Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  The oven was absolutely black with filth – Polly sighed and mentally assigned herself another two hours’ hard labour – and was the old-fashioned kind that required a long match and a steady hand until the flame caught at the back. But the gas hissed reassuringly, startling the puffin, who had been practising walking with his bound-up wing, his claws clacking on the wooden floorboards. Polly glanced at her watch.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m going to do it. Then I’ll take you to the vet.’

  The puffin tilted his head at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say vet.’

  She clicked the kettle on to heat the water for the yeast, then moved the table by the chimney breast over to the kitchenette, to at least give herself the illusion of having a worktop. She shook some flour out on to the freshly cleaned surface. The puffin bustled over to see what she was up to, trying vainly to hop upwards.

  ‘No chance,’ she said. ‘You’re mucky, and I don’t want footprints in the flour.’

  The puffin eeped a bit, so she relented and hoisted him up, running enough soapy water in the sink to cover his feet. He liked this a lot, kicking out at the bubbles and making happy noises. Polly turned the radio on, and he seemed to like that too.

  ‘Right, you play,’ she said, and picked up the bread dough in her hands. It felt sticky, which was good – the stickier the dough, the lighter the bread – but it was too sticky too work with, and she sprinkled more flour underneath it. Then she set to work kneading. She pushed and pounded, pulled the dough out then folded it back again.

  As she did so, she found that something odd was happening. First, a song she loved came on the radio: ‘Get Lucky’. Given how much luck she currently felt in need of, this struck her as perfect, and she turned the radio up incredibly loud. It was cheesy, but she absolutely didn’t care; it made her feel good every time she heard it. Secondly, she could see, out of the newly cleaned front windows, watery spring sunshine bouncing off the waves. A brave little sailing boat, its white sail flapping in the wind, was taking a trip out of the harbour. To her left she could hear the puffin happily splashing in his little paddling pool.

  Suddenly Polly felt something. As she threw, and pushed, and kneaded, it was as if an energy was leaving her body. A bad energy. She hadn’t even realised how high her shoulders had been; how much tension there had been locked up in the knots behind her neck. They must have been hunched about her ears.

  There had been no one, she realised, no one in months to put a hand on her neck, to say to her, there, there, you seem so stressed. She had spent so long trying to look after Chris; trying to keep up appearances to the rest of the world; trying not to invite pity from Kerensa and their other friends, that all her worries had stored themselves up inside her.

  She stretched her arms out luxuriously, realising, as her gaze followed the little white-sailed boat bobbing out to sea, how long it had been since she had focused on anything further away than a computer screen.

  And as if starting to unknot the muscles in her shoulders had caused something else to loosen too, she felt a tear plopping off the end of her nose; a great big salty tear that fell directly on to the dough.

  But they weren’t the frustrated, angry tears of yesterday at the harbour, raging against the world and its horrible unfairness. These were cathartic tears; unstoppable but somehow not upsetting. She let them fall, couldn’t wipe them away even if she’d wanted to with her doughy hands, and tried instead to be, for once, in the moment – not regretting the way things had worked out, or panicking madly about the future, or thinking about what she could have done differently, or said to Chris, or worked on or planned for, but instead listening to the radio, which had changed now to another pop song she loved, and the splashing, and feeling the dough change and mould under her fingers as the sun sparkled on the now empty sea.

  It wasn’t as warm outside as the sunlight might have suggested; a harsh salty wind still blew through the town. Polly left the dough to proof in a sunny spot, cleaned herself up a little, then set out with the puffin, who was slightly grumpy, under her arm to look for a vet. The woman in the grocer’s shop where she bought her milk and soup was happily a lot more polite than the woman in the bakery, and directed her to a small surgery which appeared to be shared with the doctor’s. Polly panicked for a moment when she got there about how much it was going to cost; she’d heard vets were expensive. But there wasn’t a lot she could do about it.

  The vet was rather peremptory and busy, but he raised his head from his computer when she arrived with the box.

  ‘Um,’ she said. ‘He had a bit of an accident.’

  The vet, whose name was Patrick, and who secretly hated cats, looked up at this and put on his glasses. Then he looked at the woman who’d brought the box in. Tired-looking, but pretty. Her hair was strawberry blonde and soft around her shoulder blades, her eyes were unusually green, and her lips were, at the moment, being nervously bitten, but it looked like there might be a nice smile under there.

  ‘Are you passing through?’ he remarked.

  ‘No. Yes. No,’ said the woman.

  ‘So you’re not sure?’

  ‘No. Yes. I mean…’ Polly felt flustered. She was going nuts, she told herself; she hadn’t spoken to enough people recently. ‘I mean, I’m renting a place here. Temporarily.’

  Patrick frowned. ‘Why would you do that?’

  Polly felt quite cross. She certainly wasn’t going to say ‘It’s all I can afford, thank you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with here?’ she replied instead.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ sighed Patrick. ‘It’s just, most people who come down here prefer Rock or St Ives; you know, those places.’

  ‘Well I’m not most people,’ said Polly.

  ‘No, I can see that,’ said Patrick, glancing into the box. ‘You do know this is a seabird.’

  ‘Good Lord, really?’ said Polly. ‘I had it down as an armadillo.’

  Patrick smiled despite himself. ‘It’s just that normally… I mean, round here we don’t really suffer from a shortage of seabirds.’

  ‘Well there’s no shortage of cats either, but I’m sure it doesn’t stop you treating them,’ said Polly, stung.

  ‘That is true,’ said Patrick grimly, lifting the puffin out of the box. ‘Come on then, little fellow.’

  His gruff manner belied a very gentle touch. The puffin jumped slightly, but let himself be picked up. Patrick looked at the bandage.

  ‘That’s not a bad job,’ he said, glancing up.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Polly. ‘I’m glad I took that bird rescue evening class.’

  Patrick looked at her. ‘Do you know how many puffins there are at the sanctuary in the north?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea,’ said Polly. ‘I missed that week.’

  ‘About one point four million,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Well this is the one I like,’ said Polly stubbornly.

  Patrick looked serious again. ‘You can’t keep him, you know.’ He checked under the feathers. ‘Yes, it is a he.’

  Polly smiled. ‘I knew that,’ she said, tickling the puffin’s ear. ‘Why not? Is he protected or something?’

  ‘No, it’s just not good for him. He needs to fly and breed and grow up. He’s only a puffling.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A puffling. A baby puffin.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Polly. ‘That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Well, cute or not, he needs to be with his loomery.’

  ‘His what?’

  ‘His loomery. It’s the name for a group of puffins.’

  ‘A loomery of puffins,’ said Polly. ‘That’s lovely. It sounds like one of those really weird independent albums my ex used to buy.’

  She smiled, a touch wryly. Aha, thought Patrick. An ex. That probably explained a lot.

  ‘Or an improbability,’ he added. ‘That’s the other word. An improbability of puffins. But I don’t like that so much; there’s nothin
g improbable about puffins, there’s billions of the damn things.’

  The little puffin opened his bright orange beak and croaked. Patrick leant over to a drawer, took out some fish food and put some down for him to peck.

  Polly sighed. ‘So I have to give him up,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Well, no point in doing it until he’s fixed,’ Patrick said. ‘He can’t fly. Do you think you could look after him until he’s better?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Polly, delighted. ‘Yes, I think I could. How long will that be?’

  ‘Two or three weeks?’ said Patrick. ‘He seems quite happy. Birds are much more likely to die of fright than anything else.’

  ‘I think this puffin is pretty chilled,’ said Polly.

  ‘All right. Don’t get attached, though, okay? When he’s ready to fly away, you’ll have to let him go.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Don’t give him a name.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Polly stood up to go.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  Patrick waved his hand.

  ‘I didn’t do anything; you’re the nurse. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Polly. ‘Thank you SO much.’

  He was surprised at the vehemence of her gratitude. Her clothes weren’t super-expensive, but they weren’t that cheap either.

  ‘Just don’t make a habit of it,’ he said. ‘You foster a seagull, you’ll know all about it.’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ said Polly, still happy. ‘I don’t suppose I could get him a lead, could I?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Patrick, half smiling as he ushered her out of his office. There were two cats in the waiting room, hissing at one another like clawed snakes.

  ‘Right. He’ll probably want to fly off of his own accord, but if he’s still around in three weeks, bring him back in.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Polly, and finally she smiled. He’d been right, thought Patrick. She did have a lovely smile. He wondered what had made it disappear.

  Polly continued to feel more cheerful than she had in a while, walking up the little high street with the puffin in the box. She took the route down towards the harbour again and headed along past the boats. Tarnie’s boat, the Trochilus, was in harbour, and she was looking at it when she ran into the man himself.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ he said as she tripped over a cobblestone and nearly stumbled into his arms. His beard brushed the top of her head. ‘You’re looking a bit more cheery.’

  Polly winced at the memory. ‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ she admitted.

  ‘That book you lent me is a bit strange,’ he said, in his odd thick accent. Polly liked it.

  ‘Oh, you’ve started it!’

  ‘Not a lot to do when you’re heading out to sea. Then, suddenly, a LOT to do.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think whoever wrote it might have been dabbling in things he shouldn’t have.’

  Polly smiled. ‘Interesting. I think he was just a bit peculiar.’

  ‘More’n a bit, I’d say. Who’s this, then?’

  Polly glanced into the box. The bird was looking up at her expectantly, as if waiting to be introduced.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m, er… Fostering a puffin.’

  Tarnie frowned. ‘Is this like a joke someone’s playing on you for being the new girl in town? You have to tell me if they’re being mean to you.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Polly, and she told him the whole story.

  ‘Well, I never heard of anyone keeping a seabird as a pet before,’ said Tarnie. ‘They taste pretty good though, puffins.’

  ‘No!’ said Polly. ‘Ssh! I’ll have to cover his ears and I’m not sure where they are.’

  ‘He’s an Icelandic grey,’ said Tarnie. ‘Durnt speak English.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Don’t eat puffins.’

  ‘You eat duck, don’t you?’

  ‘This conversation is over.’

  Tarnie chucked the bird under the chin. ‘Well, you’re obviously smitten,’ he said. ‘Got a name for him yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Polly dubiously. ‘The vet told me not to give him one.’

  ‘You can’t just call him “the puffin”. What about Pete?’

  ‘Peter Puffin?’ said Polly. ‘Not sure. Sounds a bit like a newsreader. What about Muffin?’

  ‘MUFFIN?’ said Tarnie. ‘I can’t believe you’d inflict that on the poor thing. All the other birds will laugh their heads off at him.’

  ‘Or think it’s cool,’ said Polly. ‘Having an actual name, instead of “Puffin nine million and seventy-two”.’

  ‘Ha, you could call him Stud,’ said Tarnie. ‘Stud Puffin, get it?’

  ‘I do,’ said Polly. ‘And I think it’s offensive.’

  Tarnie smiled and found a stone in his pocket. He turned quickly and threw it far off out to sea.

  ‘I don’t think he should have a cute name,’ mused Polly. ‘It’ll be weird to be a named puffin. I’ll give him something that will make him feel safe.’

  The puffin wobbled forward in his box.

  ‘Like Neil.’

  ‘Neil?’

  ‘Yes. Good solid, honest name. Neil the puffin.’

  Neil shook out the feathers on his uninjured side.

  ‘See, he likes it.’

  ‘You’re nuttier than the girl in that book,’ said Tarnie.

  ‘You’re jealous of my puffin,’ said Polly.

  ‘If you say so,’ said Tarnie. ‘Bring him down to the boat later. I’ll give him a bit of herring.’

  ‘I will,’ said Polly.

  Back in the little flat, the dough had swollen up to twice its normal size. Polly kneaded it again, sat down for forty minutes – she slightly fell asleep – then woke up and lit the terrifying oven, which set itself alight with a whomping noise. She ladled the sticky mixture into a battered old blackened pot she’d found in a drawer underneath the oven. It had a suspicious patina from decades of use, but she had nothing else. Hopefully it wouldn’t be poisonous. She wiped it round with olive oil to try and stop the bread sticking, and crossed her fingers. Then she took a deep breath and tackled the bathroom again. The first scrub hadn’t quite got it all; she’d discovered the linoleum, but had ignored the end bit of the long, narrow room, which was carpeted.

  Is there anything worse, she thought, than carpets in bathrooms? Carpets in bathrooms with loose roof tiles that let the rain in from time to time; bathrooms that have played home to a passing population of temporary renters, bachelors, bedsittees, people with no vested interest in the place at all. She glanced underneath the horrible cheap squares. The original floorboards were still there. And it wasn’t a bad size for a bathroom, with another window looking up into the town. She imagined pale blue tongue and groove all down the walls; a claw-foot bath on a raised platform, so you could sit and watch the boats bob about whilst you were in the tub; some pretty shells maybe… She wrenched herself back from her silly reverie to concentrate on the matter at hand, which was a) to clean the place enough so that she didn’t catch some revolting disease; b) to sort herself out and find a proper job; c) to get over… well. Deal with things. Get back on her feet. Stop embarrassing her friends by bursting into tears every time she had two glasses of wine. Find inner peace.

  HAHAHA. Polly picked up a square of cheap office carpet with mysterious-looking brown stains on it, and damp newspaper from 1994, and sighed.

  Still, at least there was a good smell coming from the kitchen, which overlaid the numerous less pleasant ones she was uncovering. She kept her rubber gloves on and emptied bucket after bucket of dirty water down the drain until the bathroom was, if not sparkling, at least not reminiscent of some upsetting BBC2 documentary about a substandard housing estate that was about to be hit with a wrecking ball.

  Finally, she stood up and stretched. She could finally see her reflection in the mirror – she looked pink and a bit flushed. She’d run water into the s
ink for Neil, deciding, having checked over his feathers, that he was a very clean puffin, without too many vermin. She tried to smile at herself. It had been a while since she’d smiled properly, she thought. Two furrows seemed to have landed between her eyebrows without her noticing, as if she constantly held her face in a worried frown. Perhaps she did. She smiled again – okay, she was looking a bit mad now – then headed into the main room of her odd little home.

  Inside the oven, her loaf – it was a cottage loaf, with a smaller round head on top – had risen beautifully and was a gorgeous golden brown. It smelled absolutely heavenly. She slid it out of the oven with the only oven gloves that came to hand: a horrible old mucky tea towel – she’d definitely have to start a laundry pile, she decided – and turned it upside down, tapping it lightly on the bottom. It sounded crisp and fresh.

  Polly felt much more cheerful suddenly, reflecting that she had done two things that morning – well, three if you counted Neil’s bandage – that had turned out well: she had cleaned the bathroom and made some bread. It probably wouldn’t seem much to anybody else, she thought, but it was a big step for her.

  When the bread was cool enough, she cut it into thick doorsteps and spread it with butter and a little jam she’d brought with her. Then, putting Neil back in his box – he didn’t seem to mind this at all, though Polly wondered in passing if he might sit on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, then discarded the thought as being a) ridiculous, b) messy, c) bad for Neil and d) confusing, given that her name was Polly to begin with – she headed down to the harbour.

  The fishermen were mending nets in the weak afternoon sunlight and gathered round her shouting cheerful hellos, which pleased her a lot.