Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 77
Then she saw it. It was a dinghy, a little wooden Laser, being pulled and pummelled this way and that by the waves. There were figures on it – Polly could see them now – two figures. One was very small. Oh my God. One of the figures was a child.
They were nowhere near land, certainly not near enough to swim for it, which would be impossible anyway: they would be swept straight on to the rocks, the very rocks the lighthouse was there to warn against.
But what remained of the boat was twisting and rocking from side to side, and obviously taking on water more quickly than they could get rid of it. Her head was going down, deeper and deeper, as she came up and just – only just – surfaced over the crest of each new mountainous wave, before jetting back down into the valley. It was as if she was trying to navigate a row of office blocks; the waves now were over two storeys high.
Polly tried to shine the light towards the dinghy, then ran to the walkie-talkie, which crackled into life.
‘I saw it,’ said Selina immediately. ‘I saw a light, but I didn’t see where. Oh God, Polly, there’s nobody here.’
‘It’s over by the causeway.’
‘Oh God,’ said Selina again.
If the little boat was tossed on to the causeway in this storm, it would simply shatter into matchsticks. The two people on board would be thrown into the water in their lifejackets. Lifejackets designed to keep them afloat in seawater, not protect them against the pulling, sucking rage of a Force 9 gale.
‘Selina,’ said Polly, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. ‘I think I saw a child.’
There was a pause, before Selina swore viciously.
‘I’ll try the coastguard again,’ she said, before cutting out abruptly.
Polly paced up and down, feeling helpless. Every time she saw the little dinghy disappear beneath the latest great crashing wave, she would say a silent prayer that it would re-emerge – but each time it did, it would do so a little later, a little lower in the water than before.
That must have been the last flare, for no more went up. It was hard to see the raggedy white sail at all; it was mere flutters, only to be glimpsed in the whorls if you already knew it was there. Nothing was worse, thought Polly, than standing by, desperate to do something but unable to move until you knew the best thing to do. She wanted just to reach out, scoop up the little boat, gather them in; she felt herself sobbing with frustration.
The walkie-talkie crackled at last and Polly grabbed it.
‘Are they on their way? We need a helicopter,’ she rasped. ‘Get bloody Prince William down here.’
‘They’re all out,’ said Selina, her voice panicky. ‘They’re all out on calls. Half of bloody Cornwall was out sailing this afternoon apparently, even after the warnings. Well, half of bloody London more like.’
‘Fuck.’
There was a long pause.
‘Can you…’ said Selina.
‘It’s very…’ said Polly at the same time. She looked out. The sail fluttered, barely.
‘Oh God,’ said Selina. ‘Well, I rowed a bit at college.’
‘I’ve… hmm, not really,’ said Polly. ‘But I know where they are.’
There was a longer pause.
‘Is there nobody there at all? Not even Jayden?’
‘Not even Andy,’ said Selina. ‘Not even Malcolm.’
Polly swallowed. Her heart was beating fast.
‘We have to try,’ she said finally.
‘I thought you were going to say that.’
‘I’ll bring the big lantern.’
‘I’ll write a will,’ said Selina.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The climb back down didn’t seem quite so perilous, now that Polly had something else to be worried about. The high winds still buffeted her, and she still got facefuls of rain flung at her, but at least this time she was expecting it. She was careful on the wobbly balustrades, and put out the big lantern to conserve the batteries until they were really needed; surely she could pick her way across the rocks by instinct alone.
Even though she was in a frenzy of rushing, she did stop at the downstairs coat cupboard for two things: Huckle’s huge, bright yellow oilskin with matching sou’wester, that he used for fishing; and a wetsuit Reuben had bought her for her birthday when she’d mentioned wanting to learn to surf then never got around to it. He’d also bought her a top-of-the-range surfboard and various other bits and pieces, but she hadn’t seen them for a long time and assumed they’d been sold off with the house. But the wetsuit was still here.
Getting into it – in a sweaty panic, tearing off her wet things and trying to squeeze into it – was torture, seconds flashing past as she writhed to pull it up, thinking all the while of the little figures out on the water. It was like being caught in a dream, but she focused on what she knew to be real: that outside it was incredibly cold, with very high winds and terrible seas, and she couldn’t possibly help anyone else if she couldn’t help herself.
Finally she had it on. It was incredibly uncomfortable, but she threw on the little booties too, and the oilskin. She reflected for a millisecond that she must look completely insane, then reminded herself that it didn’t matter. She grabbed the second wetsuit – Huckle’s – and the lantern, and tore out of the lighthouse, the door banging hard against the side then swinging back to slam into place.
Somehow down here at ground level it wasn’t quite as bad, even though she was walking directly into the wind. Lightning cracked and showed her the steps leading down, and she felt her way carefully, trying to find the right balance between haste and safety. The waves were making a mockery of the harbour wall; they simply skidded over the top as if it wasn’t there. And beyond it, of course, blackness. Polly turned her head to see the dim shape of the lighthouse disappear behind her. There was, it seemed to her, no eerier sight than a lighthouse marooned in the dark.
She passed the clattering fishing boats, making their own jarring cry of alarm, bouncing and hopping against each other. She checked the moorings as she lightly ran past, but they seemed fast.
Selina was waiting anxiously by the water taxi. Polly charged up and threw the spare wetsuit at her.
‘We’ll get the lifejackets on in the boat.’
‘Have you got the light?’
Polly made sure it was pointing out to sea before she turned it on. The strong beam made much more headway across the waves than it had done shining down feebly from the lighthouse. Just beyond its reach she could make out some snatches of white, and what might have been the orange of a lifebelt.
They were nowhere near land, certainly not near enough to swim for it, which would be impossible anyway: they would be swept straight on to the rocks, the very rocks the lighthouse was there to warn against.
But what remained of the boat was twisting and rocking from side to side, and obviously taking on water more quickly than they could get rid of it. Her head was going down, deeper and deeper, as she came up and just – only just – surfaced over the crest of each new mountainous wave, before jetting back down into the valley. It was as if she was trying to navigate a row of office blocks; the waves now were over two storeys high.
Polly tried to shine the light towards the dinghy, then ran to the walkie-talkie, which crackled into life.
‘I saw it,’ said Selina immediately. ‘I saw a light, but I didn’t see where. Oh God, Polly, there’s nobody here.’
‘It’s over by the causeway.’
‘Oh God,’ said Selina again.
If the little boat was tossed on to the causeway in this storm, it would simply shatter into matchsticks. The two people on board would be thrown into the water in their lifejackets. Lifejackets designed to keep them afloat in seawater, not protect them against the pulling, sucking rage of a Force 9 gale.
‘Selina,’ said Polly, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. ‘I think I saw a child.’
There was a pause, before Selina swore viciously.
‘I’ll try the coastguard again,’ she said, before cutting out abruptly.
Polly paced up and down, feeling helpless. Every time she saw the little dinghy disappear beneath the latest great crashing wave, she would say a silent prayer that it would re-emerge – but each time it did, it would do so a little later, a little lower in the water than before.
That must have been the last flare, for no more went up. It was hard to see the raggedy white sail at all; it was mere flutters, only to be glimpsed in the whorls if you already knew it was there. Nothing was worse, thought Polly, than standing by, desperate to do something but unable to move until you knew the best thing to do. She wanted just to reach out, scoop up the little boat, gather them in; she felt herself sobbing with frustration.
The walkie-talkie crackled at last and Polly grabbed it.
‘Are they on their way? We need a helicopter,’ she rasped. ‘Get bloody Prince William down here.’
‘They’re all out,’ said Selina, her voice panicky. ‘They’re all out on calls. Half of bloody Cornwall was out sailing this afternoon apparently, even after the warnings. Well, half of bloody London more like.’
‘Fuck.’
There was a long pause.
‘Can you…’ said Selina.
‘It’s very…’ said Polly at the same time. She looked out. The sail fluttered, barely.
‘Oh God,’ said Selina. ‘Well, I rowed a bit at college.’
‘I’ve… hmm, not really,’ said Polly. ‘But I know where they are.’
There was a longer pause.
‘Is there nobody there at all? Not even Jayden?’
‘Not even Andy,’ said Selina. ‘Not even Malcolm.’
Polly swallowed. Her heart was beating fast.
‘We have to try,’ she said finally.
‘I thought you were going to say that.’
‘I’ll bring the big lantern.’
‘I’ll write a will,’ said Selina.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The climb back down didn’t seem quite so perilous, now that Polly had something else to be worried about. The high winds still buffeted her, and she still got facefuls of rain flung at her, but at least this time she was expecting it. She was careful on the wobbly balustrades, and put out the big lantern to conserve the batteries until they were really needed; surely she could pick her way across the rocks by instinct alone.
Even though she was in a frenzy of rushing, she did stop at the downstairs coat cupboard for two things: Huckle’s huge, bright yellow oilskin with matching sou’wester, that he used for fishing; and a wetsuit Reuben had bought her for her birthday when she’d mentioned wanting to learn to surf then never got around to it. He’d also bought her a top-of-the-range surfboard and various other bits and pieces, but she hadn’t seen them for a long time and assumed they’d been sold off with the house. But the wetsuit was still here.
Getting into it – in a sweaty panic, tearing off her wet things and trying to squeeze into it – was torture, seconds flashing past as she writhed to pull it up, thinking all the while of the little figures out on the water. It was like being caught in a dream, but she focused on what she knew to be real: that outside it was incredibly cold, with very high winds and terrible seas, and she couldn’t possibly help anyone else if she couldn’t help herself.
Finally she had it on. It was incredibly uncomfortable, but she threw on the little booties too, and the oilskin. She reflected for a millisecond that she must look completely insane, then reminded herself that it didn’t matter. She grabbed the second wetsuit – Huckle’s – and the lantern, and tore out of the lighthouse, the door banging hard against the side then swinging back to slam into place.
Somehow down here at ground level it wasn’t quite as bad, even though she was walking directly into the wind. Lightning cracked and showed her the steps leading down, and she felt her way carefully, trying to find the right balance between haste and safety. The waves were making a mockery of the harbour wall; they simply skidded over the top as if it wasn’t there. And beyond it, of course, blackness. Polly turned her head to see the dim shape of the lighthouse disappear behind her. There was, it seemed to her, no eerier sight than a lighthouse marooned in the dark.
She passed the clattering fishing boats, making their own jarring cry of alarm, bouncing and hopping against each other. She checked the moorings as she lightly ran past, but they seemed fast.
Selina was waiting anxiously by the water taxi. Polly charged up and threw the spare wetsuit at her.
‘We’ll get the lifejackets on in the boat.’
‘Have you got the light?’
Polly made sure it was pointing out to sea before she turned it on. The strong beam made much more headway across the waves than it had done shining down feebly from the lighthouse. Just beyond its reach she could make out some snatches of white, and what might have been the orange of a lifebelt.
