Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 51
And so different. She made bread, she sold it. She thought back to when she and Chris had worked together: the endless schmoozing for possible contracts; all those exhausting nights out, discussing future work in endless meetings, trying to get to a yes, trying to plan ahead, trying to deal with constant changes and a million different ways of doing things.
Whereas here, if people wanted a bun, they bought a bun. If they wanted some bread, they bought some. If they didn’t, they didn’t. There was something earthy, something very real in the transaction that she’d simply never known before. If she didn’t make the bread, she wouldn’t make any money and she wouldn’t get paid. If she did, and it was good, she’d have people coming back – even buying a house to be closer to where she did it.
Suddenly, here in the little Beach Street bakery, it all felt possible. It really did.
She turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and started clearing up. She would have to become a bit more tidy and efficient while she worked. Or maybe she could get someone in to help part time with the cleaning. That could work too. She was trying to keep down the fizzing excitement when her phone rang.
Her old mobile had been paid for by the business; handing it over to Mr Bassi had been one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She’d got a new, cheap one, but she hardly bothered to use it or give the number out; when she was ready to see her friends again, she promised herself, she would. She definitely would.
The number was unknown. It must be Tarnie, she thought. She smiled, suddenly much more nervous than she’d felt before. What were they going to do? Would they go on a date? It was suddenly ridiculous to imagine Tarnie sitting nicely in a restaurant or a cinema; Polly had never even really seen him inside. He wasn’t an indoors creature at all; he belonged in the open air, with the salt spray in his hair.
‘Hello?’ she said cheekily into the phone, much more confidently than she felt. ‘How are YOU doing?’
‘Not so good,’ came a voice, dourly.
‘Chris?’
‘Well, yes, who did you think it would be?’ He sounded low, defensive.
‘Um, no, of course. Hello! How are you doing?’
Polly’s new, hard-won happiness suddenly dropped away and she felt her leg twisting round on its ankle with awkwardness. After everything they’d been through, everything she’d tried… She remembered what Kerensa had said about everyone being worried about him.
‘Hey. Are you okay?’ she said.
‘Well I hear you are,’ Chris said heavily.
Polly looked round the little bakery. Its windows were still cracked. But it had character.
‘Um, you know, it’s been a struggle,’ she said quickly. ‘What are you up to?’
‘What do you think I’m up to? I’m living at my mum’s trying to get my life back together.’
‘Is she well?’ asked Polly. Chris’s mum had always liked her, but her face had taken on a drawn, hunted look as things had started to go wrong.
She felt Chris scowl down the telephone.
‘She says she’s getting fed up with me. Like you did.’
‘Chris,’ said Polly, trying her best not to get riled, ‘I didn’t get fed up with you. Things went wrong, remember?’
There was a long pause.
‘Yeah, of course I remember,’ he said. He sounded bitter.
Polly bit her lip.
‘So, I thought I’d maybe come and see you, yeah?’ he continued defensively, as if he expected her to say no.
She thought about the little flat, and everything that was going on, and how she was waiting to hear from Tarnie. This wasn’t ideal timing. But of course she had to see him; of course she did.
‘Well?’ he said, when she didn’t reply immediately. ‘What’s up, moved on?’
Polly knew it was Chris’s insecurities coming out in the harsh words.
‘Um, well, no, you know… Of course you should come. Please. Do.’
‘Kerensa says you’re out in the sticks on some crazy island.’
‘Does she?’
‘I could do with a bit of piece and quiet. My mum’s doing my head in.’
Polly felt frustrated. She couldn’t help it. She was finally moving on, getting past it; she had barely thought about Chris, if she was absolutely honest with herself, had buried the sting and the hurt and got on with other things. But that wasn’t fair on Chris.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Come whenever you like.’
Chapter Sixteen
The speed with which the Little Beach Street Bakery (so called to differentiate it from Mrs Manse’s establishment, even though that was only larger by about three square feet) took off surprised everyone, not least Polly.
She experimented every day with different flavours, and soon learned what worked well. Chorizo was a massive hit, even if she had to order it from the mainland and nobody knew what it was; corn fritters likewise. Anything that looked even vaguely like pizza would sell out before ten o’clock in the morning.
Polly was thinking that she was going to need an assistant pretty soon, as the tourists started to flock across the causeway, but the long hours on her feet were offset by the joy she felt at two o’clock when all the stock was sold and she could clean up. On a couple of occasions, trying to avoid everyone in the village knowing their business, she hopped upstairs to be with Tarnie, who was also free in the afternoons, and they grabbed some time together, the sun streaming through the windows, the air full of the smell of salt. But they didn’t seem to be a couple as such, she noticed: they didn’t go out for dinner – where would they go? They sometimes joined the others in the pub, but they couldn’t quite handle the ribbing and would seat themselves apart.
Nevertheless, Polly felt good. She felt the gradual stirring of her body back to life as the days grew warmer and warmer and the summer became beautifully, properly hot and the little town came to life. She would wake every morning with the sun’s first pink rays, to knead and grow the bread, to try new things, to savour the smells, to put on the coffee, to greet her new friends, and catch up on village gossip. Everyone quickly got into the habit of stopping by, especially when she bought paper cups for the good coffee machine and started selling that too. Patrick would drop in to complain about mangy cats; Muriel would appear declaring that her feet were killing her; Andy from the pub would amble over just before lunchtime to pick up rolls for his barbecues, and Huckle would drop off his honey.
Whereas here, if people wanted a bun, they bought a bun. If they wanted some bread, they bought some. If they didn’t, they didn’t. There was something earthy, something very real in the transaction that she’d simply never known before. If she didn’t make the bread, she wouldn’t make any money and she wouldn’t get paid. If she did, and it was good, she’d have people coming back – even buying a house to be closer to where she did it.
Suddenly, here in the little Beach Street bakery, it all felt possible. It really did.
She turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and started clearing up. She would have to become a bit more tidy and efficient while she worked. Or maybe she could get someone in to help part time with the cleaning. That could work too. She was trying to keep down the fizzing excitement when her phone rang.
Her old mobile had been paid for by the business; handing it over to Mr Bassi had been one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She’d got a new, cheap one, but she hardly bothered to use it or give the number out; when she was ready to see her friends again, she promised herself, she would. She definitely would.
The number was unknown. It must be Tarnie, she thought. She smiled, suddenly much more nervous than she’d felt before. What were they going to do? Would they go on a date? It was suddenly ridiculous to imagine Tarnie sitting nicely in a restaurant or a cinema; Polly had never even really seen him inside. He wasn’t an indoors creature at all; he belonged in the open air, with the salt spray in his hair.
‘Hello?’ she said cheekily into the phone, much more confidently than she felt. ‘How are YOU doing?’
‘Not so good,’ came a voice, dourly.
‘Chris?’
‘Well, yes, who did you think it would be?’ He sounded low, defensive.
‘Um, no, of course. Hello! How are you doing?’
Polly’s new, hard-won happiness suddenly dropped away and she felt her leg twisting round on its ankle with awkwardness. After everything they’d been through, everything she’d tried… She remembered what Kerensa had said about everyone being worried about him.
‘Hey. Are you okay?’ she said.
‘Well I hear you are,’ Chris said heavily.
Polly looked round the little bakery. Its windows were still cracked. But it had character.
‘Um, you know, it’s been a struggle,’ she said quickly. ‘What are you up to?’
‘What do you think I’m up to? I’m living at my mum’s trying to get my life back together.’
‘Is she well?’ asked Polly. Chris’s mum had always liked her, but her face had taken on a drawn, hunted look as things had started to go wrong.
She felt Chris scowl down the telephone.
‘She says she’s getting fed up with me. Like you did.’
‘Chris,’ said Polly, trying her best not to get riled, ‘I didn’t get fed up with you. Things went wrong, remember?’
There was a long pause.
‘Yeah, of course I remember,’ he said. He sounded bitter.
Polly bit her lip.
‘So, I thought I’d maybe come and see you, yeah?’ he continued defensively, as if he expected her to say no.
She thought about the little flat, and everything that was going on, and how she was waiting to hear from Tarnie. This wasn’t ideal timing. But of course she had to see him; of course she did.
‘Well?’ he said, when she didn’t reply immediately. ‘What’s up, moved on?’
Polly knew it was Chris’s insecurities coming out in the harsh words.
‘Um, well, no, you know… Of course you should come. Please. Do.’
‘Kerensa says you’re out in the sticks on some crazy island.’
‘Does she?’
‘I could do with a bit of piece and quiet. My mum’s doing my head in.’
Polly felt frustrated. She couldn’t help it. She was finally moving on, getting past it; she had barely thought about Chris, if she was absolutely honest with herself, had buried the sting and the hurt and got on with other things. But that wasn’t fair on Chris.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Come whenever you like.’
Chapter Sixteen
The speed with which the Little Beach Street Bakery (so called to differentiate it from Mrs Manse’s establishment, even though that was only larger by about three square feet) took off surprised everyone, not least Polly.
She experimented every day with different flavours, and soon learned what worked well. Chorizo was a massive hit, even if she had to order it from the mainland and nobody knew what it was; corn fritters likewise. Anything that looked even vaguely like pizza would sell out before ten o’clock in the morning.
Polly was thinking that she was going to need an assistant pretty soon, as the tourists started to flock across the causeway, but the long hours on her feet were offset by the joy she felt at two o’clock when all the stock was sold and she could clean up. On a couple of occasions, trying to avoid everyone in the village knowing their business, she hopped upstairs to be with Tarnie, who was also free in the afternoons, and they grabbed some time together, the sun streaming through the windows, the air full of the smell of salt. But they didn’t seem to be a couple as such, she noticed: they didn’t go out for dinner – where would they go? They sometimes joined the others in the pub, but they couldn’t quite handle the ribbing and would seat themselves apart.
Nevertheless, Polly felt good. She felt the gradual stirring of her body back to life as the days grew warmer and warmer and the summer became beautifully, properly hot and the little town came to life. She would wake every morning with the sun’s first pink rays, to knead and grow the bread, to try new things, to savour the smells, to put on the coffee, to greet her new friends, and catch up on village gossip. Everyone quickly got into the habit of stopping by, especially when she bought paper cups for the good coffee machine and started selling that too. Patrick would drop in to complain about mangy cats; Muriel would appear declaring that her feet were killing her; Andy from the pub would amble over just before lunchtime to pick up rolls for his barbecues, and Huckle would drop off his honey.
