Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 49
Polly took another sip of beer.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It was lovely. Gorgeous.’
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Kerensa. ‘Listen, could you call Chris sometime?’
‘Why?’ said Polly, suddenly jerked out of her reverie.
‘Nothing. It’s just… he’s awfully down. I think he feels that you’re doing well and he’s doing so very badly. He’s a bit bitter.’
‘How can I help?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Kerensa simply. ‘Perhaps you need to convince him to face up to things and move on.’
Polly sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll call him.’
‘Women are always better at getting on with their lives,’ said Kerensa. ‘Did you know that? Men are terrible. That’s why they’re always getting married by mistake.’
‘Hmm,’ said Polly. ‘Or maybe you should tell him to call me.’
‘Try not to sound too happy and sexed up.’
‘I’m…’ Polly smiled. ‘Well, maybe a teeny tiny little bit.’
‘Good,’ said Kerensa. ‘About bloody time.’
Chapter Fifteen
Polly was still smiling the next morning, and her smile only grew wider as she explained her new idea to Mrs Manse – her in one bakery, Gillian in the other, but Polly handling all the heavy lifting – and found her to be quite amenable.
‘For as long as you’re here,’ she sniffed, which counted as encouragement coming from Mrs Manse.
‘Well if this works out, I might stay,’ pointed out Polly, but Mrs Manse gave her a dark look and hoisted her bosom ominously. Polly could tell, though, that the idea of being in her own shop without Polly getting in the way was making her happier, even though she was reluctantly coming round to the idea of Polly doing all the baking, or at least realising it was beyond her own capabilities.
So Polly uncomplainingly worked a sixteen-hour day helping Mrs Manse rearrange things back to how she wanted them, and moved the flour over to the other building.
It was dilapidated, of course, but workable now that it had stopped raining all the time. If she could get it running and make a little money, she could have it patched up for the winter. She was slightly shocked to find herself planning so far ahead, but she couldn’t help it. She felt the excitement bubbling up inside her. Her own bakery! Well, not exactly, but… She must phone Huckle and thank him for the idea. And maybe Tarnie would come in later and… She blushed at the memory and told herself sternly to get to work.
She remembered as she turned on the big plug for the electricity to start up how nervous she’d been the first time she’d gone down there, for poor little Neil. The oven fired up first time with the wood placed in there – Reuben had bought absolutely top-of-the-range, and it gave out an astonishing heat. She could use the traditional ovens to bake the standard loaves, and there was plenty of opportunity to do more with the big industrial mixers, but she figured starting simple was the best way. Mrs Manse was going to pay her on commission and take her loaves, but would also stick to her original pasties and sandwiches to begin with, and they would see how they went from there. It was a very informal arrangement. Polly sensed that Mrs Manse would have done almost anything to get her out of there. Only by clinging on to the idea that it wasn’t personal – Gillian didn’t really like anybody – could she avoid getting her feelings hurt.
She put her first six loaves of focaccia into the wood-burning oven and immediately burnt her fingers on the long serving stick. She also burnt the bread. It took three shots of fresh dough for her to finally bake a loaf properly – it went far faster than she was expecting – with the right amount of olive oil and the right balance of salt and rosemary.
When she finally managed it, however, the difference in quality was unbelievable. It tasted like nothing else she’d ever made before: crispy and sharp on the outside; soft and yielding inside. The scent was heavenly: the warm fragrance of baking bread with a slightly burnt, crispy smell cutting through it. It was all Polly could do not to stuff the entire thing in her mouth.
Next she tried a pissaladière, with some slow-cooked onions. It was even better; the onions caramelised in the smoky heat of the oven, becoming soft and sweet and contrasting with the sharpness of the anchovies and olives that she’d sprinkled on top. Next, her cheese loaf was infused with a toasty, melted mellowness.
This oven, Polly thought, looking at it sideways, was making her a far better baker than she could ever have been without it. She texted another thank you to Reuben and invited him over any time. Then, tentatively, she picked up the ancient ‘Closed’ sign on the door and pushed it round to ‘Open’.
Nobody could resist strolling in to see what was going on – either that, or the smell simply physically dragged them in. Within fifteen minutes Polly had attracted what passed in Mount Polbearne for a crowd. She put out little tasters on the top of the counter with toothpicks sticking out of them so people could sample them.
‘SAMPLE,’ she said to Jayden, who couldn’t speak, his mouth was so full. ‘That means you take one to see if you like it.’
‘I DO like it,’ said Jayden, murkily. ‘I like it a lot. That’s why I’m eating more.’
‘No, now you buy some.’
‘Oh,’ said Jayden. ‘I thought it was too good to be true.’
‘You’re in a shop.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he mumbled. ‘Can I have some of those?’ He pointed to some cheese breadsticks she’d made up. ‘How much are they?’
‘Ooh, good point,’ said Polly. ‘I should probably have thought that one through. Um, a pound?’
Jayden counted out three coins carefully.
‘I would like three.’
‘Are you sure? They’re quite big.’
Jayden looked at her.
‘I went to Exeter once and ate four Big Macs,’ he said. ‘I was sick, but I did it.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Polly.
‘Best day of my life,’ said Jayden.
He looked crafty for a minute.
‘So, um, have you spoken to Tarnie?’
Polly gave him a look.
‘I would hate to ban you from this shop,’ she said sternly.
‘Wow, you’re turning into Mrs Manse,’ said Jayden.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It was lovely. Gorgeous.’
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Kerensa. ‘Listen, could you call Chris sometime?’
‘Why?’ said Polly, suddenly jerked out of her reverie.
‘Nothing. It’s just… he’s awfully down. I think he feels that you’re doing well and he’s doing so very badly. He’s a bit bitter.’
‘How can I help?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Kerensa simply. ‘Perhaps you need to convince him to face up to things and move on.’
Polly sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll call him.’
‘Women are always better at getting on with their lives,’ said Kerensa. ‘Did you know that? Men are terrible. That’s why they’re always getting married by mistake.’
‘Hmm,’ said Polly. ‘Or maybe you should tell him to call me.’
‘Try not to sound too happy and sexed up.’
‘I’m…’ Polly smiled. ‘Well, maybe a teeny tiny little bit.’
‘Good,’ said Kerensa. ‘About bloody time.’
Chapter Fifteen
Polly was still smiling the next morning, and her smile only grew wider as she explained her new idea to Mrs Manse – her in one bakery, Gillian in the other, but Polly handling all the heavy lifting – and found her to be quite amenable.
‘For as long as you’re here,’ she sniffed, which counted as encouragement coming from Mrs Manse.
‘Well if this works out, I might stay,’ pointed out Polly, but Mrs Manse gave her a dark look and hoisted her bosom ominously. Polly could tell, though, that the idea of being in her own shop without Polly getting in the way was making her happier, even though she was reluctantly coming round to the idea of Polly doing all the baking, or at least realising it was beyond her own capabilities.
So Polly uncomplainingly worked a sixteen-hour day helping Mrs Manse rearrange things back to how she wanted them, and moved the flour over to the other building.
It was dilapidated, of course, but workable now that it had stopped raining all the time. If she could get it running and make a little money, she could have it patched up for the winter. She was slightly shocked to find herself planning so far ahead, but she couldn’t help it. She felt the excitement bubbling up inside her. Her own bakery! Well, not exactly, but… She must phone Huckle and thank him for the idea. And maybe Tarnie would come in later and… She blushed at the memory and told herself sternly to get to work.
She remembered as she turned on the big plug for the electricity to start up how nervous she’d been the first time she’d gone down there, for poor little Neil. The oven fired up first time with the wood placed in there – Reuben had bought absolutely top-of-the-range, and it gave out an astonishing heat. She could use the traditional ovens to bake the standard loaves, and there was plenty of opportunity to do more with the big industrial mixers, but she figured starting simple was the best way. Mrs Manse was going to pay her on commission and take her loaves, but would also stick to her original pasties and sandwiches to begin with, and they would see how they went from there. It was a very informal arrangement. Polly sensed that Mrs Manse would have done almost anything to get her out of there. Only by clinging on to the idea that it wasn’t personal – Gillian didn’t really like anybody – could she avoid getting her feelings hurt.
She put her first six loaves of focaccia into the wood-burning oven and immediately burnt her fingers on the long serving stick. She also burnt the bread. It took three shots of fresh dough for her to finally bake a loaf properly – it went far faster than she was expecting – with the right amount of olive oil and the right balance of salt and rosemary.
When she finally managed it, however, the difference in quality was unbelievable. It tasted like nothing else she’d ever made before: crispy and sharp on the outside; soft and yielding inside. The scent was heavenly: the warm fragrance of baking bread with a slightly burnt, crispy smell cutting through it. It was all Polly could do not to stuff the entire thing in her mouth.
Next she tried a pissaladière, with some slow-cooked onions. It was even better; the onions caramelised in the smoky heat of the oven, becoming soft and sweet and contrasting with the sharpness of the anchovies and olives that she’d sprinkled on top. Next, her cheese loaf was infused with a toasty, melted mellowness.
This oven, Polly thought, looking at it sideways, was making her a far better baker than she could ever have been without it. She texted another thank you to Reuben and invited him over any time. Then, tentatively, she picked up the ancient ‘Closed’ sign on the door and pushed it round to ‘Open’.
Nobody could resist strolling in to see what was going on – either that, or the smell simply physically dragged them in. Within fifteen minutes Polly had attracted what passed in Mount Polbearne for a crowd. She put out little tasters on the top of the counter with toothpicks sticking out of them so people could sample them.
‘SAMPLE,’ she said to Jayden, who couldn’t speak, his mouth was so full. ‘That means you take one to see if you like it.’
‘I DO like it,’ said Jayden, murkily. ‘I like it a lot. That’s why I’m eating more.’
‘No, now you buy some.’
‘Oh,’ said Jayden. ‘I thought it was too good to be true.’
‘You’re in a shop.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he mumbled. ‘Can I have some of those?’ He pointed to some cheese breadsticks she’d made up. ‘How much are they?’
‘Ooh, good point,’ said Polly. ‘I should probably have thought that one through. Um, a pound?’
Jayden counted out three coins carefully.
‘I would like three.’
‘Are you sure? They’re quite big.’
Jayden looked at her.
‘I went to Exeter once and ate four Big Macs,’ he said. ‘I was sick, but I did it.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Polly.
‘Best day of my life,’ said Jayden.
He looked crafty for a minute.
‘So, um, have you spoken to Tarnie?’
Polly gave him a look.
‘I would hate to ban you from this shop,’ she said sternly.
‘Wow, you’re turning into Mrs Manse,’ said Jayden.
