Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  Polly shrugged. ‘I suppose… Well, baking bread. Baking things. But I don’t know if I could do it all the time, as a job. Wouldn’t that take the fun out of it?’

  ‘What, getting paid to do it?’ said Reuben, aghast. ‘God, no. That makes it even more fun, don’t you see?’

  Polly looked around.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all right if your bliss is hacking into computer systems that saves the American government from Chinese copyright thefts and makes you billions,’ said Huckle. ‘That’s helpful. My bliss makes me about two bucks a jar.’

  Reuben shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. You’re happier here than you were trapped in Savannah, right?’

  It was as if someone had suddenly opened a fridge door. The entire atmosphere plummeted through the floor. Huckle froze and tilted his head towards the sea. Reuben seemed completely oblivious.

  There was a very long pause. Finally Jaz shook her long hair and jumped into the conversation.

  ‘Yes, I followed my bliss and look where I ended up.’

  Reuben gave her a sharp look.

  Polly figured it was probably time to be on their way. Huckle jumped up immediately at the suggestion.

  During the trip home, they couldn’t speak over the noise, but Polly had a lot to think about. Huckle was recovering from something; that much was obvious. And Reuben was a tricky character, completely oblivious to what people thought of him or what he was saying. On the other hand, what he had said about following what she wanted to do… Could she?

  ‘Thanks,’ she said when Huckle dropped her off. ‘Your friend is interesting.’

  Huckle lifted his goggles.

  ‘He liked you,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t happen often.’

  ‘He wasn’t very nice to his girlfriend.’

  Huckle smiled. ‘Oh, she’s not his girlfriend. He’s surrounded by women all the time. They have their eyes on the prize for sure.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Polly. ‘That’s kind of… Wow. I never thought. Really? The money? But she’s so stunning, she could have anyone…’

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ said Huckle. ‘It’s a tough old world out there. People have to do whatever they can to get by.’

  ‘Well, yes, I know that,’ said Polly.

  ‘Not everyone has a gift like yours.’

  It took her a moment to catch on to the compliment.

  ‘Really?’ she said, flushing.

  Huckle shrugged. ‘Duh,’ he said. Then he looked a bit embarrassed for a second and reached into the back of the bike.

  ‘Um,’ he said. ‘I bought this for you when you were drying your tears at the park.’ He handed her a little plush toy puffin.

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly. She felt very wobbly and emotional as she took it. Huckle hadn’t drunk any wine at lunch, but she had. ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  ‘Really? I wasn’t sure if it would make things better or worse.’

  ‘As long as I don’t call him Neil 2 and keep him in a box,’ said Polly. ‘No. Thank you. Thank you.’

  Huckle looked relieved and embarrassed at the same time.

  ‘I had a lovely time today,’ Polly said. ‘I’m sure Reuben didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Huckle. ‘It’s one of his hobbies. But I’m used to it.’

  He kissed her, fleetingly, on the cheek. The motorbike fired up with its usual throaty roar, and she watched, clutching the cuddly puffin, all the way up the cobbled street until he disappeared from sight.

  Chapter Twelve

  Polly wouldn’t have admitted to anyone how much she missed Neil that night. It was so stupid; he was only a bird, he wasn’t a guard dog or anything. But every creak woke her; every clank of the masts outside; every seagull’s cry. She did not sleep well and wearily decided at five o’clock that enough was enough, and she might as well call it a night. She took to kneading some sesame bread, thinking as she did so that she might send some over to Reuben as a thank you. In fact, she’d make breadsticks too, they’d keep longer.

  At seven she heard the fleet coming back in and happy shouts that indicated that the catch had gone well. She took a coffee down for Tarnie, and the fresh breadsticks, which didn’t need to rise like the bread.

  ‘Hey there,’ said Tarnie, smiling. He looked tired but happy. ‘We had a good run.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Polly, hoping he would take a few days off and get some rest.

  ‘Where’s Neil?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Polly, and explained.

  ‘Well I am sorry to hear that,’ said Tarnie. ‘I didn’t ever notice him being a particularly miserable or unhappy puffin.’

  ‘I know,’ said Polly sadly. ‘But everyone else said it’s for the best. Anyway.’

  ‘Anyway yourself,’ said Tarnie. ‘I’ve got news for you. They’ve agreed to discharge Gillian if she gets some help in the shop and lets a community nurse pop round. I’ve found you a job!’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ said Polly. ‘She’s agreed to have me?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tarnie, unwilling to divulge how much coercion had actually been required.

  Polly thought of Reuben telling her to follow her bliss. Then she thought of how much money she had left in the world, the number of jobs she’d applied for (38) and the number of interviews she’d had (0).

  ‘Brilliant!’ she said, deciding to ignore her doubts and go with her gut. It was a job! She could do it! She’d worry later about working for someone who didn’t like her. If Gillian Manse fired her, at least she’d have broken her duck. ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Er, tomorrow,’ said Tarnie. ‘She gets discharged today and she can show you the ropes tomorrow.’

  Polly didn’t really want Gillian showing her the ropes, so she popped over to the bakery in the afternoon to see if she could figure out for herself how to fire up the ovens. They were still clean and sparkling and she looked around the room, nervous and excited at the same time. All of these ovens! She was going to be in charge of all of them! She ran her hands over the wooden surfaces of the units; peered into the vast mixers that kneaded the dough. Maybe there would be no more central buying-in, she hoped. That was what was making the bakery fail. She’d already spent more time than she would have liked with one failed business. She wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  While she was inspecting the ovens, there was a knock on the back door. A strong-looking man in his fifties with the ruddy cheeks of someone who spent their life outdoors was standing there.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asked in such a strong local accent Polly could barely understand him. ‘Is it true, me lover?’

  ‘Um,’ said Polly. ‘That depends.’

  ‘That they’re going to start baking again? That they’re bringing the baking back?’

  Polly smiled. ‘I think we’re going to have a shot.’

  The man put out his hand for her to shake.

  ‘I’m Ted Kernesse,’ he said. ‘I used to deliver flour here, back in the day. She was a sensational baker, Gillian Manse.’

  ‘Really?’ said Polly. ‘It wasn’t very good when I got here.’

  ‘Nah, she switched to the bought-in, didn’t she? Lost interest after… that business,’ he said, taking off his hat. ‘Anyway. Will you be wanting the flour back?’

  ‘I suppose we will, yes. How soon can you get started?’

  ‘It’ll be outside your door in the morning,’ said Ted. ‘Where’s your yeast going to grow?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Polly, suddenly nervous. She’d only ever used dried yeast.

  ‘Well, just stick it in a pot in the fridge, let it get on wi’ itself.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Polly. ‘Gosh.’ She looked around anxiously. ‘It’s a lot to learn.’

  ‘I think it’s grand you’re doing this,’ said Ted. ‘It’ll be really good for Mount Polbearne. And Gillian.’

  Polly’s heart plummeted. She really was very nervous about working with the woman. Maybe she had bitten off mo
re than she could chew.

  ‘Ah, you’ll be fine,’ said Ted as if reading her mind. ‘Her bark’s worse than her bite. Although her bite is pretty bad to begin with.’

  Polly smiled at him hopefully.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Just as Ted had promised, there was a huge sack of flour outside the back door at 5.30 the next morning, along with six pints of milk and a plastic Tupperware container with a note on top: ‘A little present’. Ooh, thought Polly, popping it open. But instead was a plastic container reeking heavily of sourdough mould.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, pushing the pungent mix away from her.

  ‘Well I don’t know how you’re going to get on if you can’t even manage THAT,’ said a crotchety voice.

  The enormous figure of Gillian Manse pulled the back door wide open and watched as Polly lugged the enormous sack indoors. It weighed a ton. Polly had slightly expected a thank you or a hello or at least a bit of embarrassment – she’d saved the woman’s life, after all – but apparently it was not to be.

  ‘It’s a present from Ted,’ said Polly. ‘Er… hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Gillian. They faced each other.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Polly.

  ‘I’m feeling fine,’ said Gillian. ‘As I’ve been telling those dratted doctors. It’s ridiculous. Don’t you ever dare do that again.’

  ‘I will not,’ said Polly fervently.

  ‘Well, come in if you’re coming,’ Gillian said ungraciously, stepping aside.

  ‘Have you got any coffee?’ said Polly. ‘I could really do with one.’

  ‘Why don’t you actually start work before you have a break?’

  Polly bit her lip. Remember you don’t have a job, she told herself. This is what it takes.

  Polly did her best to keep her head down that first day, but it wasn’t easy. Everyone who came in was delighted to see her, particularly those who’d been in on the secret bread run. Gillian, however, watched her like a hawk the entire time, breathing down her neck, barking orders, never failing to point out a mistake, however tiny, which unsettled Polly so much she started to make more of them.

  Everyone respectfully asked after Gillian’s health, but she shut them down rudely, and Polly found herself trying to smile ingratiatingly to make up for her rudeness. The fact that they all then went on at great length about how wonderful the day’s bread was didn’t help matters either. This was going to be just as tricky as Polly had feared.

  At about 3.30, when everything was gone and they were beginning to think about closing up, there was a loud banging on the back door. Polly looked at Gillian nervously.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’

  ‘No,’ said Gillian. ‘Answer it.’

  Polly opened the door tentatively, to find a big burly deliveryman with a huge truck open at the back. The truck was completely blocking the narrow street.

  ‘All right,’ he said crossly. ‘I’ve been waiting for the damn sea to clear half the day. Where’s your chimney, then?’

  ‘What?’ said Polly. ‘Um… ’ She was a little discombobulated.

  ‘You’re the bakery, right?’

  ‘Er huh.’

  ‘Got a delivery here. A brick oven. Needs a chimney.’ He scratched his chin.

  ‘No,’ said Gillian. ‘No, that’s not for us. Take it away, please.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Can’t do that. It says on the form.’

  Gillian folded her arms. ‘Well it can unsay it.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Polly. ‘Er, can I see the form?’

  ‘Don’t know what good that’ll do,’ said Gillian. ‘He’s not having my chimney.’

  Polly ran her finger down the sheet. It did seem in order – the Mount Polbearne Bakery. Then she saw it. A little note at the bottom. Follow your bliss, it said. And the signature – big, flashy – Reuben Finkle.

  ‘NO WAY,’ she breathed, completely overwhelmed. ‘He bought me an oven!’

  ‘Who bought you an oven?’ said Gillian crossly.

  ‘Er, this bloke… friend of a friend,’ said Polly.

  ‘We don’t need an oven. There’s nothing wrong with our ovens.’

  ‘Yes, but with this,’ said Polly, her eyes shining, ‘we could make ciabatta. Flatbreads. Bruschetta. Just all the most amazing things…’

  ‘Can we get a refund on it?’ asked Gillian angrily. ‘Can I have the cash? I don’t want all that foreign muck.’

  ‘No!’ said Polly. ‘No, can’t we —’

  ‘No refunds, love,’ said the driver, starting to look pissed off.

  In one sense, Polly thought, Gillian was right: the fireplace wasn’t really big enough, although if they moved a few things about… No. She could tell by the look on Gillian’s face that this wasn’t going to happen. But, it suddenly occurred to her, there was another space…

  ‘We could put it in the Beach Street bakery,’ she said. ‘Below me. There’s room there, isn’t there?’

  Gillian’s brow furrowed. She didn’t want the oven, but on the other hand she wasn’t going to turn down anything that was free. Polly looked at the floor. She didn’t want to catch Gillian’s eye and annoy her so much she’d say no on purpose.

  After a long pause, during which the driver glanced at his watch, Gillian said, ‘Aye, all right then. Just keep it out of my way. And it better not cost me a penny.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  Polly sat in the cab of the truck with the driver and his mate as they drove the short distance to her building. Gillian had handed over a key to downstairs, not realising that she could already get in.

  The dust was as thick as ever. Polly hadn’t had enough cash even to fix the glass Neil had broken the night he’d flown in. The men looked around in consternation.

  ‘Seriously?’ said the driver. ‘I mean, this is a pricey bit of kit.’

  Polly looked at it, smiling. Even though obviously the shop wasn’t hers, it felt like the oven was.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘This is just the start. You stick it in, I’ll make some tea. Oh crap, I forgot to get milk again.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Polly had hoped that as time went on, she and Gillian would learn to shake off their rough edges, get along a little better. Nobody had to like the people they worked with, not necessarily.

  But if anything, she found things getting harder. Gillian seemed determined to fight her on every single suggestion, so she made none. She brushed past Polly rudely in the shop, and would let her bake only the most basic white bread – although now her bread was getting so good, so light and tasty, just through sheer practice. The shop was busier, cleaner than it had been in a long time. But this just seemed to make Gillian more resentful than ever. Polly became quieter and quieter, but even this was annoying, it seemed.

  Coupled with the early mornings, and using every spare minute to begin quietly cleaning up the downstairs bakery so she could start playing with her new oven (she’d sent a very grateful thank you card to Reuben. She didn’t know his full address, but was reasonably confident it would find him), Polly felt tired and demoralised. And the money was… well. She hoped she wouldn’t suddenly develop holes in her shoes, otherwise she was going to have to fix them with gaffer tape.

  She was trudging her way home one grey Saturday when her phone went off.

  ‘RIGHT,’ said Kerensa. ‘I’m on my way. I think you must have finished with the wound-licking by now.’

  ‘What?’ said Polly, unwilling to admit that she felt she might have exchanged one set of work problems for another.

  ‘I’m on my way. For a night out. The bright lights of Mount Polbearne!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Polly. ‘There aren’t really any of those.’

  ‘There must be somewhere everybody goes.’

  There was the large pub on the harbour with the dark wooden door. It was incredibly old and still had its original courtyard where tavern visitors would have stabled their horses. Now the courtyard was full of tab
les and chairs, and as the evenings became warmer, they had started to fill up on Friday and Saturday nights. Polly had wanted to venture in for a pint, but felt nervous. The fishermen must go sometimes, but she didn’t really want to ask; they had their own lives. She hadn’t seen Huckle in weeks. She really really, she realised, wanted some company that wasn’t going to tut at her for spilling flour on the work surfaces.

  ‘Well, it’s probably not what you’re used to…’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck, darling, I just need to get out of this hellhole.’

  ‘Internet dating gone wrong again?’

  ‘They’re all scuzz, Pol. All of them. All the half-decent men have been snapped up.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Polly, only just realising. ‘I’ll tell you what there are a lot of in Polbearne.’

  ‘Mixologists?’ said Kerensa hopefully.

  ‘No,’ said Polly. ‘But it is absolutely stuffed to the gills with blokes.’

  ‘I’m getting in the car.’

  Kerensa turned up that evening wearing a ludicrously inappropriate pink minidress with her hair dyed bright red. She looked a little alarming. Polly was so pleased to see her she nearly cried.

  ‘SO!’ said Kerensa. ‘The famous new life!’

  She looked around.

  ‘Like what you’ve done with the place,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Polly. She hadn’t managed to do much, but the scrubbed floors and the pale stripped-back table, together with one or two of the nice art prints she once used to wander round galleries choosing at her leisure and paying for on her credit card – ha! – hanging on the plain walls, plus of course her wonderful window and extraordinary view, had made the place far more cosy than it had been before.

  ‘I can’t believe we haven’t seen you,’ said Kerensa. ‘Is it just too much fun here?’

  ‘Oh Kerensa,’ said Polly, opening up the lovely bottle of fizzy stuff her friend had kindly brought, and keeping her own very cheap bottle of rosé at the back of the fridge. ‘I have been horribly…’