Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  He put it in a very low gear and slowly, slowly began to advance through the waves. He was so high up, it was impossible to see what he was driving through, and very hard, due to the murkiness of the water, to know where exactly the road was beneath the wheels of his jeep. He was nearly standing up on the pedals, but he could not stop, or the water would submerge him. It was already creeping through the bottom of the door. He swallowed hard. One tiny fault in either direction would see him straight into the deep water. He took his seat belt off and opened his window. Just in case. Just in case.

  Slowly, incredibly slowly, he rolled on, straining for a glimpse of the pinky-yellow stones beneath the vehicle. A wake opened up behind him, the water rolling here and there as he prayed for the grip of the jeep’s tyres and tried to gauge where exactly he was with reference to the town’s walls.

  He said a short prayer. At one point he came too close to the edge of the road, and felt the tyres lose purchase. For a second he thought this was it, that it was all over, but his hands automatically jerked the wheel and the car righted itself. Huckle let out a massive pent-up gasp and inadvertently pushed on the accelerator too hard, causing the car to spurt a little through the water and requiring him to pull back on course equally quickly. His pulse rate was going through the roof and he had to force himself to keep to the endless slow and steady pace.

  There was one lone figure out and about, he saw, as he eventually approached, very, very gingerly, like a man on a high wire, the little road next to the jetty on Mount Polbearne. It was Patrick the vet, out walking his dog and picking up rubbish, starting on what would be a huge clean-up process. He tipped his hat as Huckle, shaking slightly, his brow damp with sweat, turned into the car park, breathing heavily as he pulled on the handbrake.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Patrick, as if they were just passing in the street. ‘Is that one of those car boats, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Huckle faintly. ‘No, it’s not one of those car boats.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Patrick. ‘Well, you sailed it nicely, anyway. You should have been here last night, you can’t imagine what it was like. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve lived here fifty-eight years.’

  ‘I heard,’ said Huckle, wild-eyed suddenly. ‘Have you… I mean, where’s Polly?’

  Patrick wrinkled his forehead.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can’t remember where she went.’

  He looked around in astonishment as Huckle pushed past him and tore off along the harbour.

  ‘I was going to say,’ he added, ‘after the amazing things she did last night. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve had enough sleep. I wish the bakery was open to give me a cup of coffee.’

  ‘POL!’

  The door to the lighthouse was lying open, and Huckle charged up the stairs, drenched in sweat. The place was in disarray. Tools were lying about as if they’d been thrown down. He burst into the sitting room. It was a mess: cups and plates lying about. But no Polly. It was as if she’d simply disappeared. Huckle’s heart was in his mouth. What had happened here?

  ‘POLLY!’

  He charged up and down, but there was no sign of her. He shook his head. Where was she? He noticed the van – it must be Nan the Van, he thought – as he ran back outside. No wonder it had been so cheap; Polly hadn’t mentioned it was half painted green with bog-standard paint. He shook his head and raced on past it.

  The doors of the Little Beach Street Bakery were open too, but there was no food in any of its windows. Malcolm was standing outside disconsolately. His night of popularity had been just about the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he had been very sad when they had all gone off to the pub, not even inviting him. He looked around with a sigh, only to see a huge, wild-eyed blond man bearing down on him. He had only met Huckle once, and didn’t remember who he was.

  ‘YOU!’ the giant roared. ‘YOU! Where the fuck is Polly? You took her shop, you took her job, you’ve made a total balls-up of it by all accounts, and you have bloody ruined her life and…’

  He ran out of breath.

  ‘Where the fuck is she?’

  Huckle knew he shouldn’t really be taking his frustration out on Malcolm, but he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Seriously, tell me, you little fat lump!’

  Malcolm quivered. Like all bullies, he was a terrific coward, always had been. Plus, Flora had disappeared last night, leaving him to turn off the ovens and tidy up all the pools of water and coats and jackets that were everywhere, which was more work, frankly, than he liked to undertake at any one time. As he had climbed the dark and lonely road to Mrs Manse’s chilly, dank old flat and her creaking bed with its dusty counterpane, he had sworn that that was it, he was done with this bloody place.

  And that was before this man started shouting at him in the street.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Malcolm wanted to say, how the hell should I know, but all the fight had gone out of him. He was done. Tiredly he jerked his thumb towards the flat above the shop.

  ‘She’s up there,’ he said wearily, just as a great slosh of water overflowed from his clogged-up drain, which Polly had always got Jayden to do after a rainstorm, and cascaded down the back of his one suit.

  Huckle stared up at the window of her old flat.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Malcolm blinked crossly and was about to say something sarcastic, but Huckle had already dashed past him like he wasn’t even there. As he turned away to try and dry himself off, the sun came out.

  Chapter Thirty

  Polly had absolutely no idea where she was when she woke up, but the sun was dazzling through the window, the light reflecting off the water, as if the storm had been nothing more than a dream. She shook her head. Where was she? What was going on? What was that loud banging on the door?

  She sat up, then groaned. Her ribs were on fire; it was agony this morning, far worse than it had been last night. And her head was full, overspilling. She had a quick panic about missing the morning bread, before remembering there was no bread that morning; could not be. She jumped up. It must be Selina banging at the door. She must have locked her out last night. Oh goodness, she hadn’t meant to. Well at least she hadn’t disturbed the bed.

  Polly moved carefully towards the door, rubbing her face, which was still streaked in salt. Her hair was a mass of untameable frizz, which was going to need some serious work to get it back to normal. Well she could think about that later.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she shouted, her voice still cracked and hoarse. ‘I must have let the snub lock fall…’

  Her voice trailed off as she opened the door. To her total and utter shock, there, shining golden in the morning light, somehow taller and broader than she remembered, was Huckle.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she croaked. Then again, ‘Oh my God.’

  Huckle looked a total state. He was wearing a stained shirt. His shoes and trousers were soaking wet. His hair was sticking up, his eyes were red and puffy. He was covered in stubble. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

  Polly felt his heart beating up against hers. He was hurting her ribs, crushing her like that. She couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘Jesus,’ Huckle was saying, over and over again. ‘Jesus! I can’t let you out of my sight for a second!’

  He pulled away and noticed her face.

  ‘Okay. A couple of months.’

  She shook her head and nestled back into him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I know you only went for me, for us. I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time about it. I’m sorry I put you through all that.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Huckle. ‘I’m such an idiot, Polly. SUCH an idiot. I don’t know what I was thinking. Nothing is worth being apart from you. Nothing.’

  ‘Not even Nan the Van?’

  ‘Oh yes, I need to speak to you about that,’ said Huckle, and Polly rolled her eyes and said all in good time, but first of all, please, could they go home?
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br />   Polly ran the big copper bath as full as she could, steam filling the little bathroom, emptying the cistern. She hurled in all the posh smellies, and they shed their clothes and got into the bath together, and gently, carefully, Huckle washed her all over, and exclaimed at her ribs, and shampooed her hair while she told him the whole story from the beginning, and he listened open-mouthed to all of it and told her how brave she’d been. And as she told it, Polly began to feel its burden, the weight of what she’d been through, lift and lessen a bit, although she did cry at the part when they brought the boy in without his mother, and Huckle shushed her and felt privileged to have heard the story for the first time, even though over the next few weeks she’d be made to repeat it absolutely everywhere as the family went to the papers about their amazing rescue. Which was, Patrick later pointed out, the second stupid thing they had done, because of course the papers totally eviscerated them for going out in weather like that, and they got named Britain’s worst parents and the entire thing was a massive scandal. Anyway, the papers dug up the picture of Polly looking mad and depressed and staring out to sea and used it loads of times, which was a bit tedious until everything died down and she could stop explaining that actually it was Selina who’d done all the really hard work; she’d just been carrying the light.

  Huckle carefully combed out her hair, until they were both warm and clean and comfortable again, then carried her up the stairs and, as gently as he could, showed her how pleased he was to see her, which Polly was unsurprised to find made her feel even better than she had before; as if all her fears and worries had simply been swept away.

  And then they slept, both of them, through the sun of the afternoon, until a policeman appeared to write down everything that had happened. They both felt sheepish about letting everyone else clear up the detritus, so after that, they grabbed bin bags in the late-afternoon golden haze and went down to the beach to help pick up the driftwood and the general rubbish. It was impossible to even believe what conditions had been like the previous evening.

  Every step they took, people came up to them asking after them both, delighted to see Huckle again, ready to tell him once more what it had been like. Only Polly knew what Huckle himself had been through; how brave he had been too, in more ways than one. As he was regaled with tales that he listened to as politely as he always did – which is to say, very – she would move in close and gently squeeze his hand, and he would squeeze hers back, and they wouldn’t have to say anything at all, except every so often Huckle would check his phone and sigh, and Polly would give him a worried look.

  Finally, at around 6 p.m., it came. The low ring. Huckle looked at Polly and she looked at him.

  ‘If you have to go back,’ she’d said, and he’d simply shaken his head and said no, never, and she’d said what about Clemmie, and Huckle had said they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

  They held hands as he answered the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was a long pause. Finally, Dubose’s voice, so similar to Huckle’s, spoke.

  ‘Hey, bro.’

  There was another long silence. Then Dubose went on.

  ‘I can’t… Man, I’m going to be a dad.’

  There was a long chat after that, and amends made, and promises too – which Huckle didn’t think would be kept, but Polly maybe did; and extreme protestations of gratitude at how Huckle had turned the farm around, which Huckle absolutely deserved.

  ‘It was the paperwork getting me down, man,’ said Dubose. ‘I couldn’t get on top of it, I just panicked.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Huckle. They were on speakerphone.

  ‘Could you… say goodbye to that sweet chick? Tell her I didn’t mean it.’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘I will,’ she lied. She intended never to mention Dubose to Selina ever again.

  The rest of Mount Polbearne turned in early that night, but Polly, overwhelmed, and Huckle, jet-lagged, sat on the harbour wall with their fish and chips, kicking their heels, gazing out at the beautiful pink and gold sunset. It was like a different world.

  ‘I wondered,’ said Huckle. ‘I wondered, what with the storm and everything… I wondered if you would be thinking…’

  They were watching the seagulls circle overhead, the noisy pests conscious that there were chips in the area. Polly read his mind.

  ‘If Neil would come back? Like he did before?’

  She reached for another chip and shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. I’ve accepted it. I know you thought I never would, but I have. Puffins aren’t pets. They aren’t meant to live with us. It was hard, but it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, though?’ said Huckle. ‘Truly?’

  Polly nodded. Her eyes were suddenly filled with tears.

  ‘It doesn’t mean I didn’t love him,’ she insisted.

  ‘Oh, I know that.’

  ‘It’s only because I loved him… really loved him, that I could give him up. Do the right thing.’

  She sighed, toying with her little wooden fork. ‘God, it sucks being grown-up sometimes. I’m sorry if I… if I took my sadness about Neil out on you. You didn’t deserve that. I was just so lonely.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Huckle. ‘I was lonely too. Incredibly lonely.’

  ‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘It’s just, every time we spoke, you were…’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I don’t know why they say love means never having to say you’re sorry,’ said Polly suddenly. ‘I think it means having to say you’re sorry A LOT.’

  Huckle nodded in agreement. Then he turned to her.

  ‘I really love you,’ he said. He smiled, and, suddenly, fingered his pocket.

  Polly looked at him.

  Suddenly, the bay, which had been completely free of boats – all shipping had been ordered to stay away from the region as a precautionary measure – was split apart by a roaring noise, and the tranquillity of the scene was shattered.

  They both stared for a moment, then sat up straight.

  ‘Is that…’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s only the bloody Riva,’ said Huckle. Reuben’s beautiful Italian motorboat had been his pride and joy.

  Polly craned her eyes against the sun.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘No way.’

  Resplendent in too-tight red shorts, a vest top with a gold necklace and the ubiquitous bug-shaped Oakley glasses was Reuben, standing up at the front waving like mad; and next to him, wearing a fuchsia-pink dress that billowed in the wind, was Kerensa.

  ‘NO WAY!’

  Polly and Huckle jumped up, waving, as Reuben and Kerensa slooshed the boat in with some style and tied her up at the jetty, with Huckle’s help.

  ‘What on earth?’ said Huckle. ‘Did you steal this?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Reuben, grinning broadly.

  ‘Ooh, chips,’ said Kerensa, helping herself to Polly’s. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  ‘Um, there was a huge storm.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I heard about that in the papers. We were in London. Anything happen?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Polly, who was suddenly far more interested in what they were up to. ‘What were you doing in London?’

  ‘Well,’ said Reuben, puffing out his little chest. ‘It was brilliant obviously being Kerensa’s sex slave…’

  ‘It was nice,’ agreed Kerensa. ‘But I couldn’t take that fricking micro-scooter one second longer. Man, it was a buzz kill.’

  ‘So,’ said Reuben, ‘I just invented something impossibly brilliant and sold it.’

  They looked at him. There was a very long pause.

  ‘What is it?’ said Polly suspiciously.

  ‘If I could explain it to you, they wouldn’t pay me all that money for it, duh,’ said Reuben. ‘And I haven’t even been to Shanghai yet. You could go to jail for knowing.’

  ‘What IS it?’ said Polly.

  Reuben rolled his e
yes.

  ‘Okay, how deep is your understanding of the mathematics of quantum code in lithium inputs? Because I guess we’d start there.’

  ‘Okay, never mind,’ said Polly. ‘No. All I need to understand at this point is lighthouse maintenance.’

  ‘Which you don’t even need,’ said Huckle. ‘Because I am home and I am staying.’

  He kissed her on the shoulder.

  ‘Oh yeah, Huckle’s home,’ said Polly, seeing as no one had mentioned it. Kerensa and Reuben just shook their heads.