Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 36
‘Er… okay.’ Polly realised to her horror that she was having some trouble controlling her voice.
‘Course you’ve packed a bit of beef on,’ said the girl sternly to Neil. ‘You’ll need to speed up a bit, little fella, get in there and get your share of fish.’
Neil eeped and tried to inch closer to Polly, but the netball girl had him in a firm grip.
‘Can I… I mean, is there any way I can tag him?’ said Polly. ‘Just in case…’
‘In case you wanna come back and say hello?’ The girl scratched her head. ‘Well, I can’t… I mean, they do tag, but only for checking on migration. I’m not sure I’d have a tag that wouldn’t be misleading, know what I mean?’
‘That’s okay,’ said Polly. ‘It was just an idea.’
‘Look,’ said the girl. ‘You’re doing the kindest thing for him, you know that, right?’
Polly nodded, her lip trembling.
‘He’s not a pet. He’s designed to flock and mate and pair and raise his young, just like everybody else. And he deserves that chance, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, steadying herself. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good on yer. Right, come on down and we’ll release him.’
Over the crest of the hill there was a path (signposted with little puffins) down to a huge rocky outcrop jutting out into the sea. Polly gave a gasp. There were so many birds there it would have been impossible to count them. They were everywhere; large, small, orange-beaked and black-beaked. They were cawing, diving into the water, hopping around or just standing squarely on the rock, gazing inscrutably out to sea. They were like a huge black and white carpet; it was an extraordinary sight.
‘He’ll be well cared for.’
Polly picked up the box. Neil obviously sensed something was up; he was hopping up and down in a frenzy, his head turning at all the other birds in the air.
‘It’s like he knows,’ Polly said.
‘He does know,’ said Huckle, and he gently put his arm around her. With his other hand he brought something out of his pocket.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I wonder if we could maybe use this?’
It was a little tag that he used to seal off his wax honey containers; made of plastic, it fastened tightly, but it was light. On it was written quite clearly ‘Huckle Honey’.
‘I wasn’t sure…’ he went on.
The breezy Kiwi girl looked at it.
‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘That should do it. And it won’t get mixed up with any of the studies. Brilliant.’
Polly looked up at him.
‘Thank you.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Huckle. He took the tag and put it gently round Neil’s left leg. Neil immediately started pecking at it crossly.
‘Ssh,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t do that. Otherwise…’
She picked up the little bird and rubbed his feathers behind his ears, just what he absolutely loved, for the last time. Then she rubbed noses with his beak.
‘You,’ she said, ‘were the first friend I ever met here. Thank you for that.’
She looked into his black eyes.
‘Now, off you go,’ she said. ‘Off you go, fly free. Make friends, build nests.’
She set him down on a rock. He was utterly engrossed by the chattering and fluttering of the thousands of other birds all around him. Then he took a little step forward, then back again, looking at her inquisitively.
‘No,’ she said, her voice cracking again, just a little. ‘It’s okay. Go on.’
Neil pattered forward a little further. She caressed his head one last time, then stood up.
Carefully, tentatively – he was noticeably fatter than the other pufflings – he jumped off the rock and hopped to the next one. Immediately, the other puffins there gathered round to have a look at him. There was some chatter and fluttering.
‘Don’t bully him,’ Polly called out fiercely. Neil turned back briefly. Polly got out her phone to take one last photograph, but by the time she’d got the camera lined up, she realised to her great sadness that she could no longer recognise him amongst the cluster of hundreds of other birds.
‘Oh Huckle,’ she said. ‘Which one is he? I can’t see him.’
‘Ssh,’ said Huckle. ‘Look.’
A group of the birds had risen into the air, converging on where a young man in a colourful polo shirt was distributing fish. Sure enough, in the middle of the group, struggling a little, but definitely holding his own, was a slightly portly puffin with a little tag on his left leg. Polly watched till he soared over the cliffside, caught up amongst all the other birds, and eventually disappeared from sight.
Huckle gave her a squeeze and they turned to head back along the path. Polly was too upset to speak.
‘I know it’s stupid,’ she squeaked finally. ‘He’s only a bird.’
‘Neil was not only a bird,’ said Huckle fiercely. ‘He was the finest puffin I ever met.’
This brought Polly perilously close to a half-laughing, half-crying breakdown, so she kept her mouth closed.
‘There’s a café here if you’re hungry,’ said the cheery Kiwi girl, but when they stuck their heads in, not only did it smell of cold chips and unhappy bank holidays, but it was covered with pictures of puffins, cuddly puffin toys and puffin memorabilia. It looked entirely unappealing, but time was getting on.
‘Are you hungry?’ Polly asked Huckle.
‘I’d rather eat puffin,’ said Huckle. ‘Sorry, was that insensitive?’
‘YES,’ said Polly.
She turned back to the girl.
‘Thanks for everything you’ve done,’ she said.
‘No worries.’
‘Here, this is my mobile number and this is my email address…’
The girl looked at the piece of paper uncomprehendingly.
‘If he doesn’t thrive or… if anything happens to him…’ Polly’s voice choked up.
‘Er, yeah, all right.’ said the girl, unconvinced.
‘Come on,’ said Huckle. ‘Let’s go.’
The girl gave him a look. ‘Nice to meet you, yeah?’ she said in a tone that even Polly in her sad state recognised as flirtatious.
Huckle gave her his broad American farm boy smile and guided Polly back to the motorbike.
‘Course you’ve packed a bit of beef on,’ said the girl sternly to Neil. ‘You’ll need to speed up a bit, little fella, get in there and get your share of fish.’
Neil eeped and tried to inch closer to Polly, but the netball girl had him in a firm grip.
‘Can I… I mean, is there any way I can tag him?’ said Polly. ‘Just in case…’
‘In case you wanna come back and say hello?’ The girl scratched her head. ‘Well, I can’t… I mean, they do tag, but only for checking on migration. I’m not sure I’d have a tag that wouldn’t be misleading, know what I mean?’
‘That’s okay,’ said Polly. ‘It was just an idea.’
‘Look,’ said the girl. ‘You’re doing the kindest thing for him, you know that, right?’
Polly nodded, her lip trembling.
‘He’s not a pet. He’s designed to flock and mate and pair and raise his young, just like everybody else. And he deserves that chance, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, steadying herself. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good on yer. Right, come on down and we’ll release him.’
Over the crest of the hill there was a path (signposted with little puffins) down to a huge rocky outcrop jutting out into the sea. Polly gave a gasp. There were so many birds there it would have been impossible to count them. They were everywhere; large, small, orange-beaked and black-beaked. They were cawing, diving into the water, hopping around or just standing squarely on the rock, gazing inscrutably out to sea. They were like a huge black and white carpet; it was an extraordinary sight.
‘He’ll be well cared for.’
Polly picked up the box. Neil obviously sensed something was up; he was hopping up and down in a frenzy, his head turning at all the other birds in the air.
‘It’s like he knows,’ Polly said.
‘He does know,’ said Huckle, and he gently put his arm around her. With his other hand he brought something out of his pocket.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I wonder if we could maybe use this?’
It was a little tag that he used to seal off his wax honey containers; made of plastic, it fastened tightly, but it was light. On it was written quite clearly ‘Huckle Honey’.
‘I wasn’t sure…’ he went on.
The breezy Kiwi girl looked at it.
‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘That should do it. And it won’t get mixed up with any of the studies. Brilliant.’
Polly looked up at him.
‘Thank you.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Huckle. He took the tag and put it gently round Neil’s left leg. Neil immediately started pecking at it crossly.
‘Ssh,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t do that. Otherwise…’
She picked up the little bird and rubbed his feathers behind his ears, just what he absolutely loved, for the last time. Then she rubbed noses with his beak.
‘You,’ she said, ‘were the first friend I ever met here. Thank you for that.’
She looked into his black eyes.
‘Now, off you go,’ she said. ‘Off you go, fly free. Make friends, build nests.’
She set him down on a rock. He was utterly engrossed by the chattering and fluttering of the thousands of other birds all around him. Then he took a little step forward, then back again, looking at her inquisitively.
‘No,’ she said, her voice cracking again, just a little. ‘It’s okay. Go on.’
Neil pattered forward a little further. She caressed his head one last time, then stood up.
Carefully, tentatively – he was noticeably fatter than the other pufflings – he jumped off the rock and hopped to the next one. Immediately, the other puffins there gathered round to have a look at him. There was some chatter and fluttering.
‘Don’t bully him,’ Polly called out fiercely. Neil turned back briefly. Polly got out her phone to take one last photograph, but by the time she’d got the camera lined up, she realised to her great sadness that she could no longer recognise him amongst the cluster of hundreds of other birds.
‘Oh Huckle,’ she said. ‘Which one is he? I can’t see him.’
‘Ssh,’ said Huckle. ‘Look.’
A group of the birds had risen into the air, converging on where a young man in a colourful polo shirt was distributing fish. Sure enough, in the middle of the group, struggling a little, but definitely holding his own, was a slightly portly puffin with a little tag on his left leg. Polly watched till he soared over the cliffside, caught up amongst all the other birds, and eventually disappeared from sight.
Huckle gave her a squeeze and they turned to head back along the path. Polly was too upset to speak.
‘I know it’s stupid,’ she squeaked finally. ‘He’s only a bird.’
‘Neil was not only a bird,’ said Huckle fiercely. ‘He was the finest puffin I ever met.’
This brought Polly perilously close to a half-laughing, half-crying breakdown, so she kept her mouth closed.
‘There’s a café here if you’re hungry,’ said the cheery Kiwi girl, but when they stuck their heads in, not only did it smell of cold chips and unhappy bank holidays, but it was covered with pictures of puffins, cuddly puffin toys and puffin memorabilia. It looked entirely unappealing, but time was getting on.
‘Are you hungry?’ Polly asked Huckle.
‘I’d rather eat puffin,’ said Huckle. ‘Sorry, was that insensitive?’
‘YES,’ said Polly.
She turned back to the girl.
‘Thanks for everything you’ve done,’ she said.
‘No worries.’
‘Here, this is my mobile number and this is my email address…’
The girl looked at the piece of paper uncomprehendingly.
‘If he doesn’t thrive or… if anything happens to him…’ Polly’s voice choked up.
‘Er, yeah, all right.’ said the girl, unconvinced.
‘Come on,’ said Huckle. ‘Let’s go.’
The girl gave him a look. ‘Nice to meet you, yeah?’ she said in a tone that even Polly in her sad state recognised as flirtatious.
Huckle gave her his broad American farm boy smile and guided Polly back to the motorbike.
