by Jenny Colgan
‘No, just…’
She was going to ask what had happened to his dog, but he’d already indicated that he didn’t want to talk any more, and she wasn’t going to pry.
‘I’d better be going.’
He walked her to the gate with three jars of honey, which he refused to take money for, on the promise that she’d bake him some bread.
‘If you come to Mount Polbearne, I’m living in the house on the harbour above the old bakery,’ she said shyly.
‘That place?’ He looked horrified. ‘I thought they’d condemned it.’
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘They’ve condemned me to it, that’s all.’ She tried to make it sound like a joke, but it came out with a little crack in her voice. Huckle looked at her for a moment.
‘Well, I would say a bakery is a great place for you to be,’ he said. ‘That other place… ugh.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘She’s already given me the evil eye.’
‘You gotta watch out for those evil eyes,’ said Huckle.
‘You do,’ agreed Polly.
Polly mused on the strange man all the way home. No wonder the fishermen called him weird. He was weird. Who lived in the middle of nowhere? How could he afford to eat, giving away pots of honey like that? Why had he been so welcoming, then wanted her to leave as soon as she asked him any questions about himself? A horrifying thought struck her. Maybe he’d thought she was coming on to him. After all, he wasn’t that much older than her. Oh God, surely not.
She felt her face flush from more than the sunshine. Yes, he looked nice, but the very idea… Plus it had been years since she’d had to flirt with anyone, except the bailiff to get him off the phone. She and Chris had been together for such a long time, and they hadn’t even really formally broken up, she reminded herself. She would have to make it clear to the American at the first opportunity. She tried to figure out a way to get this across without making everything worse, and couldn’t. She tramped all the way home, picking up more rosemary from the fields, and popping in to the friendly little minimart that sold everything, for more bread flour. The woman there, a cheery type, looked a bit concerned when she saw Polly back again, making the same purchase.
‘That’s the last of the bread flour,’ she said. ‘I’m all out now.’ She paused. ‘Do you… do you bake a lot of bread?’
Polly internally rolled her eyes.
‘Why, is it dangerous?’
The woman tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘Only, we have a local bakery…’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Polly, then, feeling defiant, ‘I don’t like their bread, it’s horrible.’
The woman glanced around, as if the evil tentacles of Gillian Manse might be everywhere.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Only, I don’t want to upset anyone.’
‘You’ll upset me if you stop stocking bread flour,’ said Polly.
The woman smiled meekly. ‘It comes in a job lot with the other stuff. I don’t… I’m not really supposed to order it, but it’s for the tourists… not that we get many this time of year. I mean, no one in the village would actually bake bread…’
Polly didn’t want to make enemies, given that she’d just arrived and didn’t know a soul. ‘How about we fill up the hole here with another type of flour,’ she said. ‘So you can’t see it’s empty.’
‘What…’ The woman was tentative. ‘What kind of bread do you make?’
Polly opened her bag avoiding Neil; there was a little of the focaccia left, still moist in its tea towel, that Huckle hadn’t snaffled.
‘Here,’ she said, passing it to the woman, who glanced around fearfully at the door, then snatched at a small bit.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘That’s amazing. That tastes incredible. GOD, I miss bread.’
Polly looked round. Sure enough, the little minimart didn’t sell any of the usual stacks of Mother’s Pride and breakfast rolls.
‘You don’t… you don’t…’
‘You don’t cross Gillian Manse in this town,’ said the woman, looking fearful again. ‘It’s just not worth it.’
‘Why is everyone so scared of her?’ said Polly The woman’s face turned dark and she busied herself with tidying up the Polo mints.
‘I’m Muriel, by the way,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Nice to meet you, Muriel. I’m Polly.’
Muriel turned back round to face her.
‘Oh, she had… she’s had a tough time of it. And it’s hard to keep businesses afloat here, especially in the winter.’
Polly realised the woman must be about her own age, but she looked very weary.
‘She wants everyone to stick together. The only problem is…’
‘Her bread is so horrible.’
‘Most people get used to it,’ said Muriel. ‘But…’ She looked sadly at Polly’s tea towel.
‘Okay, here’s the deal,’ said Polly. ‘You smuggle in bread flour for me to buy and I’ll cut you in on it and supply you with loaves.’ Ridiculously, she glanced upwards at the CCTV. Muriel looked at the door again. They both took on an oddly conspiratorial air.
‘Deal,’ said Muriel in a low voice. She looked at her watch. ‘This is a good time of day. After lunch but before the school rush.’
‘Roger,’ said Polly. ‘Let’s call it a loaf a week.’
Muriel pushed the bread flour towards her. ‘Here. Take this on account.’
‘I might need the stronger stuff,’ warned Polly. ‘Double 0.’
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,’ said Muriel in a low tone.
Polly wrapped the flour tightly in a plastic bag and put it in her rucksack next to a squawking Neil. Then, remembering to grab some more milk, she sidled quietly back out on to the cobbles.
Chapter Nine
That would have been it, Polly always told herself afterwards. That would absolutely have been it. She would have seen out her twelve weeks at Mount Polbearne, handed back the keys, waved goodbye to the fishing boats and headed back to Plymouth with a few stories to tell, plenty of new bread recipes and a great big dollop of R&R under her belt – she was sleeping better than she had in years. That would have been it, if she hadn’t begun to find herself in unbelievably straitened circumstances.
Before she’d left, she’d signed up at a temp agency in Plymouth, but every time she phoned them, they sounded despondent and suggested she came in. She’d been in before, though, and it had been full of glamorous students and ex-students, all of whom had amazing computer skills – she could just about manage a simple spreadsheet – and she knew she didn’t stand a chance. She said she’d take anything, but the woman had explained something about zero-hours working, whereby she had to stand by whether she was working or not, and she had recoiled in horror. No. She was a professional. She would find a professional job.
That was then. Now, as the weeks went by, she was horrified to see that in the years since she’d last applied for jobs, the entire system had changed. Everything was online, for starters; no more printed-out CVs and stamps. The etiquette had changed too, and she didn’t hear back from any of the jobs she’d applied for; not a letter, not even an email confirming that her application had been received. She tried calling one place, only to get through to a voicemail that was so full it wouldn’t even let her leave a message.
At first she thought it was bad luck – she’d updated her CV, it looked good, professional, she’d achieved… Well, ultimately it hadn’t gone her way, but she’d worked hard. Kerensa had warned her about this. ‘Don’t say you ran your own business,’ she’d insisted. ‘They’ll think you don’t really want to work with them, that you’ll be too much of a maverick.’
‘That sounds cool,’ Polly had said. ‘I like the idea of being a bit of a maverick. I’ve always been too staid, that’s my problem.’
‘Hmm,’ said Kerensa, who was privately more worried about Polly finding another job than she was about her finding a flat or a new man. The
market was brutal out there. ‘Well, any time you want me to go through your CV, let me know. I’d take a couple of years off your age too.’
‘Blatantly lie?’ said Polly. ‘You think I should just lie all over my CV?’
‘Well, you have to look at it like this,’ said Kerensa. ‘Everybody lies, so if you don’t, you’re showing a terrible naivety about the nature of the real world of work. People will adjust for lies, so if you don’t lie, they’re adjusting downwards from a truthful position, and that’s awful. Like your doctor assuming that you’re lying about how much you drink.’
Polly gave her a look.
‘Just telling the truth about the world out there,’ said Kerensa.
‘I don’t want to be in the world out there!’ Polly had said with a groan. ‘I want to stay in my cosy flat, running a nice little business and dreaming about me and Chris being rich and me being on Dragons’ Den or helping Alan Sugar on The Apprentice!’
‘You don’t really dream about those kinds of things,’ said Kerensa.
‘Er, no,’ Polly had said quickly.
Actually, recently she hadn’t had many dreams at all.
And now it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Because the little money she had was incredibly hard to stretch out. It was obvious that she was baking, because you could smell it all the way down the harbour front. Tarnie had asked quietly whether, if they all chipped in, all the boats, and gave her a little bit of money every week, she would make their sandwiches. Because they didn’t like Gillian’s and they couldn’t make their own, apparently, because they were men. And of course Muriel had her loaves, and then a man snuck by one night when she was leaving the house and said, ‘Psst, are you the lady with the bread?’
It was under a street light, it took her completely by surprise and she jumped.
‘Um, what if I am?’ she said warily.
‘I caught Muriel with some. I’m Jim Baker, I run the post office.’
‘Oh,’ said Polly. It occurred to her that she could get some new baking tins sent to her. This might help.
And that was how her little business started, completely illicitly. Every night she would prepare large batches, in different combinations: plain white for the boys, who were unadventurous; a poppy seed here and there; some honey and raisin which, toasted and with a scrape of local yellow butter, was absolutely heavenly. In the morning she would scuttle about delivering them, taking her payment in small amounts; small amounts she desperately needed. And the worry of applying for other jobs, or about what was coming next, started to recede a little.
Four weeks later, the sun was coming up earlier and earlier in the morning, and Polly had read everything in her library, and she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. She couldn’t bear it, but it was cruel to hold on to him. It was time to take Neil’s bandage off.
He’d become such a part of her life, hopping about cheerily, pecking his way through the crumbs, splashing about in the sink. Polly knew she’d been warned not to get too attached, but she couldn’t help feeling this was a happy bird. He squawked cheerfully whenever she appeared, he let her ruffle his feathers and scratch behind his ears and he happily sat on her knee when she finally rigged up her old laptop to watch DVDs. She put off and put off going back to the vet, but she couldn’t do it for ever. This was a baby. He needed to be with his own kind, even though it was going to be a wrench.
She attempted to remove the tape herself, but he screeched loudly and hopped away from her, and she wasn’t confident she could do it alone. So she made another appointment with Patrick, who had seen her around town carrying a backpack that seemed to move a suspicious amount. He’d also heard various rumours about her prowess in baking and smelled certain delicious smells when walking down by the harbour, but he had to live in this town just like everybody else, so he didn’t want to bring it up directly.
His heart sank when they marched proudly into his consulting room, Neil perched happily on Polly’s shoulder.
‘Isn’t this exactly what I told you not to do?’ he said gruffly, his hand brushing his bald patch, as it always did when he was irritated.
‘Um, kind of,’ said Polly. There was no hint of a smile today; she looked very sad.
‘I bet you’ve even given him a name.’
‘Um,’ said Polly.
Patrick stretched out a hand towards the bird. Neil tilted his head to one side and hopped a little closer to Polly’s ear.
‘Come on, little fella,’ said Patrick. ‘Come on, come with me.’
In the end, Polly held on to Neil whilst Patrick expertly clipped off the bandage. At first Neil didn’t know what to do, and pecked hard at his feathers as if seeing them for the first time. Then he experimentally moved his wing up and down. Patrick felt the tiny bones.
‘Well, he seems to have recovered fine. Nice job. He’s looking healthy too, lovely bright eyes, glossy feathers.’
Polly beamed with pride.
‘Now all you have to do is throw him out of a window.’
Patrick regretted saying that.
‘I’m not throwing him out of a window,’ said Polly. She couldn’t bear the idea of sending Neil out into the freezing cold and driving rain; the weather had changed again. She had learned too that whatever temperature the forecast said it would be on the mainland, she could take off another five degrees for Mount Polbearne.
‘It’s what he’s meant to do,’ said Patrick. ‘Puffins are flock animals. He needs to be with his group, that’s how they’re wired. It’s cruel to separate them. It’s like keeping a tiger in a zoo.’
Polly nodded. ‘I see. I realise that.’
Patrick softened his tone. ‘Look, come on. Let’s give him a little shot out of my window, okay? It’s on the ground floor, so even if he doesn’t manage it, he won’t fall any distance.’
It was true enough: because of the steep angle of the road, there was only a couple of feet between Patrick’s office window and the cobbles below. A few passers-by stopped to watch the man and woman with the little bird.
‘Okay, come on, wee fella,’ said Patrick gently but firmly.
‘I can’t watch,’ said Polly, covering her eyes.
Neil perched on the old stone window ledge and looked around cautiously. He pecked at his feathers again; Polly wondered if they were itchy. A sudden shaft of sunlight illuminated the cobbled street outside. Neil hopped to the edge and looked over, then glanced round at Polly, as if seeking approval.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Go on, little man.’
Neil hopped up and down nervously. Patrick pushed him a little bit forwards and Polly winced.
‘Come on,’ said Patrick.
There was a long pause, and then, finally, Patrick gently tipped Neil over the edge. Polly gasped, ready to be furious with him, but the little bird, after seeming to hover in the air for a moment, ready to plummet, like something out of a cartoon, suddenly regained his momentum and flapped his wings furiously, ending up descending in a side-to-side motion before coming gently to rest.
‘Yay!’ said Patrick and Polly as the little puffin looked around, as if surprised at what he’d done. They gave him a round of applause, then Polly let her hands drop, sadly.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘I guess that’s that.’
‘You know there’s a puffin sanctuary on the north coast?’ said Patrick.
‘I know. Well, there you go then,’ said Polly dejectedly.
Patrick looked at her shrewdly. ‘You did well,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Polly.
She looked at Neil, who was vainly trying to hop back up the wall. She stretched an arm down and he jumped on to her hand, then gamely fluttered up and down to show her what he could do.
‘Yes, yes, you’re very clever,’ she said, smiling sadly. ‘Thanks, Doc.’ She took out her purse.
‘Actually,’ said Patrick, scratching his head, ‘I heard…’
‘Mmm?’
‘I heard you were…’ He glanced ro
und. ‘I heard you could get bread in?’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ said Polly. ‘I’m turning into a carb-pusher.’
Patrick looked glum. ‘I know, it’s just…’
‘You love bread. Well, fortunately…’
Polly reached into her bag and brought out a Tupperware box. She had figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
‘Honey and flaxseed. Toast it with butter, I would say. It’s also a very good soldier bread for boiled eggs.’
Patrick inhaled it.
‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is sensational. Thank you.’
In the end, it was Huckle who got them found out. He literally, as they realised later, laid a trail of breadcrumbs to her door. It was early on a Saturday morning. Polly had just finished checking her emails in despair – there was nothing out there – and looking at all the jobs pages online. The only two jobs that interested her and suited her skill set were both unpaid internships. But since she couldn’t afford to move back to Plymouth and she couldn’t afford a car to get her there, what the heck was she meant to do?
She was looking out to sea when there was a rattle of pebbles on her front windows. She frowned – the sea sometimes splattered against them when there was a storm, but not normally on a quiet morning. She leant out. Standing there grinning broadly was Huckle, his blond hair shining in the sunlight. He looked, oddly, too big for the tiny harbour; an alien transplanted from a huge country to a small one. It didn’t seem to trouble him though.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘You know what day it is?’
Polly pulled at her hair – she’d barely touched it that morning – and rubbed her eyes.
‘Is it Huckleday?’
He grinned again, all those teeth.
‘Every day is Huckleday. But also: Saturday!’
‘Yes…’
She wished she had a weekend now. Amazing, all those Monday mornings she’d cursed getting out of bed and having to go to work, but now she would love to have those days back again. Ha, stupid contradictory life.
Huck pulled out two jars of honey from behind his back.
