Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  Kerensa and Reuben were still talking on the phone now. Reuben seemed to be incensed that they didn’t expect him to host.

  ‘I got a dance floor! I got lighting! I got access to DJs and a fully stocked champagne cellar,’ he was saying. Polly could hear him from the other side of the room.

  ‘It’s not a party,’ said Kerensa. ‘It’s a wake, numbnuts.’

  ‘I think everyone should have this when they die,’ said Reuben. ‘It’s what I want.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ said Polly.

  ‘Anyway, what are you guys going to do, make some toast?’ Reuben continued.

  ‘I like toast,’ said Kerensa.

  ‘Fine,’ said Reuben. ‘When I’m flying in the sushi chef, I’ll fly in a toast chef too.’

  Kerensa and Polly looked at each other. Polly nodded her head. ‘We should do it. The town needs it.’

  ‘OKAY,’ said Kerensa, as if she were doing Reuben the most massive favour, and ended the call.

  ‘You know, you should be nicer to him,’ said Polly. ‘He took that boat out and found the rest of those men. He was really being quite heroic.’

  ‘Well, one, he was showing off as usual,’ said Kerensa.

  ‘You’re harsh,’ said Polly.

  ‘And two, it was Huckle who made him do it.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I do. Reuben told me. Well, I suggested it and he couldn’t deny it.’

  ‘I can’t believe you really dislike this guy but you’ve still managed to persuade him to host the entire thing.’

  Kerensa rolled her eyes.

  ‘There is a reason I’m still in business.’

  ‘Low blow.’

  Kerensa stuck out her tongue.

  ‘Come on,’ said Polly. ‘We’ve still got a lot of work to do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kerensa, true to her word, managed to arrange for the vicar to perform a service of remembrance in the old church. It would take place on Saturday, followed by a blow-out at Reuben’s place. Polly hoped the weather would be fine. They told everyone in the village.

  The media, thank God, had mostly gone home. But they had left an unexpected legacy behind. When people had seen the news reports on the ‘tragic tidal village’, they hadn’t thought about the fishing so much as the beautiful upwards sweep of the town towards the picturesque ruined castle; its quaint cobbles; its lovely little artisan bakery; its sun-dappled waters. Within a day, they were descending en masse as daytrippers – not just ghouls, but genuine holidaymakers too. Kerensa went back to Plymouth, and Polly missed her helping around the place; she was run off her feet. Anything she baked was snapped up at the speed of light. She was so busy she could sometimes forget everything that had happened. Then she would glance out of the window, looking for the chattering masts, the banter, the jokes, the shouting of the fishermen, the familiar tall figure with the piercing blue eyes, and he would not be there, and it was like being hit in the stomach with a cannonball all over again.

  On Wednesday, she was closing up the blinds when she saw a thin, bent figure approaching the harbour wall. The daytrippers were all on the beach; it was a ravishing day, and a quiet postprandial heat had overtaken the town. There was nobody else around. Polly made a cup of tea and took it outside, sitting down on the wall next to her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I brought you some tea, but I’ll leave if you want to be alone.’

  Selina looked up at her, blinking in confusion.

  ‘Hello, sorry, I don’t…’

  ‘I’m Polly Waterford,’ she said. ‘I was a friend of Tarnie’s… Well, I mean, I knew all the fishermen. I work just over there.’

  ‘Oh yes, the bread shop.’ Selina smiled sadly. ‘He talked about the bakery all the time. He loved your bread.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to intrude…’

  ‘No,’ said Selina. ‘It’s fine. I just had to get out from my mum’s. All those cocked heads and “Are you OKAY?” all the time. You know, in that really soft voice so that people can show how caring they are. FUCK, I am tired of it.’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘So then I have to say “Yes, I’m okay” to make THEM feel better. Seriously. For the rest of my life.’

  She twisted the wedding ring on her left hand.

  ‘How could you possibly be okay?’ said Polly, genuinely confused. ‘What a stupid question, like they think you might be a monster.’

  ‘YES,’ said Selina. She went quiet again. They both stared out to sea.

  ‘Except I am a monster,’ she said. ‘Because I am SO fucking FURIOUS with him. I TOLD him. I TOLD him not to go to sea. I begged him not to be a bloody fisherman. Everyone knows it’s dangerous, and there’s no bloody money in it. And he was away all the time, here – I mean, who can live here, it’s half a bloody island, for heaven’s sake. Seriously, we nearly broke up about it all the time, we fought and fought and fought about his damn job, and then what does he do?’

  Her eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘He only goes and proves me bloody right, the bloody bastard. BASTARD. I am SO cross with him.’

  She wiped her face furiously. ‘Oh God, again with the tears,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Sorry for venting. Do you think I’m a monster?’

  ‘I think that makes perfect sense,’ said Polly, feeling awful. She liked this woman. Silly Tarnie.

  ‘I miss him,’ said Selina. ‘Oh God, I miss fighting with him.’ She snuffled. ‘And I wish everyone would stop talking about him like he was some kind of saint.’

  ‘I know,’ said Polly fervently.

  ‘He could be a right dickhead. But he was MY dickhead.’

  Polly put an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Do you think they’ll let me put that on the memorial stone?’ Selina was half hiccuping, half laughing.

  ‘Well, the amount of money people have sent in to pay for it, you can probably have anything you like,’ said Polly, and they both half laughed and half cried at that, and eventually Polly said sod it, hang on, and went up to the flat and grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, and they sat on the sea wall and drank it from plastic cups, and Polly let Selina tell annoying Tarnie stories all afternoon until people started filling up the town again and recognising Selina, and she scowled and said it was like being the worst kind of celebrity ever, super-widow, and left. They both hugged when she went.

  That week was the busiest ever in the shop. Mount Polbearne was famous now, and everyone wanted a piece of it. Henry and Samantha, the incoming couple, who were in the middle of vast overhauling building works, came in brimful with excitement.

  ‘Well, we are QUITE the talk of Chelsea!’ said Samantha. ‘I don’t think house prices are going to be static for long! All the DRAMA!’ she trilled.

  Polly winced, then looked outside. The Range Rover was parked across the cobbles, blocking the road again. She wondered gloomily if they’d have to get a traffic warden.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy also opening an artisan butcher’s?’ asked Henry hopefully. Today his cords were pink. They matched his blowsy cheeks. ‘That kind of thing really helps.’

  ‘What? God, no,’ said Polly. She watched one of the fishermen pass the window with his arms full of yellow ducks.

  ‘I see someone’s got an enterprising spirit,’ said Henry. ‘Hmm. I wonder if he’d fancy opening a butcher’s.’

  Polly looked at them.

  ‘So, are all your friends moving here?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Deffo! Binky and Max and Biff and Jules and Mills and Pinky and Froufrou are already calling their agents, aren’t they?’ said Henry to Samantha.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Polly, putting their specially ordered gluten-free loaf (for which she charged enough to pay her fuel bill for a month) into a paper bag. ‘Oh good.’

  Saturday dawned glorious and perfect. There were a couple of puffy white clouds breezing across the sky, but otherwise it was a technicolour blue. It reminded Polly of the day Tarnie h
ad taken her out on his little boat, and it took her three times longer than usual to get ready, because every time she thought about that day, she cried all her make-up off and had to do it again. She spoke to herself fiercely. She was not going to make an idiot of herself. She wasn’t. Tarnie had been a friend, that was all, whom she had known for a few months. She didn’t deserve to selfishly grab a slice of the grief – the real grief, the huge, never-ending, life-shattering heartbreak. That belonged to his family, his old friends, Selina. She had no right to intrude. She had to lock it inside, be strong, not embarrass herself.

  Thankfully Kerensa turned up bright and early to catch the tide. She looked insane but also fabulous, in a short – slightly too short – black lace dress, dramatic make-up and a fascinator with netting.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Polly, rubbing under her eyes for the thousandth time. ‘You look like the black widow.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kerensa, turning on the coffee machine. ‘What do you think? Too much?’

  ‘You only met him once,’ said Polly.

  ‘I know,’ said Kerensa. ‘But I thought that if anyone was suspiciously searching the church for likely bits on the side, they’d skip over you and assume it was me.’

  Polly gasped. ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Polly, dissolving again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Kerensa kindly, patting her on the shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t have looked as good as me even if you were trying.’

  But Polly knew what she was really saying, and simply bawled in her arms until there was nothing left in her.

  ‘Better?’ said Kerensa.

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Then go have a shower.’

  ‘I’ve had three. It’s only cold water left.’

  ‘Even better, it’ll tighten up the pores.’

  Polly did what she was told, then Kerensa, looking on sternly and bringing out the waterproof mascara, sorted her out in a plain black short-sleeved dress made up of a silk skirt and T-shirt top.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just sit quietly at the back and try not to draw attention to yourself. Have you met his family before?’

  Polly shook her head. ‘Only Selina.’

  ‘Good, they won’t recognise you. You’ll be fine, do you hear me?’

  Huckle and Reuben met them at the church, both looking unusually sober in dark suits and ties. Reuben didn’t pass up the opportunity to tell them that his tie and shoes were sharkskin, ‘the most expensive skin you can buy’, which Kerensa quickly told him made him a biological terrorist.

  The church, once the focal point of the community, stood at the very top of the village, a walk up the stepped pavements. Originally built in the Middle Ages, when the town was still connected to the land, it had fallen into disuse as the causeway closed over, and had been deconsecrated at the end of the nineteenth century. It was more like a ruin now than a church, with its old stone walls and paved floors; there was no roof, just birds’ nests high in the crumbling stonework. It was a nice spot to picnic outside, even amongst the ancient gravestones, and the view out to sea on three sides was absolutely magnificent: boats dotted here and there, the sky a massive flag waving over their heads.

  Seats had been brought up from the tiny village hall for older people to sit on, but the church was so crowded that most people were standing along the walls or sitting on the floor, or on rocky outcrops where the flagstones had been broken or taken away. There was a murmur of low voices, men standing awkwardly in their best suits, slightly red-faced in the heat. At the front, sitting with their heads bowed, were two people who Polly realised instantly were Tarnie’s parents. She knew that after his father had retired, his mother had insisted they move to the mainland, in search of a little more excitement. She also hadn’t been happy that Tarnie had been a fisherman; she’d had higher hopes for her only son. She had the same bright blue eyes as her boy, Polly could see, presently so misted and unfocused she looked blind.

  The man did not raise his head, but she could see Tarnie in the slope of his shoulders, in the rangy build, in the shadow of his jaw, and she took a sharp intake of breath. She could not bear to think what must be going through his head, this fisherman. A woman shepherding several small children and looking harassed and worn down had to be Tarnie’s sister.

  Next to them was Selina, in a pretty black dress that showed off her thin collarbones. Polly smiled an apologetic smile at her, and Selina gave her a look of such open pain it made Polly’s heart constrict. She was being supported by her mother and various other relatives, and looked too frail to even stand up.

  Mrs Manse was sitting, ignoring everyone, straight-backed and uncomfortable-looking, in one of the chairs. In black, she resembled Queen Victoria. Polly tried to wave and received a disapproving look in return.

  The entire town was there, even, Polly was surprised to note, the newcomers, Samantha and Henry, who looked awkward and out of place. She gave a little wave towards them too. Then they all stood, anxiously, waiting for something to happen.

  Finally, the female vicar from the mainland appeared, coming in through the ruined walls like everyone else. She made her way to the front and cleared her throat, and everyone immediately sat up attentively.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘And thank you all for coming on such a beautiful day. I know the circumstances are unusual, but I feel that even if we cannot bury our brother Cornelius William Tarnforth, we can celebrate him.’

  At the sound of his name, his mother gave a stifled wail.

  ‘Not all deaths are tragedies,’ continued the vicar. ‘But this one was.’

  She went on to talk about how well known Tarnie had been in the community, how loved by his family, how missed he would be; then various people got up and said a few words, told stories Polly hadn’t heard: about his habit of dropping fish in on people who didn’t have much money to spare, about the lifeboat-manning shifts he took on in his spare time, some ridiculous story about pushing over a cow that Archie told through gulping sobs and that wasn’t very coherent.

  The vicar read from the Bible.

  ‘And it came to pass, that, as the people pressed upon him to hear the word of God, he stood by the lake of Gennesaret,

  And saw two ships standing by the lake: but the fishermen were gone out of them, and were washing their nets.

  And he entered into one of the ships, which was Simon’s, and prayed him that he would thrust out a little from the land. And he sat down, and taught the people out of the ship.

  Now when he had left speaking, he said unto Simon, Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught.

  And Simon answering said unto him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing: nevertheless at thy word I will let down the net.

  And when they had this done, they inclosed a great multitude of fishes: and their net did brake.

  And they beckoned unto their partners, which were in the other ship, that they should come and help them. And they came, and filled both the ships, so that they began to sink.

  When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.

  For he was astonished, and all that were with him, at the draught of the fishes which they had taken:

  And so was also James, and John, the sons of Zebedee, which were partners with Simon. And Jesus said unto Simon, Fear not; from henceforth thou shalt be a fisher of men.

  And when they had brought their ships to land, they forsook all, and followed him.’

  Then, at a prearranged signal, the men Polly recognised as fishermen shambled to the front of the congregation and started to sing.

  Eternal Father, strong to save,

  Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

  Who bid’st the mighty ocean deep

  Its own appointed limits keep:

  The voices swelled louder and louder now, joined by most of the others there.

  O
h hear us when we cry to thee

  For those in peril on the sea.

  Polly glanced over and saw Tarnie’s father trying, and failing, to mouth the words. That was when she lost it completely. Trying very, very hard to be quiet, she buried her head in the inner lining of Huckle’s jacket and sobbed and sobbed. The lining was never the same afterwards.

  Oh Christ, whose voice the waters heard,

  And hushed their raging at thy word

  Who walkedst on the foaming deep,

  And calm amidst its rage didst sleep:

  Oh hear us when we cry to thee

  For those in peril on the sea.

  Reuben, or rather the wildly expensive party planner he’d got in from London – he was sparing absolutely no expense – had sent coaches over to pick people up and take them to the wake.

  It was a beautiful day as they boarded the vehicles, the men already loosening their ties and taking off their jackets. Not a cloud in the sky, just bright blue as far as the eye could see, the sun hot and delicious on the increasingly brown shoulders of the holidaymakers, beachcombers and scavengers. Most of the goods from the wrecked tanker had either sunk or been removed from the ship, and fortunately the oil had been successfully contained, thanks to the quick thinking of one of the young engineers on board, who’d managed to close the bulkhead doors as the ship was going down. Polly had been amazed to learn that this behemoth had been crewed by fewer than a dozen men. Archie had explained to her that their great fear in the lifeboat had been that a huge cargo ship would simply not notice them; that a boy would be asleep at the radar, or simply assume they were a large fish, nothing worth bothering about.