by Jenny Colgan
‘I’d report him,’ said Kate. ‘That’s harassment.’
Polly swallowed. She didn’t forget, though, that Kate was still a journalist. Making any comment at all probably wouldn’t be that great an idea.
‘Would you… would you like something to eat?’ she offered, shyly.
‘Yes!’ said Kate. ‘That’s why I’m here, remember?’
They sat together on the car park wall and ate slices of the warm lardon bichette underneath the heavy grey sky and chatted about their lives. Kate was very impressed that Polly lived in a lighthouse, and Polly was sympathetic as Kate told her at great length about her problems with the separated man she was seeing back in London, so it ended up being a rather mutually enjoyable conversation.
After an hour, Kate got up to leave. Polly had served one other person in that time, an old man who wanted two rolls. She had felt nervous doing so, not wanting Kate pitying her any more than she did already. She piled Kate up with goodies to take away with her.
‘Are you not going on to the village?’ she said.
Kate frowned. ‘What’s that man’s bakery like?’
‘Gruesome,’ said Polly. ‘Well, unless you like your bread to last two months, in which case it’s ideal.’
‘Hmm,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe not, then. Nice to meet you. I have to tell you, though, we don’t normally review vans in our restaurant pages. I don’t know what my editor will say.’
‘I realise that,’ said Polly.
‘I’ll give it a shot, okay?’
‘Don’t tell them about the shouting.’
Kate frowned. ‘Can’t promise.’
‘I know.’
They smiled and shook hands, and Kate left, and Polly sat there in the car park for another four hours.
Chapter Seventeen
Huckle was sitting uncomfortably at an elaborately set table in his ex-girlfriend’s house, which was as immaculate as a house could be. He wished he wasn’t. When Candice had heard he was back over, she’d insisted, and she was hard to say no to. It was odd, he thought. It had taken him so long to get over her, and now that he was – and she was engaged to a very fit man called Ron, who did triathlons – he could barely remember why.
Candice had invited a girl for him to sit opposite. She was blonde and giggly and patently thought she was there for Huckle, as indeed she was.
Candice wanted Huckle back home and in her social circle again; she liked him, and thought he was throwing his life away burying himself in some other country. He wasn’t engaged, he wasn’t married, he’d chosen to leave the country – all was fair in love and war, wasn’t it? And it would be quite the coup for her if she managed to match-make her hot sexy ex (there were a lot of things Candice had not liked about Huckle – his lack of ambition, the way he absolutely didn’t care about appearances or being socially acceptable. The bedroom, however, had never been a problem. She missed it more than she could ever have admitted, no matter how many triathlons Ron trained for) and get him back his high-flying consulting job. Everyone would think she was amazingly cool and she could throw such a lovely party.
‘Polly again,’ sighed Candice, after he’d slipped out to take a phone call from Cornwall. ‘Goodness, she really is quite needy, isn’t she?’
Huckle frowned. Polly had been a little down on the phone, it was true, but that was pretty normal these days. He was getting used to it.
‘She’s having it tough back there,’ he said. ‘It’s taking a bit longer for her to get this thing off the ground than she thought. I don’t know why it’s making her so miserable, though.’ He put it down to her missing him and Neil, but was surprised at her lack of natural bounce. You normally couldn’t keep her down for long.
‘Well that’s no way to run a business,’ said Candice. ‘Did you consider coming back to your old firm? You’ll make all the cash you need quite a lot quicker than at that stupid farm. Let your brother sink or swim, that’s by far the best thing for him.’ She was always interested in Huckle’s work, and gave him lots of useful advice.
Huckle shook his head. He had promised Clemmie he wouldn’t tell anyone about the baby, not even Polly. Truthfully, now that he’d got the farm working properly and turning a profit, he really ought to leave. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure how to break it to Polly, but if she was having trouble with this van, if she really couldn’t make it work, then maybe he would just have to stay anyway, just to make a living. Goddam Dubose.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Would you like me to put in a word?’
‘Not yet,’ said Huckle. It wouldn’t ever come to that – staying in the US full time to make a crust. Would it?
‘Well, have you met Lily?’
Lily smiled broadly. Her teeth were absolutely perfect, her skin the colour of honey. Huckle smiled back politely, although his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘Hi!’ said Lily. ‘I teach yoga! You look like you could do with some.’
‘Do I?’ said Huckle.
These days there is a roaring trade in ‘quaint’ – a few distressed tables, wild flowers in a jam jar, some bunting, bits of driftwood here and there, and voilà, welcome to 2015. Very wearying, I’m sure you’ll agree. So thank goodness for the lone pioneers out there determined to get a bit of proper old-fashioned grit and authenticity back into our eating.
Not for Polly Waterford the fake cosiness of so-called traditional surroundings.
She hammers out her lonely trade in a brutal, windswept car park, maintaining the purity of her perfectly baked artisan bread – and for once the term is justified, rather than being as overused as ‘organic’ was five years ago – for an incredibly select audience, if you can even find her. Regularly sworn at by tramps, and battered by weather, Polly makes bread only for herself, and if you are lucky enough to track her down and share in it, you can consider yourself a true gourmet.
She lives alone in a lighthouse,
‘I don’t live alone in a lighthouse,’ said Polly crossly in her kitchen, then realised she was speaking out loud to an empty lighthouse.
which gives her the absolute solitude and purity she requires to perfect her loaves. She is not interested in prettifying anything, not even herself, which makes the tough path she has chosen and the weather-beaten effects on her life all the more admirable and impressive.
Polly growled to herself. ‘If I’d remembered a journalist was coming, I’d have put some lipstick on. And probably washed the van.’
However, if the outside is rough, inside is very special indeed, with some of the most astonishing campagne breads, wholemeal rolls – it seems there is absolutely nothing Polly can’t tackle with her scrubbed raw hands.
The phone rang. It was Selina.
‘Darling, is that you in the paper?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘It makes me sound like a witch. A terrifyingly lonely witch.’
‘It’s amazing!’ said Selina.
‘Being a witch,’ said Polly.
‘She says you’re the most amazing find.’
‘Yeah, if you want some new spells.’
Polly’s phone beeped with a waiting call. She apologised to Selina and switched over.
‘You’re a witch!’ shouted Kerensa joyously. ‘Show us your spooky powers!’
‘Shut up!’ said Polly. ‘I’m not a witch!’
‘She totally makes you sound like one.’
‘I know,’ said Polly.
‘But, you know, it’s really good!’
Polly heaved a sigh.
‘Do you think so? It basically makes me out to be a cross between Maleficent and the A-Team.’
‘That is a stupendous thing to be,’ said Kerensa. ‘Remember, I’m a marketing guru. Also, all Reuben’s friends can come now.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Polly. ‘I thought Reuben lost all his friends when he lost his money.’
Kerensa snorted, loudly.
‘Thank you for that huge vote of confidence in my life partner.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ said Polly. Reuben had hung out with lots of cool dudes and model-type women. Polly just assumed they’d have passed on to the next multimillionaire.
‘No, you’re right,’ said Kerensa. ‘They are horrific fair-weather friends. But they keep their hand in with Reuben, just in case he does something genius again and all the parties are back on.’
‘Well, they do sound completely charming,’ said Polly. She paused. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Why is he only sending them now?’
Reuben had obviously been listening on speakerphone and came on the line.
‘In case you were garbage, of course,’ he said. ‘What if you’d moved and turned into total garbage? Sheesh, don’t be nuts. Of course I had to wait and see.’
‘Oh,’ said Polly. ‘Well, thanks, I guess.’
‘Don’t mention it!’
‘You even look witchy in the photo,’ said Kerensa.
‘Stop it,’ said Polly. ‘My mum’s already had a panic attack.’
They’d sent a photographer down later that day – which Kate hadn’t mentioned would happen, so Polly still didn’t have any bloody make-up on. The wind had really got up by then, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere around. He had made her sit on the wall, the van slightly out of focus behind her, and behind that the great looming mass of Mount Polbearne. In the photo, her strawberry-blonde hair was flicking behind her head as she stared out to sea, her face thoughtful – or, as Polly’s mother’s put it, miserable – as if you could see her thinking, oh lord, this is a mistake. The headline underneath read, Purity in Polbearne.
‘Lonely Virgin Witch,’ Kerensa said cheerfully. ‘Even better!’
Huckle looked at the link online. He stared at it, his heart so full of longing he could hardly breathe. She looked so sad; he had never seen her so sad. And she had got so thin. Where was her full bosom, the gentle curves of her hips? This Polly was angular and thoughtful.
He felt unnervingly homesick for the life they had had: the quiet evenings listening to seagulls, teasing Neil, companionably reading, or cooking, or just being near one another, when neither ever left the room without a gentle caress, a quick passing kiss, a tender embrace. He wanted to reach out to her, but they seemed to be drifting further apart. He printed out the article, then folded it up and slipped it into his wallet.
Did you want me to talk about a new job for you? Candice’s text message had said. Of course, trust Candice to still be working first thing on a Sunday morning. She’d probably already had her workout. She wanted Huckle to go to brunch with her and Lily – hemp smoothies and egg-white omelettes, and Ron talking about his share portfolio.
He didn’t want to text her back quite yet. Didn’t even want to admit to himself that he was stuck on this farm for the near future, and even if he wasn’t, even if by some miracle Dubose did show up, that he still needed a job to carry them through the long Cornish winter, given what the article had made clear: that Polly was making absolutely no money. They were living in a place with no insulation that needed absolutely loads doing to it to even make it habitable. They needed money! They needed money, goddammit. He loved Polly, but could she pull this off? It didn’t look like it. It really didn’t. He gazed at the picture for a long time and wondered how on earth he could break it to her that he was not coming home any time soon; that he felt like he was being torn in two.
Huckle couldn’t get through on the phone for ages. He guessed everyone was chiming in with their thoughts. He hoped they were positive. Finally, it rang, tinny and so far away.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Who is that unbelievably hot woman in that magazine?’
‘Seriously?’ said Polly. ‘Because everyone else is sending me links to the Samaritans. Apart from two really strange guys who wrote on the newspaper website that they’d like to marry me because they liked bread and being by themselves.’
‘Hmm,’ said Huckle. ‘Well, you should have smiled.’
‘Really?’
‘I like it when you’re smiling.’
‘That’s been quite tricky,’ said Polly.
‘But it’s a good piece.’
‘Is it?’
There was a slightly awkward silence between them. This was new.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Huckle. ‘Because you know, I’m… I mean, everything is going well here. I’m turning the farm around. Definitely.’
Another pause.
‘Well,’ said Polly. ‘That’s great.’
‘And, you know, I’m sure this is the start of something for you…’
‘I hope so,’ said Polly. They both did.
Chapter Eighteen
In fact, they didn’t have to wait long. By Monday, there were a few more cars.
By Tuesday, there was a line.
‘Oh my God,’ Polly had said that first morning. The people who came weren’t like any she’d served before.
They were very intense, and peppered her with lots and lots of questions about process and ingredients and provenance and methodology. They were, as Selina said when she came over later, and stayed to help, foodies, people who only liked the rarest and newest of things. She was, it seemed, a discovery. Many of them tried some of the seeded loaf she put out for testing as if it were wine: holding it in their mouths, rolling it round and round, or pinching it between their fingers and making humming noises. All the men had beards.
She texted Kate to say an ecstatic thank you, and Kate had texted back to say not at all, she deserved it, and she had looked like she needed it. Which was true.
The other odd thing was that many of the cars didn’t then go on to Mount Polbearne, even though it was a clear day with low tides. Many just drove into the car park, bought some bread – for boasting rights, Selina informed her – and drove off again. There was also a healthy proportion of surfers who Polly semi-recognised as being friends of Reuben, all of whom bought warm loaves and little pots of butter to take to the beach with them but then started tearing it off as soon as they got the bag in their hands. Most people did that: it tasted better fresh from the oven, crammed greedily into your mouth, the little seeds getting caught in your teeth, the nutty, salty crunch of the crust spluttering into life, the soft insides squelching with delicious warmth and runny butter.
‘This is AMAZEBALLS,’ said one of the surfers loudly, which was very gratifying.
The oddest thing, though, was that every car that drove past or came into the car park slowed down, opened its windows and had a look at what was going on, as if the very fact of a queue was enough to make people stop, and as soon as they smelled the scent of the fresh bread billowing across the car park, they found they did want some after all, and their children certainly did, and the crumbs scattered in the billowing wind and Polly experienced something she hadn’t felt for a long time: the sure and deep happiness of feeding people something home-made and natural and good; seeing their faces crinkle with happiness as they inhaled the smell of it, or cracked the crust and squeezed the soft innards together. Just for an instant, she saw in each of them the hungry child they once might have been, rushing home from school on a cold day, desperate for toast; or the older ones recalling a trip to Italy, before they were married and weighted heavily with responsibilities, and how for the first time they’d eaten bread like that in the sunlight, and how wondrous it had been.
Handing out the buns, wrapping with a flick of a wrist the big loaves in her paper bags, she was sold out by 11.30, and found herself, unexpectedly, shutting up the van. There was a big sigh from the people left behind in the queue who hadn’t been lucky. Selina said this was clearly a good sign, as they started to dissipate.
Malcolm drove into the car park just as they were about to leave. He smiled approvingly as he saw the shut-up van.
‘That’s right,’ he hollered out of the window. ‘Know when you’re beaten.’
Selina went to answer him, but Polly held her back.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to ma
ke things worse.’
‘But he’s an arsehole,’ explained Selina.
‘I know that,’ said Polly. ‘But an arsehole who thinks I’m not a threat is much better for me, do you see?’
‘Hmm,’ said Selina. ‘If you say so.’
She looked around sadly.
‘It’s nice to see something go well,’ she said.
‘Well I can thank you for that,’ said Polly. ‘Us making up really helped me over my funk.’
