by Jenny Colgan
‘Yeah,’ said Malcolm. ‘I’m from an old Mount Polbearne family. We were here first.’
But she had never even seen him here.
‘Go take this rust bucket and try it out elsewhere.’
Another car looked like it was slowing down in the filthy driving rain, then saw Malcolm waving his arms like they were a couple having a massive domestic, and quickly thought better of it.
‘You can’t win here. You can’t do it. You should just give up now. You failed in the bakery, you’re failing here. It’s all over.’
Polly hiccupped a kind of snorting sob, then did the only thing she could think of: she brought down the little shutter in the van and slammed it hard, and the door too.
It was, she realised, absolutely no solution. On the other hand, she was now inside and warm and cosy, and Malcolm was still outside, pacing about in the rain. Which was a small mercy, after all. Plus now she could weep in peace.
Malcolm shouted a few more things, but thankfully above the wind and the rain outside, and the generator inside, she couldn’t hear what they were. She waited for a while, until she had stopped crying, and tried to tell herself that he was just a horrible pathetic trumpet-playing moron, even though a bit of her knew deep down that it was a bit sneaky to open the van.
But it wasn’t, she told herself. She was standing up against mediocrity; against lazy, horrible food sold to people who didn’t know things could be better, that food could be better, and if food was better, life was better. Stood to reason. Yes.
She had to tell herself that what she was doing was worthwhile; that she wasn’t providing just industrial mulch churned out by a factory that didn’t care if something was good and nutritious and made of the very best stuff; that would fill everything with long-life chemicals, and spongifiers and E-numbers and salt and wood shavings, for all she knew, to bulk out something that was cheap and filling and easy, but wasn’t good. What she did was good, and it was important, and she was going to tell the world a thing or two… just as soon as she could bear to unlock herself from this van.
She heard, faintly, over the rattle of the generator, the sound of Malcolm’s car driving away. She pulled up the shutter to deliver her sermon, but the car park was once more windswept, damp and completely empty. And she did not feel as if she had scored a victory.
By 4 p.m., Polly was ready to drive the van into the sea and was giving considerably more weight to the concept that it was indeed cursed.
The rain had barely let up. A family with three squalling children in the back of their car had driven up, cheerfully hoping for fish and chips, talking about how the weather had ruined their holiday, so thank God they’d seen a fish and chip van, it was the only thing just about holding the kids together; never again, this would teach them to holiday at home; they’d wanted to go visit Mount Polbearne, but they couldn’t risk it in this weather. The mother looked on the verge of tears.
‘I’ve… I’ve got some cheesy ciabatta loaf,’ offered Polly.
‘You’ve got what, love?’ said the mother, glancing nervously back at the car and pulling her cagoule closer around her shoulders. The car windows were all steamed up, with the occasional ominous thud hitting the windows, like something out of World War Z.
‘Just chips will be fine, you know. Absolutely fine.’
‘I don’t do chips,’ said Polly, apologetically. ‘This is a bread van.’
The woman really did look like she was going to burst into tears.
‘A bread van?’ she said. ‘At the seaside?’ Her pink-lipsticked mouth sagged. ‘What… what on earth were you thinking?’
There was a cry coming from the dirty car that might have been ‘Chips! Chips! Chips!’
‘A bread van?’ said the woman again, as if Polly might suddenly pull back a curtain and say ‘Only kidding! Haddock or cod!’
‘’Fraid so,’ said Polly. The woman shook her head.
‘Well, do you know if we can get fish and chips near here?’
‘There’s a great chippy on Mount Polbearne,’ said Polly.
The two of them turned together and looked out at the great rocky outcrop, half hidden in the grey mist, its causeway completely obliterated by furious-looking grey waves; never more an island than today.
The woman took a step backwards.
‘Never again,’ she said. She glanced at the car, as if dreading stepping inside it once more. She glanced again at Mount Polbearne. Then she retreated, and Polly felt absolutely awful.
At 5 p.m., as the causeway slowly uncovered, and just as she was wearily packing up, she spotted Muriel charging towards her. The relief of seeing a friendly face was enormous, and Polly waved expansively. Muriel waved back and made it over in double-quick time.
‘What a day,’ she said. ‘Filthy. I hope it picks up soon, I haven’t sold a single bucket and spade in four days.’
‘You’ve sold other stuff though, right?’ said Polly.
‘Oh lord, yes. Hot chocolate mostly. Hot chocolate and the Puzzler.’
‘I haven’t sold anything,’ said Polly glumly, even though she hated to sound self-pitying.
‘Well that’s because you started trading in the middle of a storm,’ said Muriel, sensibly. ‘You can’t expect everything to come together at once. Anyway, I am here to save you, because I have the secret village orders.’
Polly’s face lit up. Here it was! The locals! This would save her! She knew the good people of Mount Polbearne wouldn’t let her down. She could have kissed Muriel.
‘Yay!’ she said. ‘That is fantastic news! Great! What would you like! And I can drive you back over too!’
Muriel looked at the van doubtfully.
‘I think I’d rather have the walk, to be honest.’
‘It’s pissing down!’
‘Yes, well, you know. Just till you get the hang of it.’
Polly smiled. ‘All right. What are you after?’
Muriel took out a piece of paper.
‘Okay. Campagne for Patrick. Sliced white for me. Half a dozen buns for Mrs Cranford.’
Polly waited expectantly.
‘And?’
There was a slightly awkward pause.
‘Um,’ said Muriel. ‘Um, that’s it.’
‘That’s it?’ said Polly, thinking with some despair of the queues outside the bakery door; the appreciation she was so used to.
Muriel looked concerned.
‘I know, Pol,’ she said. ‘I think… you know, you’ve been away for a while. I think maybe people are just kind of getting used to you not being there. I mean, they lived without the Beach Street Bakery for a long time…’
As she wrapped up the few orders in paper bags, Polly felt her heart grow heavy. Okay, so it wasn’t that she’d expected to be hoisted on the villagers’ shoulders and paraded round the town – okay, well maybe a tiny little bit, but not really. But she had hoped… she had hoped there would be enough day-to-day trade, enough people who missed her, to make it at least financially viable, particularly out of season.
‘Well, we’re just starting out,’ she said bravely, accepting the few meagre coins Muriel passed over. ‘It’s very early days.’
‘It is early days!’ said Muriel, nodding fiercely. ‘It’s day one! And look how cute your van is.’
‘Mmm,’ said Polly, who had spent all day staring at Nan the Van and was starting to go off her.
The rain had eased off and an experimental, watery ray of sunlight poked its way through one of the thick grey clouds. It lit up the causeway, its sodden cobbles winding their way home.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a lift?’ Polly asked.
‘It looks very slippery,’ said Muriel. ‘Do you know what, you drive on, and I’ll be right behind you. Then I’ll be well positioned to get help in case of, you know. Accidents.’
‘I’m perfectly competent!’ said Polly.
And she was. She was perfectly competent. Was that going to be enough to keep her on the road, though?
Chapter
Sixteen
The whole week continued grey and miserable. Every morning, Malcolm, showing much more gumption and energy than he had done hitherto, would turn up in front of the van, threatening Polly, mentioning lawyers’ letters and laughing at her stock, which diminished every day as she ran lower on supplies – she hated throwing stock away or passing it on to the fishermen for free, which wasn’t teaching them the right behaviour either.
Huckle phoned, sounding so utterly knackered that Polly couldn’t bear to tell him that they were sliding briskly into failure; she tried to be perky and upbeat, didn’t mention Malcolm’s bullying behaviour at all, just in case Huckle got the next flight back and beat him to a bloody pulp. Instead she talked about building slowly, waiting to capitalise on the season; how all it would take was a spell of fine weather.
She had no idea that Polly sounding calm and measured was far more terrifying to Huckle than her usual state of either wild enthusiasm or deep despair. He was very worried.
By the second week, Polly was really starting to question herself. She’d sold a few things – some long-distance lorry drivers had somehow made their way to her, and enjoyed the change from bacon rolls and greasy spoons, and she sent them on their way to Land’s End and Penzance and Truro with as broad a smile as she could manage, hoping against hope that they’d be able to spread the news around their communities.
But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Muriel and Patrick buying loaves and the fishermen occasionally placing orders for sandwiches was all she was getting from the town. The holidaymakers would occasionally buy a loaf out of sheer desperation, because there was nothing else this side of Mount Polbearne and it was something to do while you were waiting for the waters to recede if you turned up too early or too late to make the crossing. But people missing the road was not, she knew, a business plan. She was not making a living. Nothing like it.
She sat in the van all day, scrubbing it, doing her best to cheer up for a few customers here and there, then staring at the sea, at the walls, trying not to panic as the time ticked by, endlessly slowly, until she would finally pack up for the final tide of the day, fall into bed in the lighthouse, all alone, and start all over again the next morning. She didn’t know how long she could keep this up.
It was a slightly more promising day, the first Tuesday in June. There was an early-morning mist across the water and into Beach Street, and looking down from the lighthouse you could hardly see a thing. But the sun soon burnt it off, and it was going to be warm when the dawn had lifted, Polly could tell as she loaded the van with her morning’s efforts: a particularly good and, she knew, soon to be wasted sun-dried tomato focaccia, which came with a little tub of olive oil to dip, the sweetness and saltiness blending to make the most delicious mouthful; some light raisin iced buns, the perfect mouthful for people waiting for the tide, so she was slightly more confident about those; and a bichette studded with lardons and plenty of freshly ground black pepper, which was her concession to a bacon sandwich. If you wanted a bacon sandwich and you got one of these, she reckoned you would be pretty happy, all in all.
She drove carefully across the causeway. She knew the islanders regarded Nan with some amusement and not a little concern, but actually Polly was entirely confident about driving her. Selling things out of the side was where it all started to go wrong.
She parked up in her usual spot – the car park was getting a little busier day by day, not by much, but the season was revving itself up to get into gear. Please, she begged silently, yet again. Please let this pick up for me.
This morning, there was an unusually smart car already parked there; a sporty little white BMW with a soft top, the type of thing Kerensa used to drive before her vehicle options came down to a choice between a microscooter and walking.
Polly looked at it, wondering if it would be someone else wanting a holiday home. Although that tended to be families. This car did not belong to someone with a family, or if it did, they were a particularly daring one.
She got out of the van, propped up the canopy, arranged the still slightly steaming loaves, added the little chalkboard of prices, and tried her best to look cheerful.
An incredibly thin, elegant-looking girl, her hair pulled back in a shiny swinging ponytail, clambered out of the car. She didn’t look local at all, Polly thought. Mount Polbearne wouldn’t be right for her; she needed something a bit more developed, for sure, if she was after a second home. But Polly arranged a cheery smile anyway. A customer was a customer, after all.
The girl marched over, a broad smile showing well-looked-after teeth. She had a high stride, like a rather pretty horse, and Polly envied her, whoever she was.
‘Hello!’ the girl said, sticking out her hand with the easy confidence of someone other people were generally pleased to see, whether they knew it or not. ‘Kate Lacey?’
It took Polly a second to place the name.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
‘Oh, you know who I am?’ said Kate. ‘God, that’s amazing. Call the papers. Hang on, I am the papers.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘The newspaper,’ said Polly, frozen. ‘Oh my goodness, the newspaper.’
‘Yes, I was just going to ask you the way to Polly Waterford’s bakery? On Mount Polbearne? I appear to have misjudged the tide.’
‘Yes, it’s tricky,’ said Polly. ‘Um…’
She looked at Nan the Van, who had got very splashed around the bottom with mud and salt water as she trundled her way across the causeway every morning.
‘You see, the thing is,’ she said, ‘I forgot to call you. Only, I’m Polly Waterford.’
Kate looked confused.
‘What, and this is how you get to work?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Polly, her heart sinking. This was to have been her break, her amazing crack at the big time. But now, with her stupid van… This incredibly chic woman was just going to turn around and go home, she knew it. Or worse, write something scathing and awful. She heaved a great sigh.
‘Um, I don’t work for the bakery any more.’
She didn’t want to elaborate, but Kate pounced at once.
‘Why not?’
‘Um, new owner,’ said Polly, doing a quick censorship job. ‘So it’s a bit different. Sorry, I’ve been manic, I forgot to let you know, and I should have.’
Kate narrowed her eyes.
‘So basically you now have a burger van?’
‘Um, it’s not quite…’
Out of the corner of her eye, Polly caught sight of the tatty old BMW turning in to the car park. Oh no, she thought. Oh no, not now. No no no-no-no. Please. Anything but this.
Her wish was not to be granted. The car screeched to a halt, throwing up a spray of water that soaked their legs, and Malcolm jumped out, red-faced as ever.
‘Don’t eat here!’ he shouted. ‘She’s dirty.’
Polly sighed and turned bright pink, her humiliation complete. This was what would be written up for the national press; any chance of any sort of a career in baking completely scuppered by people being able to read about this, which would be on the Internet, and therefore visible for ever more.
‘Please, Malcolm,’ she said, in a low voice, but it was no use. Polly wanted to cry as the journalist listened politely to him without identifying herself – why would she, when she was already getting all the real dirt?
Finally he ran out of steam and stopped ranting, a satisfied look on his face.
‘Right, well that’s done for another one of your customers. Almost none left now, huh? Feeling sorry yet? Hmm? Got something else to go and do? Maybe something secretarial. Or bird management, huh? Ha! Good one, eh! Bird management!’
Polly couldn’t think too much about Neil at the best of times, and this was emphatically not the best of times. A lone tear came to her eye. Malcolm slammed his car door and drove away across the causeway.
Kate watched him go.
‘Do people drive off the causeway often?’ she asked in cl
ear tones.
Polly shook her head.
‘No, never,’ she said.
‘Shame,’ said Kate. She turned back to Polly, a smile playing on her lips. ‘I’m assuming that was the new boss.’
Polly nodded.
‘Wow,’ Kate said. ‘No wonder you don’t work for him any more. He’s mental.’
Oddly, the simple fact of someone else saying that Malcolm was behaving strangely had a huge effect on Polly. She had, she realised, been thinking that on some level she deserved this kind of bullying and had had nobody around, not really, to convince her otherwise.
