Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 67
Not counting Huckle’s yellow head, there were four passengers.
Four.
But the fishing boat that had chugged out of Polbearne two nights ago had left with five people on board.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Everyone at the harbour wall immediately surged forward in silence. The entire village was there. Two ambulances were lined up waiting. Huckle was off the boat first, looking tired but pleased, and put down his arm to help the other men up on to the jetty.
First was Archie, the softly spoken bosun. His face was pale grey and drawn, his eyes dancing around the harbour as if he didn’t recognise where he was. The paramedics ran forward with silver blankets. As he limped his way very slowly up the pier, everybody started to clap. Somone surged forward with a cup of tea to press into his hand, and somebody else gave him a tot of whisky.
Next was Kendall, looking even younger under his big yellow hat. His mother came charging down the cobbled road in her slippers, screaming and yelling, and his four brothers – all of whom had been on board the other fishing boats that had already safely returned – let out great cheers and yells. Polly couldn’t see over people’s heads, and even with Neil pecking at them, she couldn’t get through the throng to see what was happening. Her heart was pounding harshly through her chest, her breath coming in gasps as she struggled to see.
John was next, and there was a collective gasp as his two young children ran to him, screaming, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ He was wobbly on his feet as he knelt down and let them fly into his arms. Polly glanced over the heads of the crowd and spied Mrs Manse, standing back. Her face was as impassive as ever.
Finally, strapped to a stretcher that two ambulancemen had taken on to the jetty, came Jayden, looking very pale and drained, one leg at a strange angle under its blanket. He was barely conscious.
And then the boat was empty.
Without thinking, Polly charged through the crowd towards the jetty to see for herself, to check – and was caught, suddenly, strongly, in the huge bear-like arms of Huckle, who held her tight in his strong embrace.
‘What?’ she said, briefly struggling, but Huckle was so big and strong, there wasn’t much she could do. He twisted her close to him and whispered, ‘Hush now’ in her ear. ‘Hush.’
Still wriggling, Polly turned her head, and suddenly she understood. Because standing at the empty boat, keening, her entire body doubled over in a paroxysm of grief, was a petite red-headed woman, and Polly knew instantly who she was.
‘Oh my God,’ said Polly. ‘Oh my God.’
‘We’re not done,’ said Huckle fiercely, exhaustion clear in every line on his face. Indeed, the lifeboat was already firing up down the slip. But Polly, her eyes clouded by tears, was looking over at the returned fishermen, in a huddle with their families, friends, reporters. Their faces, after the first excitement at being home, were grim. Polly found she couldn’t stay where she was and indicated to Huckle. They limped over together.
Kendall was talking. His young face had aged ten years. Someone was supporting Tarnie’s… Polly couldn’t think of her as his widow; she could barely think at all. Her insides had turned to ice water; it was the worst, the most terrifying news she could ever have conceived of.
Kendall was incoherent with grief, even as the television cameras rolled in his face.
‘He wouldn’t… he couldn’t… He had to get Jayden on, he wouldn’t let him… It was all…’ He dissolved into weeping. Polly had to put it together herself, later, from the newspapers, as she and Kerensa sat silently in the flat, staring out at the empty harbour, the milling journalists, the confused tourists.
When the Trochilus had reached the centre of the storm – it was far worse than the reports had predicted; worse, in fact, than the region had seen for thirty years, a catastrophic differential of high and low pressure colliding at speed – their mast had broken and they had realised their situation was hopeless. Polly imagined them being tossed about like driftwood on waves higher than a three-storey building, lifting them up and hurling them violently down again. She couldn’t bear it.
They had launched the life vessel at the very last moment – Polly remembered Tarnie telling her it was always best to stay on a ship if you possibly could – but the mast had snapped off and landed on Jayden’s leg, smashing it horribly. They had tried desperately to keep the lifeboat and the ship together, and Tarnie would not leave Jayden’s side until he’d freed him. With huge effort, he had managed to get Jayden into the lifeboat – Polly could see it all vividly, knew Tarnie would never have given up on Jayden, knew that he was doing for Jayden what he was never able to do for his friend Jim Manse – but by that time the fishing boat was nearly under. Even as the men had desperately tried to grab Tarnie’s arm, even as they had thrown out ropes and hands and inflatables, the suction of the boat had pulled him down. The lifeboat too had been sucked beneath the waves, but when it had resurfaced – the pyramid-shaped yellow survival vessel eventually doing its job and righting itself – there was nothing else in the tumult of the tossing seas but the occasional piece of flotsam. The storm and the current had carried them further and further away as they had sat in a dazed silence, trying to keep Jayden conscious, struggling to deal with the loss of their captain, their livelihood, their entire world.
The last lifeboat had returned after another twenty-four-hour stint. It was needed elsewhere and decisions had to be made.
Boiling the kettle for the hundredth time, staring out of the window, listlessly kneading bread, Polly could not bear to think what it had done to Selina when she’d heard that news.
And people came. Everyone needed to talk about it, again and again and again. The worst thing was that without a body there could be no funeral, no laying to rest. But people needed to talk about what had happened, needed to grieve, and they congregated around Polly’s shop.
Everyone in the town had their own story, their own version of events. Someone had had a premonition in a dream; someone else had had a visit from a ghost. Nobody seemed to know exactly what was going on with Jayden, the boy who hated fishing. He was in hospital in Plymouth, and would recover, and the hospital had told the people from all over the country who were sending gifts and cards to understand that there were so many of them they might be shared amongst other patients.
Something, it was clear, needed to be planned, but as an incomer – and worse, one who had a connection to the deceased she desperately didn’t want spread any further – Polly didn’t think it was down to her to do it.
Four.
But the fishing boat that had chugged out of Polbearne two nights ago had left with five people on board.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Everyone at the harbour wall immediately surged forward in silence. The entire village was there. Two ambulances were lined up waiting. Huckle was off the boat first, looking tired but pleased, and put down his arm to help the other men up on to the jetty.
First was Archie, the softly spoken bosun. His face was pale grey and drawn, his eyes dancing around the harbour as if he didn’t recognise where he was. The paramedics ran forward with silver blankets. As he limped his way very slowly up the pier, everybody started to clap. Somone surged forward with a cup of tea to press into his hand, and somebody else gave him a tot of whisky.
Next was Kendall, looking even younger under his big yellow hat. His mother came charging down the cobbled road in her slippers, screaming and yelling, and his four brothers – all of whom had been on board the other fishing boats that had already safely returned – let out great cheers and yells. Polly couldn’t see over people’s heads, and even with Neil pecking at them, she couldn’t get through the throng to see what was happening. Her heart was pounding harshly through her chest, her breath coming in gasps as she struggled to see.
John was next, and there was a collective gasp as his two young children ran to him, screaming, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ He was wobbly on his feet as he knelt down and let them fly into his arms. Polly glanced over the heads of the crowd and spied Mrs Manse, standing back. Her face was as impassive as ever.
Finally, strapped to a stretcher that two ambulancemen had taken on to the jetty, came Jayden, looking very pale and drained, one leg at a strange angle under its blanket. He was barely conscious.
And then the boat was empty.
Without thinking, Polly charged through the crowd towards the jetty to see for herself, to check – and was caught, suddenly, strongly, in the huge bear-like arms of Huckle, who held her tight in his strong embrace.
‘What?’ she said, briefly struggling, but Huckle was so big and strong, there wasn’t much she could do. He twisted her close to him and whispered, ‘Hush now’ in her ear. ‘Hush.’
Still wriggling, Polly turned her head, and suddenly she understood. Because standing at the empty boat, keening, her entire body doubled over in a paroxysm of grief, was a petite red-headed woman, and Polly knew instantly who she was.
‘Oh my God,’ said Polly. ‘Oh my God.’
‘We’re not done,’ said Huckle fiercely, exhaustion clear in every line on his face. Indeed, the lifeboat was already firing up down the slip. But Polly, her eyes clouded by tears, was looking over at the returned fishermen, in a huddle with their families, friends, reporters. Their faces, after the first excitement at being home, were grim. Polly found she couldn’t stay where she was and indicated to Huckle. They limped over together.
Kendall was talking. His young face had aged ten years. Someone was supporting Tarnie’s… Polly couldn’t think of her as his widow; she could barely think at all. Her insides had turned to ice water; it was the worst, the most terrifying news she could ever have conceived of.
Kendall was incoherent with grief, even as the television cameras rolled in his face.
‘He wouldn’t… he couldn’t… He had to get Jayden on, he wouldn’t let him… It was all…’ He dissolved into weeping. Polly had to put it together herself, later, from the newspapers, as she and Kerensa sat silently in the flat, staring out at the empty harbour, the milling journalists, the confused tourists.
When the Trochilus had reached the centre of the storm – it was far worse than the reports had predicted; worse, in fact, than the region had seen for thirty years, a catastrophic differential of high and low pressure colliding at speed – their mast had broken and they had realised their situation was hopeless. Polly imagined them being tossed about like driftwood on waves higher than a three-storey building, lifting them up and hurling them violently down again. She couldn’t bear it.
They had launched the life vessel at the very last moment – Polly remembered Tarnie telling her it was always best to stay on a ship if you possibly could – but the mast had snapped off and landed on Jayden’s leg, smashing it horribly. They had tried desperately to keep the lifeboat and the ship together, and Tarnie would not leave Jayden’s side until he’d freed him. With huge effort, he had managed to get Jayden into the lifeboat – Polly could see it all vividly, knew Tarnie would never have given up on Jayden, knew that he was doing for Jayden what he was never able to do for his friend Jim Manse – but by that time the fishing boat was nearly under. Even as the men had desperately tried to grab Tarnie’s arm, even as they had thrown out ropes and hands and inflatables, the suction of the boat had pulled him down. The lifeboat too had been sucked beneath the waves, but when it had resurfaced – the pyramid-shaped yellow survival vessel eventually doing its job and righting itself – there was nothing else in the tumult of the tossing seas but the occasional piece of flotsam. The storm and the current had carried them further and further away as they had sat in a dazed silence, trying to keep Jayden conscious, struggling to deal with the loss of their captain, their livelihood, their entire world.
The last lifeboat had returned after another twenty-four-hour stint. It was needed elsewhere and decisions had to be made.
Boiling the kettle for the hundredth time, staring out of the window, listlessly kneading bread, Polly could not bear to think what it had done to Selina when she’d heard that news.
And people came. Everyone needed to talk about it, again and again and again. The worst thing was that without a body there could be no funeral, no laying to rest. But people needed to talk about what had happened, needed to grieve, and they congregated around Polly’s shop.
Everyone in the town had their own story, their own version of events. Someone had had a premonition in a dream; someone else had had a visit from a ghost. Nobody seemed to know exactly what was going on with Jayden, the boy who hated fishing. He was in hospital in Plymouth, and would recover, and the hospital had told the people from all over the country who were sending gifts and cards to understand that there were so many of them they might be shared amongst other patients.
Something, it was clear, needed to be planned, but as an incomer – and worse, one who had a connection to the deceased she desperately didn’t want spread any further – Polly didn’t think it was down to her to do it.
