Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 6
The narrow lanes meandered all the way down to the little harbour on their left, where the masts of fishing boats rattled and tinkled in the wind and the waves lapped the stones of the old harbour wall. On the waterfront there was a chip shop, a slightly bedraggled-looking souvenir store and an old inn, which still had a water butt outside for horses, and what looked like a stable yard. It was resolutely shut. At the far end of the harbour Polly registered a tall lighthouse striped in black and white, its paint peeling off. It looked unloved.
‘Up and coming,’ sniffed Lance.
Kerensa looked around suspiciously. ‘Why hasn’t it upped and come already, then?’ she said. ‘Everywhere else has.’
‘It’s good to get in on the bottom rung,’ said Lance quickly.
‘But it’s rained constantly here for about five years,’ said Kerensa. ‘I think the bottom rung has gone.’
‘The real benefit of Mount Polbearne,’ said Lance, swiftly changing tack, ‘is how unspoiled it is. So quiet, no problems with traffic. Total peace and tranquillity.’
Kerensa sniffed. ‘Do you live here?’
Lance was completely unfazeable.
‘No, but I’d LOVE to.’
‘Total peace and tranquillity,’ murmured Polly, wondering if this might not be just what she needed.
Lance set off along the harbour front and they trotted obediently behind him. There was water pooled among the cobbles, which were littered with brightly coloured fishing flies, netting and something that might have been guts. Kerensa made a face.
‘Stay with me,’ she hissed. ‘For ever. Somewhere with coffee shops and Zara.’
‘I’ve really had to change my recent views on what constitutes “for ever”,’ said Polly.
Lance finally drew up in front of the last house on the shabby little parade. His fake smile grew even more fake as he stood back. The two women regarded the building in front of them. Polly fought her first inclination, which was to turn and run.
‘There must be a mistake,’ said Kerensa.
‘No,’ said Lance, looking suddenly like a guilty schoolboy. ‘This is it.’
‘This should be condemned, not up for rent.’
Suddenly the reason why the flat had larger-than-average floor space for the money had become very apparent. The building was small and narrow, made of dirty grey stone. The ground floor had one large arched window, cracked in several places and unutterably filthy. Through it could just about be made out the murky shapes of large machinery, untouched for years.
‘So what was it?’ said Kerensa. ‘A fire?’
‘Oh no!’ said Lance heartily. ‘Just general…’ His voice trailed off as he tried not to say ‘neglect’.
He darted down the side of the building, the roof of which tilted crazily. There was a little wooden door in the side that you had to bow your head to get through, and he took out a large brass key and unlocked it. The hinges squeaked painfully.
‘Had many people wanting to see it?’ asked Kerensa, her heels clicking on the flagstones. Lance ignored her.
Inside there was nothing but pitch black and a faintly musty smell. Lance used his iPhone as a torch until he found a swinging lead and pulled it. An old-fashioned low-wattage bulb, festooned with dust, buzzed noisily into life, revealing a set of rickety wooden stairs.
‘And this meets all health and safety requirements for renters, does it?’ continued Kerensa, as if they were swanning round a Sandbanks penthouse. Lance muttered something inaudible and led them up the stairs, Polly coming up next, a little too close to his well-fed bottom. Her heart sank. This was impossible; it was barely safe.
Another key, fumbled for, turned the Yale of a second door at the top of the stairs. Polly crossed her fingers for the very last chance of a ‘ta-dah!’ as she stepped into the room.
They were all silent.
Well. It was big. There was that, Polly told herself. They were standing at the back of a large loft with a sloping roof through which she could see chinks of daylight. The floor was made of bare polished planks. At the very back, the roof was high, with exposed rafters. Set against the plain brick wall was a table with two mismatched chairs, looking incongruously small, next to a blackened wood-burning stove. On the far side, there was a little corridor leading left, evidently to the bedroom and bathroom, which were housed in a brick extension round the back. Down one wall of the main room was the bare minimum of horrible old melamine kitchen units, and one odd thing: a huge iron oven. Lance saw her eyeing it up.
‘They couldn’t shift it,’ he said. ‘Bugger knows how they got it up here. I mean, um, charming period feature.’
At the front of the room, where the roof sloped down towards the windows, there was a nasty ratty old sofa covered in cracks. Polly approached carefully; every floorboard creaked.
‘This place is falling into the sea,’ said Kerensa crossly. ‘Get many rats, do you?’
‘No,’ said Lance, looking crestfallen. It had obviously been the company challenge to offload this place. At that very moment there was an enormous shrieking noise. All three of them jumped. Polly jerked her head up. Through a missing tile, she could see an enormous seagull having a shout. The noise was absolutely deafening.
‘So, just rats with wings,’ said Kerensa.
Polly didn’t hear her; she was moving forward to the windows. Crouching down, she could see their flaking paint; take in the fact that they were single-glazed, with various cracks in the glass. She would freeze. It was colder inside than it was outside.
She peered out through the dirty, salt-encrusted glass. She was higher than the masts of the boats and could see past the harbour wall, with its bobbing buoys and line of chattering seagulls, right out to sea. There was a break in the low-hanging cloud, and the sun had broken through and was glancing off the distant tip of a white-topped wave, making it glisten and dance in the light. She found herself with a hint of a smile on her lips.
‘Polly! POLLY!’
Polly turned round, aware that she hadn’t heard what Kerensa had been saying.
‘Come on, I’ll take you home. We’ll stop somewhere on the way for a nice glass of white wine, not that I’m sure Polbearne isn’t festooned with chic little bars and restaurants. The chippy, for a start.’
Lance’s chubby cheeks started to sag.
‘Why doesn’t the owner do it up?’ Kerensa said. ‘No one is ever ever going to rent it like this.’
‘Up and coming,’ sniffed Lance.
Kerensa looked around suspiciously. ‘Why hasn’t it upped and come already, then?’ she said. ‘Everywhere else has.’
‘It’s good to get in on the bottom rung,’ said Lance quickly.
‘But it’s rained constantly here for about five years,’ said Kerensa. ‘I think the bottom rung has gone.’
‘The real benefit of Mount Polbearne,’ said Lance, swiftly changing tack, ‘is how unspoiled it is. So quiet, no problems with traffic. Total peace and tranquillity.’
Kerensa sniffed. ‘Do you live here?’
Lance was completely unfazeable.
‘No, but I’d LOVE to.’
‘Total peace and tranquillity,’ murmured Polly, wondering if this might not be just what she needed.
Lance set off along the harbour front and they trotted obediently behind him. There was water pooled among the cobbles, which were littered with brightly coloured fishing flies, netting and something that might have been guts. Kerensa made a face.
‘Stay with me,’ she hissed. ‘For ever. Somewhere with coffee shops and Zara.’
‘I’ve really had to change my recent views on what constitutes “for ever”,’ said Polly.
Lance finally drew up in front of the last house on the shabby little parade. His fake smile grew even more fake as he stood back. The two women regarded the building in front of them. Polly fought her first inclination, which was to turn and run.
‘There must be a mistake,’ said Kerensa.
‘No,’ said Lance, looking suddenly like a guilty schoolboy. ‘This is it.’
‘This should be condemned, not up for rent.’
Suddenly the reason why the flat had larger-than-average floor space for the money had become very apparent. The building was small and narrow, made of dirty grey stone. The ground floor had one large arched window, cracked in several places and unutterably filthy. Through it could just about be made out the murky shapes of large machinery, untouched for years.
‘So what was it?’ said Kerensa. ‘A fire?’
‘Oh no!’ said Lance heartily. ‘Just general…’ His voice trailed off as he tried not to say ‘neglect’.
He darted down the side of the building, the roof of which tilted crazily. There was a little wooden door in the side that you had to bow your head to get through, and he took out a large brass key and unlocked it. The hinges squeaked painfully.
‘Had many people wanting to see it?’ asked Kerensa, her heels clicking on the flagstones. Lance ignored her.
Inside there was nothing but pitch black and a faintly musty smell. Lance used his iPhone as a torch until he found a swinging lead and pulled it. An old-fashioned low-wattage bulb, festooned with dust, buzzed noisily into life, revealing a set of rickety wooden stairs.
‘And this meets all health and safety requirements for renters, does it?’ continued Kerensa, as if they were swanning round a Sandbanks penthouse. Lance muttered something inaudible and led them up the stairs, Polly coming up next, a little too close to his well-fed bottom. Her heart sank. This was impossible; it was barely safe.
Another key, fumbled for, turned the Yale of a second door at the top of the stairs. Polly crossed her fingers for the very last chance of a ‘ta-dah!’ as she stepped into the room.
They were all silent.
Well. It was big. There was that, Polly told herself. They were standing at the back of a large loft with a sloping roof through which she could see chinks of daylight. The floor was made of bare polished planks. At the very back, the roof was high, with exposed rafters. Set against the plain brick wall was a table with two mismatched chairs, looking incongruously small, next to a blackened wood-burning stove. On the far side, there was a little corridor leading left, evidently to the bedroom and bathroom, which were housed in a brick extension round the back. Down one wall of the main room was the bare minimum of horrible old melamine kitchen units, and one odd thing: a huge iron oven. Lance saw her eyeing it up.
‘They couldn’t shift it,’ he said. ‘Bugger knows how they got it up here. I mean, um, charming period feature.’
At the front of the room, where the roof sloped down towards the windows, there was a nasty ratty old sofa covered in cracks. Polly approached carefully; every floorboard creaked.
‘This place is falling into the sea,’ said Kerensa crossly. ‘Get many rats, do you?’
‘No,’ said Lance, looking crestfallen. It had obviously been the company challenge to offload this place. At that very moment there was an enormous shrieking noise. All three of them jumped. Polly jerked her head up. Through a missing tile, she could see an enormous seagull having a shout. The noise was absolutely deafening.
‘So, just rats with wings,’ said Kerensa.
Polly didn’t hear her; she was moving forward to the windows. Crouching down, she could see their flaking paint; take in the fact that they were single-glazed, with various cracks in the glass. She would freeze. It was colder inside than it was outside.
She peered out through the dirty, salt-encrusted glass. She was higher than the masts of the boats and could see past the harbour wall, with its bobbing buoys and line of chattering seagulls, right out to sea. There was a break in the low-hanging cloud, and the sun had broken through and was glancing off the distant tip of a white-topped wave, making it glisten and dance in the light. She found herself with a hint of a smile on her lips.
‘Polly! POLLY!’
Polly turned round, aware that she hadn’t heard what Kerensa had been saying.
‘Come on, I’ll take you home. We’ll stop somewhere on the way for a nice glass of white wine, not that I’m sure Polbearne isn’t festooned with chic little bars and restaurants. The chippy, for a start.’
Lance’s chubby cheeks started to sag.
‘Why doesn’t the owner do it up?’ Kerensa said. ‘No one is ever ever going to rent it like this.’
