Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 56
Although Tarnie didn’t come into the shop, the other fishermen did, and chatted to her and always bought, she noticed, a little bit more than they needed. She figured Tarnie was behaving pretty shabbily given that he owed her a massive apology, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it. She threw herself into her baking. She cultivated the sourdough Ted Kernesse had given her – a disgusting yeasty fungus that lived in the fridge and divided itself like a living thing (it was, she reminded herself, a living thing) – and started making a darker, stronger bread called a campagne. It was a hard sell to begin with – people wanted their trusty sliced white – but she persevered with the free samples, knowing herself what an incredibly addictive flavour it had, and sure enough it became one of her best sellers. To placate the traditionalists, she also experimented with a Jamaican brioche that was so sweet it was practically cake. Spread with jam at four in the afternoon, it might be the only thing to trump the local cream tea.
She was clearing up one Saturday afternoon when she heard a familiar noise rattling down the cobblestones.
She hadn’t seen much of Huckle at all – she’d guessed it was the busy season for bees or something – but they’d nearly sold out of the four boxes of honey he’d given her to sell on and she needed to pay him. She smiled and went downstairs.
When he saw her, Huckle’s face fell.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Oh hon, what’s the matter with you?’
Polly searched her head.
‘Um, stuff,’ she settled on, it being safest. She realised she’d neglected to put on any make-up, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her hair. Burying yourself in your work was okay, she realised, up to a point, and perhaps this was the point.
‘Where’s pretty Polly?’ he asked with a half-smile playing around his lips.
‘I think you should take me as you find me,’ said Polly crossly.
‘I know,’ said Huckle sadly. ‘I’m not meant for the modern age.’
‘Where you come from, does everyone look like Dolly Parton?’
‘I’m sure there’s a happy medium somewhere,’ said Huckle cheerily. ‘But you’d like Dolly.’
‘I would, but she wouldn’t approve of my wardrobe.’
‘She wouldn’t,’ said Huckle. ‘I shall just politely avert my eyes.’
‘HUCKLE!’ said Polly, half exasperated, but half flattered that he’d noticed what she looked like; not many people did these days. ‘Anyway, hang on, I have some money for you.’
‘That is a sweet, sweet sentence I haven’t heard for some time,’ said Huckle. ‘And I have something for you too. But we have to go back to mine, and you’ll have to sleep in the spare room; the tide’s up tonight.’
‘What is it?’ said Polly, mystified. ‘I don’t like it when I can’t get home when I want to.’
‘Come on, I’ve been waiting for this! Anyway, what else are you doing?’
‘That’s not the point.’
She looked around.
‘This better be good.’
‘It is good. You’ll see,’ promised Huckle. ‘Cancel all your glamorous plans and come with me. And bring the money!’
Huckle had to pick up one or two things in town, which gave Polly an opportunity to quickly wash her hair. She didn’t bother too much with the blow-drying, though, not if she was getting in that sidecar again. She opened up her built-in wardrobe, thinking as she did so that she should probably get the rest of her stuff out of storage, or else get rid of it. In a lot of ways, though, it was nice living with so little. She had got used to doing without her ghds or more than one handbag, and she hadn’t missed all that stuff a bit.
She rifled through her little-used space – she mostly wore jeans and a T-shirt for working – and was suddenly surprised by how much was actually in there and what she’d once deemed essential. She let her fingers run across smart evening tops, dark work suits and crisp white shirts – had she really ever done so much ironing? The clothes looked uncomfortable, lots of buttons and scratchy material. She could barely remember the Polly who had dressed like this, who had looked like this. She supposed Kerensa could. She and Kerensa used to go and get their nails done together, sometimes even a facial. She laughed to herself at the idea of having her nails done now. She glanced at them; they were squared off and stubby, easier to keep clean when they were in dough all the time.
A waft of her favourite perfume – Chanel’s Eau Première – filtered through the air, and Polly had the sudden, weird memory of clearing out her grandmother’s cupboards after she’d died. It had been impossible to believe that Granny was dead with the smell of her favourite scent still so prevalent. It was silly, of course; Polly herself hadn’t died. But it was a little like looking at the wardrobe of someone from long ago.
She shook her head at her daft ideas as she combed out her hair – it had grown, way down past her shoulders. Normally she just pulled it back into a ponytail, but tonight as it dried naturally it curled, and she let it lie there. Once upon a time she would have ironed those curls out mercilessly, but now she didn’t seem to mind them half as much.
At the end of the row of untouched clothes was an old summer dress Polly had forgotten about in the long winter months, and had barely worn before then. It was a faded vintage flower print, on soft cotton, with a full skirt and a pretty boat neck. It wasn’t like her at all; she’d bought it on a whim, thinking that when she and Chris weren’t working so hard, they’d maybe go and catch a festival, hang out somewhere. Of course, they had never stopped working.
Polly threw the dress on over her head, surprised that it hung loose on her – clearly all that heaving flour about was coming in at least slightly handy – and went and looked at herself in the mirror the only way she could get a full-length view – standing precariously on the side of the bath. Her toenails needed painting, she reflected, but apart from that… She put on a quick swathe of BB cream, leaving her nose with its little sunshiny freckles (normally she would have submerged them completely), opened her eyes up with a little sooty mascara and added a coral lipstick. She tucked her strawberry-blonde hair, lightened by the sun, behind her ears and gave herself an experimental smile.
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m here for Miss Polly Waterford?’
She was clearing up one Saturday afternoon when she heard a familiar noise rattling down the cobblestones.
She hadn’t seen much of Huckle at all – she’d guessed it was the busy season for bees or something – but they’d nearly sold out of the four boxes of honey he’d given her to sell on and she needed to pay him. She smiled and went downstairs.
When he saw her, Huckle’s face fell.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Oh hon, what’s the matter with you?’
Polly searched her head.
‘Um, stuff,’ she settled on, it being safest. She realised she’d neglected to put on any make-up, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her hair. Burying yourself in your work was okay, she realised, up to a point, and perhaps this was the point.
‘Where’s pretty Polly?’ he asked with a half-smile playing around his lips.
‘I think you should take me as you find me,’ said Polly crossly.
‘I know,’ said Huckle sadly. ‘I’m not meant for the modern age.’
‘Where you come from, does everyone look like Dolly Parton?’
‘I’m sure there’s a happy medium somewhere,’ said Huckle cheerily. ‘But you’d like Dolly.’
‘I would, but she wouldn’t approve of my wardrobe.’
‘She wouldn’t,’ said Huckle. ‘I shall just politely avert my eyes.’
‘HUCKLE!’ said Polly, half exasperated, but half flattered that he’d noticed what she looked like; not many people did these days. ‘Anyway, hang on, I have some money for you.’
‘That is a sweet, sweet sentence I haven’t heard for some time,’ said Huckle. ‘And I have something for you too. But we have to go back to mine, and you’ll have to sleep in the spare room; the tide’s up tonight.’
‘What is it?’ said Polly, mystified. ‘I don’t like it when I can’t get home when I want to.’
‘Come on, I’ve been waiting for this! Anyway, what else are you doing?’
‘That’s not the point.’
She looked around.
‘This better be good.’
‘It is good. You’ll see,’ promised Huckle. ‘Cancel all your glamorous plans and come with me. And bring the money!’
Huckle had to pick up one or two things in town, which gave Polly an opportunity to quickly wash her hair. She didn’t bother too much with the blow-drying, though, not if she was getting in that sidecar again. She opened up her built-in wardrobe, thinking as she did so that she should probably get the rest of her stuff out of storage, or else get rid of it. In a lot of ways, though, it was nice living with so little. She had got used to doing without her ghds or more than one handbag, and she hadn’t missed all that stuff a bit.
She rifled through her little-used space – she mostly wore jeans and a T-shirt for working – and was suddenly surprised by how much was actually in there and what she’d once deemed essential. She let her fingers run across smart evening tops, dark work suits and crisp white shirts – had she really ever done so much ironing? The clothes looked uncomfortable, lots of buttons and scratchy material. She could barely remember the Polly who had dressed like this, who had looked like this. She supposed Kerensa could. She and Kerensa used to go and get their nails done together, sometimes even a facial. She laughed to herself at the idea of having her nails done now. She glanced at them; they were squared off and stubby, easier to keep clean when they were in dough all the time.
A waft of her favourite perfume – Chanel’s Eau Première – filtered through the air, and Polly had the sudden, weird memory of clearing out her grandmother’s cupboards after she’d died. It had been impossible to believe that Granny was dead with the smell of her favourite scent still so prevalent. It was silly, of course; Polly herself hadn’t died. But it was a little like looking at the wardrobe of someone from long ago.
She shook her head at her daft ideas as she combed out her hair – it had grown, way down past her shoulders. Normally she just pulled it back into a ponytail, but tonight as it dried naturally it curled, and she let it lie there. Once upon a time she would have ironed those curls out mercilessly, but now she didn’t seem to mind them half as much.
At the end of the row of untouched clothes was an old summer dress Polly had forgotten about in the long winter months, and had barely worn before then. It was a faded vintage flower print, on soft cotton, with a full skirt and a pretty boat neck. It wasn’t like her at all; she’d bought it on a whim, thinking that when she and Chris weren’t working so hard, they’d maybe go and catch a festival, hang out somewhere. Of course, they had never stopped working.
Polly threw the dress on over her head, surprised that it hung loose on her – clearly all that heaving flour about was coming in at least slightly handy – and went and looked at herself in the mirror the only way she could get a full-length view – standing precariously on the side of the bath. Her toenails needed painting, she reflected, but apart from that… She put on a quick swathe of BB cream, leaving her nose with its little sunshiny freckles (normally she would have submerged them completely), opened her eyes up with a little sooty mascara and added a coral lipstick. She tucked her strawberry-blonde hair, lightened by the sun, behind her ears and gave herself an experimental smile.
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m here for Miss Polly Waterford?’
