Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 80
He had to put Mount Polbearne out of his life now, remember it as a dream. There was a harbour in Savannah, full of big beautiful boats: pleasure cruisers and the gambling riverboats that still patrolled the slow, silty mouth of the great Savannah river and the swampland beyond. But there were little boats too, and Huckle walked past them of an evening, when the temperature dropped a little and it was possible to go outside without feeling you were in a steam oven. The harbour front at Savannah was pretty, lined with shops and bars and the smell of churros and barbecue, and teeming with happy plump tourists wearing matching T-shirts. But Huckle went to listen to the chattering masts. Sometimes he would close his eyes.
At the back of his mind he knew he had to sort out the little apiary when his lease ran out, go and tidy his stuff away in England.
It would be best, he surmised, not to see anyone when he went over. Maybe Reuben, briefly, though Reuben couldn’t be trusted for a millisecond not to charge over to Polly and blab about everything. But he couldn’t… He told himself he didn’t want to lead Polly on, he told himself it had been just a passing summer friendship at a time when they both really needed a friend. That was all.
But of course, he realised, if they really were friends, they’d be chatting right now. Every day, in fact. He’d have liked to chat with her, tell her more about his life and how he was doing and what Savannah was like: he would love to show it to her.
But she was in love with a dead man. He’d been hurt before; it wasn’t going to happen again. And look how busy she was, how the bakery was thriving; she wouldn’t have the faintest interest in him. Best put it behind him, stay where he belonged. And anyway, he’d forgotten how much he liked it here: the easiness of getting everything, the choice in the supermarkets, his cool apartment, the noisy bars. It wasn’t that bad, he told himself.
Even so, he still walked down to the harbour most evenings, just to listen to the masts.
It was always going to happen, sooner or later. Savannah wasn’t that big a town, and sure enough, one beautiful pink-tinged Sunday evening, when Huckle was considering going to a movie then browsing the bodega, he ran into Alison, Candice’s elder, skinny sister.
‘Huckle!’ she said, clearly only pretending to be surprised. ‘I didn’t know you were back in town… Well, I’d heard something.’
‘Sure,’ said Huckle. ‘Hi.’
‘So how was England? Lots of rain? Beer warm? Did you play cricket?’
‘Er, yeah,’ said Huckle, feeling uncomfortable.
‘Well, great to see you, gotta run.’
‘Er, how’s Candice?’ said Huckle, quickly.
‘Well, she’s just great!’ said Alison. Huckle waited for the stab in the heart, but surprisingly, it didn’t come. Instead, to his amazement, he felt mildly interested; quite pleased, in fact.
‘Cool,’ he said with a huge smile. ‘Well, tell them I said hi.’
‘I’ll do that,’ she said, heading off into the sunshine.
He knew that, Candice being Candice, she’d be straight on to him, and sure enough, he was barely back in his apartment before his email pinged, asking him to meet up for coffee. She didn’t mess about.
They carefully avoided their old haunts and met the next day outside the office where he was working. She looked, as ever, good: worked-out and muscular, very blonde, her heels tapping on the sidewalk. Mentally Huckle contrasted her with Polly – long strawberry-blonde hair floating around her shoulders, the soft freckles on her nose – then blinked the image away.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You look great.’
‘Yeah,’ said Candice. ‘I’m on this new meal plan. You look good too.’
‘Yup, me too,’ said Huckle. ‘I just eat bread all the time.’
She arched an eyebrow.
‘That stuff is pure poison.’
‘Soy latte?’
She smiled. ‘Always.’
They sat by the window.
‘So how was England? Does it rain all the time? Did you play cricket?’
‘Oh no,’ said Huckle. ‘It rains a bit. Sometimes. But not like here, where it’s like a monsoon. It kind of spits on you a bit and gets real windy, then it’s gone. But at the moment the weather is beautiful. It’s not hot and sticky like here, it’s maybe high seventies?’
The thermometer next to the water tower in Savannah had been showing 94° that morning.
‘So you wear a T-shirt, but maybe take a jumper for when the sun goes down. And the town, right, it’s got all these tiny little stone houses that look like they’re climbing on top of each other. Some of the sidewalks have stairs in them otherwise they’re too steep to get up. And there’s only a few roads and they all lead to the harbour, and in the morning if you get up early you can see the fishing boats come in with the night’s catch, and you can buy some right there and then and they slit the fish for you and take out the guts and it’s the freshest fish you can possibly imagine. And right on the harbourside there’s a little higgledy-piggledy shop…’
He paused for a moment, then went on. Candice looked at him curiously.
‘It’s a bakery, the most amazing bakery I’ve ever been to. Every morning from first thing you can smell the wonderful scents rising up from the baking bread, and when she opens her doors, you can buy the bread warm straight out of the oven, and tear bits off and sit on the harbour wall, and after half an hour most of the town will come by for a bit of chit-chat and to buy their own bread, and that’s how Polbearne wakes up of a morning.’
His face was completely lost in reminiscence.
‘Sometimes, if you’re really well behaved, the girl who runs the bakery will bring you a cup of decent coffee too. But you mustn’t bother her, she’s very busy.’
Candice raised her eyebrows.
‘Sounds like you know this baking woman quite well.’ Candice herself never cooked; she got her meals delivered from a nutrition company. ‘Sounds like she’s a good friend,’ she went on, looking at him. She hoped he had found someone else; it would make her life a lot easier not having to feel guilty.
Huckle sighed.
‘Oh, I didn’t want to complicate things,’ he mumbled. And he told her about the fishing boat disaster.
‘Jeez,’ said Candice. ‘That’s awful. But was she serious about this Tarnie guy?’
At the back of his mind he knew he had to sort out the little apiary when his lease ran out, go and tidy his stuff away in England.
It would be best, he surmised, not to see anyone when he went over. Maybe Reuben, briefly, though Reuben couldn’t be trusted for a millisecond not to charge over to Polly and blab about everything. But he couldn’t… He told himself he didn’t want to lead Polly on, he told himself it had been just a passing summer friendship at a time when they both really needed a friend. That was all.
But of course, he realised, if they really were friends, they’d be chatting right now. Every day, in fact. He’d have liked to chat with her, tell her more about his life and how he was doing and what Savannah was like: he would love to show it to her.
But she was in love with a dead man. He’d been hurt before; it wasn’t going to happen again. And look how busy she was, how the bakery was thriving; she wouldn’t have the faintest interest in him. Best put it behind him, stay where he belonged. And anyway, he’d forgotten how much he liked it here: the easiness of getting everything, the choice in the supermarkets, his cool apartment, the noisy bars. It wasn’t that bad, he told himself.
Even so, he still walked down to the harbour most evenings, just to listen to the masts.
It was always going to happen, sooner or later. Savannah wasn’t that big a town, and sure enough, one beautiful pink-tinged Sunday evening, when Huckle was considering going to a movie then browsing the bodega, he ran into Alison, Candice’s elder, skinny sister.
‘Huckle!’ she said, clearly only pretending to be surprised. ‘I didn’t know you were back in town… Well, I’d heard something.’
‘Sure,’ said Huckle. ‘Hi.’
‘So how was England? Lots of rain? Beer warm? Did you play cricket?’
‘Er, yeah,’ said Huckle, feeling uncomfortable.
‘Well, great to see you, gotta run.’
‘Er, how’s Candice?’ said Huckle, quickly.
‘Well, she’s just great!’ said Alison. Huckle waited for the stab in the heart, but surprisingly, it didn’t come. Instead, to his amazement, he felt mildly interested; quite pleased, in fact.
‘Cool,’ he said with a huge smile. ‘Well, tell them I said hi.’
‘I’ll do that,’ she said, heading off into the sunshine.
He knew that, Candice being Candice, she’d be straight on to him, and sure enough, he was barely back in his apartment before his email pinged, asking him to meet up for coffee. She didn’t mess about.
They carefully avoided their old haunts and met the next day outside the office where he was working. She looked, as ever, good: worked-out and muscular, very blonde, her heels tapping on the sidewalk. Mentally Huckle contrasted her with Polly – long strawberry-blonde hair floating around her shoulders, the soft freckles on her nose – then blinked the image away.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You look great.’
‘Yeah,’ said Candice. ‘I’m on this new meal plan. You look good too.’
‘Yup, me too,’ said Huckle. ‘I just eat bread all the time.’
She arched an eyebrow.
‘That stuff is pure poison.’
‘Soy latte?’
She smiled. ‘Always.’
They sat by the window.
‘So how was England? Does it rain all the time? Did you play cricket?’
‘Oh no,’ said Huckle. ‘It rains a bit. Sometimes. But not like here, where it’s like a monsoon. It kind of spits on you a bit and gets real windy, then it’s gone. But at the moment the weather is beautiful. It’s not hot and sticky like here, it’s maybe high seventies?’
The thermometer next to the water tower in Savannah had been showing 94° that morning.
‘So you wear a T-shirt, but maybe take a jumper for when the sun goes down. And the town, right, it’s got all these tiny little stone houses that look like they’re climbing on top of each other. Some of the sidewalks have stairs in them otherwise they’re too steep to get up. And there’s only a few roads and they all lead to the harbour, and in the morning if you get up early you can see the fishing boats come in with the night’s catch, and you can buy some right there and then and they slit the fish for you and take out the guts and it’s the freshest fish you can possibly imagine. And right on the harbourside there’s a little higgledy-piggledy shop…’
He paused for a moment, then went on. Candice looked at him curiously.
‘It’s a bakery, the most amazing bakery I’ve ever been to. Every morning from first thing you can smell the wonderful scents rising up from the baking bread, and when she opens her doors, you can buy the bread warm straight out of the oven, and tear bits off and sit on the harbour wall, and after half an hour most of the town will come by for a bit of chit-chat and to buy their own bread, and that’s how Polbearne wakes up of a morning.’
His face was completely lost in reminiscence.
‘Sometimes, if you’re really well behaved, the girl who runs the bakery will bring you a cup of decent coffee too. But you mustn’t bother her, she’s very busy.’
Candice raised her eyebrows.
‘Sounds like you know this baking woman quite well.’ Candice herself never cooked; she got her meals delivered from a nutrition company. ‘Sounds like she’s a good friend,’ she went on, looking at him. She hoped he had found someone else; it would make her life a lot easier not having to feel guilty.
Huckle sighed.
‘Oh, I didn’t want to complicate things,’ he mumbled. And he told her about the fishing boat disaster.
‘Jeez,’ said Candice. ‘That’s awful. But was she serious about this Tarnie guy?’
