Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 91
She had stared at it for twenty minutes, then kneaded the dough so hard she thought she would dislocate her shoulders.
Now she sat on the harbour wall, watching the sun turn golden in the sky and waving the lads off on their way to work. Dave looked suntanned and happy, bantering with the rest of them. Jayden made them sandwiches every day at a reduced rate, and he brought them down to the boats and stopped for a chat. She’d wondered if he missed fishing at all, but he had laughed so heartily at the thought of it, she never asked him again. In fact, he looked the part more and more every day; he was a born baker.
She went home and looked at Kerensa’s ludicrous honeymoon pictures on Facebook, then made herself a simple supper and only looked at the poem another eight or nine times. After she’d eaten, she forced herself down to the pub for another of Samantha’s interminable meetings about how to stop the bridge. They seemed interminable, Samantha boldly pointed out, because there wasn’t a bridge yet, so they were obviously working. Samantha brought her baby along; Muriel had hers too, and Polly thought of the changes she’d seen in the last year as they got ready for the summer season again.
Samantha was talking, but Polly was miles away.
‘What do you think?’ she snapped in Polly’s face.
‘Er, yeah, fine,’ muttered Polly, trying to pretend she knew what was going on.
‘So it’s decided!’ said Samantha, to general groans. ‘Polly had the casting vote!’
‘What have I just agreed to?’ said Polly worriedly to Jayden, who was looking cross right beside her as they went to the bar.
‘The sit-in,’ said Jayden. ‘Well, stand-in. Samantha’s getting the press down and we all have to stand holding hands along the causeway to stop them building the bridge.’
‘But we’ll drown!’ said Polly. ‘This is a ridiculous idea. It’ll totally prove their point that we need a bridge!’
‘I know,’ said Jayden dolefully.
‘And the water is freezing! It’s only spring.’
‘I know. And I want to go to a nightclub.’
‘Just go to a nightclub,’ said Polly, slightly exasperated. ‘Book a bed and breakfast or something.’
Jayden frowned.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I could! Now I have all this money!’
‘What money?’ said Polly, narrowing her eyes. He was on minimum wage.
‘All the money I’m making now,’ said Jayden happily.
‘You’re not telling me it’s more than you made as a fisherman?’
‘LOADS more,’ said Jayden. ‘Wow, a B and B. Imagine. They make you breakfast and everything.’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Yes, they do.’
The human chain was scheduled for Easter weekend, the first big holiday of the season, and three days before the local council was scheduled to vote. The town was going to turn out on the causeway as soon as the first tide had gone down, and stay till the second, with banners and songs. The second tide would come up about five o’clock, by which time, they hoped, their point would have been made.
Kerensa and Reuben were jetting in from the current leg of their honeymoon (Porto Cervo in Sardinia – Kerensa said all the rich women were completely awful and Reuben kept trying to buy her really ugly handbags, and they had decided to settle for just lots of sex instead) to join them for a bit of solidarity (and, Polly suspected, a chance for Reuben to zip around in his Riva).
The mornings were getting lighter, and Polly was up, for once, with the bright pink dawn that morning, baking extra lots of buns for the post-human-chain barbecue they had planned on the little shingle beach. She had overheard Lance the estate agent complaining in the pub about not being able to shift the lighthouse unless they got the damn bridge, and was feeling tentatively hopeful about it.
And it was a lovely morning, she thought, whistling cheerfully as the wonderful scent she never tired of rose from the ovens and she looked forward to seeing her friends. She’d persuaded a gang of Plymouthites to come down for the day; Chris might even join them. Apparently, his new girlfriend was a radical artist with big nose studs who made pictures with blood in them. Polly rather liked the sound of her. Neil hopped over and she ruffled his feathers affectionately and gave him a quick kiss on the beak.
‘It’s going to be a nice day, Neil,’ she said gently, looking out of the bakery window towards the east, where bright golden rays were just beginning to bounce off the top of the water, then straight ahead, where she could hear the fishing boats chugging back in. Not much changed in Polbearne, and she wanted to keep it that way. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was turning into Mrs Manse.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Huckle knew it was time; had known for ages, in fact. He had got no response to his poem, which he had thought might spark something – he’d believed it, wanted to believe it so much he’d almost gone to the airport, for God’s sake. But no. He had to sort that area of his life out now, move on. Everything was going swimmingly in Savannah, work was busier than ever, he could go out every night if he wanted to, though he rarely did. It needed to be done; he’d been putting it off too long. He shut his office door and pressed 9 for a long-distance outside line.
First the house. He called the rental place, who were so overjoyed that they would have a prime property to rent in the up-and-coming region of Polbearne, the new hotspot, profiled in all the Sunday supplements, that they didn’t even charge him an early vacancy fee. They had a list of downsizers a mile long, apparently, who had fallen in love with the quirky area and thought keeping bees would be a perfect next step.
He asked his PA to bring him a cup of coffee, then phoned the temp agency to cancel the beekeeping contract – the new tenants were moving in in a week, so one more visit should do it.
The woman on the other end of the phone was confused.
‘Sorry, Mr Skerry, but you cancelled your temp service.’
‘Er, no?’ said Huck.
‘Yes, it’s quite clear here. Mr Marsden came back saying you no longer required a temp. He’s now left the agency, I’m afraid, or I could ask him. We haven’t been sending anyone, not in months.’
Huckle thanked her, and wondered. Polly had brought him all that honey when she came, and it had been fresh. Not just fresh, wonderful; he’d made a mental note to congratulate the temp, and then, in the turmoil of what had happened with Polly, had completely forgotten all about it.
Now she sat on the harbour wall, watching the sun turn golden in the sky and waving the lads off on their way to work. Dave looked suntanned and happy, bantering with the rest of them. Jayden made them sandwiches every day at a reduced rate, and he brought them down to the boats and stopped for a chat. She’d wondered if he missed fishing at all, but he had laughed so heartily at the thought of it, she never asked him again. In fact, he looked the part more and more every day; he was a born baker.
She went home and looked at Kerensa’s ludicrous honeymoon pictures on Facebook, then made herself a simple supper and only looked at the poem another eight or nine times. After she’d eaten, she forced herself down to the pub for another of Samantha’s interminable meetings about how to stop the bridge. They seemed interminable, Samantha boldly pointed out, because there wasn’t a bridge yet, so they were obviously working. Samantha brought her baby along; Muriel had hers too, and Polly thought of the changes she’d seen in the last year as they got ready for the summer season again.
Samantha was talking, but Polly was miles away.
‘What do you think?’ she snapped in Polly’s face.
‘Er, yeah, fine,’ muttered Polly, trying to pretend she knew what was going on.
‘So it’s decided!’ said Samantha, to general groans. ‘Polly had the casting vote!’
‘What have I just agreed to?’ said Polly worriedly to Jayden, who was looking cross right beside her as they went to the bar.
‘The sit-in,’ said Jayden. ‘Well, stand-in. Samantha’s getting the press down and we all have to stand holding hands along the causeway to stop them building the bridge.’
‘But we’ll drown!’ said Polly. ‘This is a ridiculous idea. It’ll totally prove their point that we need a bridge!’
‘I know,’ said Jayden dolefully.
‘And the water is freezing! It’s only spring.’
‘I know. And I want to go to a nightclub.’
‘Just go to a nightclub,’ said Polly, slightly exasperated. ‘Book a bed and breakfast or something.’
Jayden frowned.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I could! Now I have all this money!’
‘What money?’ said Polly, narrowing her eyes. He was on minimum wage.
‘All the money I’m making now,’ said Jayden happily.
‘You’re not telling me it’s more than you made as a fisherman?’
‘LOADS more,’ said Jayden. ‘Wow, a B and B. Imagine. They make you breakfast and everything.’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Yes, they do.’
The human chain was scheduled for Easter weekend, the first big holiday of the season, and three days before the local council was scheduled to vote. The town was going to turn out on the causeway as soon as the first tide had gone down, and stay till the second, with banners and songs. The second tide would come up about five o’clock, by which time, they hoped, their point would have been made.
Kerensa and Reuben were jetting in from the current leg of their honeymoon (Porto Cervo in Sardinia – Kerensa said all the rich women were completely awful and Reuben kept trying to buy her really ugly handbags, and they had decided to settle for just lots of sex instead) to join them for a bit of solidarity (and, Polly suspected, a chance for Reuben to zip around in his Riva).
The mornings were getting lighter, and Polly was up, for once, with the bright pink dawn that morning, baking extra lots of buns for the post-human-chain barbecue they had planned on the little shingle beach. She had overheard Lance the estate agent complaining in the pub about not being able to shift the lighthouse unless they got the damn bridge, and was feeling tentatively hopeful about it.
And it was a lovely morning, she thought, whistling cheerfully as the wonderful scent she never tired of rose from the ovens and she looked forward to seeing her friends. She’d persuaded a gang of Plymouthites to come down for the day; Chris might even join them. Apparently, his new girlfriend was a radical artist with big nose studs who made pictures with blood in them. Polly rather liked the sound of her. Neil hopped over and she ruffled his feathers affectionately and gave him a quick kiss on the beak.
‘It’s going to be a nice day, Neil,’ she said gently, looking out of the bakery window towards the east, where bright golden rays were just beginning to bounce off the top of the water, then straight ahead, where she could hear the fishing boats chugging back in. Not much changed in Polbearne, and she wanted to keep it that way. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was turning into Mrs Manse.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Huckle knew it was time; had known for ages, in fact. He had got no response to his poem, which he had thought might spark something – he’d believed it, wanted to believe it so much he’d almost gone to the airport, for God’s sake. But no. He had to sort that area of his life out now, move on. Everything was going swimmingly in Savannah, work was busier than ever, he could go out every night if he wanted to, though he rarely did. It needed to be done; he’d been putting it off too long. He shut his office door and pressed 9 for a long-distance outside line.
First the house. He called the rental place, who were so overjoyed that they would have a prime property to rent in the up-and-coming region of Polbearne, the new hotspot, profiled in all the Sunday supplements, that they didn’t even charge him an early vacancy fee. They had a list of downsizers a mile long, apparently, who had fallen in love with the quirky area and thought keeping bees would be a perfect next step.
He asked his PA to bring him a cup of coffee, then phoned the temp agency to cancel the beekeeping contract – the new tenants were moving in in a week, so one more visit should do it.
The woman on the other end of the phone was confused.
‘Sorry, Mr Skerry, but you cancelled your temp service.’
‘Er, no?’ said Huck.
‘Yes, it’s quite clear here. Mr Marsden came back saying you no longer required a temp. He’s now left the agency, I’m afraid, or I could ask him. We haven’t been sending anyone, not in months.’
Huckle thanked her, and wondered. Polly had brought him all that honey when she came, and it had been fresh. Not just fresh, wonderful; he’d made a mental note to congratulate the temp, and then, in the turmoil of what had happened with Polly, had completely forgotten all about it.
