Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Cripes,’ said Polly. Everyone around her was working so incredibly hard to keep body and soul together in this tiny place. ‘I guess I’d better do it myself.’

  When she let herself in the next day, the horrible smell of mould was everywhere, and she was sure she could hear the scuttle of a mouse. She took a few of the salvageable loaves away to make bread and butter pudding, which she might possibly be able to sell if she froze it – it wasn’t the greatest of ideas, but it was the best she could come up with – then grabbed Kerensa’s box of cleaning products, rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

  It quickly became apparent – unsurprisingly, thought Polly, given what a hard life Gillian had had – that the shop hadn’t been properly scrubbed through for a long time. There were crumbs between the (rather nice) 1950s glass display cabinets; grime along the ceiling; spiders’ webs in the storeroom where the flour was no longer kept. Polly had wondered how on earth it was possible to run a bakery single-handed, but Muriel had explained that Gillian did have someone extra during the summer, plus she had given up actually baking a long time ago, finding it cheaper and more convenient to buy her stock in from a central delivery firm. Unfortunately that central delivery firm specialised in cheap adulterated flour and nasty long-life products; they might not have cost much, but their price was reflected in their taste. If there was one thing Polly had never been able to stomach, it was bad bread – bread, the cornerstone of eating, one of the fundamentals of life! If you got that wrong, she always felt, well, then the rest of the day was going to go wrong too.

  And when fashions changed and bread came to be seen as something that would make you instantly fat and unhealthy, that had only hardened her resolve. If everyone was going to have to eat less bread, it stood to reason that the bread you did get to eat had to be absolutely of the highest possible quality. Polly was as open as anyone else to the allure of the cheapest white as a covering for a fabulously crunchy, moist, salty bacon sandwich. But when it came to bread as a food in itself, this rubbish seemed to her a waste of everybody’s time. Especially when the oven and the equipment was still there, just waiting to be put into use. Making bread was time-consuming, but it wasn’t difficult, and the end results were always, always worth it.

  As she hoovered and swept and scrubbed, Polly realised that rather than hating the work, she was actually finding it quite cathartic, just as it had been cleaning the little flat; the sun gleamed through the newly washed windows, and she started to feel a little more useful. One or two people poked their heads round the door to look for bread and enquired after Mrs Manse; the news had got around town. Polly answered as truthfully as she could that Mrs Manse had had a fall and was being kept in for observation.

  ‘So are you taking over this place?’ said Jayden when he passed by at lunchtime. ‘Have you not got a pasty or nothing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Polly. ‘Sorry. Did she sell good pasties?’

  ‘No,’ said Jayden sadly. ‘But you know what they say about the worst pasty you’ve ever had: it’s still pretty good.’

  ‘I did not know that,’ said Polly.

  ‘Why don’t you start baking here?’ said Jayden. ‘You can bake. So…’

  ‘Because,’ said Polly, ‘it’s slightly illegal to walk into someone else’s business and start working there.’

  ‘Well what are you doing now, then?’ he said.

  Polly smiled. ‘I’m just helping out.’

  ‘Why don’t you help out by making me a pasty?’ said Jayden.

  ‘When you put it like that, it sounds so simple,’ said Polly.

  Tarnie looked tired when he popped his head round the bakery door that evening, but genuinely surprised.

  ‘Wow,’ he said.

  Polly smiled. She was exhausted too – she’d barely slept – but she couldn’t believe how much progress she’d managed to make tidying up the bakery. She’d even cleaned the ovens, cold and greasy from long-term neglect, which were now all ready to burst back into life.

  ‘I haven’t seen it looking like this…’ his voice went a bit distant, ‘in years.’

  ‘How is she?’ said Polly.

  Tarnie shrugged. ‘Belligerent. They want to do a full psych observation and she told them where to stick it.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Polly. ‘Good for her. I like that she’s an equal opportunities insulter. Did she eat my brioche?’

  ‘She did,’ said Tarnie. ‘She told me it was awful, but she ate the whole thing.’

  ‘Well THAT’s a good sign,’ said Polly.

  Tarnie looked around again.

  ‘It’s a shame she’s so pig-headed and stubborn,’ he said. ‘I mean, you need a job, right?’

  ‘I DO,’ said Polly fervently.

  ‘It seems obvious to me,’ said Tarnie. ‘You do the baking, she stays front of house, you work together.’

  Polly straightened up.

  ‘Er,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Tarnie, looking confused.

  ‘Um, she hates me?’

  ‘So what? It’s just a job. Jayden hates me.’

  ‘Jayden worships you,’ Polly said. ‘And ten hours a day in this tiny space with her? It would be a disaster, trust me.’

  ‘So what are you going to do, sign on?’

  ‘Can’t I be a fisherman?’

  He smiled. His teeth looked very white in his sun-browned face.

  ‘You’ve got to be born to it.’

  ‘Well that’s racist.’

  ‘No, I mean it. If you aren’t born doing it, it’s just too awful.’

  Polly glanced at the ovens.

  ‘Maybe I could work here for a bit… just until she gets back.’

  Tarnie shrugged again. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Polly with total honesty. ‘Do you?’

  Tarnie smiled. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think you could do anything if you tried.’

  She smiled back at him. ‘Except fishing,’ she said.

  ‘Well, yeah, except fishing.’

  Polly slept late the next day, and was woken by a loud roaring sound followed by a persistent honking.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she said, pushing open her window. It was a glorious day, fluffy clouds bouncing across the horizon like children on their way to the beach.

  It was Huckle, on his ridiculous motorbike. He had pushed his goggles up on to his helmet.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Polly, taking a deep breath of sea air. ‘What are you doing?’

  He looked confused. ‘It’s today, remember?’

  Polly shook her head. It was hardly like her diary had been stuffed with social engagements.

  ‘Er, no?’

  ‘Neil.’

  ‘What about Neil?’

  ‘We’re taking him to the sanctuary. We arranged it on Saturday?’

  Polly had completely forgotten. In fact, she realised in dismay, she’d pretended to herself it wasn’t happening at all.

  Polly’s first inclination was to say no. No no no. Now that Neil could fly, he liked to follow her around more than ever before. He was at war with the kettle and danced around it as it boiled; even though she told him to keep away, he tended to prance up towards it as it whistled, and occasionally peck the side aggressively. On one occasion he had succeeded in clicking it off, which he obviously saw as a major triumph.

  ‘Move, you,’ said Polly, clicking it on now, to Neil’s bossy consternation. She couldn’t believe she’d put this to the back of her mind, even with everything else that was going on. But she couldn’t keep a puffin as a pet. It was wrong. It was cruel. Everyone had said so.

  Still, it seemed to have come so soon. She stroked his feathers and absent-mindedly fed him a little of the leftover brioche. Neil snuggled in to her finger as if he knew.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ she said crossly. ‘Okay, let’s get this over with.’

  ‘You look like you lost a quarter and
found a nickel,’ said Huckle when she finally emerged, after a very quick shower and shrugging into her favourite faded jeans and old Converses.

  Polly just looked sad.

  ‘Come on,’ said Huckle. ‘You know, where I grew up, you couldn’t get too attached to the animals.’

  ‘What was that, a farm?’ said Polly, crossly.

  ‘Er, yeah. A farm,’ said Huckle.

  There was a short silence. Polly looked at the sidecar.

  ‘Am I seriously meant to be getting in this thing?’

  ‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘Just follow me. Neil can fly and carry you in his claws.’

  He handed her a retro black helmet with a little bib on the top of it like the front of a cap, and a large round pair of goggles.

  ‘Has a German warplane crash-landed in a nearby field?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Thank you, Huckle,’ said Huckle. ‘For giving up your own time and effort to try and help somebody else.’

  Taking a deep breath, Polly jammed the helmet down over her curls and levered herself into the sidecar. It was surprisingly comfortable; a leather cushion ran all the way along the inside and her legs were stretched straight out, so that it was like a luxury sleeping bag. Once she had settled Neil, who had his head out of his box, looking around him, Huckle revved the throttle, put his foot down – he was wearing large black boots – and the machine took off.

  It was just as noisy from the inside; it startled the birds from the trees. She also hadn’t expected it to create such a stir. Every street they went along people pointed, children laughed, and old men smiled to see them. Polly felt it was a little like being famous.

  The causeway was open, its bricks shining in the morning sun, and then they were across, and Huckle opened her up on the quiet country lanes. They sped round bends, past great fields of meadowsweet; herds of uninterested cows, standing round their water troughs chatting; and some beautiful palomino ponies, galloping through a hilltop field. Above them as they began to cross the peninsula, the sharp caws of the seagulls gave way to sparrowhawks circling flawlessly in the air, and spring thrushes chirruping in the hedgerows. Rabbits flashed across the road in little bobs of soft fur and the wind whipped across the bike, although in her cosy sidecar, with its helpfully provided blanket, Polly wasn’t cold at all.

  If it hadn’t been for the task ahead – she kept her hands tightly clasped round Neil’s box – she would have loved the ride. From time to time Huckle would turn to her, as if to check she was enjoying it, but it was far too noisy to do anything other than nod, at her sudden glimpse of a sunlit cove and bouncing water appearing through the hills, or an old grey Cornish stone farmhouse that could look both austere and cosy, with its slate roof amid the rolling green. Being so close to the road meant she felt part of the country she was travelling through, and although they saw few cars, cyclists and walkers all seemed please to see them, some even waving. She was exhilarated by the time she saw the turn-off, a brown National Trust sign with ‘Puffin Sanctuary,’ written on it. Her heart sank. Don’t think about it, she told herself. Think about other things. She glanced at Huckle’s long thighs, supremely confident in charge of the bike. Okay, maybe not that.

  The countryside up here to the north was far rockier and wilder; the wind more chilling. This side of Cornwall gave on to the Irish Sea, with its cold storms and wild cresting waves. A perfect environment for a cold-water bird, she told herself. Think how much fun he was going to have with his one point four million new best friends.

  She had thought, before she left, about doing something to Neil to mark him somehow, in case she ever wanted to visit him again. She supposed she could ask them when they got there, but they might think she was stupid. And she could hope he’d remember her, but that really WAS stupid. He was a bird, she was a girl. It was never supposed to work out. She smiled ruefully at the thought and swayed into the turns and twists of the little road – the bike was actually quite a smooth ride, once you got used to how close to the tarmac you were.

  Huckle had rung ahead, and there was a nice young girl with a sturdy netball-playing figure and a no-nonsense Kiwi accent expecting them.

  ‘Let’s take a look at the little fella, then,’ she said, lifting Neil with practised ease out of his box. Neil glanced back at Polly in a panic.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘So, broken wing?’ The girl was handling him gently and attentively, checking him all over. ‘You’ve done a really nice job, yeah?’

  ‘Er… okay.’ Polly realised to her horror that she was having some trouble controlling her voice.

  ‘Course you’ve packed a bit of beef on,’ said the girl sternly to Neil. ‘You’ll need to speed up a bit, little fella, get in there and get your share of fish.’

  Neil eeped and tried to inch closer to Polly, but the netball girl had him in a firm grip.

  ‘Can I… I mean, is there any way I can tag him?’ said Polly. ‘Just in case…’

  ‘In case you wanna come back and say hello?’ The girl scratched her head. ‘Well, I can’t… I mean, they do tag, but only for checking on migration. I’m not sure I’d have a tag that wouldn’t be misleading, know what I mean?’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Polly. ‘It was just an idea.’

  ‘Look,’ said the girl. ‘You’re doing the kindest thing for him, you know that, right?’

  Polly nodded, her lip trembling.

  ‘He’s not a pet. He’s designed to flock and mate and pair and raise his young, just like everybody else. And he deserves that chance, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly, steadying herself. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Good on yer. Right, come on down and we’ll release him.’

  Over the crest of the hill there was a path (signposted with little puffins) down to a huge rocky outcrop jutting out into the sea. Polly gave a gasp. There were so many birds there it would have been impossible to count them. They were everywhere; large, small, orange-beaked and black-beaked. They were cawing, diving into the water, hopping around or just standing squarely on the rock, gazing inscrutably out to sea. They were like a huge black and white carpet; it was an extraordinary sight.

  ‘He’ll be well cared for.’

  Polly picked up the box. Neil obviously sensed something was up; he was hopping up and down in a frenzy, his head turning at all the other birds in the air.

  ‘It’s like he knows,’ Polly said.

  ‘He does know,’ said Huckle, and he gently put his arm around her. With his other hand he brought something out of his pocket.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I wonder if we could maybe use this?’

  It was a little tag that he used to seal off his wax honey containers; made of plastic, it fastened tightly, but it was light. On it was written quite clearly ‘Huckle Honey’.

  ‘I wasn’t sure…’ he went on.

  The breezy Kiwi girl looked at it.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘That should do it. And it won’t get mixed up with any of the studies. Brilliant.’

  Polly looked up at him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Huckle. He took the tag and put it gently round Neil’s left leg. Neil immediately started pecking at it crossly.

  ‘Ssh,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t do that. Otherwise…’

  She picked up the little bird and rubbed his feathers behind his ears, just what he absolutely loved, for the last time. Then she rubbed noses with his beak.

  ‘You,’ she said, ‘were the first friend I ever met here. Thank you for that.’

  She looked into his black eyes.

  ‘Now, off you go,’ she said. ‘Off you go, fly free. Make friends, build nests.’

  She set him down on a rock. He was utterly engrossed by the chattering and fluttering of the thousands of other birds all around him. Then he took a little step forward, then back again, looking at her inquisitively.

  ‘No,’ she said, her voice cracking again, just a little. ‘It’
s okay. Go on.’

  Neil pattered forward a little further. She caressed his head one last time, then stood up.

  Carefully, tentatively – he was noticeably fatter than the other pufflings – he jumped off the rock and hopped to the next one. Immediately, the other puffins there gathered round to have a look at him. There was some chatter and fluttering.

  ‘Don’t bully him,’ Polly called out fiercely. Neil turned back briefly. Polly got out her phone to take one last photograph, but by the time she’d got the camera lined up, she realised to her great sadness that she could no longer recognise him amongst the cluster of hundreds of other birds.

  ‘Oh Huckle,’ she said. ‘Which one is he? I can’t see him.’

  ‘Ssh,’ said Huckle. ‘Look.’

  A group of the birds had risen into the air, converging on where a young man in a colourful polo shirt was distributing fish. Sure enough, in the middle of the group, struggling a little, but definitely holding his own, was a slightly portly puffin with a little tag on his left leg. Polly watched till he soared over the cliffside, caught up amongst all the other birds, and eventually disappeared from sight.

  Huckle gave her a squeeze and they turned to head back along the path. Polly was too upset to speak.

  ‘I know it’s stupid,’ she squeaked finally. ‘He’s only a bird.’

  ‘Neil was not only a bird,’ said Huckle fiercely. ‘He was the finest puffin I ever met.’

  This brought Polly perilously close to a half-laughing, half-crying breakdown, so she kept her mouth closed.

  ‘There’s a café here if you’re hungry,’ said the cheery Kiwi girl, but when they stuck their heads in, not only did it smell of cold chips and unhappy bank holidays, but it was covered with pictures of puffins, cuddly puffin toys and puffin memorabilia. It looked entirely unappealing, but time was getting on.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Polly asked Huckle.

  ‘I’d rather eat puffin,’ said Huckle. ‘Sorry, was that insensitive?’

  ‘YES,’ said Polly.

  She turned back to the girl.