Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 57
‘Huckle, stop it. It’s me,’ said Polly, whacking him with the box of Jamaican bread she’d brought along.
‘Yeah, she normally looks like kind of a drudge, so you, Cinders, cannot possibly be her.’
Polly found herself blushing and looked around before she climbed into the sidecar. Sure enough, some of the fishermen were gathering in advance of that night’s fishing expedition. She was going to get the most terrible reputation. Well, there wasn’t much she could do about that. She felt like sticking her tongue out at them all.
‘Okay, Cinders,’ said Huckle when she had put on her helmet and goggles. ‘Chocks away!’
It was the most beautiful evening. Insects hummed and danced in the meadows, the headlights catching them as the bike swung round corners. The sky was violet, huge, the stars popping out. Dusk released the heavy scent of hedgerows and wild poppies, rambling wild roses and the comforting scent of freshly tilled soil, waiting for the new seeds. Polly breathed in deeply. The fragrance was intoxicating. She looked up at Huckle, concentrating on the road, his powerful thighs driving the machine forward. He caught her watching him and smiled, and she instantly indicated that he should concentrate again on the road, smiling to herself and settling back to enjoy the bird calls and the perfumes and the vastness of the sky.
They turned up the rutted track. Huckle had obviously been pretty certain she would come; all round the beautiful little garden outside the cottage were dotted candles in glass holders. In the trees were fairy lights.
‘Fairy lights?’ said Polly.
‘I know, they were here when I got here,’ said Huckle. ‘I figured I’d keep using them until we have a major electrical fire.’
But Polly couldn’t stay sarcastic for long. The little cottage looked absolutely beautiful. The night was still warm, but Huckle moved ahead, poked a little brazier with a Zippo lighter and it flared into life.
Polly looked at him with narrowed eyes.
‘This is all very… seductive-looking,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Huckle, taking her seriously. ‘I’m really sorry about that. I only realised just now. I didn’t mean it to be; it’s just Reuben’s out of town. Do you want to go home?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Polly. ‘Seriously, I’m your second choice after Reuben?’
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘I was just making it nice for him, otherwise he gets sniffy. I apologise.’
Polly smiled. The night was warm, but she moved closer to the fire anyway; there it was even better.
‘Go on then. Show me your great amazing thing. And if this is a motorbike with two sidecars, I’m going to be spectacularly unimpressed.’
‘Nooo,’ said Huckle, disappearing into the house. He reappeared with two flagons and a large corked jug.
‘I am already interested,’ said Polly.
Huckle placed the jug on the table between them and uncorked the top. Polly leaned forward to smell it, then sat back quickly.
‘WHOA,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Huckle.
‘That is… what is it?’
‘It’s mead,’ said Huckle proudly. ‘Brewed it myself out in the back. People aren’t getting through my honey fast enough. It’s peeing off my bees. Now congratulate me on my mastery of English idiom.’
‘I dislike a peed-off bee,’ said Polly, peering into her flagon as Huckle poured them both generous measures.
‘Is this right?’ she said. ‘Are you meant to drink it in beer containers? Isn’t it more like wine?’
Huckle gave her a look. ‘Have you never seen any Viking films? You drink it by the pint whilst going AHA!’
‘AHA!’ they said, clinking flagons.
Polly took a mouthful. It was strong, yes, but it tasted delicious too: warm, sweet, full of honey but with a darker flavour.
‘Wow,’ she said. She looked at Huckle. ‘You know, this is pretty good.’
‘Thank you,’ said Huckle, beaming. ‘It took a lot of… plastic canisters.’
‘I think you could sell this too.’
‘I like the way you’re thinking,’ said Huckle.
They chinked again, then Polly remembered to give him the money from the honey sales, which he also liked, and they chatted easily in the darkening air.
Later, they got up and rummaged around for some local cheese to have with the bread Polly had brought, as well as a huge bowl of strawberries Huckle had picked from a nearby farmer’s field in return for a couple of jars of honey (‘I’ve gone almost totally to barter,’ he said). As soon as Polly stood up, she realised that she was squiffed. That stuff was lethal.
‘I think,’ she said with some difficulty, ‘that someone has stolen my legs.’
‘That happens every time I make this,’ said Huckle, slurring his already slurred words. ‘I must try and brew something that leaves you with your own legs. Or someone else’s.’
‘I’d like Elle Macpherson’s,’ agreed Polly, and found herself completely hilarious.
‘Oohh!’ she said suddenly. ‘Look!’
At first she had thought they were sparks from the brazier, now keeping them cosy as the night grew chillier, but as she stared at them they started to take shape, and she saw they were in fact tiny glowing insects.
‘June bugs,’ said Huckle, then glanced at her. ‘Fireflies. I didn’t know you got them too till I moved here. Lots where I come from.’
‘Neither did I!’ said Polly. She stood up, fascinated if a little wobbly. ‘They’re beautiful.’ She watched as the insects traced intricate patterns on the air, leaving behind just a faint impression of their iridescent trajectory. ‘Oh wow. I’d like to keep one in a jar, if it wasn’t really really cruel.’
‘Well, just enjoy them as they are,’ said Huckle expansively, waving his arms around. ‘Live in the moment. Don’t take a photo, don’t try and grab it and freeze it for ever. Let’s just enjoy the fireflies.’
‘And perhaps,’ hiccuped Polly, ‘another glass of this most delicious mead.’
Later, as the fire burned low and they grew quieter and the fireflies had flown away, Polly found herself getting pleasantly cosy and drowsy, wrapped in a blanket Huckle had brought out for her that smelled of woodsmoke.
‘Yeah, she normally looks like kind of a drudge, so you, Cinders, cannot possibly be her.’
Polly found herself blushing and looked around before she climbed into the sidecar. Sure enough, some of the fishermen were gathering in advance of that night’s fishing expedition. She was going to get the most terrible reputation. Well, there wasn’t much she could do about that. She felt like sticking her tongue out at them all.
‘Okay, Cinders,’ said Huckle when she had put on her helmet and goggles. ‘Chocks away!’
It was the most beautiful evening. Insects hummed and danced in the meadows, the headlights catching them as the bike swung round corners. The sky was violet, huge, the stars popping out. Dusk released the heavy scent of hedgerows and wild poppies, rambling wild roses and the comforting scent of freshly tilled soil, waiting for the new seeds. Polly breathed in deeply. The fragrance was intoxicating. She looked up at Huckle, concentrating on the road, his powerful thighs driving the machine forward. He caught her watching him and smiled, and she instantly indicated that he should concentrate again on the road, smiling to herself and settling back to enjoy the bird calls and the perfumes and the vastness of the sky.
They turned up the rutted track. Huckle had obviously been pretty certain she would come; all round the beautiful little garden outside the cottage were dotted candles in glass holders. In the trees were fairy lights.
‘Fairy lights?’ said Polly.
‘I know, they were here when I got here,’ said Huckle. ‘I figured I’d keep using them until we have a major electrical fire.’
But Polly couldn’t stay sarcastic for long. The little cottage looked absolutely beautiful. The night was still warm, but Huckle moved ahead, poked a little brazier with a Zippo lighter and it flared into life.
Polly looked at him with narrowed eyes.
‘This is all very… seductive-looking,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Huckle, taking her seriously. ‘I’m really sorry about that. I only realised just now. I didn’t mean it to be; it’s just Reuben’s out of town. Do you want to go home?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Polly. ‘Seriously, I’m your second choice after Reuben?’
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘I was just making it nice for him, otherwise he gets sniffy. I apologise.’
Polly smiled. The night was warm, but she moved closer to the fire anyway; there it was even better.
‘Go on then. Show me your great amazing thing. And if this is a motorbike with two sidecars, I’m going to be spectacularly unimpressed.’
‘Nooo,’ said Huckle, disappearing into the house. He reappeared with two flagons and a large corked jug.
‘I am already interested,’ said Polly.
Huckle placed the jug on the table between them and uncorked the top. Polly leaned forward to smell it, then sat back quickly.
‘WHOA,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Huckle.
‘That is… what is it?’
‘It’s mead,’ said Huckle proudly. ‘Brewed it myself out in the back. People aren’t getting through my honey fast enough. It’s peeing off my bees. Now congratulate me on my mastery of English idiom.’
‘I dislike a peed-off bee,’ said Polly, peering into her flagon as Huckle poured them both generous measures.
‘Is this right?’ she said. ‘Are you meant to drink it in beer containers? Isn’t it more like wine?’
Huckle gave her a look. ‘Have you never seen any Viking films? You drink it by the pint whilst going AHA!’
‘AHA!’ they said, clinking flagons.
Polly took a mouthful. It was strong, yes, but it tasted delicious too: warm, sweet, full of honey but with a darker flavour.
‘Wow,’ she said. She looked at Huckle. ‘You know, this is pretty good.’
‘Thank you,’ said Huckle, beaming. ‘It took a lot of… plastic canisters.’
‘I think you could sell this too.’
‘I like the way you’re thinking,’ said Huckle.
They chinked again, then Polly remembered to give him the money from the honey sales, which he also liked, and they chatted easily in the darkening air.
Later, they got up and rummaged around for some local cheese to have with the bread Polly had brought, as well as a huge bowl of strawberries Huckle had picked from a nearby farmer’s field in return for a couple of jars of honey (‘I’ve gone almost totally to barter,’ he said). As soon as Polly stood up, she realised that she was squiffed. That stuff was lethal.
‘I think,’ she said with some difficulty, ‘that someone has stolen my legs.’
‘That happens every time I make this,’ said Huckle, slurring his already slurred words. ‘I must try and brew something that leaves you with your own legs. Or someone else’s.’
‘I’d like Elle Macpherson’s,’ agreed Polly, and found herself completely hilarious.
‘Oohh!’ she said suddenly. ‘Look!’
At first she had thought they were sparks from the brazier, now keeping them cosy as the night grew chillier, but as she stared at them they started to take shape, and she saw they were in fact tiny glowing insects.
‘June bugs,’ said Huckle, then glanced at her. ‘Fireflies. I didn’t know you got them too till I moved here. Lots where I come from.’
‘Neither did I!’ said Polly. She stood up, fascinated if a little wobbly. ‘They’re beautiful.’ She watched as the insects traced intricate patterns on the air, leaving behind just a faint impression of their iridescent trajectory. ‘Oh wow. I’d like to keep one in a jar, if it wasn’t really really cruel.’
‘Well, just enjoy them as they are,’ said Huckle expansively, waving his arms around. ‘Live in the moment. Don’t take a photo, don’t try and grab it and freeze it for ever. Let’s just enjoy the fireflies.’
‘And perhaps,’ hiccuped Polly, ‘another glass of this most delicious mead.’
Later, as the fire burned low and they grew quieter and the fireflies had flown away, Polly found herself getting pleasantly cosy and drowsy, wrapped in a blanket Huckle had brought out for her that smelled of woodsmoke.
