Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 60
She had finally made a friend, a proper friend, not some bad fisherman who wanted to lure her to his naughty island. As she thought that, a smile crossed her lips. Just a little one. Really, as Huckle had shown her, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, was it? To let herself be slightly misled by someone. She should chalk it up to trial and error. At least she’d broken her duck. And if everyone in the village thought she was a terrible slag, well, they should try going out in Plymouth on a Saturday night.
It had been a daft thing to do, but it wasn’t worth beating herself up about for ever. Life went on.
As she walked – she’d decided to take the coastal route rather than the country roads, which meant striking out across open moorland – she felt the wind building up. Gently at first, but more and more insistently as she went on. Great black and grey clouds, heavy and portentous-looking – the first for weeks – appeared as if out of nowhere, blotting out first a portion, then half, then the whole of the sky. Polly started to move faster as the rain arrived, and then to run, but eventually she stopped and gave in to the inevitable: she was going to get drenched, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She held her hands up and let the rain course down her body. It was warm, but quite refreshing, a bit like standing in a shower. Hangover completely gone, she was suddenly aware of feeling incredibly free, more alive than she had felt in a long time.
‘ARRR!’ she shouted loudly, open to the elements, all alone on top of a hill. A part of her was aware that she was being a bit crazy. Another part felt like giving voice to it. It was kind of mad, but nobody could see her up here, and it felt so good too, to get out all the frustrations of the last few months – oh Lord, years.
‘RAAAA!’ she roared at the sky. ‘AARRRGH!’ She spun in circles under the huge heavy drops.
‘Feeling better?’ observed a quiet voice.
It was Huckle, standing right behind her with a huge black umbrella.
‘JESUS!’ said Polly, jumping out of her skin. ‘Where the HELL did you spring from?’
‘Er, sorry,’ said Huckle. ‘I just saw the rain coming on and thought you might need some shelter. I didn’t know you were re-enacting Wuthering Heights up here.’
Polly was furiously embarrassed.
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘You’re like a creepy stalker.’
‘Oh come on. I thought it was cute,’ he said.
‘SHUT UP,’ said Polly warningly. Her face felt suffused with red.
‘Well, would you like the umbrella?’
Water was getting in her eyes, running down her cheeks, soaking her to the skin. Huckle, slowly at first, then more determinedly, passed the umbrella across. Of course, as he did so, the rain got to him too, and in no time at all, he was nearly as drenched as she was. The huge black brolly hovered uselessly between them, Polly refusing to take it, Huckle refusing to stop offering it to her. Suddenly a great gust of wind snatched it, lifting it high above them over the moor, where it danced and tossed on the air.
Huckle and Polly glanced at each other wordlessly, then both of them dived off after it. Polly’s wet hair slapped against her forehead and her shoes squelched as she charged along, feeling as tossed and thrown about by the weather as the umbrella itself, in the heart of the storm. Huckle, his long legs striding fast and far beyond her, his arms wide open to the water and the gusting air, had his head thrown back and was laughing at the craziness of it all. They leapt and threw themselves at the brolly, which always managed to tear itself away from them again, until finally they cornered it when its spokes got caught in a tree. Huckle lifted Polly up without difficulty. Polly grabbed the umbrella and waved it about triumphantly as Huckle gently placed her back on the ground with her treasure. She turned to him, watching the raindrops roll off his long eyelashes, which were surprisingly dark for such a fair-haired man, his blue eyes crinkling, his hair slicked back against his leonine head. She stood for a second in his arms, and suddenly thought it would be the easiest thing in the world to reach up and…
No. No, she couldn’t. She’d just been through this entire exact thing. Had she or had she not just been yelling about her liberation?
‘Actually,’ she found herself saying, realising how much colder it was getting all of a sudden, and that her teeth were beginning to chatter. ‘Actually you know I think I will take that brolly after all.’
Huckle bent down in a courtly way.
‘Ma’am, may I walk you home?’
‘No,’ said Polly, ‘You’ll miss the tide back.’ And she turned and marched happily back towards Polbearne.
Huckle stood and watched her go. Then he swept back his mass of hair out of his eyes, and strode back the other way, towards the cottage.
Chapter Twenty
Polly had never known a nicer bath. She lit the stove, to make the little apartment all toasty and heat up the boiler; then, while that worked itself up, she made up the dough for the morning, with the most immense cup of tea she could muster. She used up all the hot water in the tank by filling the bath to the brim, throwing in the very last of the posh smellies she’d got for her birthday the previous year – she remembered that birthday: they had all gone out to some fancy new restaurant that charged a fortune for tiny cubes of vegetables, and she’d been so nervous about their credit card, even though her friends, led by Kerensa, had insisted on paying for her share – until the entire flat was warm, steamy and scented.
Even though it was only early afternoon, it felt like night-time in the middle of winter; there were no daytrippers today. Polly couldn’t believe the speed with which the weather had asserted itself, blowing in across the sea in a tearing rage. Thunder rumbled ominously and lightning rent the roiling sky, occasionally coinciding with the lighthouse beam, which had been switched on early that day. Polly soaked for a long time, reading her book, until she was warm again from the inside out, then put on her oldest, softest cotton pyjamas and woollen socks, and propped herself up at the window to look out at the storm.
Suddenly, to her horror, she saw Tarnie’s Land Rover appearing and the boys getting out. They looked miserable, defeated, their shoulders slumped. They couldn’t possibly be going out in this, she thought. They couldn’t be.
Without thinking, she pulled on her old mackintosh and ran downstairs and out into the worsening wind.
‘You can’t!’ she howled, crying out to make herself heard above the storm. ‘You can’t be going out in this.’
It had been a daft thing to do, but it wasn’t worth beating herself up about for ever. Life went on.
As she walked – she’d decided to take the coastal route rather than the country roads, which meant striking out across open moorland – she felt the wind building up. Gently at first, but more and more insistently as she went on. Great black and grey clouds, heavy and portentous-looking – the first for weeks – appeared as if out of nowhere, blotting out first a portion, then half, then the whole of the sky. Polly started to move faster as the rain arrived, and then to run, but eventually she stopped and gave in to the inevitable: she was going to get drenched, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She held her hands up and let the rain course down her body. It was warm, but quite refreshing, a bit like standing in a shower. Hangover completely gone, she was suddenly aware of feeling incredibly free, more alive than she had felt in a long time.
‘ARRR!’ she shouted loudly, open to the elements, all alone on top of a hill. A part of her was aware that she was being a bit crazy. Another part felt like giving voice to it. It was kind of mad, but nobody could see her up here, and it felt so good too, to get out all the frustrations of the last few months – oh Lord, years.
‘RAAAA!’ she roared at the sky. ‘AARRRGH!’ She spun in circles under the huge heavy drops.
‘Feeling better?’ observed a quiet voice.
It was Huckle, standing right behind her with a huge black umbrella.
‘JESUS!’ said Polly, jumping out of her skin. ‘Where the HELL did you spring from?’
‘Er, sorry,’ said Huckle. ‘I just saw the rain coming on and thought you might need some shelter. I didn’t know you were re-enacting Wuthering Heights up here.’
Polly was furiously embarrassed.
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘You’re like a creepy stalker.’
‘Oh come on. I thought it was cute,’ he said.
‘SHUT UP,’ said Polly warningly. Her face felt suffused with red.
‘Well, would you like the umbrella?’
Water was getting in her eyes, running down her cheeks, soaking her to the skin. Huckle, slowly at first, then more determinedly, passed the umbrella across. Of course, as he did so, the rain got to him too, and in no time at all, he was nearly as drenched as she was. The huge black brolly hovered uselessly between them, Polly refusing to take it, Huckle refusing to stop offering it to her. Suddenly a great gust of wind snatched it, lifting it high above them over the moor, where it danced and tossed on the air.
Huckle and Polly glanced at each other wordlessly, then both of them dived off after it. Polly’s wet hair slapped against her forehead and her shoes squelched as she charged along, feeling as tossed and thrown about by the weather as the umbrella itself, in the heart of the storm. Huckle, his long legs striding fast and far beyond her, his arms wide open to the water and the gusting air, had his head thrown back and was laughing at the craziness of it all. They leapt and threw themselves at the brolly, which always managed to tear itself away from them again, until finally they cornered it when its spokes got caught in a tree. Huckle lifted Polly up without difficulty. Polly grabbed the umbrella and waved it about triumphantly as Huckle gently placed her back on the ground with her treasure. She turned to him, watching the raindrops roll off his long eyelashes, which were surprisingly dark for such a fair-haired man, his blue eyes crinkling, his hair slicked back against his leonine head. She stood for a second in his arms, and suddenly thought it would be the easiest thing in the world to reach up and…
No. No, she couldn’t. She’d just been through this entire exact thing. Had she or had she not just been yelling about her liberation?
‘Actually,’ she found herself saying, realising how much colder it was getting all of a sudden, and that her teeth were beginning to chatter. ‘Actually you know I think I will take that brolly after all.’
Huckle bent down in a courtly way.
‘Ma’am, may I walk you home?’
‘No,’ said Polly, ‘You’ll miss the tide back.’ And she turned and marched happily back towards Polbearne.
Huckle stood and watched her go. Then he swept back his mass of hair out of his eyes, and strode back the other way, towards the cottage.
Chapter Twenty
Polly had never known a nicer bath. She lit the stove, to make the little apartment all toasty and heat up the boiler; then, while that worked itself up, she made up the dough for the morning, with the most immense cup of tea she could muster. She used up all the hot water in the tank by filling the bath to the brim, throwing in the very last of the posh smellies she’d got for her birthday the previous year – she remembered that birthday: they had all gone out to some fancy new restaurant that charged a fortune for tiny cubes of vegetables, and she’d been so nervous about their credit card, even though her friends, led by Kerensa, had insisted on paying for her share – until the entire flat was warm, steamy and scented.
Even though it was only early afternoon, it felt like night-time in the middle of winter; there were no daytrippers today. Polly couldn’t believe the speed with which the weather had asserted itself, blowing in across the sea in a tearing rage. Thunder rumbled ominously and lightning rent the roiling sky, occasionally coinciding with the lighthouse beam, which had been switched on early that day. Polly soaked for a long time, reading her book, until she was warm again from the inside out, then put on her oldest, softest cotton pyjamas and woollen socks, and propped herself up at the window to look out at the storm.
Suddenly, to her horror, she saw Tarnie’s Land Rover appearing and the boys getting out. They looked miserable, defeated, their shoulders slumped. They couldn’t possibly be going out in this, she thought. They couldn’t be.
Without thinking, she pulled on her old mackintosh and ran downstairs and out into the worsening wind.
‘You can’t!’ she howled, crying out to make herself heard above the storm. ‘You can’t be going out in this.’
