Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 57
Polly had scrubbed the van down the day before, even though it was in impressively good nick and had really been hardly used at all. She wondered if Evan and his brother had given up too easily. Now she watched with bated breath, as Reuben leant in with an extra-long match and fired up the oven with a very faint crumping noise. As he stood back, the flames of the gas caught and the wood started to crackle.
‘I now pronounce this tiny weird cook van thing OPEN,’ he said. ‘For Polly and the hot widow.’
‘Reuben, if you don’t stop calling Selina hot, I’m telling Kerensa.’
‘What? Why? She doesn’t mind. I think loads and loads of women are hot, but there’s only one I want to bone all the time. It’s great.’
Polly rolled her eyes at Selina, who was still smiling and apparently found Reuben quite charming. Then she stepped inside the van, leaned out of the window and waved. Selina and Reuben took the official first pictures, with the lighthouse in the background.
‘So,’ Reuben was saying to Selina as he did so, ‘don’t you think it’s about time we found you a nice man?’
‘Can he be taller than you?’ Selina said.
‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ said Reuben. ‘I got it. I totally got your hairy-stick tendencies down, baby.’
‘Um, me and Nan the van would love a tiny bit of attention for ten seconds if that’s at all possible?’ Polly hollered cheerfully, putting in her very first loaves.
Polly woke that first bright summer morning at 4 a.m., before her alarm, bristling with excitement.
She called Huckle first off, but he was in a noisy bar with a clutch of the labourers, and she could barely hear him. There had been a fair amount of slacking off before Huckle had arrived, as the men had no direction and no motivation to do more than the absolute minimum. He’d had to come down pretty hard on all of them, and they’d complied and done their absolute best, turning the farm around in barely more than a month. He was utterly proud of how hard they’d worked, and felt they needed a night off, so they had all set off to town in the back of a pickup truck, and found the nearest sports bar. They sounded extremely exuberant.
Hearing all the noise around Huckle made Polly feel more isolated. Also, she couldn’t remember the last time she was in a packed bar having a good time with a bunch of people. It sounded fun.
‘No, no, I’m listening,’ said Huckle, as several hundred men shouted at a baseball game that was going on on the TV screen over his head. He was drinking gassy bottled beer and wishing he was at home with Polly; in fact it hit him so hard, he very briefly wanted to cry. Polly, however, sounded a bit impatient.
‘So!’ she was saying.
‘Um, uh-huh?’
‘SO! It’s TODAY!’
‘I thought it was Monday.’
‘It’s Tuesday, Huckle! It’s Tuesday where I am.’
‘Huckle blinked, confused. Another roar went up from the spectators.
‘It’s opening day! I’m starting today!’
‘Oh yeah? Uh, cool.’
‘You sound busy,’ said Polly, thoroughly deflated. Out of the lighthouse window she couldn’t see anything at all; it was like the rest of the world had simply cut its tethers and drifted off.
‘Work stuff.’
‘YAY!’ went the crowd, as their team scored a home run.
‘I’ll go outside,’ said Huckle hurriedly. Outside, everyone was dancing in the street and blowing horns.
‘Sorry, it’s kind of the World Series.’
‘Right,’ said Polly. ‘I hope the blues win.’
‘Seriously? No way! The Blues are rubbish!’
Polly half-smiled.
‘Well. Anyway. I just wanted to tell you. It’s Tuesday. I’m starting today.’
Huckle was about to wish her luck, but with a quick crackle and a hum, his phone conked out. He glanced at it. No battery at all, not even enough for a quick text. He cursed quietly, and wondered if he could make a run for it.
‘Huck! My man!’
It was Jackson, the chief stockman.
‘Come in, come in! We all owe you one. You’re going to save all our jobs! Come in and lemme buy you a beer! This has been a great day.’
Reluctantly Huckle let himself be led back inside.
This was not shaping up to be Polly’s great new day, she realised glumly. The clouds had rolled in and it was absolutely hosing it down outside. She wondered briefly if there was anything in Evan’s curse, but put the thought out of her mind completely as she expertly and automatically rolled loaves into tins and laid out her neat rows of buns to half-bake before finishing them off as needed in the van so they arrived with the customers fresh and warm. She eyed up her ingredients carefully. How many people, she wondered, would queue up in the rain in a car park for a loaf of bread?
Well, it was too late to think about that now. They were committed. She was in. Huckle was in. Nan the Van was downstairs…
Polly trudged in and out of the lighthouse four times carrying the bread and buns and placing them carefully in the steel trays. Then she started up the van. She had timed everything to hit low tide, but in fact the rain was sheeting across the cobbles, making everything damp and slippery, and she found herself faintly concerned that the van might skitter and slide into the water…
No, of course it wouldn’t, she told herself sternly, although she never drove across the causeway herself; she was always with Huckle in his sidecar.
Well. Huckle wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for a while and he wasn’t here now and there was no point in thinking about that, she told herself crossly, seeing as he was only off trying to help her out in the first place.
At 8 a.m. on a wet, filthy late May morning, clouds down around her ears, she parked up in the little municipal car park next to the causeway. On warm summer weekends it was mobbed, filled with people unpacking picnics and fishing rods; children with shrimping nets, excited about the thrill of a road that was sometimes exposed and sometimes underwater; red-foreheaded fathers bringing out windbreaks and sun cream and water bottles, as if they were tracking through the Sahara.
But this morning, there was absolutely nobody here at all. Old Jim the angler passed by, his rod held upright by his side.
‘Morning, Jim,’ said Polly.
‘Morning, Polly,’ said Jim, but he didn’t seem to be in the least bit inclined to ask what she was doing out here with a soggy hairnet on, erecting a canopy in a deserted grey car park first thing in the morning.
‘I now pronounce this tiny weird cook van thing OPEN,’ he said. ‘For Polly and the hot widow.’
‘Reuben, if you don’t stop calling Selina hot, I’m telling Kerensa.’
‘What? Why? She doesn’t mind. I think loads and loads of women are hot, but there’s only one I want to bone all the time. It’s great.’
Polly rolled her eyes at Selina, who was still smiling and apparently found Reuben quite charming. Then she stepped inside the van, leaned out of the window and waved. Selina and Reuben took the official first pictures, with the lighthouse in the background.
‘So,’ Reuben was saying to Selina as he did so, ‘don’t you think it’s about time we found you a nice man?’
‘Can he be taller than you?’ Selina said.
‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ said Reuben. ‘I got it. I totally got your hairy-stick tendencies down, baby.’
‘Um, me and Nan the van would love a tiny bit of attention for ten seconds if that’s at all possible?’ Polly hollered cheerfully, putting in her very first loaves.
Polly woke that first bright summer morning at 4 a.m., before her alarm, bristling with excitement.
She called Huckle first off, but he was in a noisy bar with a clutch of the labourers, and she could barely hear him. There had been a fair amount of slacking off before Huckle had arrived, as the men had no direction and no motivation to do more than the absolute minimum. He’d had to come down pretty hard on all of them, and they’d complied and done their absolute best, turning the farm around in barely more than a month. He was utterly proud of how hard they’d worked, and felt they needed a night off, so they had all set off to town in the back of a pickup truck, and found the nearest sports bar. They sounded extremely exuberant.
Hearing all the noise around Huckle made Polly feel more isolated. Also, she couldn’t remember the last time she was in a packed bar having a good time with a bunch of people. It sounded fun.
‘No, no, I’m listening,’ said Huckle, as several hundred men shouted at a baseball game that was going on on the TV screen over his head. He was drinking gassy bottled beer and wishing he was at home with Polly; in fact it hit him so hard, he very briefly wanted to cry. Polly, however, sounded a bit impatient.
‘So!’ she was saying.
‘Um, uh-huh?’
‘SO! It’s TODAY!’
‘I thought it was Monday.’
‘It’s Tuesday, Huckle! It’s Tuesday where I am.’
‘Huckle blinked, confused. Another roar went up from the spectators.
‘It’s opening day! I’m starting today!’
‘Oh yeah? Uh, cool.’
‘You sound busy,’ said Polly, thoroughly deflated. Out of the lighthouse window she couldn’t see anything at all; it was like the rest of the world had simply cut its tethers and drifted off.
‘Work stuff.’
‘YAY!’ went the crowd, as their team scored a home run.
‘I’ll go outside,’ said Huckle hurriedly. Outside, everyone was dancing in the street and blowing horns.
‘Sorry, it’s kind of the World Series.’
‘Right,’ said Polly. ‘I hope the blues win.’
‘Seriously? No way! The Blues are rubbish!’
Polly half-smiled.
‘Well. Anyway. I just wanted to tell you. It’s Tuesday. I’m starting today.’
Huckle was about to wish her luck, but with a quick crackle and a hum, his phone conked out. He glanced at it. No battery at all, not even enough for a quick text. He cursed quietly, and wondered if he could make a run for it.
‘Huck! My man!’
It was Jackson, the chief stockman.
‘Come in, come in! We all owe you one. You’re going to save all our jobs! Come in and lemme buy you a beer! This has been a great day.’
Reluctantly Huckle let himself be led back inside.
This was not shaping up to be Polly’s great new day, she realised glumly. The clouds had rolled in and it was absolutely hosing it down outside. She wondered briefly if there was anything in Evan’s curse, but put the thought out of her mind completely as she expertly and automatically rolled loaves into tins and laid out her neat rows of buns to half-bake before finishing them off as needed in the van so they arrived with the customers fresh and warm. She eyed up her ingredients carefully. How many people, she wondered, would queue up in the rain in a car park for a loaf of bread?
Well, it was too late to think about that now. They were committed. She was in. Huckle was in. Nan the Van was downstairs…
Polly trudged in and out of the lighthouse four times carrying the bread and buns and placing them carefully in the steel trays. Then she started up the van. She had timed everything to hit low tide, but in fact the rain was sheeting across the cobbles, making everything damp and slippery, and she found herself faintly concerned that the van might skitter and slide into the water…
No, of course it wouldn’t, she told herself sternly, although she never drove across the causeway herself; she was always with Huckle in his sidecar.
Well. Huckle wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for a while and he wasn’t here now and there was no point in thinking about that, she told herself crossly, seeing as he was only off trying to help her out in the first place.
At 8 a.m. on a wet, filthy late May morning, clouds down around her ears, she parked up in the little municipal car park next to the causeway. On warm summer weekends it was mobbed, filled with people unpacking picnics and fishing rods; children with shrimping nets, excited about the thrill of a road that was sometimes exposed and sometimes underwater; red-foreheaded fathers bringing out windbreaks and sun cream and water bottles, as if they were tracking through the Sahara.
But this morning, there was absolutely nobody here at all. Old Jim the angler passed by, his rod held upright by his side.
‘Morning, Jim,’ said Polly.
‘Morning, Polly,’ said Jim, but he didn’t seem to be in the least bit inclined to ask what she was doing out here with a soggy hairnet on, erecting a canopy in a deserted grey car park first thing in the morning.
