Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 34
‘I’d help,’ said Muriel. ‘But I work a twelve-hour shift here. I’m just not sure I’m up to it.’
‘Cripes,’ said Polly. Everyone around her was working so incredibly hard to keep body and soul together in this tiny place. ‘I guess I’d better do it myself.’
When she let herself in the next day, the horrible smell of mould was everywhere, and she was sure she could hear the scuttle of a mouse. She took a few of the salvageable loaves away to make bread and butter pudding, which she might possibly be able to sell if she froze it – it wasn’t the greatest of ideas, but it was the best she could come up with – then grabbed Kerensa’s box of cleaning products, rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
It quickly became apparent – unsurprisingly, thought Polly, given what a hard life Gillian had had – that the shop hadn’t been properly scrubbed through for a long time. There were crumbs between the (rather nice) 1950s glass display cabinets; grime along the ceiling; spiders’ webs in the storeroom where the flour was no longer kept. Polly had wondered how on earth it was possible to run a bakery single-handed, but Muriel had explained that Gillian did have someone extra during the summer, plus she had given up actually baking a long time ago, finding it cheaper and more convenient to buy her stock in from a central delivery firm. Unfortunately that central delivery firm specialised in cheap adulterated flour and nasty long-life products; they might not have cost much, but their price was reflected in their taste. If there was one thing Polly had never been able to stomach, it was bad bread – bread, the cornerstone of eating, one of the fundamentals of life! If you got that wrong, she always felt, well, then the rest of the day was going to go wrong too.
And when fashions changed and bread came to be seen as something that would make you instantly fat and unhealthy, that had only hardened her resolve. If everyone was going to have to eat less bread, it stood to reason that the bread you did get to eat had to be absolutely of the highest possible quality. Polly was as open as anyone else to the allure of the cheapest white as a covering for a fabulously crunchy, moist, salty bacon sandwich. But when it came to bread as a food in itself, this rubbish seemed to her a waste of everybody’s time. Especially when the oven and the equipment was still there, just waiting to be put into use. Making bread was time-consuming, but it wasn’t difficult, and the end results were always, always worth it.
As she hoovered and swept and scrubbed, Polly realised that rather than hating the work, she was actually finding it quite cathartic, just as it had been cleaning the little flat; the sun gleamed through the newly washed windows, and she started to feel a little more useful. One or two people poked their heads round the door to look for bread and enquired after Mrs Manse; the news had got around town. Polly answered as truthfully as she could that Mrs Manse had had a fall and was being kept in for observation.
‘So are you taking over this place?’ said Jayden when he passed by at lunchtime. ‘Have you not got a pasty or nothing?’
‘Nothing,’ said Polly. ‘Sorry. Did she sell good pasties?’
‘No,’ said Jayden sadly. ‘But you know what they say about the worst pasty you’ve ever had: it’s still pretty good.’
‘I did not know that,’ said Polly.
‘Why don’t you start baking here?’ said Jayden. ‘You can bake. So…’
‘Because,’ said Polly, ‘it’s slightly illegal to walk into someone else’s business and start working there.’
‘Well what are you doing now, then?’ he said.
Polly smiled. ‘I’m just helping out.’
‘Why don’t you help out by making me a pasty?’ said Jayden.
‘When you put it like that, it sounds so simple,’ said Polly.
Tarnie looked tired when he popped his head round the bakery door that evening, but genuinely surprised.
‘Wow,’ he said.
Polly smiled. She was exhausted too – she’d barely slept – but she couldn’t believe how much progress she’d managed to make tidying up the bakery. She’d even cleaned the ovens, cold and greasy from long-term neglect, which were now all ready to burst back into life.
‘I haven’t seen it looking like this…’ his voice went a bit distant, ‘in years.’
‘How is she?’ said Polly.
Tarnie shrugged. ‘Belligerent. They want to do a full psych observation and she told them where to stick it.’
‘Ha,’ said Polly. ‘Good for her. I like that she’s an equal opportunities insulter. Did she eat my brioche?’
‘She did,’ said Tarnie. ‘She told me it was awful, but she ate the whole thing.’
‘Well THAT’s a good sign,’ said Polly.
Tarnie looked around again.
‘It’s a shame she’s so pig-headed and stubborn,’ he said. ‘I mean, you need a job, right?’
‘I DO,’ said Polly fervently.
‘It seems obvious to me,’ said Tarnie. ‘You do the baking, she stays front of house, you work together.’
Polly straightened up.
‘Er,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Tarnie, looking confused.
‘Um, she hates me?’
‘So what? It’s just a job. Jayden hates me.’
‘Jayden worships you,’ Polly said. ‘And ten hours a day in this tiny space with her? It would be a disaster, trust me.’
‘So what are you going to do, sign on?’
‘Can’t I be a fisherman?’
He smiled. His teeth looked very white in his sun-browned face.
‘You’ve got to be born to it.’
‘Well that’s racist.’
‘No, I mean it. If you aren’t born doing it, it’s just too awful.’
Polly glanced at the ovens.
‘Maybe I could work here for a bit… just until she gets back.’
Tarnie shrugged again. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Polly with total honesty. ‘Do you?’
Tarnie smiled. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think you could do anything if you tried.’
She smiled back at him. ‘Except fishing,’ she said.
‘Well, yeah, except fishing.’
Polly slept late the next day, and was woken by a loud roaring sound followed by a persistent honking.
‘Cripes,’ said Polly. Everyone around her was working so incredibly hard to keep body and soul together in this tiny place. ‘I guess I’d better do it myself.’
When she let herself in the next day, the horrible smell of mould was everywhere, and she was sure she could hear the scuttle of a mouse. She took a few of the salvageable loaves away to make bread and butter pudding, which she might possibly be able to sell if she froze it – it wasn’t the greatest of ideas, but it was the best she could come up with – then grabbed Kerensa’s box of cleaning products, rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
It quickly became apparent – unsurprisingly, thought Polly, given what a hard life Gillian had had – that the shop hadn’t been properly scrubbed through for a long time. There were crumbs between the (rather nice) 1950s glass display cabinets; grime along the ceiling; spiders’ webs in the storeroom where the flour was no longer kept. Polly had wondered how on earth it was possible to run a bakery single-handed, but Muriel had explained that Gillian did have someone extra during the summer, plus she had given up actually baking a long time ago, finding it cheaper and more convenient to buy her stock in from a central delivery firm. Unfortunately that central delivery firm specialised in cheap adulterated flour and nasty long-life products; they might not have cost much, but their price was reflected in their taste. If there was one thing Polly had never been able to stomach, it was bad bread – bread, the cornerstone of eating, one of the fundamentals of life! If you got that wrong, she always felt, well, then the rest of the day was going to go wrong too.
And when fashions changed and bread came to be seen as something that would make you instantly fat and unhealthy, that had only hardened her resolve. If everyone was going to have to eat less bread, it stood to reason that the bread you did get to eat had to be absolutely of the highest possible quality. Polly was as open as anyone else to the allure of the cheapest white as a covering for a fabulously crunchy, moist, salty bacon sandwich. But when it came to bread as a food in itself, this rubbish seemed to her a waste of everybody’s time. Especially when the oven and the equipment was still there, just waiting to be put into use. Making bread was time-consuming, but it wasn’t difficult, and the end results were always, always worth it.
As she hoovered and swept and scrubbed, Polly realised that rather than hating the work, she was actually finding it quite cathartic, just as it had been cleaning the little flat; the sun gleamed through the newly washed windows, and she started to feel a little more useful. One or two people poked their heads round the door to look for bread and enquired after Mrs Manse; the news had got around town. Polly answered as truthfully as she could that Mrs Manse had had a fall and was being kept in for observation.
‘So are you taking over this place?’ said Jayden when he passed by at lunchtime. ‘Have you not got a pasty or nothing?’
‘Nothing,’ said Polly. ‘Sorry. Did she sell good pasties?’
‘No,’ said Jayden sadly. ‘But you know what they say about the worst pasty you’ve ever had: it’s still pretty good.’
‘I did not know that,’ said Polly.
‘Why don’t you start baking here?’ said Jayden. ‘You can bake. So…’
‘Because,’ said Polly, ‘it’s slightly illegal to walk into someone else’s business and start working there.’
‘Well what are you doing now, then?’ he said.
Polly smiled. ‘I’m just helping out.’
‘Why don’t you help out by making me a pasty?’ said Jayden.
‘When you put it like that, it sounds so simple,’ said Polly.
Tarnie looked tired when he popped his head round the bakery door that evening, but genuinely surprised.
‘Wow,’ he said.
Polly smiled. She was exhausted too – she’d barely slept – but she couldn’t believe how much progress she’d managed to make tidying up the bakery. She’d even cleaned the ovens, cold and greasy from long-term neglect, which were now all ready to burst back into life.
‘I haven’t seen it looking like this…’ his voice went a bit distant, ‘in years.’
‘How is she?’ said Polly.
Tarnie shrugged. ‘Belligerent. They want to do a full psych observation and she told them where to stick it.’
‘Ha,’ said Polly. ‘Good for her. I like that she’s an equal opportunities insulter. Did she eat my brioche?’
‘She did,’ said Tarnie. ‘She told me it was awful, but she ate the whole thing.’
‘Well THAT’s a good sign,’ said Polly.
Tarnie looked around again.
‘It’s a shame she’s so pig-headed and stubborn,’ he said. ‘I mean, you need a job, right?’
‘I DO,’ said Polly fervently.
‘It seems obvious to me,’ said Tarnie. ‘You do the baking, she stays front of house, you work together.’
Polly straightened up.
‘Er,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Tarnie, looking confused.
‘Um, she hates me?’
‘So what? It’s just a job. Jayden hates me.’
‘Jayden worships you,’ Polly said. ‘And ten hours a day in this tiny space with her? It would be a disaster, trust me.’
‘So what are you going to do, sign on?’
‘Can’t I be a fisherman?’
He smiled. His teeth looked very white in his sun-browned face.
‘You’ve got to be born to it.’
‘Well that’s racist.’
‘No, I mean it. If you aren’t born doing it, it’s just too awful.’
Polly glanced at the ovens.
‘Maybe I could work here for a bit… just until she gets back.’
Tarnie shrugged again. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Polly with total honesty. ‘Do you?’
Tarnie smiled. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think you could do anything if you tried.’
She smiled back at him. ‘Except fishing,’ she said.
‘Well, yeah, except fishing.’
Polly slept late the next day, and was woken by a loud roaring sound followed by a persistent honking.
