by Jenny Colgan
‘What’s this, then?’
‘Er, I made some bread.’
‘You made it? Yourself?’ said Jayden.
‘No, I found it in my new flat,’ said Polly. ‘Of course I made it. Would you like some?’
Tarnie grinned at her. ‘Want some tea?’
In two ticks, there were chipped blue and white enamel cups, filled from an urn with ridiculously strong tea. Polly was given milk and two sugars without being asked. Then everyone tucked into the bread and jam, and Tarnie made good on his promise to produce some herring for Neil, so everyone was happy.
‘This is fantastic,’ said one of the boys. Someone else with his mouth full agreed.
‘I’ve never had home-made bread before,’ said the youngest, Kendall, the pink-cheeked boy, who could barely grow a beard.
‘Really?’ said Polly. ‘Do you like it?’
He shrugged. ‘I like anything really.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Tarnie. ‘This is brilliant. It’s really good. Do you know what it could do with, though?’
‘You could get some of that nutter’s honey for it,’ said Jayden.
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ said Tarnie.
‘Whose honey?’
‘The only other person to move to the region in years,’ said Tarnie. ‘When everyone else is getting the hell out – excuse my language.’
‘That’s not language,’ said Polly happily. She was incredibly pleased with how the bread had turned out. It didn’t taste at all like when she’d made it back in Plymouth. It had a deeper, richer flavour. She wondered, slightly anxiously, if it could be anything to do with the old burned black oven and the old burned black dishes. Hmm. And the fact that she’d cried into the dough, she remembered. She flushed a little pink.
‘Well it is – you’re blushing,’ said Tarnie.
‘I’m not really,’ she said. ‘Who’s the honey person?’
‘He’s weird,’ said Jayden.
‘He’s American,’ corrected Tarnie. ‘That’s not weird. Well, you know. It is a bit weird but it’s not his fault.’
‘There’s an American who came here to make honey?’ asked Polly.
‘I think he was misinformed,’ said Tarnie. ‘I’m not quite sure what he thought he was coming to. But he got nine months of rain anyway. He’s on the mainland.’
‘Gosh,’ said Polly. ‘He sounds…’
‘Loopy,’ said Jayden. ‘This is great. Can I have some more?’
‘Can I have some more too?’ said Kendall quickly, jam across his mouth like a five-year-old.
‘Boys! Quieten down,’ said Tarnie. He brushed at some crumbs. He wasn’t in his yellow sou’wester today; he was wearing a Breton shirt and faded cut-off jeans, and his beard was trimmed.
‘Uh oh,’ said Jayden suddenly. He took a second piece of bread and jam from the plate and hid it behind his back.
‘What?’ said Polly, turning round. All the fishermen’s faces had fallen and one or two of them had disappeared into the body of the boat. It was the woman from the bakery, and, of course, Polly’s new landlady. Outside, oddly, she looked even larger, a round wobble of a woman, though it in no way slowed her down as she marched directly towards them. A seagull set up cawing and looking for lost crumbs, adding to the ominous atmosphere.
Tarnie ran a hand through his thick hair as the woman approached.
‘Er, afternoon, Mizzus Manse.’
The woman sniffed loudly. ‘Afternoon, Cornelius.’
Polly raised her eyebrows and Tarnie shot her a slightly hunted look.
Mrs Manse didn’t bother saying hello to anybody else. ‘What are you eating?’
‘Um, just…’
Polly glanced down at the plate; half the loaf was still there.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘We’re just having a little tea break, Gillian. I’m sure you understand.’
Gillian Manse’s face darkened and she drew herself up sturdily.
‘I tell you what I don’t understand. When we’re all trying to pull together and stop local businesses going under and be proper Polbearnites and have a bit of pride, I don’t understand why you’re going to some happy-go-lucky incomer for your bread.’
‘It was just —’
‘I mean, I am the only baker in town. And I know you didn’t buy that from me.’
‘Now, Gillian —’
‘I made it,’ said Polly, feeling ridiculous that she’d gone a little shaky. Who did this horrible woman think she was? She could make whatever the hell she wanted.
‘You did WHAT?’
She might as well have said ‘I spat in it.’
‘I… I made the bread.’
‘You. Made. The. Bread.’ Gillian looked utterly insulted. ‘And what’s wrong with my bread?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with your bread,’ said Tarnie, trying to be placatory and spreading out his hands. ‘It’s just that Polly here —’
‘Polly,’ said Gillian.
‘Polly made us a snack. You know, she’s new.’
‘Obviously she’s new,’ sniffed Gillian. ‘She’s taking up space in my house. I know she’s new.’
Polly stiffened as the woman turned towards her.
‘People in this town get their bread from me,’ Mrs Manse said menacingly.
Polly was determined not to be cowed. ‘But I’m not from this town.’
‘All the more reason,’ said Gillian, ‘for you to keep away from other people’s businesses and stop trying to ruin them.’
Ordinarily Polly wasn’t an easy person to intimidate, but this hit home.
‘I would never,’ she said quietly, ‘try and ruin anyone’s business.’
Mrs Manse glanced witheringly at her rough-hewn efforts.
‘No, not with that you won’t.’
Polly bit her lip.
‘I’ll be on my way,’ said Mrs Manse, giving them all another dose of the bad eyes. As she manoeuvred her considerable bulk to go back along the harbour, she stopped and glanced into Polly’s box. Polly winced.
‘What is this?’ said Gillian, eyeing up Neil, who eyed her back beadily.
‘Oh yes, I’m taking on the butcher next,’ said Polly in a low voice, and Tarnie couldn’t help grinning.
Mrs Manse raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a shame when people arrive in town and can’t fit in,’ she hissed. ‘But they usually move on soon enough.’
After she’d gone, and the other fishermen had re-emerged, Polly had to sit down.
‘Don’t worry about Gillian,’ said Tarnie, uncomfortably. ‘That’s just her way.’
‘To behave like the DEVIL?’ said Polly. ‘How can that be a “way”? “Oh, you know he killed all those people? Just Harold Shipman’s way.”’
‘Aye, well. She’s lived here a long time.’
‘She’s probably what’s been holding this town back. Oh Lord, and she’s my landlady. She’s actually going to kick me out for baking.’
‘She’s scared of change really.’
‘But I went to her bakery.’
‘Aye, it’s kind of gone downhill…’
‘It’s horrible.’
‘It’s all she’s got,’ said Tarnie. ‘It’s hard to scratch a living round here, you know.’ The look in his eyes made it clear that his words were heartfelt.
‘So why’s she doing her best to drive trade away?’ said Polly. ‘I’m never going back there ever again.’
‘Neither am I,’ said Jayden. ‘Polly, can you make bread for us every day?’
‘Yes please,’ said Kendall.
‘Um, your boss says not, apparently,’ said Polly, giving Tarnie a look. ‘Don’t want to upset Mrs Manse. Although she seems pretty upset already.’
Tarnie didn’t look happy. Polly decided to head off.
‘Me and Neil have to get back,’ she said. ‘Cornelius.’
The other boys laughed at that.
‘It’s…’ Tarnie looked a bit embarrassed. ‘It’s tricky.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Tarnie, and for a moment there was a slightly embarrassed silence between them.
‘Right, well, we’ll be off,’ said Polly. She looked at the plate. ‘I’ll get that when you’ve finished.’
As she walked off, Tarnie suddenly seemed to remember something and called after her. Polly turned back. He was holding up a bundle wrapped in newspaper.
‘It’s a cod,’ he said. ‘I gutted it for you. Fry it up in a bit of butter and lemon and it’ll be right good.’
Neil eeped excitedly.
‘It’s not for you, young man,’ he said. ‘It’s for your mistress.’
Polly took the cold package as the peace offering it was.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Have a good night.’
Tarnie looked at the great cluster of dark grey clouds that had sprung up whilst they were talking, obliterating the weak sunlight of earlier like a menacing bully.
‘I don’t think it’s going to be a good night at all,’ he said.
Although Polly still had her laptop – it was so old and huge the creditors hadn’t wanted it – and some DVDs to play in it, she found that actually, as she ate the fish – which did indeed taste divine with nothing more than a little lemon and salt and pepper, cooked in the last of her olive oil – and a salad made, for the first time in years, from individual lettuce leaves rather than an expensive plastic bag, she was quite happy just to sit by the window, watching as the weather lowered and the rain started to clatter against the cobblestones and the harbour walls, and the wind made the entire house rattle and creak. She saw the fishing boats, looking tiny against the might of the flailing sea, puttering one by one out into the ocean, their lights growing feebler as they bobbed along. Soon she was no longer able to identify the Trochilus, as it weaved in and out of the line and into the chill and unforgiving night. She shivered and thought of the men out there in that tiny boat under the huge sky as the stars began to pop out, only to be covered again by the hastening clouds and the roaring wind.
After supper, out of nothing other than sheer mischief, she kneaded up another batch of bread and set it to rise next to Neil’s cardboard nest. Then she climbed into bed and fell asleep straight away.
She didn’t know what woke her this time.
Most likely it was Neil, shuffling about in his box. She sat bolt upright, the sheet she’d hung over the windows only partly keeping out the light swooshing over her then vanishing, leaving the room once more in darkness. The waves crashed against the harbour wall; it was windy out, but not stormy. Some instinct took her to the window, and she pulled the sheet aside, not entirely awake.
Outside was blackness. Seawater had spattered against the windows and the taste of salt was in the air; Polly had left the window very slightly open. She craned to see outside rather than her own sleepy reflection.
Suddenly, as the lighthouse beam flitted past, she saw it. An outline – a figure, a mere shadow – standing on the quay, staring out over the water. Not moving, not doing anything; just standing stock still.
Polly jumped, startled, dazzled by the light, which was now gone. She couldn’t refocus her eyes in time, and everything was dark. Who would be out there at this time of night, standing in the dark? Chilled by the night air and the motionless figure, she waited ninety interminable seconds for the lighthouse to complete its cycle. But this time as the light came over, there was nothing and nobody there. The harbour was deserted, its dock empty of boats – the fish must still be running – the causeway invisible, Mount Polbearne an island once again, being gradually reclaimed by the sea. Polly shook her head. It must have been a trick of the light. She crawled thankfully back into her warm bed.
The next morning the entire thing had slipped from her mind like a dream.
Chapter Eight
The next day dawned chilly but sunny; the attic rooms were cold. Polly checked Neil’s bandage (he hopped over towards her quite happily now, and she skritched him behind the ears) as she toasted the tiny bit of leftovers from yesterday’s bread in a toaster she found out a little too late hadn’t been cleaned out since the royal wedding before the last royal wedding.
It didn’t, however, detract from the quality of the bread. It had a rich nuttiness, a perfectly balanced crumb, and tasted sweet and wholesome, with a quick swoosh of lovely butter melting on the top. Neil immediately left his tuna and hopped over to explore what she was eating, and she fed him some crumbs straight from her fingers.
‘Even better than fish?’ she said, smiling, then got up to pop in some more, and reminded herself to clean the toaster.
After breakfast, she cleared up and sat by herself looking out of the window. This was a novelty in itself. She had never really been alone, from her grotty flat shares back at college, through the shared house with Kerensa, to the years in the flat with Chris. The silence – apart from the wheeling gulls – was soft and amazing. She realised she hadn’t charged her phone, or even thought about it. She probably ought to do that. But after the last few months of dodging creditors, or taking phone calls for Chris that he just couldn’t deal with ‘right at this moment, Pol, can’t you SEE I’m busy, for Chrissakes?’, and basically feeling the entire time like she was on the run from a pack of hungry wolves, the relief of it all being over, even if she’d been left with next to nothing, felt like a blessing, a moment of solace.
Of course, there was a limit to how long she could go on staying here. She had a tiny allowance and a short lease, but if one of her shoes got a hole in it, she was completely screwed. She needed a job. A real, proper job. She needed an internet connection and a computer and an updated CV and a vehicle of some sort, she guessed.
In her fantasy, there would be some little business nearby in desperate need of a local office manager who would let her work flexible hours for when the tide was high, or pay her enough so that she could move back to the mainland. Many of the prettier villages up the Cornwall and Devon coastline had attracted hi-tech start-ups whose employees liked to code all night and surf all day. But this southern inlet didn’t really have the surf, or the quaintness, or the cool cafés those people liked to hang out in. Which meant she’d probably end up commuting back to Plymouth – which meant she’d need a car, though she wasn’t quite sure how that would work, given that she couldn’t get financing or use a credit card. Alternatively she’d have to catch the bus every day, which would take ninety minutes by the time it wound round all the local villages and she couldn’t always time it against the tide. Kerensa had been right. She had been far too headstrong.
On the other hand, she thought, as she skritched Neil and waited for the new bread to bake, its fabulous scent perfuming the old building and causing the rare passer-by outside to stop and take deep sniffs, she was meant to be pausing. Regrouping, not diving into another life straight away. The irony of trying to force herself to relax made her smile.
Well. One thing at a time. And today she was going to take a walk and get to know her new surroundings.
‘You can’t come,’ she said patiently to Neil, putting him down. ‘It’s getting ridiculous if I take you everywhere.’
Neil hopped back over piteously and perched himself up on her hand.
‘WOW,’ said Polly, genuinely delighted. ‘Hello! Look at you!’ He obviously wanted his feathers scratched again, and she was happy to oblige. ‘You’re clearly getting better, little fella.’
At this, Neil did a white poo on the floor.
‘Oh Lord,’ said Polly. ‘I’m not sure I can leave you here either.’
She cleaned up and regarded him carefully. He cocked a beady eye at her, and when she went to use the bathroom, he followed her to the door.
‘Oh my goodness, you’re a lap puffin,’ she said, exasperated. ‘Now listen, I know you’re little and you got lost and you
want your mummy, but I’m not your mummy, okay?’ She crouched down. ‘I’m just passing through. Soon I’ll leave Polbearne and you’re going to fly away and never ever think of me again in your little puffling brain, okay?’
Neil put his head on one side.
‘Okay, okay. All right. Just this once.’
She took a heap of paper towels and spread them on the bottom of her little rucksack, then popped him inside.
‘Don’t tell anyone you’re here, okay?’ she said. ‘There’s already one person in this town who appears to hate me without reason. I don’t need everyone else thinking of me as the weird puffin lady.’
Neil chirruped.
Polly took the bread out of the oven, adding the last scrapings of olive oil and some salt crystals, and not making the raise too high, to give it more of a focaccia flavour. She wondered whether she could buy rosemary in this town, then discarded that idea as a) ridiculous and b) slightly over her budget. She wrapped the bread in a tea towel to keep it warm, then in a plastic bag to stop Neil pecking at it, and made an extra sandwich from yesterday’s bread just in case. She also took some tap water she’d put in the freezer to chill, and a couple of local apples she’d bought the day before.
The causeway gleamed open wide this morning, the tide low. As Polly walked across, she wondered how the townspeople – once a part of the mainland – had felt when the sea had gradually started to reclaim their route out of town, having to build the road higher and higher and finally giving up altogether.
As she headed into the countryside away from the shoreline, she realised how long it had been since she’d taken a walk for a walk’s sake. She had marched up and down Plymouth’s shopping streets in her more solvent days, and she’d once belonged to a gym, but she’d never really been one for just… walking.
But out here, with her lunch in her backpack (along with a chattering puffin), marching along narrow shady country lanes with no particular plan in mind, she felt… not too bad. Not too bad at all. She was aware of that funny feeling in her shoulders again, then recognised it for what it was: an absence. An absence of heaviness, of tightness. They should, she thought, advertise walking as an alternative to massages.
