Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 47
‘It’s gorgeous out here,’ Polly said, settling back and enjoying the wind and sun on her face; as she grew warmer, she put her hand down and let it trail through the waves. It felt delicious.
After forty minutes, she saw a little something jutting out of the water. As they approached it, she realised it was the tiniest little island, a minuscule outcrop of land in the middle of nowhere.
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t think it even has a name,’ said Tarnie. ‘Bird Island, maybe.’
As they drew closer, Polly saw that it had a rickety wooden jetty.
‘Somebody lives here?’
‘No, you couldn’t live here. But in the past someone came and stayed from time to time; a hermit, I think. Some rich local second son who’d never quite got on in the world. He used to be ferried out here with his supplies, stay for a few months, then head back for the winter.’
‘What on earth did he do?’ said Polly.
‘I think he just stared out to sea,’ said Tarnie, tying up the boat and giving her a hand out. ‘I really don’t know. Maybe in the days before television people were just more easily pleased.’
Sure enough, up from the jetty, and a narrow yellow beach, were the abandoned remains of a rough-hewn stone house.
‘Wow,’ said Polly.
‘I know,’ said Tarnie, looking over at the graffiti. ‘In the summer, kids steal their parents’ boats and come and do stuff here. You should probably admire it from a safe distance.’
There were also the remains of several campfires.
‘Can we build a fire?’ said Polly.
‘Strictly illegal,’ said Tarnie. ‘But yes.’
They walked around. There were large ash trees bent over on one side where the wind blew in from the sea, and little flickering flashes as rabbits scampered past. It was a lonely place – the mainland was merely a fine line in the distance – but beautiful too.
‘What did he do for water?’ asked Polly suddenly.
‘Oh, he had a rain butt. No shortage of that stuff, not really.’
‘No,’ agreed Polly.
‘And the fleet would pop in from time to time – we come past here every day, and there’s the Looe sailors of course.’
Polly nodded.
‘Okay,’ said Tarnie. ‘Ready to fish?’
Polly had been nervous about taking somebody’s eye out with a hook, but Tarnie showed her how to cast back properly, and they sat on the jetty waiting for something to tug. Tarnie said that because there was vegetation, there was lots for the fish to eat, and they were lucky they were the first people here that day. ‘Make your cross face at anyone else who comes,’ he added.
‘You make YOUR cross face,’ said Polly.
Tarnie smiled, his eyes looking very blue.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘when people see that someone else has already got here, they tend to pass on. It’s a little small for a nice quiet day out for everyone. So. We’ve bagsied it.’
‘Our own private island,’ said Polly wonderingly. Tarnie grinned at her again.
Polly was first. She felt the sudden tug on her line and wondered what it was; then she stood up and nearly fell in.
‘Woohoo!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve got one! I’ve got one!’
Tarnie smiled. ‘That’s it! On you go, start reeling it in! Pull it!’
‘Oh my goodness!’ said Polly, excited, as the large silvery shape started to become visible, frantically jerking and splashing under the surface. ‘Oh God, oh no, I’m killing a fish.’
Tarnie looked at her.
‘Polly, it’s a bit late for that.’
‘I know, I know…’
She winced and was on the brink of dropping the rod.
‘Do you want me to take it?’
She nodded quickly, slightly cross with herself for being so squeamish. Tarnie came up behind her, and very casually gently removed the rod from her hands, then, as she stood aside, started to reel it in.
The sun glinted off the water and the silvery scales as the fish twisted and turned right to the top of the filament. It was a herring, a big one too.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Fish,’ muttered Polly.
‘This is a bad time to go vegetarian on me,’ said Tarnie, as he expertly picked the fish off the hook. ‘Okay,’ he added. ‘You may want to look away for this bit.’
He reached into his fishing bag and took out a long silver knife, then quickly and smoothly began to gut the fish. Polly peered through her fingers. Tarnie smiled at her.
‘You’re a squeamish lass,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘I know it’s pathetic. I normally only buy them sealed in plastic from the supermarket.’
‘Well then you’ve never tasted a real fish,’ said Tarnie simply. ‘Now you go and get some sticks.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
It was rather lovely wandering through the little wood, an emerald canopy shading her from the sun. She went as deep in as she could, picking up sticks on the way. Birds cooed overhead, but there was nothing else to be heard. It was completely beautiful and very still. Polly felt like she understood why so many people in Cornwall still believed in pixies; it was such a magical place. She took a deep breath of the fresh salty air and smiled with something that felt alarmingly close to happiness.
By the time she got back, Tarnie had caught several more fish, and she gave him the sticks and he set about building a neat little fire.
‘But this is illegal,’ she said.
‘Yes, if you’re a drunk teenager who might set the entire island on fire,’ said Tarnie. ‘Let’s try our best not to do that, shall we?’
Soon he had it crackling, and he took out some tin foil, butter, lemon and parsley, and wrapped the fish up and rested them on stones near the blaze.
Polly removed the bottle of wine that Tarnie had had the foresight to leave in the sea to keep it nice and cool, and tore apart the fresh bread, which was still warm inside. They buttered it and ate it with the fish, which had a sensational smoky taste from the fire. Their fingers got greasy because Polly had forgotten to pack napkins, and they both managed to burn themselves from time to time, then they had to throw the bones back into the water, when maybe that wasn’t the most ladylike Polly had ever felt.
After forty minutes, she saw a little something jutting out of the water. As they approached it, she realised it was the tiniest little island, a minuscule outcrop of land in the middle of nowhere.
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t think it even has a name,’ said Tarnie. ‘Bird Island, maybe.’
As they drew closer, Polly saw that it had a rickety wooden jetty.
‘Somebody lives here?’
‘No, you couldn’t live here. But in the past someone came and stayed from time to time; a hermit, I think. Some rich local second son who’d never quite got on in the world. He used to be ferried out here with his supplies, stay for a few months, then head back for the winter.’
‘What on earth did he do?’ said Polly.
‘I think he just stared out to sea,’ said Tarnie, tying up the boat and giving her a hand out. ‘I really don’t know. Maybe in the days before television people were just more easily pleased.’
Sure enough, up from the jetty, and a narrow yellow beach, were the abandoned remains of a rough-hewn stone house.
‘Wow,’ said Polly.
‘I know,’ said Tarnie, looking over at the graffiti. ‘In the summer, kids steal their parents’ boats and come and do stuff here. You should probably admire it from a safe distance.’
There were also the remains of several campfires.
‘Can we build a fire?’ said Polly.
‘Strictly illegal,’ said Tarnie. ‘But yes.’
They walked around. There were large ash trees bent over on one side where the wind blew in from the sea, and little flickering flashes as rabbits scampered past. It was a lonely place – the mainland was merely a fine line in the distance – but beautiful too.
‘What did he do for water?’ asked Polly suddenly.
‘Oh, he had a rain butt. No shortage of that stuff, not really.’
‘No,’ agreed Polly.
‘And the fleet would pop in from time to time – we come past here every day, and there’s the Looe sailors of course.’
Polly nodded.
‘Okay,’ said Tarnie. ‘Ready to fish?’
Polly had been nervous about taking somebody’s eye out with a hook, but Tarnie showed her how to cast back properly, and they sat on the jetty waiting for something to tug. Tarnie said that because there was vegetation, there was lots for the fish to eat, and they were lucky they were the first people here that day. ‘Make your cross face at anyone else who comes,’ he added.
‘You make YOUR cross face,’ said Polly.
Tarnie smiled, his eyes looking very blue.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘when people see that someone else has already got here, they tend to pass on. It’s a little small for a nice quiet day out for everyone. So. We’ve bagsied it.’
‘Our own private island,’ said Polly wonderingly. Tarnie grinned at her again.
Polly was first. She felt the sudden tug on her line and wondered what it was; then she stood up and nearly fell in.
‘Woohoo!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve got one! I’ve got one!’
Tarnie smiled. ‘That’s it! On you go, start reeling it in! Pull it!’
‘Oh my goodness!’ said Polly, excited, as the large silvery shape started to become visible, frantically jerking and splashing under the surface. ‘Oh God, oh no, I’m killing a fish.’
Tarnie looked at her.
‘Polly, it’s a bit late for that.’
‘I know, I know…’
She winced and was on the brink of dropping the rod.
‘Do you want me to take it?’
She nodded quickly, slightly cross with herself for being so squeamish. Tarnie came up behind her, and very casually gently removed the rod from her hands, then, as she stood aside, started to reel it in.
The sun glinted off the water and the silvery scales as the fish twisted and turned right to the top of the filament. It was a herring, a big one too.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Fish,’ muttered Polly.
‘This is a bad time to go vegetarian on me,’ said Tarnie, as he expertly picked the fish off the hook. ‘Okay,’ he added. ‘You may want to look away for this bit.’
He reached into his fishing bag and took out a long silver knife, then quickly and smoothly began to gut the fish. Polly peered through her fingers. Tarnie smiled at her.
‘You’re a squeamish lass,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘I know it’s pathetic. I normally only buy them sealed in plastic from the supermarket.’
‘Well then you’ve never tasted a real fish,’ said Tarnie simply. ‘Now you go and get some sticks.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
It was rather lovely wandering through the little wood, an emerald canopy shading her from the sun. She went as deep in as she could, picking up sticks on the way. Birds cooed overhead, but there was nothing else to be heard. It was completely beautiful and very still. Polly felt like she understood why so many people in Cornwall still believed in pixies; it was such a magical place. She took a deep breath of the fresh salty air and smiled with something that felt alarmingly close to happiness.
By the time she got back, Tarnie had caught several more fish, and she gave him the sticks and he set about building a neat little fire.
‘But this is illegal,’ she said.
‘Yes, if you’re a drunk teenager who might set the entire island on fire,’ said Tarnie. ‘Let’s try our best not to do that, shall we?’
Soon he had it crackling, and he took out some tin foil, butter, lemon and parsley, and wrapped the fish up and rested them on stones near the blaze.
Polly removed the bottle of wine that Tarnie had had the foresight to leave in the sea to keep it nice and cool, and tore apart the fresh bread, which was still warm inside. They buttered it and ate it with the fish, which had a sensational smoky taste from the fire. Their fingers got greasy because Polly had forgotten to pack napkins, and they both managed to burn themselves from time to time, then they had to throw the bones back into the water, when maybe that wasn’t the most ladylike Polly had ever felt.
