Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 72
The fishermen nodded.
‘You’ve done a lot for us,’ said Jayden, softly, behind her. ‘You can do this. We’re here for you.’
‘With matches,’ added Kendall.
Polly nodded and stepped out of the boat. In a town absolutely thronged with people, she couldn’t have felt more alone.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s do this.’
Chapter Twenty-One
She creaked open the door of the Little Beach Street Bakery; its hinges needed oiling, she thought. She left the door slightly open, then realised she was expecting Neil to hop in behind her. The fact that he didn’t made her want to sob, but she managed to restrain herself.
Flora was slouching behind a very tired display of sliced white bread and a few hard-looking buns. There were more of the cheap and cheerful Empire biscuits – Polly had nothing against Empire biscuits per se, but these ones were wrapped in plastic and had clearly been bought in in a batch simply because they had a long shelf life. The rest of the shelves were empty. It made her so sad to see it.
Flora stiffened awkwardly, straightening up her long body so you could see it for the model shape it was.
‘Uh, hello, Miss Waterford.’
Polly did her best to smile.
‘Sold out already, then?’
‘Not really,’ said Flora.
‘Who’s minding the old bakery?’
Flora shrugged. ‘Malc says it’s more profitable to… uh… rashunalise,’ she said, going pink.
‘Really,’ said Polly. It gave her absolutely no satisfaction at all to see the business being run into the ground, and she didn’t feel in the least bit guilty either. You gave people rubbish or a good alternative; they’d hopefully go for the good alternative and it was nothing to be ashamed of.
‘So is he around?’ she asked, feeling her voice getting tight in her throat. ‘I need a word with him.’
For a moment she hoped he might not be there, then she remembered seeing that loathsome BMW in the car park. Anyway, putting this off wasn’t in the least bit helpful to anyone.
Flora shrugged again. ‘Reckon.’
She leant over and lowered her voice.
‘You know, I thought he was different, but he’s just the same as all the others.’
Polly bit her tongue at that as Flora disappeared into the now idle kitchen.
‘Malc! Miss Waterford’s here to see you.’
There was some muffled swearing. Flora re-emerged.
‘He says you’ll need to wait,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Polly. ‘I’ve sold all my stock.’
As she stood waiting, she noticed that there was a musty, unpleasant smell in the air, a little sour. She wondered if they’d remembered to throw away her lovely yeast culture in the fridge before it took over everything. She suspected not. That would be the smell. They were in for one hell of a shock next time they opened that fridge.
Eventually, making a big show of doing up his shirt buttons, as if he’d been through in the kitchen completely naked – which he might have been; Polly would no longer put anything past him – Malcolm emerged looking impatiently at his watch.
Polly was completely enraged by this. If he had put some genuine time and effort into this place instead of wasting it on a campaign of ongoing harassment against her, then the bakery – her bakery, she couldn’t help but feel, still – would still be a bustling, happy going concern, full of customers and staff and children and puffins, rather than this yeasty morgue.
‘Help you?’ he asked sourly.
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘I’m here to tell you that your little campaign stops now. NOW.’
‘What campaign?’
‘The shouting, the bullying and the you-know-what,’ said Polly, her voice trembling. ‘Have you heard of hate speech? Apparently the police take it very seriously these days.’
‘Eh?’ said Malcolm.
‘You heard,’ said Polly. ‘Not to mention destruction of property – my property. Not to mention defacement and graffiti and general YOU BEING DISGUSTING.’
She couldn’t help it, she was shouting.
‘Now you wait a minute,’ shouted Malcolm straight back, going brick red in the face. ‘It’s a free country last time I looked and I can do whatever the hell I damn well please without asking you, you bird lover. And this is NOT your property, you fantasist, we’ve told you a million times.’
‘Well you stay away from what’s mine!’ said Polly. ‘And if you lay a finger on her…’
‘Her?’ sneered Malcolm. ‘Who the hell do you mean? Flora likes it, don’t you, darling?’
‘Um,’ said Flora, staring at the floor.
‘Not her. My van! Nan the Van!’ shouted Polly at the top of her lungs. ‘Stay away from her!’
‘What about your blooming van?’
‘Stay away from it!’
‘Come on, love, that’s just friendly banter!’
‘It fricking isn’t!’
There was a clang as the door opened and in walked a very sleepy-looking Selina. She smelled of booze and she had heavy bags under her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but could you stop making all that ruddy noise? Some of us are trying to sleep upstairs.’
‘Uh, Selina, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning,’ said Polly. ‘You’re just not used to hearing anyone because he’s lost all the bloody customers.’
Selina stared at Polly as if she didn’t recognise her at all. Malcolm was still shouting.
‘And it’s your bloody fault, you thieving minx!’
Polly backed out.
‘I’m not going to get into this,’ she said. ‘You come near us again… anywhere near, I’m calling the police.’
Malcolm shook his head in disbelief.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘They can cart your old rust bucket away.’
The brightness of the day made her blink as she emerged from the dingy shop. A little boy ran into her legs.
‘SORRY,’ he bawled cheerfully.
‘Hello there,’ Polly said sadly, looking down.
‘Is that the bread shop?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Well, kind of,’ she said, standing aside to let him pass.
‘You’ve done a lot for us,’ said Jayden, softly, behind her. ‘You can do this. We’re here for you.’
‘With matches,’ added Kendall.
Polly nodded and stepped out of the boat. In a town absolutely thronged with people, she couldn’t have felt more alone.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s do this.’
Chapter Twenty-One
She creaked open the door of the Little Beach Street Bakery; its hinges needed oiling, she thought. She left the door slightly open, then realised she was expecting Neil to hop in behind her. The fact that he didn’t made her want to sob, but she managed to restrain herself.
Flora was slouching behind a very tired display of sliced white bread and a few hard-looking buns. There were more of the cheap and cheerful Empire biscuits – Polly had nothing against Empire biscuits per se, but these ones were wrapped in plastic and had clearly been bought in in a batch simply because they had a long shelf life. The rest of the shelves were empty. It made her so sad to see it.
Flora stiffened awkwardly, straightening up her long body so you could see it for the model shape it was.
‘Uh, hello, Miss Waterford.’
Polly did her best to smile.
‘Sold out already, then?’
‘Not really,’ said Flora.
‘Who’s minding the old bakery?’
Flora shrugged. ‘Malc says it’s more profitable to… uh… rashunalise,’ she said, going pink.
‘Really,’ said Polly. It gave her absolutely no satisfaction at all to see the business being run into the ground, and she didn’t feel in the least bit guilty either. You gave people rubbish or a good alternative; they’d hopefully go for the good alternative and it was nothing to be ashamed of.
‘So is he around?’ she asked, feeling her voice getting tight in her throat. ‘I need a word with him.’
For a moment she hoped he might not be there, then she remembered seeing that loathsome BMW in the car park. Anyway, putting this off wasn’t in the least bit helpful to anyone.
Flora shrugged again. ‘Reckon.’
She leant over and lowered her voice.
‘You know, I thought he was different, but he’s just the same as all the others.’
Polly bit her tongue at that as Flora disappeared into the now idle kitchen.
‘Malc! Miss Waterford’s here to see you.’
There was some muffled swearing. Flora re-emerged.
‘He says you’ll need to wait,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Polly. ‘I’ve sold all my stock.’
As she stood waiting, she noticed that there was a musty, unpleasant smell in the air, a little sour. She wondered if they’d remembered to throw away her lovely yeast culture in the fridge before it took over everything. She suspected not. That would be the smell. They were in for one hell of a shock next time they opened that fridge.
Eventually, making a big show of doing up his shirt buttons, as if he’d been through in the kitchen completely naked – which he might have been; Polly would no longer put anything past him – Malcolm emerged looking impatiently at his watch.
Polly was completely enraged by this. If he had put some genuine time and effort into this place instead of wasting it on a campaign of ongoing harassment against her, then the bakery – her bakery, she couldn’t help but feel, still – would still be a bustling, happy going concern, full of customers and staff and children and puffins, rather than this yeasty morgue.
‘Help you?’ he asked sourly.
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘I’m here to tell you that your little campaign stops now. NOW.’
‘What campaign?’
‘The shouting, the bullying and the you-know-what,’ said Polly, her voice trembling. ‘Have you heard of hate speech? Apparently the police take it very seriously these days.’
‘Eh?’ said Malcolm.
‘You heard,’ said Polly. ‘Not to mention destruction of property – my property. Not to mention defacement and graffiti and general YOU BEING DISGUSTING.’
She couldn’t help it, she was shouting.
‘Now you wait a minute,’ shouted Malcolm straight back, going brick red in the face. ‘It’s a free country last time I looked and I can do whatever the hell I damn well please without asking you, you bird lover. And this is NOT your property, you fantasist, we’ve told you a million times.’
‘Well you stay away from what’s mine!’ said Polly. ‘And if you lay a finger on her…’
‘Her?’ sneered Malcolm. ‘Who the hell do you mean? Flora likes it, don’t you, darling?’
‘Um,’ said Flora, staring at the floor.
‘Not her. My van! Nan the Van!’ shouted Polly at the top of her lungs. ‘Stay away from her!’
‘What about your blooming van?’
‘Stay away from it!’
‘Come on, love, that’s just friendly banter!’
‘It fricking isn’t!’
There was a clang as the door opened and in walked a very sleepy-looking Selina. She smelled of booze and she had heavy bags under her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but could you stop making all that ruddy noise? Some of us are trying to sleep upstairs.’
‘Uh, Selina, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning,’ said Polly. ‘You’re just not used to hearing anyone because he’s lost all the bloody customers.’
Selina stared at Polly as if she didn’t recognise her at all. Malcolm was still shouting.
‘And it’s your bloody fault, you thieving minx!’
Polly backed out.
‘I’m not going to get into this,’ she said. ‘You come near us again… anywhere near, I’m calling the police.’
Malcolm shook his head in disbelief.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘They can cart your old rust bucket away.’
The brightness of the day made her blink as she emerged from the dingy shop. A little boy ran into her legs.
‘SORRY,’ he bawled cheerfully.
‘Hello there,’ Polly said sadly, looking down.
‘Is that the bread shop?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Well, kind of,’ she said, standing aside to let him pass.
