Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 90
Polly pulled away from him.
‘Have you got this all planned out?’ she said, her heart beating at a million miles an hour.
Huckle shrugged and looked at the ceiling, then at her.
‘I have nothing planned out,’ he said. ‘But oh, I want you so much.’
They were the words, Polly realised to her horror, that she had longed to hear; had been desperate to hear for a long time. She wanted to be with Huckle, she dreamed of him, she thought of him all the time. All her joy in the bakery she had wanted to share with him, every funny story, every high surf day. Just to be near him now, to breathe in his scent, to be in what she had always felt as the glow of his company, that had lit her up whenever he was around… He was offering her the world, she realised.
She gazed at him, felt his soft, strong hands caressing her shoulders.
‘But I can’t leave,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave Polbearne. I’ve worked so hard to make something mine.’
‘And you deserve a rest,’ said Huckle. ‘Just stay a while.’
She gazed into his intense blue eyes.
‘Couldn’t you move?’ she asked imploringly.
Huckle swallowed. ‘But Polbearne,’ he said. ‘It was… it was a time out for me. It wasn’t my real life. My work, my job… I can’t make little pots of honey for the rest of my life.’
‘Some people do,’ said Polly, quietly.
‘It was amazing, but seriously. I can’t live somewhere I can’t get to see you unless the tidal conditions agree with me.’ He laughed. ‘You have to admit it’s a bit crazy, that place.’
Polly leapt back as if stung.
‘It’s my home now,’ she said. ‘Anyway, they’re talking about building a bridge.’
‘A bridge!’ said Huckle. ‘Now that’s a BRILLIANT idea.’
But he quickly saw from Polly’s face that it was not.
Polly only had one day left on her ticket. Huckle showed her round Savannah, hoping that she would fall in love with it, and she was polite, and certainly appreciated its beautiful buildings, but it was dreadfully hot still, and hard to stay out for long. There was not much left to say; instead they made love, and they cried, then they’d sleep, then wake up and cry before starting all over again.
‘Let me tear up your ticket,’ Huck begged. ‘Just walk away. You’ve done it once, you can do it again.’
‘But I can’t,’ said Polly miserably. ‘I owe it to Mrs Manse, and Jayden, and I’ve worked too hard to build this up. It’s the first thing I’ve ever done for myself. You can surely see that.’
He nodded, heartbroken.
‘But you can do it again. Can’t you? Now you’ve done it once?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Polly. ‘I can’t even work in America. I couldn’t possibly do that here.’
‘Well don’t do anything,’ pleaded Huckle. ‘Don’t do anything. Just come and live in my bed.’
She laughed at that.
‘I don’t know how long that would work. You couldn’t come back to Cornwall? You’re great at skipping countries every five minutes.’
Huckle looked so sad.
‘But my home… my family, my job, everything… I don’t know if I could do it again. I’m a grown man. I have to behave like one.’
She nodded. She understood.
What they’d had had been a dream, just an idle fantasy. They weren’t teenagers. They were grown-ups, with responsibilities.
‘I can’t believe I was your holiday romance,’ said Polly, not even bothering to wipe the tears that were still dripping from her eyes.
‘You weren’t… you aren’t,’ said Huckle. ‘We’ll find a way. We have to.’
They clung to each other when the cab turned up to take her to the airport.
‘You probably shouldn’t go,’ pointed out the cabbie helpfully.
‘Don’t,’ Huckle said to Polly, his face distraught. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, this isn’t the end. This can’t be the end. Not again.’
She just looked at him.
‘Don’t you think it’ll make it worse?’ she said. ‘If we… if we pretend? If we keep pretending?’
Huckle shook his head furiously.
‘Nothing can be worse than this,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
They stood, the cabbie sighing and looking at his watch, the traffic honking furiously as it circumnavigated them.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ said Huckle.
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Polly.
‘Go, don’t go,’ said the cabbie. ‘The meter’s running.’
It took every ounce of strength Huckle had not to chase the cab straight down 8th Avenue and grab her back into his arms. At any second he expected her to jump out of the door and come running to him. But she didn’t.
Stunned, numb, too exhausted even to cry, Polly sat with her back against the torn and gritty old leather of the green and white cab, and stared into space.
Chapter Thirty-Three
There was always work, of course. And Polly had plenty of other things to occupy her. She had already decided that she was going to put the tiny bit of money left over from the Plymouth apartment towards a deposit on… Well, no, it was ridiculous. She would never get it. Samantha and Henry’s friends had already mentioned what a hoot it would be to live in a lighthouse, and Polly felt resentful, as she walked past it occasionally with Neil, looking up at its little windows, its faded stripes, that it would be bought as a holiday toy for someone to show off about, when she knew – she was really sure – that she would love living there.
She wondered what Huckle would think, then shrugged it off. He had called every day; sent emails. That morning he had sent a poem, and she had wondered whether she shouldn’t stop talking to him, because it hurt too much.
I make seven circles, my love,
For your good breaking
I make the grey circle of bread
And the circle of ale
And I drive the butter round in a golden ring
And I dance when you fiddle
And I turn my face with the turning sun till your feet come in from the field.
My lamp throws a circle of light,
Then you lie for an hour in the hot unbroken circle of my arms.
‘Have you got this all planned out?’ she said, her heart beating at a million miles an hour.
Huckle shrugged and looked at the ceiling, then at her.
‘I have nothing planned out,’ he said. ‘But oh, I want you so much.’
They were the words, Polly realised to her horror, that she had longed to hear; had been desperate to hear for a long time. She wanted to be with Huckle, she dreamed of him, she thought of him all the time. All her joy in the bakery she had wanted to share with him, every funny story, every high surf day. Just to be near him now, to breathe in his scent, to be in what she had always felt as the glow of his company, that had lit her up whenever he was around… He was offering her the world, she realised.
She gazed at him, felt his soft, strong hands caressing her shoulders.
‘But I can’t leave,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave Polbearne. I’ve worked so hard to make something mine.’
‘And you deserve a rest,’ said Huckle. ‘Just stay a while.’
She gazed into his intense blue eyes.
‘Couldn’t you move?’ she asked imploringly.
Huckle swallowed. ‘But Polbearne,’ he said. ‘It was… it was a time out for me. It wasn’t my real life. My work, my job… I can’t make little pots of honey for the rest of my life.’
‘Some people do,’ said Polly, quietly.
‘It was amazing, but seriously. I can’t live somewhere I can’t get to see you unless the tidal conditions agree with me.’ He laughed. ‘You have to admit it’s a bit crazy, that place.’
Polly leapt back as if stung.
‘It’s my home now,’ she said. ‘Anyway, they’re talking about building a bridge.’
‘A bridge!’ said Huckle. ‘Now that’s a BRILLIANT idea.’
But he quickly saw from Polly’s face that it was not.
Polly only had one day left on her ticket. Huckle showed her round Savannah, hoping that she would fall in love with it, and she was polite, and certainly appreciated its beautiful buildings, but it was dreadfully hot still, and hard to stay out for long. There was not much left to say; instead they made love, and they cried, then they’d sleep, then wake up and cry before starting all over again.
‘Let me tear up your ticket,’ Huck begged. ‘Just walk away. You’ve done it once, you can do it again.’
‘But I can’t,’ said Polly miserably. ‘I owe it to Mrs Manse, and Jayden, and I’ve worked too hard to build this up. It’s the first thing I’ve ever done for myself. You can surely see that.’
He nodded, heartbroken.
‘But you can do it again. Can’t you? Now you’ve done it once?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Polly. ‘I can’t even work in America. I couldn’t possibly do that here.’
‘Well don’t do anything,’ pleaded Huckle. ‘Don’t do anything. Just come and live in my bed.’
She laughed at that.
‘I don’t know how long that would work. You couldn’t come back to Cornwall? You’re great at skipping countries every five minutes.’
Huckle looked so sad.
‘But my home… my family, my job, everything… I don’t know if I could do it again. I’m a grown man. I have to behave like one.’
She nodded. She understood.
What they’d had had been a dream, just an idle fantasy. They weren’t teenagers. They were grown-ups, with responsibilities.
‘I can’t believe I was your holiday romance,’ said Polly, not even bothering to wipe the tears that were still dripping from her eyes.
‘You weren’t… you aren’t,’ said Huckle. ‘We’ll find a way. We have to.’
They clung to each other when the cab turned up to take her to the airport.
‘You probably shouldn’t go,’ pointed out the cabbie helpfully.
‘Don’t,’ Huckle said to Polly, his face distraught. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, this isn’t the end. This can’t be the end. Not again.’
She just looked at him.
‘Don’t you think it’ll make it worse?’ she said. ‘If we… if we pretend? If we keep pretending?’
Huckle shook his head furiously.
‘Nothing can be worse than this,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
They stood, the cabbie sighing and looking at his watch, the traffic honking furiously as it circumnavigated them.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ said Huckle.
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Polly.
‘Go, don’t go,’ said the cabbie. ‘The meter’s running.’
It took every ounce of strength Huckle had not to chase the cab straight down 8th Avenue and grab her back into his arms. At any second he expected her to jump out of the door and come running to him. But she didn’t.
Stunned, numb, too exhausted even to cry, Polly sat with her back against the torn and gritty old leather of the green and white cab, and stared into space.
Chapter Thirty-Three
There was always work, of course. And Polly had plenty of other things to occupy her. She had already decided that she was going to put the tiny bit of money left over from the Plymouth apartment towards a deposit on… Well, no, it was ridiculous. She would never get it. Samantha and Henry’s friends had already mentioned what a hoot it would be to live in a lighthouse, and Polly felt resentful, as she walked past it occasionally with Neil, looking up at its little windows, its faded stripes, that it would be bought as a holiday toy for someone to show off about, when she knew – she was really sure – that she would love living there.
She wondered what Huckle would think, then shrugged it off. He had called every day; sent emails. That morning he had sent a poem, and she had wondered whether she shouldn’t stop talking to him, because it hurt too much.
I make seven circles, my love,
For your good breaking
I make the grey circle of bread
And the circle of ale
And I drive the butter round in a golden ring
And I dance when you fiddle
And I turn my face with the turning sun till your feet come in from the field.
My lamp throws a circle of light,
Then you lie for an hour in the hot unbroken circle of my arms.
