by Jenny Colgan
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t like arguing with anyone, ever.’
‘Oh,’ said Kerensa. ‘Well, when you meet someone who’s such a rude jerk, you don’t have to hold back, you can just let it go.’
‘Hmm,’ said Polly. ‘You should work in the bakery.’
Kerensa looked at her. ‘And what about you, Little Miss Popular?’
Polly flushed and concentrated on her chips.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Those two totally divine men is what I’m talking about. How on earth did you manage that?’
‘I haven’t managed anything,’ said Polly. ‘There’s not a lot of women in this town, is mostly what that is. And neither of them fancy me anyway. Well, Huckle certainly doesn’t.’
‘He was certainly paying you a lot of attention.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Polly. ‘He has a’ – she lifted up her fingers into quote marks – “tragic past”. As soon as anyone mentions his private life, he clams up like a trap. Seriously, I do think he’s cute, but I’m not an idiot; he’s patently not up for it.’
‘And what about the other one?’
‘Tarnie?’ said Polly. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? He’s got a beard.’
‘He’s got a BEARD? That is the STUPIDEST reason I have ever heard for not dating someone. He’s got a BEARD? Brad Pitt has got a BEARD. Johnny Depp has got a BEARD. George Clooney has got a BEARD. Ben Affleck has got a BEARD. Do you need me to go on? I will pull Mark Ruffalo into this if I have to.’
Polly looked uncomfortable. ‘He’s been really kind to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Kerensa, making a crude gesture. ‘He’s trying to get into your oilskins.’
‘Only because there’s not a lot of women around,’ said Polly. She looked at Kerensa sideways. ‘You seriously think he’s hot?’
‘Let me see,’ said Kerensa. ‘Tall, fit, muscular, piercing blue eyes, strong jaw… Polly, have you gone blind?’
Polly found herself staring at her chips again.
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s just because I’m new in town.’
‘So what?’ said Kerensa. ‘Why he fancies you doesn’t have to matter, does it?’
‘No one ever fancies me,’ said Polly.
‘That’s normally because they see me first,’ said Kerensa sagely. There was a pause and they both burst out laughing.
‘Shut up, you daft mare,’ said Polly.
‘Seriously, though,’ said Kerensa. ‘Oh boo hoo, woe is me, my life is a disaster. And here you are in this place which is’ – she waved her arms around slightly drunkenly, indicating the horizon – ‘absolutely gorgeous, in a cute little quirky flat —’
‘Dump,’ said Polly.
‘No, flat,’ said Kerensa. ‘You’ve made it your home. With a job of your own and a whole group of new friends – plus one jerk – and a whole new life. I mean, seriously’ – they chinked Fanta cans – ‘that really is amazing, Polly.’
‘When you put it like that, it sounds better than it is.’
‘It is what it is,’ said Kerensa. ‘Chris is at his mum’s getting pissed and making passes at waitresses.’
Polly looked around. Although there wasn’t another person in sight and the chippy had closed, the sea was never quiet; she could hear the gentle splash at the harbourside and the clattering of the masts.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Well. I suppose. It’s all right…’
‘Where’s my smiley friend?’
Polly bit her lip.
‘Come on! Where’s that smile? I used to see it all the time.’
Polly grinned at her. ‘Shut up!’
‘HA!’ Kerensa laughed. ‘I knew you were coming back to us.’ She put a finger to Polly’s forehead. ‘Now all you need is a LEETLE bit of Botox to get rid of these worry lines…’
Chapter Fourteen
Polly slept in the next morning, which was something of a novelty. When she woke, Kerensa was gone, heading back to town and shopping and all the busyness. Polly had assumed she would feel jealous, hadn’t been a hundred per cent sure before Kerensa’s visit that she wouldn’t just grab her friend’s arm and beg her to take her back to Plymouth with her.
But instead, as she padded over to the stove to put the coffee machine on, she realised how glad she was not to be heading back to the world of noisy radios and commutes and traffic jams and drive-throughs and packed shopping centres. It was as if Kerensa had given her the gift of seeing Mount Polbearne through a prism which made it a lovely place; somewhere people would like to be.
She checked her phone. There was a message on it from Reuben. I’m in love with your girlfriend, it said. Please tell her to call me straight away. I’ll send the jet.
Polly laughed out loud and was briefly disappointed that Kerensa wasn’t still there so she could see her face. She headed over to the window with her coffee, just in time to see Tarnie turn up, waving when he caught sight of her.
‘What are you doing today?’ he yelled.
‘I’m scrubbing a horrible black filthy room just in case I get to run it as a bakery,’ she said, making a face.
‘No you’re not,’ said Tarnie. ‘It’s Sunday, and it’s the most beautiful day ever. So. Come fishing with me.’
‘You’re taking me to work?’
‘Nope. This is just for fun.’
‘You fish all week then you fish for fun?’
‘Do we have to debate this shouting out of high windows?’
Polly smiled. ‘Okay. Do we need a picnic?’
‘No,’ said Tarnie. ‘Well, you know, anything you have lying about.’
Polly thought about the wholemeal bloomer she’d left to rise the previous evening out of sheer habit.
‘I need to get the boat ready,’ said Tarnie.
‘Good,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll be there in forty minutes.’
By the time she’d washed and changed, the bread was ready. It was warm and stunningly fragrant. She packed a jar of honey and a knife, a roundel of local cheese she’d bought from someone at the side of the road, some early Pink Lady apples, a large bottle of water and, on a whim, the macaroons and posh white wine Kerensa had brought her as a gift, ‘because you can’t get this stuff in Hicksville, right?’ about which she had in fact been exactly right.
It was a perfect day, sunny and warm, with a little cooling breeze that sent tiny rags of cloud scuttling across the sky. The water was a light inviting blue. Polly dithered for a few minutes and eventually, feeling nervous and a little daring, tossed her swimming costume into her rucksack before she ran downstairs. Halfway down, she paused, wondering what was missing, and then realised that of course it was Neil.
She had expected Tarnie to be on his fishing boat, but that wasn’t what he had meant at all, as it turned out; he was standing next to a little white rowing boat with a small engine at the back.
‘Welcome to my yacht,’ he said, smiling.
‘Well I think she’s very pretty,’ said Polly, accepting his hand as she stepped off the wharf.
‘Have you got a hat?’ he asked.
‘Oh no,’ said Polly. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘It gets pretty bright out there,’ he said, tossing her a hat with lots of little pockets up the side.
Polly jammed it over her strawberry-blonde hair. ‘Does it suit me?’
Tarnie smiled. ‘You look about five.’
‘I’m taking that as a no,’ she said, taking it off again. ‘What are these pockets for? Worms?’
‘You have a real obsession with carrying animals about your person,’ said Tarnie. ‘Anyway, no. Hooks and flies mostly, but leave that to me.’
‘Are you insinuating I can’t fish?’
‘Can you fish?’
‘No, but you shouldn’t assume.’
Polly put on her lifejacket. Tarnie smiled.
‘What? Do the cool kids not do that?’
‘Sorry,’ said Tarnie. ‘It’s my fault. I assumed you could swim.�
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‘Of course I can SWIM.’
‘Well then, I don’t think you have to wear that – unless you want to. I’ll be gentle, I promise.’
He set his hand on the tiller, and Polly took off the very bulky lifejacket and sat down on the little wooden bench at the front. Tarnie had been right: the boat jerked just once to start, then cut very smoothly through the white-tipped waves. This early in the morning there was nobody else out on the water, just a few fishermen standing forlornly at the end of the jetty, holding out for a catch. The sun shone down warmly and Polly was surprised at how much she enjoyed the sensation of the little boat zipping speedily along. The engine was noisy, so they didn’t talk; she just watched as the great mount shape of Polbearne faded behind them in the morning mist, its clustered buildings and cobbled streets sweet and soft-looking in the haze. It was odd, she realised, but she almost thought of it as home.
Ahead was the open sea, suddenly thrilling in its endless expanse.
‘It’s gorgeous out here,’ Polly said, settling back and enjoying the wind and sun on her face; as she grew warmer, she put her hand down and let it trail through the waves. It felt delicious.
After forty minutes, she saw a little something jutting out of the water. As they approached it, she realised it was the tiniest little island, a minuscule outcrop of land in the middle of nowhere.
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t think it even has a name,’ said Tarnie. ‘Bird Island, maybe.’
As they drew closer, Polly saw that it had a rickety wooden jetty.
‘Somebody lives here?’
‘No, you couldn’t live here. But in the past someone came and stayed from time to time; a hermit, I think. Some rich local second son who’d never quite got on in the world. He used to be ferried out here with his supplies, stay for a few months, then head back for the winter.’
‘What on earth did he do?’ said Polly.
‘I think he just stared out to sea,’ said Tarnie, tying up the boat and giving her a hand out. ‘I really don’t know. Maybe in the days before television people were just more easily pleased.’
Sure enough, up from the jetty, and a narrow yellow beach, were the abandoned remains of a rough-hewn stone house.
‘Wow,’ said Polly.
‘I know,’ said Tarnie, looking over at the graffiti. ‘In the summer, kids steal their parents’ boats and come and do stuff here. You should probably admire it from a safe distance.’
There were also the remains of several campfires.
‘Can we build a fire?’ said Polly.
‘Strictly illegal,’ said Tarnie. ‘But yes.’
They walked around. There were large ash trees bent over on one side where the wind blew in from the sea, and little flickering flashes as rabbits scampered past. It was a lonely place – the mainland was merely a fine line in the distance – but beautiful too.
‘What did he do for water?’ asked Polly suddenly.
‘Oh, he had a rain butt. No shortage of that stuff, not really.’
‘No,’ agreed Polly.
‘And the fleet would pop in from time to time – we come past here every day, and there’s the Looe sailors of course.’
Polly nodded.
‘Okay,’ said Tarnie. ‘Ready to fish?’
Polly had been nervous about taking somebody’s eye out with a hook, but Tarnie showed her how to cast back properly, and they sat on the jetty waiting for something to tug. Tarnie said that because there was vegetation, there was lots for the fish to eat, and they were lucky they were the first people here that day. ‘Make your cross face at anyone else who comes,’ he added.
‘You make YOUR cross face,’ said Polly.
Tarnie smiled, his eyes looking very blue.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘when people see that someone else has already got here, they tend to pass on. It’s a little small for a nice quiet day out for everyone. So. We’ve bagsied it.’
‘Our own private island,’ said Polly wonderingly. Tarnie grinned at her again.
Polly was first. She felt the sudden tug on her line and wondered what it was; then she stood up and nearly fell in.
‘Woohoo!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve got one! I’ve got one!’
Tarnie smiled. ‘That’s it! On you go, start reeling it in! Pull it!’
‘Oh my goodness!’ said Polly, excited, as the large silvery shape started to become visible, frantically jerking and splashing under the surface. ‘Oh God, oh no, I’m killing a fish.’
Tarnie looked at her.
‘Polly, it’s a bit late for that.’
‘I know, I know…’
She winced and was on the brink of dropping the rod.
‘Do you want me to take it?’
She nodded quickly, slightly cross with herself for being so squeamish. Tarnie came up behind her, and very casually gently removed the rod from her hands, then, as she stood aside, started to reel it in.
The sun glinted off the water and the silvery scales as the fish twisted and turned right to the top of the filament. It was a herring, a big one too.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Fish,’ muttered Polly.
‘This is a bad time to go vegetarian on me,’ said Tarnie, as he expertly picked the fish off the hook. ‘Okay,’ he added. ‘You may want to look away for this bit.’
He reached into his fishing bag and took out a long silver knife, then quickly and smoothly began to gut the fish. Polly peered through her fingers. Tarnie smiled at her.
‘You’re a squeamish lass,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘I know it’s pathetic. I normally only buy them sealed in plastic from the supermarket.’
‘Well then you’ve never tasted a real fish,’ said Tarnie simply. ‘Now you go and get some sticks.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
It was rather lovely wandering through the little wood, an emerald canopy shading her from the sun. She went as deep in as she could, picking up sticks on the way. Birds cooed overhead, but there was nothing else to be heard. It was completely beautiful and very still. Polly felt like she understood why so many people in Cornwall still believed in pixies; it was such a magical place. She took a deep breath of the fresh salty air and smiled with something that felt alarmingly close to happiness.
By the time she got back, Tarnie had caught several more fish, and she gave him the sticks and he set about building a neat little fire.
‘But this is illegal,’ she said.
‘Yes, if you’re a drunk teenager who might set the entire island on fire,’ said Tarnie. ‘Let’s try our best not to do that, shall we?’
Soon he had it crackling, and he took out some tin foil, butter, lemon and parsley, and wrapped the fish up and rested them on stones near the blaze.
Polly removed the bottle of wine that Tarnie had had the foresight to leave in the sea to keep it nice and cool, and tore apart the fresh bread, which was still warm inside. They buttered it and ate it with the fish, which had a sensational smoky taste from the fire. Their fingers got greasy because Polly had forgotten to pack napkins, and they both managed to burn themselves from time to time, then they had to throw the bones back into the water, when maybe that wasn’t the most ladylike Polly had ever felt.
It was the best meal she’d ever eaten in her life.
The cool wine and the hot sun were making Polly feel sleepy. She rolled over and grabbed one of the apples from the picnic bag. As she bit into it, she caught Tarnie looking at her. Something in the atmosphere shifted.
‘Apple?’ she said.
He blinked for a moment. ‘Er, no thanks.’ He looked away. Then he looked at her again. ‘Um,’ he said.
Polly realised immediately that Kerensa must have been right. After all, she thought, looking around her: this spot, this lunch, this day. This wasn’t just about friendship, otherwise he’d probably have brought his mates along. This was something else.
They sat in silence for a moment, then
Tarnie got up and walked across the sand towards the sea.
‘I’m hot,’ he announced. Without warning, he pulled off his shirt – he was lean, slighter than Polly had expected; all sinew and tight muscle, with a couple of fine scars tracing up his side – and, leaving on his long shorts, he dived straight into the surf.
Polly watched him for a long time. He was clearly a strong swimmer and didn’t surface until she was almost starting to worry about him. Then she saw his dark head appear, like a seal, and he waved.
‘What’s it like?’ she called.
‘Refreshing,’ he shouted back.
‘That always means bloody freezing,’ she said.
‘Burk burk burk burk.’
‘Don’t make chicken noises at me!’ said Polly. She did feel hot, and a bit sticky. ‘You’re not meant to swim after a meal anyway. Or did they disprove that?’
‘Burk burk burk.’
Before she realised what she was doing, she ducked back into the wood and slipped on the cherry-print vintage swimsuit she’d bought online back in the days when buying nice things was simply the kind of thing one did for fun. She wished she had a mirror. On second thoughts, she was glad she didn’t. She would only start picking faults and worrying, and she hadn’t exposed her skin all winter, so of course she was going to be pale. For those reasons too she decided that the best thing to do was just take a run into the sea, charging towards it before she had the chance to consider it and change her mind.
It was not refreshing. It was not even cold. It was absolutely bloody arctic.
‘EEK!’ screeched Polly, feeling her insides constrict as she splashed about in agony. ‘What IS this?’
Tarnie burst out laughing. It was strange to see him so relaxed; he was bobbing up and down on his back quite happily.
‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘A bit of cold water never hurt anyone.’
‘Yes it does! All the time!’ yelled back Polly, the shock still deep in her lungs. She dived under again. The water was miraculously clear out here, practically Mediterranean. She felt a fish nudge her leg and managed not to squeal.
Finally she felt herself getting used to the water. She surfaced next to Tarnie. The sun felt delicious as she lay on her back and waggled her hands to stay afloat.
