Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 84
‘And Dave caught it,’ said Polly, trying to keep the disbelief out of her voice.
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? This boy’s a natural-born fisherman. Scared of nothing, he is.’
Dave was beaming. Jayden came out from the bakery to take a photograph.
‘I love fishing,’ Dave told him. ‘I don’t know how you could have given it up.’
Jayden rubbed his fingers down his white apron. His tummy was already showing the signs of his career change, promising to emerge into a very impressive belly in the years to come. Being Jayden, of course, he had no malice in him.
‘That’s really cool,’ he said. ‘Are you going to sell it to Andy’s chippy?’
He lined them all up so he could take a group photo.
‘We should put this in his window,’ he said. ‘So that everyone who goes there thinks that all their cod comes from that fish.’
‘And he can put his prices up even more,’ muttered someone. Andy had not been slow to take advantage of all the new trade, particularly at high tide. But his fish and chips remained as hot and crackling and salty as ever, the fleshy fish generous and silken, with plenty of scraps in the bag, so no one minded too much really.
Kerensa and Polly made their now traditional drop-in to get some chips and Fanta, then sat and kicked their legs on the harbour wall.
‘Aren’t you on a wedding diet?’ teased Polly.
‘Sod that,’ said Kerensa. ‘Anyway, God only knows what I’m going to be wearing.’
Chapter Thirty
Things were changing, thought Polly as she moved through the town, taking the cash box to Mrs Manse. She had to excuse herself to get out of people’s way, there were cars nudging their way down roads that were far too narrow to take them, and people were looking oddly at Neil perched on her shoulder, which made her feel like a weird cat lady and was extremely annoying. Although the bakery was doing so well, she still wasn’t sure about so many new people in her home, and the bridge would make it even worse. The no-bridge campaign was still running strong, but could they really halt progress?
She hadn’t been over to the old bakery in a little while; Jayden tended to deal with all that. As long as Mrs Manse was barking at him, everything seemed all right with the world. So she was a little shocked as she approached to see Gillian cowering behind the counter as a man Polly had never seen before gesticulated at her.
Without thinking, Polly marched right in. The man was wearing red trousers and had a loud, abrasive London accent. His face was as red as his trousers, and he was shouting so loudly, spittle was coming out. Neither of them saw her enter.
‘You can’t charge for this shit!’ he was yelling. ‘You can’t eat this! I’m going to get trading standards on you! If a supermarket did this, they’d get shut down. You can’t rip off decent people like this for awful bloody sandwiches! It’s a cheek! This mayo is on the turn.’
Polly felt suddenly completely torn between her love for good, decent, honest food – which she really did believe in – and defending what now felt, beyond all measure, like her home town, her people.
She coughed loudly. The man turned round, still furious. He was big.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, and as she did so she felt her accent get more Cornish, more local than the generic southern English it normally was. ‘This is our town, right? And if you don’t like our sandwiches, you are more than welcome to pee off right back where you came from.’
‘But they’re bloody stale.’
‘That’s how we like them,’ said Polly, folding her arms defiantly. ‘Now I would suggest it would be a good idea for you to leave. In fact, tell everyone else you know not to come by either, because if they’re all horrible thugs who bully old ladies, I think we’re better off without you, don’t you? Now do you want to keep abusing an eighty-year-old, because I have Officer Charlie on my speed dial.’
She held up her phone menacingly.
‘This place sucks,’ shouted the man angrily. ‘I hope you all go to hell.’
‘So do I,’ said Polly. ‘If it would keep the scum out.’
The man crashed the rickety old wooden door so hard the entire shop shook. Polly looked at Mrs Manse; she was white.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Polly said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘Normally you could run nine guys like that out of town before breakfast.’
Mrs Manse leant on the counter top. The man had thrown the sandwich across it, and there were smears of old salad cream everywhere. Her hands were shaking. Polly still tried to make light of it.
‘Don’t you think I’m turning local? Do you think I’d pass muster?’
Mrs Manse didn’t say anything, just stared at the counter. Polly put the cash box down and went round to her.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Sit down a minute, okay? He’s just one stupid man. Don’t let it get to you. He’s patently a total idiot.’
Mrs Manse shook her head.
‘They’re everywhere,’ she said, sitting down heavily on a stool. ‘They’re here now. That’s how it is. And they’re going to build this bridge and then it will truly be a disaster.’
Polly tilted her head.
‘Well, we have a lot more visitors. That’s good, isn’t it? We’ve never taken more money. We’re going to do well, give you a comfortable retirement.’
‘I’m nearly eighty,’ said Mrs Manse. ‘I don’t want to do this any more.’
Polly looked round the dusty, neglected shop.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I have… not very much, but I have a little bit of money that I might be able to —’
Mrs Manse shook her head. ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said. ‘You keep paying me rent, you can keep the rest. I have plenty put by. I’m going to go and live with my sister in Truro. They’ve got bingo.’
‘Well, that sounds… that sounds good,’ said Polly, trying to be encouraging. ‘Are you sure you want to leave Mount Polbearne, though? You’ve lived here all your life.’
‘And it’s brought me…’
Mrs Manse trailed off. Polly suddenly felt that Gillian should have been playing bingo with her sister a long time ago. What the old woman said next took her completely by surprise.
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? This boy’s a natural-born fisherman. Scared of nothing, he is.’
Dave was beaming. Jayden came out from the bakery to take a photograph.
‘I love fishing,’ Dave told him. ‘I don’t know how you could have given it up.’
Jayden rubbed his fingers down his white apron. His tummy was already showing the signs of his career change, promising to emerge into a very impressive belly in the years to come. Being Jayden, of course, he had no malice in him.
‘That’s really cool,’ he said. ‘Are you going to sell it to Andy’s chippy?’
He lined them all up so he could take a group photo.
‘We should put this in his window,’ he said. ‘So that everyone who goes there thinks that all their cod comes from that fish.’
‘And he can put his prices up even more,’ muttered someone. Andy had not been slow to take advantage of all the new trade, particularly at high tide. But his fish and chips remained as hot and crackling and salty as ever, the fleshy fish generous and silken, with plenty of scraps in the bag, so no one minded too much really.
Kerensa and Polly made their now traditional drop-in to get some chips and Fanta, then sat and kicked their legs on the harbour wall.
‘Aren’t you on a wedding diet?’ teased Polly.
‘Sod that,’ said Kerensa. ‘Anyway, God only knows what I’m going to be wearing.’
Chapter Thirty
Things were changing, thought Polly as she moved through the town, taking the cash box to Mrs Manse. She had to excuse herself to get out of people’s way, there were cars nudging their way down roads that were far too narrow to take them, and people were looking oddly at Neil perched on her shoulder, which made her feel like a weird cat lady and was extremely annoying. Although the bakery was doing so well, she still wasn’t sure about so many new people in her home, and the bridge would make it even worse. The no-bridge campaign was still running strong, but could they really halt progress?
She hadn’t been over to the old bakery in a little while; Jayden tended to deal with all that. As long as Mrs Manse was barking at him, everything seemed all right with the world. So she was a little shocked as she approached to see Gillian cowering behind the counter as a man Polly had never seen before gesticulated at her.
Without thinking, Polly marched right in. The man was wearing red trousers and had a loud, abrasive London accent. His face was as red as his trousers, and he was shouting so loudly, spittle was coming out. Neither of them saw her enter.
‘You can’t charge for this shit!’ he was yelling. ‘You can’t eat this! I’m going to get trading standards on you! If a supermarket did this, they’d get shut down. You can’t rip off decent people like this for awful bloody sandwiches! It’s a cheek! This mayo is on the turn.’
Polly felt suddenly completely torn between her love for good, decent, honest food – which she really did believe in – and defending what now felt, beyond all measure, like her home town, her people.
She coughed loudly. The man turned round, still furious. He was big.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, and as she did so she felt her accent get more Cornish, more local than the generic southern English it normally was. ‘This is our town, right? And if you don’t like our sandwiches, you are more than welcome to pee off right back where you came from.’
‘But they’re bloody stale.’
‘That’s how we like them,’ said Polly, folding her arms defiantly. ‘Now I would suggest it would be a good idea for you to leave. In fact, tell everyone else you know not to come by either, because if they’re all horrible thugs who bully old ladies, I think we’re better off without you, don’t you? Now do you want to keep abusing an eighty-year-old, because I have Officer Charlie on my speed dial.’
She held up her phone menacingly.
‘This place sucks,’ shouted the man angrily. ‘I hope you all go to hell.’
‘So do I,’ said Polly. ‘If it would keep the scum out.’
The man crashed the rickety old wooden door so hard the entire shop shook. Polly looked at Mrs Manse; she was white.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Polly said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘Normally you could run nine guys like that out of town before breakfast.’
Mrs Manse leant on the counter top. The man had thrown the sandwich across it, and there were smears of old salad cream everywhere. Her hands were shaking. Polly still tried to make light of it.
‘Don’t you think I’m turning local? Do you think I’d pass muster?’
Mrs Manse didn’t say anything, just stared at the counter. Polly put the cash box down and went round to her.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Sit down a minute, okay? He’s just one stupid man. Don’t let it get to you. He’s patently a total idiot.’
Mrs Manse shook her head.
‘They’re everywhere,’ she said, sitting down heavily on a stool. ‘They’re here now. That’s how it is. And they’re going to build this bridge and then it will truly be a disaster.’
Polly tilted her head.
‘Well, we have a lot more visitors. That’s good, isn’t it? We’ve never taken more money. We’re going to do well, give you a comfortable retirement.’
‘I’m nearly eighty,’ said Mrs Manse. ‘I don’t want to do this any more.’
Polly looked round the dusty, neglected shop.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I have… not very much, but I have a little bit of money that I might be able to —’
Mrs Manse shook her head. ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said. ‘You keep paying me rent, you can keep the rest. I have plenty put by. I’m going to go and live with my sister in Truro. They’ve got bingo.’
‘Well, that sounds… that sounds good,’ said Polly, trying to be encouraging. ‘Are you sure you want to leave Mount Polbearne, though? You’ve lived here all your life.’
‘And it’s brought me…’
Mrs Manse trailed off. Polly suddenly felt that Gillian should have been playing bingo with her sister a long time ago. What the old woman said next took her completely by surprise.
