Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Unless you let me —’ piped up Reuben.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Wow, man, your friends are very uncool,’ said Dubose.

  ‘Well he works for his money,’ pointed out Huckle mildly. ‘He’s allowed to do what he wants with it.’

  Dubose scowled. ‘I do too.’

  Huckle nodded. ‘When you’re not gallivanting off at spring planting season.’

  ‘If you wanna go work on a farm, GO WORK ON A FARM,’ said Dubose in exasperation. ‘It’s not like you’re doing anything useful here, hanging round fiddling with honey and eating pie. At least when you were in the city, Mom was proud of you.’

  Polly slipped into the bedroom where Huckle was getting ready for bed. He had left Dubose to it.

  ‘What’s up with you two?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, just brother stuff. I shouldn’t let him get to me,’ said Huckle, but he looked sad. Polly reached up and cuddled him.

  ‘If you ask me,’ she said, ‘I think he seems a little lost. Do you think things are okay with Clemmie?’

  Huckle sighed. ‘She’s VERY long-suffering. It’s not a bad farm they work, you know? But every time they make a bit of money, he hotfoots it away to find himself and leaves her there alone. I love him, but he’s always had a problem with the really hard work.’

  ‘But he works on a farm!’ said Polly. ‘That’s about as hard as work gets, that and fishing.’

  ‘I know,’ said Huckle. ‘That’s why he has to let off steam every now and again.’

  ‘Shouting about grain subsidies.’

  He always kind of wears this big bravado thing on him.’

  ‘Classic little brother,’ said Polly. ‘He probably worships you.’

  Huckle frowned. ‘Funny way of showing it.’

  ‘Maybe he says the same about you.’

  Huckle put his faded blue chambray shirt in the laundry basket and changed the subject.

  ‘What do you think about Reuben’s offer?’

  Polly made a face.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ said Huckle.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Oh, totally. He tried to set me up in the honey business. Can you imagine? “This honey isn’t right, Huckle! I’d do it much better! I have six international honey trophies.”’

  ‘He probably does.’

  ‘But I’m still worried, you know. Worried about this new guy. And worried about money.’

  ‘Well don’t be,’ said Polly, coming up and kissing him. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? Apart from me getting fired and us losing everything?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Then we go crawling to Reuben,’ said Huckle, and they both grinned in the dim light.

  ‘Yes, obviously,’ said Polly. Then she turned towards him.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is OUR life, remember. Not Reuben’s, not Dubose’s. Nobody else’s.’

  ‘I remember it every day,’ said Huckle simply. ‘When I wake up in the morning and realise you’re lying beside me.’

  ‘I think I need to kiss you again,’ said Polly.

  She woke even before her early alarm, checking her head for mead damage. It wasn’t too bad.

  It was still dark outside. She could hear Neil trundling about in the sitting room above them, doing busy bird things. Downstairs in the second bedroom, Dubose wasn’t stirring. At first she didn’t quite understand why her stomach felt so hollow, then she remembered. Malcolm was ‘popping in’ that morning to ‘get a handle on’ the business. She felt incredibly nervous all of a sudden.

  Since she’d started in Polbearne she’d had to learn plenty of new things, and doubted herself a lot; but not her baking ability. The one thing she knew, the one thing she turned to in times of nervousness and stress, was pounding and kneading and folding the dough, making it rise, warm and light in the oven, turning simple flour and water and yeast, salt and sugar into all sorts of things.

  She got up now, shuffling quietly round the bedroom so she didn’t wake Huckle, which was unnecessary as almost nothing did. He slept like he had an on/off switch.

  They didn’t have curtains in the bedroom, partly because the circular walls made finding and fitting them an expensive, time-consuming task, partly because nobody could ever see in, four storeys off the ground, and partly because Polly liked the sun waking her in the summertime, given that she had to get up then anyway, and Huckle never minded. But there wasn’t even a glimmer of dawn on the horizon as she splashed water on her hands and face, brushed her teeth, pulled on faded boyfriend jeans, Converses and a striped T-shirt, threw a jacket over the top and slipped out of the door.

  She ran lightly across the cobbles and let herself in to the Little Beach Street Bakery. The first thing she always did in the morning was switch on the coffee machine and grind up some fresh beans. The ritual was incredibly important to her day: she didn’t feel properly awake until she’d had a strong cup of espresso, standing up against the kitchen cupboards, looking out at the dark.

  Next she checked the great wood-burning oven. It had been a gift from Reuben and never really went out; they simply damped it at night-time. When it got really hot, it produced smoky focaccia, michette, pizza bases and pies that tasted better than anyone else’s, particularly when eaten outside, ideally in the sunshine, with a little bit of sand in for flavour. The other ovens too warmed up – no matter how chilly the dawn, the bakery was never cold – as Polly got working on the great batches of dough that had risen overnight, expertly moulding the white and the brown into the tins that were lined up, clean but black with age and use, a patina that added, she was entirely convinced, to the flavour, along with the fine sea salt she insisted on, the best flour, and a few herbs snipped into the wholemeal loaf that brought out the sweet nuttiness of its crust. Yes, loaves cost more here than they did in the big supermarket on the mainland. She couldn’t compete with that. She just had to hope that it was worth paying the difference for something she believed was so much tastier than mass-produced bread that you simply would never go back to it. Their daily repeat business would seem to suggest it was definitely a feeling that was shared in the town.

  She made up smaller batches of their speciality bread, which went to Mount’s, the smart restaurant, during the season – it wasn’t quite the season yet, and they were shut on Mondays, so she made very little today. It was a wonderfully intense sun-dried-tomato focaccia, deep and sunny and rich, garnished with rosemary and olive oil. The whole thing tasted of summer in a bite; of lazy afternoons in Italian courtyard gardens (not that Polly had ever sat in an Italian courtyard garden, but she liked to think that that was what it would be like).

  She also made a raisin and cinnamon soda bread, which was dense and spicy; you wouldn’t eat too much of it, but a slice toasted and spread with butter was basically afternoon tea on a plate. She took out some of the first batch to slice up as a tester on a little plate by the till. Few people could resist a taste now and then, and it helped convince those of her customers who were slightly put off by foreign-sounding names or anything more unusual than pizza.

  By 7.30, everything was buzzing, warm and beautifully scented. Jayden whirled in full of energy, sweeping and mopping, slipping the bread out of its tins, something he could now do with relative ease without burning himself, which he had done repeatedly for the first two months.

  Looking at him now, Polly was proud of how proficient he’d become, lining up the buns perfectly in their sparklingly clean case; packing away the white bread to take over to the old bakery for Flora to use to put sandwiches together. Everything seemed – touch wood – to be running like a well-oiled machine at the moment. She unlocked the safe and counted out the cashbox change, thinking, as she did every day – though she would never tell him this – that Huckle would be waking up about now, turning and stretching in the morning glow, his broad chest bare and golden…

  She smiled happily to herself, relocked the safe, and turned towards the counter. She could hear the clatter and bu
rr of the fishing boats coming home from their long night on the water, and glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to eight. Might as well do it now; people loved it when you opened slightly early, and although the day looked blowy, there were already dog-walkers up and about, marching over the rocks and down to Breakwater Cove. They would often come in for a warm roll, and occasionally, if she wasn’t too busy, she’d make them a coffee too, served in a little paper cup. This was the lovely thing about April, she was thinking: lighter mornings. Dark winter mornings were tough. She’d tried changing the opening time to 8.30, but the fishermen had got very upset about it, so she’d reverted to the original arrangement.

  She tied on a fresh apron, made sure her strawberry-blonde hair was properly pinned back, prepared her welcoming smile, stepped up to the door – and got the shock of her life.

  Right in front of the glass, staring in at her, was the large man with the messily cut hair from Gillian Manse’s funeral: Malcolm, of course. She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t expected him till later, and even though she’d lain awake worrying about it, once she’d got into the everyday rhythm of work that morning, she had completely stopped thinking about him. She’d certainly not expected him to be standing sinisterly, peering in through her door window.

  Once she’d jumped back a little, she calmed down and managed to plaster her smile back on, and unlocked the heavy glass door that had been replaced after Neil had rolled through the old glass and into her life one stormy night two years ago.

  ‘Hello!’ she said, as jauntily as she was able. ‘I wasn’t expecting you!’

  Malcolm stared crossly at his watch.

  ‘I know. God, it’s SO early. How on earth do people get up at this time?’

  Polly didn’t want to point out to him that she’d been at work for three hours already.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Yes. Three sugars,’ said Malcolm brusquely. He marched into the shop. Like last time, he was dressed like an unmade bed, a creased shirt half hanging out of a crushed old pair of chinos. He hadn’t done up the bottom button, so a portion of soft, squishy tummy was plainly visible over the top of his trousers.

  ‘Are you married?’ asked Polly politely.

  Malcolm sniffed. ‘Not going to get caught like that, no chance,’ he said, derisively. ‘Ha, won’t get me tied down. Not a chance.’

  The fishermen trudged in, looking bone weary.

  ‘Good morning!’ said Jayden. This was the absolute high point of his day. ‘Cold out there? Freezing, I’ll bet. Pretty tough, huh? Catch much, or were they too fast for you? Cor, wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.’

  ‘Shut up, Jayden,’ they all said, as they did every morning, and Polly set the coffee machine to work yet again.

  ‘Are you licensed to sell this?’ grunted Malcolm.

  ‘Uh, hmm,’ said Polly, suddenly wishing she was a bit better prepared. ‘Not exactly, but Mrs Manse —’

  ‘Whatever Mrs Manse did and didn’t tolerate,’ said Malcolm, raising his unpleasantly nasal voice, ‘and however much advantage you took of her good nature, she’s not here now. Things are going to change around here, right?’

  The fishermen looked at Malcolm, who compared to them seemed incredibly soft and lily-handed. Archie glanced at Polly with concern, but she didn’t catch his eye.

  Jayden was scooping pastries into a bag and didn’t seem to notice the awkward undercurrents in the little shop, for which Polly was grateful. She was slightly worried that if she went to take the money, her hand might tremble a little bit.

  The boys had departed, as well as Patrick and his old dog Pen, who still trotted faithfully across the lighthouse rocks every day, even though his limbs were arthritic. Polly always kept a bit of leftover bun for him. She normally didn’t allow animals in the shop, but Pen was different. Malcolm was leaning nonchalantly on the glass window at the front, watching her beadily with his arms folded. His eyes were very pale, almost colourless, and his skin was doughy. He looked like he spent a lot of time indoors.

  ‘What are you interested in looking at first?’ asked Polly carefully.

  Malcolm picked up one of the largest loaves, an unsliced white – not everyone liked it sliced. The big slicer in the back clattered away early in the morning, then they left it up to individuals. Polly watched him, wondering what he was going to do with it. To her amazement, he brought up the other large, soft-looking paw and pulled a great chunk off the top, just ripped into it, then put it into his maw before she could offer him butter or anything else. He chewed slowly and contemplatively, crumbs falling on to his already messy shirt. Jayden busied himself with washing up the tins whilst Polly simply waited.

  She made herself smile again.

  ‘Well?’

  Malcolm shrugged, his mouth still full.

  ‘Hmm, yeah, well.’

  He put the rest of the loaf back on top of the counter, spreading crumbs everywhere, but not before ripping off another bit and sticking it into his masticating mouth.

  ‘Back,’ he grunted, and indicated the ovens at the rear of the bakery.

  Polly led him through.

  ‘So, this is where the magic happens!’ she said, still trying to sound light and unconcerned. Malcolm took out a pen and pad and started jotting things down. He inspected the flour she used – 00 grade; the salt. He looked at the sourdough yeast she had growing in the fridge; the milk, and the many bags and boxes of produce – local, almost all of it, from round and about: herbs and fruit and nuts and honey – and everything else she used to flavour and differentiate her various types of bread.

  ‘What’s all this rubbish?’ he said. ‘You’re not running a bloody restaurant.’

  ‘Yes, but we make different types of bread,’ explained Polly carefully. ‘All sorts of flavours. As well as pies, sometimes, and flatbread and things. Different savouries and a few sweets, so it takes a lot of ingredients. Flora does most of the sweets in the other shop.’

  Indeed, Flora’s way with a cream horn was one of her main weapons against her ever losing her job. She had an astonishingly light hand with pastry, and a neatness of touch Polly envied massively.

  ‘Well, as a businessman,’ said Malcolm, which he’d offered absolutely no evidence of, but Polly wasn’t in any position to query his credentials, ‘this all seems a total mess and incredibly inefficient and wasteful.’

  Polly tried to keep her voice calm.

  ‘It seems to work all right with the customers.’

  Malcolm sniffed. ‘What, those brain-dead yokels? Yeah, they’ll take any old crap. But I don’t want to be… I don’t want my mum to be cheated out of what these shops are worth.’

  ‘I would never do that,’ said Polly.

  ‘Yeah, well…’ He picked up a pot of fleur de sel.

  ‘I mean, what’s this? Salt?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Most bread has a little salt, and there are bagels, which have a little more, and —’

  ‘Is this the cheapest you can buy? It’s not even ground.’

  ‘I know,’ said Polly timidly. ‘But it’s the best you can get. It’s got a real fullness of flavour and a delicate… It’s not too salty.’

  ‘Not too salty?’ sneered Malcolm. ‘You’re buying expensive salt that isn’t too salty?’

  He marked something in his little book.

  ‘And this flour. Why are you buying Italian flour?’

  ‘It’s the best,’ said Polly again, feeling more and more worried. Jayden was in the shop, chatting to the early-morning customers and making the old ladies laugh. She had, she realised now, over-confidently expected that Malcolm would pop in, have a cup of coffee and a bun, say, ‘Wow, this place is fantastic, keep up the good work,’ and that would be that.

  ‘Yes, but punters don’t notice, do they?’

  ‘I think they do.’

  ‘No,’ said Malcolm. ‘I don’t think so. If I’m hungry, I’ll just buy a pasty in a motorway service station. I don’t care if it’s got poncey flour i
n it, or super salt that they magic out of not too salty land. I just want something to eat.’

  Polly stared at the floor.

  ‘I’ve got all the accounts,’ said Malcolm, obviously thinking he was sounding really tough. ‘I’m going to be going through them with a fine-tooth comb. This place is barely scraping a living, and I want to know why.’

  ‘Because we’re a low-cost, high-volume business in a seasonal location with year-round fixed costs,’ Polly could have told him, had he looked like the listening type. Which he didn’t. You didn’t run a bakery for the money – well, maybe if you had a high-end cupcake shop in London or something, she imagined. Otherwise, you only did it because you loved it; because it was a good, solid way to make a good honest living, whatever this guy seemed to be implying. It certainly wouldn’t make you rich.