’s face was grave when he heard the news, which was already the topic of gossip and chit-chat amongst the fish traders.
‘That’s a bad business,’ he said, his blue eyes looking downcast.
‘But what… what was she doing?’ asked Polly.
‘You have to get up early in a bakery,’ said Jayden cheerfully. They had had a good catch, and the silvery fish caught the rays of the morning sun in their still-shining scales. They would be on the plates of Rock and St Ives and Truro by lunchtime.
‘Mmm,’ said Tarnie. ‘I wonder… Someone had better go to the bakery, get her bits and pieces together.’
‘Has she got friends who can do that?’ asked Polly.
Tarnie looked slightly awkward.
‘Ah yes, well, she’s always had a bit of a fiery personality, Gillian Manse.’
At this, Polly felt instantly terrible. How awful she had been, to be so angry with an old woman with no family and no friends. How spiteful to think she could come in and mess about with this woman’s livelihood. She felt absolutely dreadful suddenly, guilty and desperate to make amends. It wasn’t personal – Huckle had been absolutely right – and she had let herself channel her own bitterness and disappointment towards somebody else.
‘Er, can I help?’ she said, desperate to be useful. ‘I just feel so awful about it.’
Tarnie looked at her.
‘Actually, reckon you could,’ he said. ‘You’ll know… what a lady in a hospital bed would like, probably. I wouldn’t know that.’
Polly smiled. Obviously Tarnie didn’t have a girl of his own. She hadn’t thought it would be hard for fishermen to find girlfriends – hadn’t really thought about it at all – but she supposed the remoteness of their location, the unsociable hours…
‘Why don’t you smell of fish?’ she asked suddenly.
Tarnie looked bemused by the non sequitur.
‘What?’
