Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 93
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘It’s freezing,’ said Jayden. ‘You won’t. Don’t be an idiot.’
Huckle grinned. ‘My being an idiot days are over,’ he said. ‘Apart from today.’
And he broke past Jayden’s arms and started pushing his way against the tide of people. He shouted her name – ‘Polly! Polly!’ – but he couldn’t see her.
Polly was one of the last people to come off on the Mount Polbearne side: there had been a rush, and she had hung back to let the others go, especially the little ones. Polbearnites were superstitious about being on the causeway when the water came in, and rightly so, she knew.
Anyway, she was only wearing flip-flops; she didn’t really mind the cold water stealing across the tops of her toes. It was going to be the most spectacular sunset. She glanced up at the buildings, which looked as though they were on fire, listening to the chatter and laughter of people going past her, happy with their day – the turnout had been amazing, the causeway full. Patrick had been interviewed for a newspaper again, so everyone was happy.
She didn’t hear it for a long time, but something caught her, something on the wind, and even though the water was now uncomfortably high, she stopped, turned, looked around at the distant figure. Someone was still out there. Her heart stopped. Then she recognised him.
Everyone else had gone; the causeway was closed. But he was here. He was here, that was all, and Polly started to run.
He was running towards her just as quickly, with the same determined look on his face as she had, staring straight at her. The water was splashing round her ankles now, the sun a great glowing ball in the pink-streaked sky as they collided in the middle of the causeway. Without a moment’s hesitation or a single word being spoken, Huckle lifted her up as if she was made of thistledown and spun her in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, and she returned it hungrily, as if there had been no separation between them, as if it were the same kiss they had started at the wake: the same power, the same force. Huckle felt like a man dying of thirst in the desert who’d been given a glass of water. Polly didn’t think at all.
It was only when the water was lapping up to his thighs that Huckle reluctantly drew away.
‘I think we may have to get out of here,’ he said, gently putting her down. Polly laughed at the splash of the cold water.
People were shouting at them from both sides as they waded, helpless with laughter, back to the Mount Polbearne side, hand in hand. The waves came in with incredible speed, the freezing water up to their chests as they were hauled out by friendly hands. Archie gave them a scolding, but they looked at each other and giggled again. It was just so astonishing to Polly that Huckle was here, in front of her again, grinning his big farm boy grin. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick cornstalk hair.
‘Can I make some kind of totally terrible joke about wet clothes and getting out of them?’ he asked.
‘You,’ said Polly, ‘can do whatever you like.’
She took him up to the big room she loved so much, that had haunted his dreams, with the sea view, the view of clear, pure blue, darkening now. The boats were all out. Good. Polly shut Neil in the bathroom and came back, a little nervous all over again.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Not sure,’ said Huckle. ‘Yes.’
And she fetched the fresh bread, and the new honey.
Later, happy, sated, Polly snuggled under the blanket with Huckle, breathing in the wonderful warm scent of him, stroking the light golden curls that covered his chest – he was so extraordinarily beautiful to her – and fell into a deep sleep.
Coda
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously!’
The funny thing was, in the end, it was the picture of the two of them embracing, the sun setting behind them, up to their waists in water, that had done it.
FOR THE LOVE OF MOUNT POLBEARNE, the caption had said, whereupon the council had voted against the new bridge five to three, and that was that. And Lance had sighed heavily, and slashed the price of the old lighthouse.
They were standing at the top of it, a room that had windows on all sides, and gave the dizzying sensation that you were right out at sea, or flying like a bird above it. It had the same wobbly wooden flooring that Polly was leaving behind in the flat (there were plans to possibly turn that into a little café), and the paint was peeling on the walls. Neil was flying around it happily.
‘Where will we even get the circular furniture?’ said Huckle, but Polly could see he was just as taken with it as she was. It was damaged, messy and scruffy – but then, as Polly had pointed out, so were they, and that seemed to be working out just fine. And Huckle could not have denied her a thing.
‘But I want a fireman’s pole,’ he said.
‘Anything,’ said Polly. ‘I can dance round it if you like.’
‘I would like.’
He smiled at her. ‘Won’t you miss the light?’
She looked at him, then looked out again at the beautiful, dancing golden sea.
‘You’re my light,’ she said quietly, and he pulled her to him, burying his face in her mass of hair.
And Polly looked over his shoulder through the huge ceiling-to-floor windows and saw the little fishing fleet heading out for their evening’s work. As usual, a flock of seagulls followed behind them, chattering angrily, as the clouds blazed with gold. She could see something – a fish, or possibly a seal – jumping and splashing at The Tarn’s bow. They often did this, like they were playing. But tonight, somehow, it felt different; it felt like the spirit of someone watching over the boat; the spirit of Tarnie, perhaps, still with them somehow. Even though she knew it was daft, she still couldn’t shake it, as she stood there in the lighthouse, safe in the ring of her loved one’s arms.
‘Godspeed,’ she murmured to the boats, and those who sailed on them, remembering once again Tarnie’s song:
I wish I was a fisherman
Tumbling on the seas
Far away from dry land
And its bitter memories
Casting out my sweet line
With abandonment and love
No ceiling bearing down on me
’Cept the starry sky above
With light in my head
You in my arms
Woohoo!
‘It’s freezing,’ said Jayden. ‘You won’t. Don’t be an idiot.’
Huckle grinned. ‘My being an idiot days are over,’ he said. ‘Apart from today.’
And he broke past Jayden’s arms and started pushing his way against the tide of people. He shouted her name – ‘Polly! Polly!’ – but he couldn’t see her.
Polly was one of the last people to come off on the Mount Polbearne side: there had been a rush, and she had hung back to let the others go, especially the little ones. Polbearnites were superstitious about being on the causeway when the water came in, and rightly so, she knew.
Anyway, she was only wearing flip-flops; she didn’t really mind the cold water stealing across the tops of her toes. It was going to be the most spectacular sunset. She glanced up at the buildings, which looked as though they were on fire, listening to the chatter and laughter of people going past her, happy with their day – the turnout had been amazing, the causeway full. Patrick had been interviewed for a newspaper again, so everyone was happy.
She didn’t hear it for a long time, but something caught her, something on the wind, and even though the water was now uncomfortably high, she stopped, turned, looked around at the distant figure. Someone was still out there. Her heart stopped. Then she recognised him.
Everyone else had gone; the causeway was closed. But he was here. He was here, that was all, and Polly started to run.
He was running towards her just as quickly, with the same determined look on his face as she had, staring straight at her. The water was splashing round her ankles now, the sun a great glowing ball in the pink-streaked sky as they collided in the middle of the causeway. Without a moment’s hesitation or a single word being spoken, Huckle lifted her up as if she was made of thistledown and spun her in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, and she returned it hungrily, as if there had been no separation between them, as if it were the same kiss they had started at the wake: the same power, the same force. Huckle felt like a man dying of thirst in the desert who’d been given a glass of water. Polly didn’t think at all.
It was only when the water was lapping up to his thighs that Huckle reluctantly drew away.
‘I think we may have to get out of here,’ he said, gently putting her down. Polly laughed at the splash of the cold water.
People were shouting at them from both sides as they waded, helpless with laughter, back to the Mount Polbearne side, hand in hand. The waves came in with incredible speed, the freezing water up to their chests as they were hauled out by friendly hands. Archie gave them a scolding, but they looked at each other and giggled again. It was just so astonishing to Polly that Huckle was here, in front of her again, grinning his big farm boy grin. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick cornstalk hair.
‘Can I make some kind of totally terrible joke about wet clothes and getting out of them?’ he asked.
‘You,’ said Polly, ‘can do whatever you like.’
She took him up to the big room she loved so much, that had haunted his dreams, with the sea view, the view of clear, pure blue, darkening now. The boats were all out. Good. Polly shut Neil in the bathroom and came back, a little nervous all over again.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Not sure,’ said Huckle. ‘Yes.’
And she fetched the fresh bread, and the new honey.
Later, happy, sated, Polly snuggled under the blanket with Huckle, breathing in the wonderful warm scent of him, stroking the light golden curls that covered his chest – he was so extraordinarily beautiful to her – and fell into a deep sleep.
Coda
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously!’
The funny thing was, in the end, it was the picture of the two of them embracing, the sun setting behind them, up to their waists in water, that had done it.
FOR THE LOVE OF MOUNT POLBEARNE, the caption had said, whereupon the council had voted against the new bridge five to three, and that was that. And Lance had sighed heavily, and slashed the price of the old lighthouse.
They were standing at the top of it, a room that had windows on all sides, and gave the dizzying sensation that you were right out at sea, or flying like a bird above it. It had the same wobbly wooden flooring that Polly was leaving behind in the flat (there were plans to possibly turn that into a little café), and the paint was peeling on the walls. Neil was flying around it happily.
‘Where will we even get the circular furniture?’ said Huckle, but Polly could see he was just as taken with it as she was. It was damaged, messy and scruffy – but then, as Polly had pointed out, so were they, and that seemed to be working out just fine. And Huckle could not have denied her a thing.
‘But I want a fireman’s pole,’ he said.
‘Anything,’ said Polly. ‘I can dance round it if you like.’
‘I would like.’
He smiled at her. ‘Won’t you miss the light?’
She looked at him, then looked out again at the beautiful, dancing golden sea.
‘You’re my light,’ she said quietly, and he pulled her to him, burying his face in her mass of hair.
And Polly looked over his shoulder through the huge ceiling-to-floor windows and saw the little fishing fleet heading out for their evening’s work. As usual, a flock of seagulls followed behind them, chattering angrily, as the clouds blazed with gold. She could see something – a fish, or possibly a seal – jumping and splashing at The Tarn’s bow. They often did this, like they were playing. But tonight, somehow, it felt different; it felt like the spirit of someone watching over the boat; the spirit of Tarnie, perhaps, still with them somehow. Even though she knew it was daft, she still couldn’t shake it, as she stood there in the lighthouse, safe in the ring of her loved one’s arms.
‘Godspeed,’ she murmured to the boats, and those who sailed on them, remembering once again Tarnie’s song:
I wish I was a fisherman
Tumbling on the seas
Far away from dry land
And its bitter memories
Casting out my sweet line
With abandonment and love
No ceiling bearing down on me
’Cept the starry sky above
With light in my head
You in my arms
Woohoo!
