Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  Here, she liked it all.

  Polly had never imagined two years ago, when her entire life was in ruins, a blackened husk on the floor, that she could ever reach a state of such contentment, so in tune with the seasons and the days of her life. Even on the most freezing of mornings, or after a back-breaking stint with the oven, on days that didn’t end until she’d done all the cashing-up late into the night, or the long hours sweating over VAT returns and deciding what was a cake and what was a biscuit; even when it rained for days and days on end whilst the rest of the country had bright sunshine, or when she wanted something new to wear and realised that nobody would deliver anything and it was too far to drive and she couldn’t afford anything anyway; even then, she never regretted changing her life so radically, couldn’t truly believe her luck. She also reckoned that she had had her share of bad luck, and that nothing more was likely to go wrong.

  The universe, in general, has absolutely no truck with this kind of thinking.

  Chapter Three

  Flora Larson, who worked in the old bakery, always had the look of someone expecting to be in trouble at any moment. She was thin and stooped, with a hangdog stance, and had a way of peeking up through an overlong fringe that simply looked guilty, even though there was a pretty face hiding in there somewhere.

  But she could bake, which was a huge help to Polly. Jayden could do simpler things, but Flora had a touch with the dough, even though she had a tendency to mumble at customers, which Polly had asked her not to do, and she fiddled with her hair constantly, which made Polly worry about hygiene. Mrs Manse would have eaten her for breakfast. Also, Flora’s timekeeping was atrocious. Polly didn’t want to make a fuss, but she thought it was very bad form when customers at one bakery had to pop into the other because they couldn’t get hold of a sandwich.

  This morning Flora was standing in the middle of a very untidy shop, with crumbs from yesterday not swept up, a disenchanted look on her face.

  ‘Hi, Flora!’ said Polly, trying not to sound exasperated. Jobs were hard to come by in this part of the world, particularly out of season. Polly had always sworn not to be a horrible mean old boss, but Flora did wind her up. Huckle thought she was hilarious.

  ‘My ankles is soaking,’ Flora was saying crossly, staring at the floor. Sure enough, when Polly looked closer, she could see that Flora was standing in what was almost a puddle, her shoes and socks soaking wet and dripping on the floor.

  ‘Did you mistime the tides again?’ said Polly.

  ‘They don’t print it right on them almanacks,’ said Flora. ‘They just gets it wrong.’

  ‘It always seems all right to me,’ said Polly mildly.

  ‘That’s because you’ve got a posh watch and that,’ said Flora pertly. It was a new experience to Polly that somebody thought that because she was the boss she was rich and powerful.

  ‘Well, shall we get on with setting up?’ said Polly, as Patrick the vet strolled in for his morning scone.

  ‘Hello, Polly,’ he said. ‘How’s that ridiculous bird of yours?’

  Polly had been about to say that she was thinking of giving Neil a job in the bakery, but managed to bite her tongue in front of Flora.

  ‘You know, daft as a brush,’ she said.

  ‘I have never known anyone keep a seabird as a pet,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Never known anything like it.’

  Polly smiled. She liked hearing compliments about Neil.

  ‘But don’t let any of those cats near him,’ Patrick added, shivering. ‘Nasty creatures.’

  Patrick’s dislike of cats had never held back his veterinary career, and he rarely bothered to hide it.

  ‘I got a nice cat,’ said Flora, still standing there as Polly wrapped up a fresh scone still warm from the oven.

  ‘This smells amazing,’ she said. ‘You know, Flora, you should go on Bake Off.’

  Flora giggled, her wet feet forgotten.

  ‘My ma says that!’ she said. ‘Reckon it would be nice being on television.’

  ‘You should do it,’ said Patrick to Polly.

  ‘You are joking,’ said Polly. ‘I can’t think of anything more horrifying. Plus, I think if being a baker is actually your job, you can’t enter it. Otherwise Paul Hollywood would just win every year, don’t you think?’

  Patrick glanced at Flora.

  ‘You should get out of those socks and shoes,’ he said. ‘You’ll catch a chill.’

  Flora scowled. ‘I don’t know why you can’t just have your shop on the mainland, like normal people.’

  Polly picked up a tray of scones and sandwiches and gave Flora the loaves and savoury twists she had brought with her. Division of labour was the most efficient way to run things, although she was under no illusions that it was particularly efficient at all.

  ‘Can you tidy and clean up in here, please? You’ll have the lunchtime crowd in soon enough, and there’s a few day trippers. And can you prep for tomorrow as well?’

  It was Friday. Saturday was a big day for day trippers. Sunday they were traditionally closed. Polly was trying to figure out a way to open on a Sunday for the massive throughput but then take Mondays off. Having thought about this a lot, she had settled on the fact that nobody who lived on Mount Polbearne wanted that to happen and therefore they had better stay exactly as they were if she was to get a day off at all. Some things you didn’t mess with. She was considering getting an extra member of staff to cover the summer season, and maybe even a café licence to extend the Little Beach Street Bakery…

  She smiled wryly at her own ridiculous ambitions. At the moment she couldn’t get the two members of staff she did have to either stop eating the profits or avoid getting drowned on their way in to work. Possibly best not to leap ahead too soon.

  As it was a fine day, Polly headed straight back to the Little Beach Street Bakery. On good days, it had queues out the door at lunchtime, because everyone wanted to eat their lunch sitting on the harbour wall in the sunshine. The fishermen had a kind of kitty situation going on and all ate whatever sandwiches Polly had made for them.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Today I have warm giant sausage rolls with ketchup and mustard on the side, plus a little pot of beans.’

  Archie, the fishing boat skipper, tried to smile.

  ‘That sounds absolutely champion,’ he said.

  ‘You tired?’

  The fishermen were always tired. They had to land their catches early in the morning to make sure the freshest of fish were available for the restaurants that day. They worked extraordinarily long hours, and still had to live their lives in the daytime. There were EU regulations on how much they could catch, but none on how long they could work, and it showed.

  Archie had taken over Trochilus II, the boat that had replaced the original one that Tarnie had captained. He also had a baby boy, his fourth, called William. He looked knackered.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ he said, handing over a pile of coins. ‘William’s a lively one. Then the others have got to that age… they’ve got sports days and outings, and you know the schools are always on holiday, right? Children at school never actually go to school. When I was a kid I remember being at school the entire time. But now they don’t ever go. It’s called inset days, and it means, can you arrange some extra childcare, please.’

  Jayden served the rest of the queue whilst Polly got Archie a coffee from her beloved espresso machine. He obviously needed it. She passed it over with four sachets of sugar, and he emptied in all of them.

  ‘And then the wife wants to go out to dinner and says I’m no fun, and…’

  This was a long speech from Archie, who was normally a taciturn man, and he trailed off before it was finished and turned slightly pink.

  Polly nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You guys work so hard. Can’t you sleep on the boat?’ Sometimes Tarnie used to snatch a quick half-hour as they headed out to the fishing fields, before the real work began.

  Archie winced. ‘Maybe after I’ve been in th
e job a while,’ he said. ‘Right now, it’s taking all my energy just to stay afloat. Me and the boat.’

  Polly nodded and patted him gently on the shoulder.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s a tough living.’

  Archie looked out of the window. The fishing boats made such a pretty sight, all pitched up in a row, their masts jangling in the faint breeze.

  ‘I didn’t… Until we started getting all these tourists,’ he said, ‘I didn’t realise how soft other people had it.’

  Fishing, Polly knew, was in your blood or it wasn’t. It was a vocation you were born to; otherwise, it was just too tough.

  ‘It’s not like that really, you know,’ she said. ‘You see people coming here in big cars and relaxing and walking along the beach and eating ice cream and you think that’s what they do, but it isn’t. It’s their holidays, that’s all, like when you went to Cyprus that time.’

  ‘Four years ago,’ grunted Archie.

  ‘They all have their troubles too. Working really long hours in horrible offices for horrible bosses. Moving paper round all day and hating it. Commuting an hour there and an hour home every single day to do a job they hate that means they never see their own children.’

  ‘I see too much of the buggers,’ said Archie.

  Polly grinned. ‘That’s because you’re a good dad,’ she said. ‘Now, I’ll take the sausage rolls down. You go sit on the bench over there and have a snooze, and I’ll wake you up in an hour.’

  Archie looked at her.

  ‘I don’t want the lads to think I’m slacking.’

  He was trying so hard to live up to the memory of Tarnie, and it was taking its toll.

  ‘I’ll tell them you’re helping me shift something in the shop. Something really large and dirty and heavy,’ said Polly. ‘Covered in spiders. Okay?’

  Archie nodded thankfully, and Polly walked him round the corner to an out-of-the-way bench between the old town cross and an empty stone horse trough. It was a sunny spot, and Polly noticed that his eyes closed almost immediately.

  Down by the harbour wall, the wind was gustier. The rest of the crew were on the boat. Dave had started out as a beekeeper, sent by an agency last year, but his terrible fear of bees had meant he had ended up on the sea instead. He had turned out to be born to the job; a genuine fisherman who loved the water and, as they said, could sniff out fish. Then there was little Kendall, the youngest, who grinned endearingly at Polly, his eyes fixed on her paper bag, and Sten, who was new, a big Scandinavian chap Polly barely knew.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Archie’s just helping me with something.’

  Kendall grabbed at the bag and inhaled it.

  ‘Oh that smells good good good!’ he said. ‘Did you bring us sweets for afters?’

  ‘I don’t sell sweets,’ Polly told him for the millionth time.

  ‘Is Archie having a rest?’ said Dave.

  ‘No, he’s —’

  ‘Because he needs a rest.’

  The others nodded their agreement.

  ‘He keeps trying to do everything,’ said Kendall. ‘It’s okay. He’s fine. He just gets a bit panicky. Tarnie wasn’t panicky.’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ said Polly, and they were silent for a second.

  ‘He was a bit shouty, though,’ said Kendall. ‘Archie isn’t shouty.’

  ‘Well there you go,’ said Polly. ‘When he gets back, tell him you knew he was working, otherwise he’ll never take ten seconds off ever again.’

  ‘He has to,’ said Sten, speaking for the first time. His accent was slow and deliberate. ‘It is dangerous to run a boat on not enough sleep, ja? He needs to make himself relax.’

  Polly smiled. ‘I’ve never understood how anyone’s meant to make themselves do that,’ she said. ‘But yes, I agree.’

  She went back and zipped through the rest of the lunchtime rush with Jayden, people cheerfully queuing halfway up the quay. This made her happy every time she saw it. The fact that people were there, day after day, handing over money for something she’d made with her own hands! Sometimes it didn’t quite seem real; she wanted to rush up to someone eating a bun and say, ‘I made that, you know!’

  She managed to avoid the temptation.

  Once they’d cleaned up after lunch, if everything had gone – and it usually had – they’d close. Very early starts to get everything ready on time meant that by 2 p.m. Polly had normally already been on her feet for nine hours, and there was still cashing-up to do. Huckle tried to schedule his appointments so that he could sometimes nip back for an hour or two and, for the only time all day, they could relax, laze in bed for an hour, chat and laugh. Then he would be out again and Polly would cash up, start setting the dough for the next day, make supper and begin all over again in the morning.

  Today, as she walked back into the empty lighthouse – it felt even emptier when Neil wasn’t there – she could hear the home phone ringing. She furrowed her brow. She did use the home phone from time to time – the mobile signal could be a little erratic – but not that often, and certainly not in the daytime. She’d spoken to her mum yesterday and everything was fine there. It must be Huckle; he must have been held up somewhere.

  Polly mounted the stairs two at a time, wondering how long the phone would ring for. There was no point in rushing, she thought as she rounded the first landing. Getting up took as long as getting up took, and if she tried to rush, she wouldn’t have enough puff to speak when she did make it up there.

  The phone stopped, then instantly started again moments later. Polly swallowed and carried on. This wasn’t a good sign. Unless it was a particularly committed salesperson.

  She swung round the balustrade into the very top room, below the lamp itself. The phone had been there when they’d moved in and they hadn’t changed it. Polly rather liked it. It was obviously old coastguard issue, in a bureaucratic grey colour with stubby white buttons, many of which had mysterious functions she didn’t understand. It also had a stern brring brring that reminded her of black-and-white war films.

  She picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice on the other end was quavering but strong.

  ‘Is that Miss Waterford?’ it demanded formally.

  ‘Uh, yes.’

  ‘This is Janet Lange. Gillian Manse’s sister.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Polly, steadying herself against the sofa, a chill entering her heart. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Only,’ the voice went on, as if it hadn’t heard her, ‘only we’ve had a bit of trouble, you see.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Polly looked out of the window at the seagulls circling peacefully, at the tiny crests on some of the waves. Everything was as tranquil and peaceful as it always was.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid Gillian has… passed on,’ said her sister.

  There was a silence.

  Even though Mrs Manse had been old, and somewhat irascible, she’d still seemed a very strong figure to Polly. Certainly not somebody who could simply pass away or cease to be: she was solid, formidably so.

  ‘But there was nothing wrong with her,’ said Polly. She found her hands at her face. ‘Oh dear. Oh dear me.’

  ‘I did tell her to lose weight,’ said Janet. She had some of her sister’s brusqueness, but Polly could tell it was genuine shock. ‘I told her, I told her, but she was so stubborn! Her doctor told her a million times, and I told her too. You’re too fat, Gillian. You eat too many cakes. That’s what we told her. Sell the cakes, don’t eat them. But she would never listen to anyone, never…’ Her voice dissolved in sobs.

  ‘Was it… was it sudden?’

  Polly’s voice appeared to be wobbling of its own accord. Mrs Manse had had such a sad life, working all hours in the bakery after the loss of her only child at sea; a child she had never stopped mourning. She often went out after dark to watch for boats coming in, just in case her boy was on one of them. This had gone on for years and years and years, as her shop got more
and more grubby and downtrodden and she retreated further into bitterness and regret.

  ‘Aye,’ said Janet. ‘Reckon. Heart attack.’

  Her voice went quiet.

  ‘We bickered, you know.’

  ‘I do know,’ said Polly, who had spent a lot of time listening to Mrs Manse complaining about her new retired life and how annoying her sister was.

  ‘But I loved her really!’

  ‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘And she loved you too.’