Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 58
‘Can I interest you in a bun?’ asked Polly cheerfully.
Jim looked at her.
‘My mum makes my sandwiches,’ he said mournfully. ‘On my fishing days, like.’
‘You wouldn’t like to try something different?’
Jim shook his head emphatically.
‘My mum knows how I like my sandwiches, you see,’ he said. ‘Cheese and pickle, with the cheese not touching the pickle.’
‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t have any like that. I have buns, though.’
Jim shook his head again.
‘Naw, you don’t want a bun after a sandwich. You want a Kit Kat.’
He sloshed on through the heavy rain, his oilskins well worn and a cheery yellow sou’wester on his grizzled head.
‘Bye then!’ said Polly. ‘Good luck with the fish!’
She got the canopy up; it wasn’t easy, and she wasn’t entirely sure it looked brilliant, but she got there in the end. Then she went back into the van – which was at least cosy from the oven. A little too cosy, in fact: she had to open the back door as the oven really heated up, which had the annoying result of letting in all the rain – and looked at her two hundred buns and wondered if perhaps she’d been a little bit optimistic for her first day.
She’d mentioned it a little bit around town, but not too much, given that she didn’t really want word to get out that she was starting up some kind of alternative service. She didn’t entirely trust Malcolm not to find a way to stop her, his loathing for her seemed so strong.
‘That’s your marketing plan?’ Kerensa had asked her. ‘Adventurous.’
And now she sat all alone in the cheery red van, wishing she’d brought a book, feeling like the only person for miles and miles around, the only person in Cornwall. She looked at the neat lines of buns, and told herself not to eat them all.
At 9 a.m., a seagull marched right up the steps into the van – they had been getting bolder for a while – and Polly told him where to go, with a swearword. The seagull was totally unfazed by this, and cawed at her, fixing its beady eyes on the buns.
‘I never kick birds,’ Polly told it, seriously. ‘Never. Not in a million years. But what I am going to do here is pretend to kick you, and see if that works.’
She threw her leg out in front of her. The seagull totally ignored it. She yelled at it again. It gave her a disdainful glance. Then she made a big lion roar. That worked, and it scuttered backwards and flapped down the stairs, but she didn’t know if she could do that all day.
She sighed and glanced at her phone.
How’s it going? Kerensa had texted. That was a bit early, Polly reckoned.
Brilliant, she typed back. The Duchess of Cambridge just came in and ordered 190 cakes for Prince George.
Then she thought better of that, and deleted it, and worked out what time it was in Savannah (3 a.m.), and sighed.
She was gazing out at the rain and telling herself not to worry, she’d got through worse than this, then crossly wondering precisely how many days she would have to say to herself, ‘not to worry, you’ve got through worse than this’, because as life philosophies went, it wasn’t the one she’d have chosen, when a car drew up; some kind of aggressive-looking BMW that was a little tatty round the edges. Polly put her hairnet back on in case it was the council, and also pasted on a cheery smile in case it was someone from the authorities. It was neither.
‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’
Malcolm danced out of the car like he was Rumpelstiltskin, puce with fury.
‘What the hell is THIS?’
Polly flushed bright red. She knew she probably had to expect this at some point, but confrontation was so far away from how she usually engaged with people, and now it was here, it was torture.
She glanced to the side, wishing that Reuben was here. Reuben loved this kind of thing. He’d have got into a fight straight away. And he’d have enjoyed it. Kerensa too, she’d have got stuck in. Even Huckle could probably have calmly defused the situation.
Instead, Polly felt absolutely horrible inside, frightened and panicky at the idea of dealing with somebody who was cross with her. Then she felt ridiculous for feeling that way; why must she take everything so personally? She was a grown-up, wasn’t she? She ought to be able to handle it; how on earth could she call herself a businesswoman otherwise?
‘It’s just a van,’ she squeaked.
‘It’s not! It’s a filthy plan to ruin my livelihood!’ screamed Malcolm, even though it was ten o’clock in the morning, and his livelihood really ought to have been up and running for five hours.
‘Are you trying to make my mother starve, is that your plan? Are you trying to ruin everything? Are you really such a bitch you would do that?’
Polly shook her head.
‘No,’ she started. ‘Not at all. It’s just…’ She told herself not to cry. Huckle wouldn’t cry. ‘It’s just… this is the only thing I know how to do.’
Malcolm stared at her.
‘So you’d take food out of the mouth of its rightful owner?’
‘What? No. Not on purpose! Well…’
He marched towards her, his red pimply face clashing unpleasantly with his mustard-coloured mackintosh.
‘You know,’ he spat, his eyes fierce, ‘I wanted to be a professional.’
‘What kind of professional?’ Polly asked in a shaky voice.
‘Trumpeter,’ replied Malcolm, as if it were patently obvious. ‘And when I couldn’t get a job – because the industry is totally stitched up, by the way, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know – when they locked me out of that, well I didn’t let it get me down, did I?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Polly, staring at the ground, realising she wasn’t really handling this very well and trying to remember all those assertiveness tips Kerensa had given her.
‘I picked myself up and never looked back, and look at me now.’
Jumping about in a wet car park at ten o’clock in the morning, Polly thought.
‘Stupid bloody trumpet.’
‘Do you miss playing the trumpet?’ Polly asked timidly.
Malcolm sighed for a moment, then looked cross again. His lips, Polly now noticed, did look about right for playing the trumpet: slightly splayed, and with a free run of spittle when he was exasperated, which he undoubtedly was now.
Jim looked at her.
‘My mum makes my sandwiches,’ he said mournfully. ‘On my fishing days, like.’
‘You wouldn’t like to try something different?’
Jim shook his head emphatically.
‘My mum knows how I like my sandwiches, you see,’ he said. ‘Cheese and pickle, with the cheese not touching the pickle.’
‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t have any like that. I have buns, though.’
Jim shook his head again.
‘Naw, you don’t want a bun after a sandwich. You want a Kit Kat.’
He sloshed on through the heavy rain, his oilskins well worn and a cheery yellow sou’wester on his grizzled head.
‘Bye then!’ said Polly. ‘Good luck with the fish!’
She got the canopy up; it wasn’t easy, and she wasn’t entirely sure it looked brilliant, but she got there in the end. Then she went back into the van – which was at least cosy from the oven. A little too cosy, in fact: she had to open the back door as the oven really heated up, which had the annoying result of letting in all the rain – and looked at her two hundred buns and wondered if perhaps she’d been a little bit optimistic for her first day.
She’d mentioned it a little bit around town, but not too much, given that she didn’t really want word to get out that she was starting up some kind of alternative service. She didn’t entirely trust Malcolm not to find a way to stop her, his loathing for her seemed so strong.
‘That’s your marketing plan?’ Kerensa had asked her. ‘Adventurous.’
And now she sat all alone in the cheery red van, wishing she’d brought a book, feeling like the only person for miles and miles around, the only person in Cornwall. She looked at the neat lines of buns, and told herself not to eat them all.
At 9 a.m., a seagull marched right up the steps into the van – they had been getting bolder for a while – and Polly told him where to go, with a swearword. The seagull was totally unfazed by this, and cawed at her, fixing its beady eyes on the buns.
‘I never kick birds,’ Polly told it, seriously. ‘Never. Not in a million years. But what I am going to do here is pretend to kick you, and see if that works.’
She threw her leg out in front of her. The seagull totally ignored it. She yelled at it again. It gave her a disdainful glance. Then she made a big lion roar. That worked, and it scuttered backwards and flapped down the stairs, but she didn’t know if she could do that all day.
She sighed and glanced at her phone.
How’s it going? Kerensa had texted. That was a bit early, Polly reckoned.
Brilliant, she typed back. The Duchess of Cambridge just came in and ordered 190 cakes for Prince George.
Then she thought better of that, and deleted it, and worked out what time it was in Savannah (3 a.m.), and sighed.
She was gazing out at the rain and telling herself not to worry, she’d got through worse than this, then crossly wondering precisely how many days she would have to say to herself, ‘not to worry, you’ve got through worse than this’, because as life philosophies went, it wasn’t the one she’d have chosen, when a car drew up; some kind of aggressive-looking BMW that was a little tatty round the edges. Polly put her hairnet back on in case it was the council, and also pasted on a cheery smile in case it was someone from the authorities. It was neither.
‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’
Malcolm danced out of the car like he was Rumpelstiltskin, puce with fury.
‘What the hell is THIS?’
Polly flushed bright red. She knew she probably had to expect this at some point, but confrontation was so far away from how she usually engaged with people, and now it was here, it was torture.
She glanced to the side, wishing that Reuben was here. Reuben loved this kind of thing. He’d have got into a fight straight away. And he’d have enjoyed it. Kerensa too, she’d have got stuck in. Even Huckle could probably have calmly defused the situation.
Instead, Polly felt absolutely horrible inside, frightened and panicky at the idea of dealing with somebody who was cross with her. Then she felt ridiculous for feeling that way; why must she take everything so personally? She was a grown-up, wasn’t she? She ought to be able to handle it; how on earth could she call herself a businesswoman otherwise?
‘It’s just a van,’ she squeaked.
‘It’s not! It’s a filthy plan to ruin my livelihood!’ screamed Malcolm, even though it was ten o’clock in the morning, and his livelihood really ought to have been up and running for five hours.
‘Are you trying to make my mother starve, is that your plan? Are you trying to ruin everything? Are you really such a bitch you would do that?’
Polly shook her head.
‘No,’ she started. ‘Not at all. It’s just…’ She told herself not to cry. Huckle wouldn’t cry. ‘It’s just… this is the only thing I know how to do.’
Malcolm stared at her.
‘So you’d take food out of the mouth of its rightful owner?’
‘What? No. Not on purpose! Well…’
He marched towards her, his red pimply face clashing unpleasantly with his mustard-coloured mackintosh.
‘You know,’ he spat, his eyes fierce, ‘I wanted to be a professional.’
‘What kind of professional?’ Polly asked in a shaky voice.
‘Trumpeter,’ replied Malcolm, as if it were patently obvious. ‘And when I couldn’t get a job – because the industry is totally stitched up, by the way, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know – when they locked me out of that, well I didn’t let it get me down, did I?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Polly, staring at the ground, realising she wasn’t really handling this very well and trying to remember all those assertiveness tips Kerensa had given her.
‘I picked myself up and never looked back, and look at me now.’
Jumping about in a wet car park at ten o’clock in the morning, Polly thought.
‘Stupid bloody trumpet.’
‘Do you miss playing the trumpet?’ Polly asked timidly.
Malcolm sighed for a moment, then looked cross again. His lips, Polly now noticed, did look about right for playing the trumpet: slightly splayed, and with a free run of spittle when he was exasperated, which he undoubtedly was now.
