by Jenny Colgan
The little round room didn’t contain much furniture apart from her absolutely lovely old posh sofa that she’d brought with her from Plymouth, and which had had to be completely unscrewed and taken apart to get it up the stairs. It had taken most of the day, but it was worth it, Polly thought.
On the floor below was a bedroom with a tiny bathroom hollowed out next to it; then came the machinery floor, then the ground floor with its basic kitchen, a bathroom and another sitting room. There was also a separate low building, an ugly pebble-dashed flat-roofed space with a couple of rooms, but they didn’t quite know what to do with that. A little garden led down through the rocks; Huckle was going to take a shot at it, although he wasn’t confident they’d manage to grow much more than mussels and seaweed. Someone had put little rows of seashells following the steps down from the lighthouse and across to the main path, and they made a pretty sight as Polly jumped down on to the cobbles, around the harbour wall and into Mount Polbearne proper.
It wasn’t far, but at high tide and on stormy days you could get pretty wet going from one to the other, as the waves smashed over the top of the sea wall and the spray filled the air with salt.
Today, however, was breezy but clear, a few small clouds scudding past the high lighthouse windows, a hint of sun threatening to come out but never quite managing it. The tide was out, which meant the road to the mainland was open, its brown cobbles glistening with water, and the fresh scent of the sea was heavy on the passing wind.
The little town of Mount Polbearne was perched impractically on the slope of the island, with everything leading up higgledy-piggledy to the ruined roofless church at the very top of the village.
The roads were cobbled and steep and winding; it was possible to bring your car into the town, but not advisable. Most people used the mainland car park and walked the few hundred metres. Some of the fishermen ran a taxi boat for anyone who got really stuck, but the majority of the locals knew the ebbing and flowing of the tides as well as they did the rhythm of the sunrise and sunset, and adjusted their plans accordingly.
And life was simpler here on the island. It couldn’t not be, when there was no such thing as Wi-Fi here (several people had suggested to Polly that she get it put in, but the telephone company had politely explained that they’d need to run an underwater cable and it would cost about £100,000 and would she like to contribute, so that had rather put the kibosh on that), or Internet shopping, or nightclubs or hen parties or airport flight paths or free newspapers.
Instead there were the rows of little grey stone houses, meandering ever upwards, some with flashy new glass extensions and roof terraces and balconies made out of wire, courtesy of intrepid second-homers who came for the weekend and put up with much ribbing and overcharging from the locals. There was the old pub, the Red Lion, which was based around an old courtyard, and still had tie-up rings and troughs for the horses from long ago. There was Andy’s fish and chip shop, with its picture of a huge fish and all the fishermen lined up grinning cheerily, which did the best herring and the freshest, crispiest chips – with extra bits – that would burn your fingers, then sting them with salt and vinegar. He sold Fanta and Tizer and dandelion and burdock, and it was a short hop over the cobbled Beach Street to sit and eat on the harbour wall, watching the water and fending off the seagulls.
There was Muriel’s minimart, which sold absolutely everything, and Patrick the vet, who shared his consulting office with a young GP called Callie, who only came in twice a week; and the old bakery that used to be run by Mrs Manse, who had been Polly’s landlady when she had first arrived in Mount Polbearne and had made her life incredibly difficult by refusing to let her bake any bread. Now she had retired and lived with her equally bad-tempered sister in Truro, leaving Polly free to run her own bakery as she wished.
The last place on the quay was a flashy new restaurant, too expensive for the original dwellers, but very popular with visitors. It specialised in the fresh fish the men unloaded from their boats every morning. At this early hour nets were being mended, catches being tallied up, and a couple of the fishermen waved to Polly as she went past, asking what flavour of michette (a type of small loaf very popular with the working men) she was making that day. Then they all shouted a hello to Neil, who, Polly realised crossly, was following her to work again. It wasn’t good for him to come to the bakery: customers gave him too many titbits, and despite the fact that her kitchen was utterly spotless – thanks to Jayden, her assistant – if a health inspector ever came past and caught so much as a whiff of seabird, she’d be in trouble. The fact that nobody could possibly arrive on Mount Polbearne without absolutely everybody noticing was not, she had told Jayden sternly, the point.
It had been almost a year since the great storm, a massive hooley that had blown up from nearly nowhere, wrecked the fleet, and cost the loss of Cornelius ‘Tarnie’ Tarnforth, captain of the Trochilus, and, briefly, Polly’s lover. The day had not yet come when Polly could walk along the stretch of boats without remembering him. It had taken the town a long time to heal.
Polly dinged the bell of the Little Beach Street Bakery, with its pretty pale grey facade – painted by her ex, Chris – and its lovely italic writing: Proprietor, Ms P. Waterford. She rarely looked at that without feeling a wave of pride. There was a small queue of people already waiting, and Jayden was dishing up the warm morning loaves. Today there was a choice of pan, thin-sliced and the heavy sourdough that was a harder sell but that made in Polly’s opinion wonderful toast.
‘Hey!’ said Jayden. ‘Yes, everything came up very nicely. Except, uh, the chorizo michette. I had to… um, I had to… It was over-baked.’
Polly looked at him sternly.
‘Was it really, Jayden?’
She pulled off her coat and hung it on a hook, then went round the other side of the counter to get scrubbed up. Looking back, she saw Neil waiting patiently outside the door, occasionally hopping from foot to foot. He would do this until a customer came and let him in, which they always did. Not for the first time, she wondered about the availability of puffin obedience classes.
‘Yes,’ said Jayden, his round cheeks going suspiciously pink. The customers waited patiently, scanning the heavy old-fashioned glass cabinets to choose their cream buns for later.
Polly raised an eyebrow.
‘They were really good,’ said Jayden in a low voice. ‘I’m sorry. I tried to only eat one.’
The problem was, Jayden was a wonderful member of staff. Prompt, polite, kind, efficient, and he cleaned like a demon; years working on the fishing boats had made him precise and immaculate. He wasn’t at all handsome, but he was very sweet and charming and everybody liked him.
He was also incredibly grateful not to be out with the fleet any more, which he had hated. He loved having an indoor job with regular hours. He was honest with the money and nice with the customers (at least the local customers; he was getting slightly better with the incomers and holidaymakers, with whom he was either brusque or tongue-tied).
But he did have a terrible, terrible habit of chomping on the stock.
‘It’s not like I don’t know you’re doing it,’ said Polly, indicating his belly, growing ever stouter underneath his grey apron.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
He really was sorry too, his face bright pink. He had grown a moustache last year for Movember, and everyone said it suited him – it rather did – so he had kept it, and now he flushed to the tips of it.
‘I don’t mind you eating a bit,’ said Polly. ‘But you know, that was meat. It’s expensive.’
Despite the moustache, Jayden looked about seven years old as he stared at the floor.
‘You’re not being cross with that nice young man,’ said Mrs Corning, the reverend’s widow. ‘He’s a blessing, so he is.’
The other ladies in the queue agreed. For some of them, Polly suspected, having a flirt and a chat with Jayden was the highlight of their days.
‘He’s a very h
ungry blessing,’ grumbled Polly.
‘And she’s left that bird of hers outside,’ said another lady, disapprovingly. They all muttered amongst themselves. Polly felt like rolling her eyes, but didn’t. To some people she would always be the new girl, she knew. She moved along to the next person in the queue.
‘What can I get you?’ she asked politely.
‘Have you got any of those yummy loaves with the little bits of sausage in them? I loves them.’
‘No,’ said Polly, with a last glare at Jayden, who pretended she wasn’t there and suddenly looked very busy. ‘We don’t.’
The shop bell dinged.
‘Hey, Poll, you left Neil outside!’ said a big booming American voice.
The shop, very small to begin with, suddenly felt smaller still as the shadow of Huckle fell over the counter. He was very tall, long-legged, broad in the shoulders, with a thick head of yellow hair that made him look larger still. Even now Polly was sometimes amazed that he was her boyfriend; he looked like he’d stepped out of an advert that would have lots of desert and cacti and cowboy hats in it.
‘Seriously, man,’ said Huckle. Neil was sitting on Huckle’s jacket sleeve – he didn’t normally do this – gazing at Polly with a wounded expression.
‘I didn’t leave him anywhere,’ said Polly, exasperated. ‘Birds aren’t meant to be in the workplace. He should be hopping over to the rocks and trying to pick up a lady puffin.’
‘Or another boy puffin,’ said Huckle. ‘I don’t think you should be prejudiced.’
Polly looked straight at him.
‘Are you calling me a bird homophobe?’
‘I’m just saying we need to be open to all of Neil’s choices.’
‘Except the one about letting him in the shop!’
Huckle sighed. The old ladies gathered round to examine Neil (or, Polly reckoned mischievously, to get their clawed hands on Huckle’s bicep). When they’d finally cleared, she leaned over to kiss her boyfriend.
‘Hey,’ she said, breathing in his lovely warm scent, slightly tinged with the oil from the motorbike he rode everywhere. ‘Not out and about this morning?’
Huckle shook his head. ‘Sure am! I just popped in to tell you: Dubose is coming.’
Polly bit her lip.
‘Seriously?’
Her heart started to beat a little faster. She’d never met Dubose. She’d never met any of Huckle’s family before; Dubose was his younger brother, and something of a black sheep.
‘What’s he up to?’
Huckle rolled his eyes.
‘Don’t start me. Apparently he needed a break.’
Polly looked confused.
‘Isn’t he a farmer?’
‘Yes,’ said Huckle. ‘Exactly. Farmers don’t get breaks!’
‘Like bakers,’ said Polly.
‘Except tougher,’ said Huckle.
‘Oh yeah.’
Huckle shook his head.
‘He’s left Clemmie in charge.’ Clemmie was Dubose’s girlfriend.
‘Isn’t she any good?’
‘She’s great! She’s fine. But running a farm… it takes a lot of effort.’
Huckle’s brows drew together. It wasn’t often that he looked cross. Polly thought it was cute.
‘When is he showing up?’
‘A couple of weeks, I think. He’s “bumming about”.’ Huckle gave a resigned smile. ‘He doesn’t like making plans or being tied down by anything like notice. It’s okay if he stays, right?’
‘Well of course, but oh wow. Do you think he’s going to like me?’
Huckle rolled his eyes.
‘Dubose likes everyone,’ he said. Polly looked at him.
‘Is that a note of jealousy in your voice?’ she asked slyly.
‘Is there a new young man coming?’ said Mrs Corning. ‘Oh, it’s all excitement round here these days.’
When Polly and Huckle had first met, he had been a beekeeper nearby, and she had sold his honey through the shop. After their first attempt at romance hadn’t worked out, he’d gone home to his native Savannah and worked in an office job there. But he hadn’t been able to readapt to an indoor, air-conditioned, corporate life after six months in the fresh open air of Cornwall, and had come back again – his father had been born in the UK, which helped a lot with the passport situation.
Now, with so many people downsizing and moving to the country, where they had perhaps a couple of goats, some chickens and a hive or two, he’d become a travelling apiarist, consulting and helping people concerned about maintaining bee stocks and reversing the trend of the declining bee population. He also still had an interest in his original cottage, which was now occupied by an elderly couple who happily enjoyed the flowers and let Huckle manage the hives in return for a couple of jars of honey every month or so. It was a very cheerful arrangement. He wasn’t making a lot of money, but then apart from a bit of diesel for the bike, and a big veggie box once a week from a local farmer, they lived pretty simply, him and Poll. They didn’t need much. Well, he thought occasionally, actually, to do up the lighthouse and buy out Polly’s business properly – she was still under licence to Mrs Manse, the original owner, and had to funnel a great deal of the profits that way – they would need a ton of money. But they didn’t have it, and that was absolutely fine, he told himself, because what they did have was more than enough.
Chapter Two
‘Okay,’ said Jayden. ‘I’m off to the other shop. Check on the mainlander.’
Polly rolled her eyes.
‘Jayden, everyone on the entire earth is a mainlander. There are seven billion mainlanders and seven hundred Polbearnites. You just can’t separate the world out like that.’
Jayden was busy with his broom, but she could tell from the cast of his forehead that he disagreed with her.
‘Let me go and see her,’ said Polly. ‘I can walk Huckle to his bike.’
‘That means she wants rid of me,’ said Huckle, twinkling at the old ladies.
‘I don’t want rid of you,’ said Polly. ‘I want rid of Neil. I’m just hoping he’ll follow you.’
Sure enough, as they left together, Neil hopped happily into the sidecar. There was no doubt he enjoyed the ride.
Huckle grinned back at Polly.
‘Do you want to cook?’ she asked.
Huckle shrugged. ‘How about you cook and I run and get all the condiments and things you’ve forgotten from four storeys below.’
‘Deal,’ said Polly, kissing him again. Huckle glanced at his watch, then hopped on the big bike. Neil stuck his head to the side to enjoy the slipstream.
‘I don’t know what that bird thinks he is,’ grumbled Polly, but she enjoyed watching them zoom off at high speed – accompanied by an infernal noise – towards the causeway, which was still uncovered from the morning tide.
She took a breath of fresh salty air deep into her lungs as the clouds danced like clean laundry across the sky, and wondered what Huckle’s brother would be like. She’d never had a brother of her own; maybe it could be like that.
She made her way down Beach Street. Even though the island was so small, it supported two bakeries. The Polbearne bakery, the original one, still sold sandwiches, toasties and more traditional fare – iced biscuits, sponge cake and fancies. Whereas Polly had been allowed to make her own way in her little bakery, with artisan breads, interesting olive loaves and savoury tarts. Now that Mrs Manse had retired, Polly was technically in charge of both shops.
It was the clearest of spring days. In the springtime, Polly really couldn’t imagine living anywhere except in Mount Polbearne. Mind you, she felt like that in the summertime too, with the clatter of buckets and spades and the smell of suncream, and ice cream, and little lost sunglasses in pink and blue plastic left carefully on the harbour wall in case their owners returned to pick them up. And she liked the autumn, when the surfers came to make the most of the waves off Breakwater Point in their black costumes like seals, and turned up at her bakery
freezing and absolutely starving. She served coffee and hot soup then, when they were quieter after the summer holidays were over and the children were back at school. And she liked the winter, when it was absolutely windy and freezing and pointless going anywhere, and she and Huckle would snuggle up together and watch box sets of American television shows and eat hot buttered toast and drink gallons of tea in their little eyrie as the storms raged outside. It was impossible to avoid the changing seasons on an island; impossible to insulate yourself from the world like you could in the city, in climate-controlled offices, under fluorescent lighting, with the occasional scrub of a park square covered in cigarette ends.
