by Jenny Colgan
She went home and looked at Kerensa’s ludicrous honeymoon pictures on Facebook, then made herself a simple supper and only looked at the poem another eight or nine times. After she’d eaten, she forced herself down to the pub for another of Samantha’s interminable meetings about how to stop the bridge. They seemed interminable, Samantha boldly pointed out, because there wasn’t a bridge yet, so they were obviously working. Samantha brought her baby along; Muriel had hers too, and Polly thought of the changes she’d seen in the last year as they got ready for the summer season again.
Samantha was talking, but Polly was miles away.
‘What do you think?’ she snapped in Polly’s face.
‘Er, yeah, fine,’ muttered Polly, trying to pretend she knew what was going on.
‘So it’s decided!’ said Samantha, to general groans. ‘Polly had the casting vote!’
‘What have I just agreed to?’ said Polly worriedly to Jayden, who was looking cross right beside her as they went to the bar.
‘The sit-in,’ said Jayden. ‘Well, stand-in. Samantha’s getting the press down and we all have to stand holding hands along the causeway to stop them building the bridge.’
‘But we’ll drown!’ said Polly. ‘This is a ridiculous idea. It’ll totally prove their point that we need a bridge!’
‘I know,’ said Jayden dolefully.
‘And the water is freezing! It’s only spring.’
‘I know. And I want to go to a nightclub.’
‘Just go to a nightclub,’ said Polly, slightly exasperated. ‘Book a bed and breakfast or something.’
Jayden frowned.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I could! Now I have all this money!’
‘What money?’ said Polly, narrowing her eyes. He was on minimum wage.
‘All the money I’m making now,’ said Jayden happily.
‘You’re not telling me it’s more than you made as a fisherman?’
‘LOADS more,’ said Jayden. ‘Wow, a B and B. Imagine. They make you breakfast and everything.’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Yes, they do.’
The human chain was scheduled for Easter weekend, the first big holiday of the season, and three days before the local council was scheduled to vote. The town was going to turn out on the causeway as soon as the first tide had gone down, and stay till the second, with banners and songs. The second tide would come up about five o’clock, by which time, they hoped, their point would have been made.
Kerensa and Reuben were jetting in from the current leg of their honeymoon (Porto Cervo in Sardinia – Kerensa said all the rich women were completely awful and Reuben kept trying to buy her really ugly handbags, and they had decided to settle for just lots of sex instead) to join them for a bit of solidarity (and, Polly suspected, a chance for Reuben to zip around in his Riva).
The mornings were getting lighter, and Polly was up, for once, with the bright pink dawn that morning, baking extra lots of buns for the post-human-chain barbecue they had planned on the little shingle beach. She had overheard Lance the estate agent complaining in the pub about not being able to shift the lighthouse unless they got the damn bridge, and was feeling tentatively hopeful about it.
And it was a lovely morning, she thought, whistling cheerfully as the wonderful scent she never tired of rose from the ovens and she looked forward to seeing her friends. She’d persuaded a gang of Plymouthites to come down for the day; Chris might even join them. Apparently, his new girlfriend was a radical artist with big nose studs who made pictures with blood in them. Polly rather liked the sound of her. Neil hopped over and she ruffled his feathers affectionately and gave him a quick kiss on the beak.
‘It’s going to be a nice day, Neil,’ she said gently, looking out of the bakery window towards the east, where bright golden rays were just beginning to bounce off the top of the water, then straight ahead, where she could hear the fishing boats chugging back in. Not much changed in Polbearne, and she wanted to keep it that way. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was turning into Mrs Manse.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Huckle knew it was time; had known for ages, in fact. He had got no response to his poem, which he had thought might spark something – he’d believed it, wanted to believe it so much he’d almost gone to the airport, for God’s sake. But no. He had to sort that area of his life out now, move on. Everything was going swimmingly in Savannah, work was busier than ever, he could go out every night if he wanted to, though he rarely did. It needed to be done; he’d been putting it off too long. He shut his office door and pressed 9 for a long-distance outside line.
First the house. He called the rental place, who were so overjoyed that they would have a prime property to rent in the up-and-coming region of Polbearne, the new hotspot, profiled in all the Sunday supplements, that they didn’t even charge him an early vacancy fee. They had a list of downsizers a mile long, apparently, who had fallen in love with the quirky area and thought keeping bees would be a perfect next step.
He asked his PA to bring him a cup of coffee, then phoned the temp agency to cancel the beekeeping contract – the new tenants were moving in in a week, so one more visit should do it.
The woman on the other end of the phone was confused.
‘Sorry, Mr Skerry, but you cancelled your temp service.’
‘Er, no?’ said Huck.
‘Yes, it’s quite clear here. Mr Marsden came back saying you no longer required a temp. He’s now left the agency, I’m afraid, or I could ask him. We haven’t been sending anyone, not in months.’
Huckle thanked her, and wondered. Polly had brought him all that honey when she came, and it had been fresh. Not just fresh, wonderful; he’d made a mental note to congratulate the temp, and then, in the turmoil of what had happened with Polly, had completely forgotten all about it.
It dawned on him slowly. What an idiot he’d been. What on earth…
Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, he saw her like she was standing right in front of him. Saw her walking through the avenue of trees – such beautiful trees, he remembered – rain or shine, summer and winter, every day, simply going there to tend his bees, on top of everything else she had to do. His eyes blinked away tears. All those months when he’d thought she was in love with the memory of a ghost; all those months, in the mud and the wet, she had tramped across the causeway and up to his house, and tended his goddam bees.
He looked round at his office – the novelty of being busy once more was fast wearing off. He thought of the snarled freeways and the humid, sticky evenings, the tie that felt far too tight around his neck, his buddies sending him group messages about going to watch a baseball game, the files teetering high on his desk, his promise to take his mother to church on Sunday, the invitation to Candice and Ron’s wedding, which looked as if it would be just as over the top as Reuben’s. His entire life piled up around him, holding him in, and all he could think about was those goddam bees. Well, not quite all.
Without realising it, he had pulled off his tie.
‘Oh man,’ he said to himself, running his hands through his hair. ‘Man. Susan!’
His PA was holding his black coffee hopefully. She was madly in love with him.
‘Er. I have to…’
He couldn’t think of what to say. The last time he had left he had gone quietly, taken time out under his own rules. This time it didn’t seem to have anything to do with him; his legs were moving of their own accord. He absolutely couldn’t believe he was doing it again. But he was.
‘Yeah, I have some… some things to take care of.’
‘Anything I can help you with?’
Huckle shook his head.
‘Er, no. Not… No. Er. Can you book me a cab to the airport?’
He didn’t call anyone, didn’t speak, didn’t stop to think. He barely slept on the plane, but the long train ride from London to Looe knocked him out completely and the guard had to gently shake him, having noticed his destination on the reservation on his seat. Huc
kle was extremely grateful.
The cabbie chattered non-stop all the way to Polbearne about how incredibly successful the place was becoming, how they might get a new bridge and that would change everything. Spring was coming in, and many of the little winding roads were papered with pink and white blossom. Between the rolling hills, the sea still sparked. Huckle gave a sigh. He had forgotten just how beautiful it was.
The taxi driver got so far up the lane and no further; Huckle turned and thanked him, and got out with his leather overnight bag. Feeling leadenly tired after his incredibly long journey, he almost limped up the familiar avenue, the thick carpet of petals beneath his feet.
At the little cottage gate he stood for a second and put his bag down. Then he slipped off his shoes and socks so he could sink his bare feet into the cool, soft grass. He could hear once again the reassuring babbling of the little brook and the low, gentle hum of the bees.
‘Hiya there, guys,’ he murmured, overwhelmed with tiredness and, oddly, the most extraordinary relief.
He noticed, to almost no surprise, that his bee coveralls had been scrubbed clean and hung up tidily. The hives themselves were humming along in immaculate condition. The wax had been scraped away, the honey perfectly jarred. He looked at the trees with the fairy lights and remembered the night they’d spent drinking mead. He smiled. All his mead dreams turned to dust for a well-paid job back in an air-conditioned office. No. No no no.
Quick as a flash, Huckle pulled off his smart travelling suit, ran in and out of the shower, bouncing with excitement and sudden adrenalin, and pulled on jeans and an old T-shirt. He charged out of the house, not even locking it, eating toothpaste for speed. Thank God the motorbike started first time, because he was beyond thought now. He wasn’t thinking, he wasn’t planning, he wasn’t doing anything rational at all. It felt wonderful.
He sped along the little lanes, narrowly missing a huge lorry carrying vast amounts of scree, and pulling up with a roar at the end of the road leading to the causeway. The tide was coming in; there was a stern sign warning people not to use the causeway within two hours of high tide. He was well within the window, but he didn’t care. He barely noticed that there were loads of vans and cars parked there, some with television insignia on the side, and a small crowd of people standing around; all he wanted to do was get on the causeway before it closed.
Then he saw it. Right along the causeway. A massive line of people; the whole of Polbearne, holding hands, all the way from the mainland to the Mount.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Muriel, who was standing on the end, a cute baby in a sling on her back.
‘HUCKLE!’ she screamed. ‘Oh my God, you’re back! Polly’s right at the other end!’
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re protesting. We don’t want a bridge!’
‘No bridge, no bridge!’ chanted the crowd, filmed by the television crews.
Huckle broke into a huge grin and took Muriel’s arm.
‘Quite right too,’ he said. ‘NO BRIDGE, NO BRIDGE!’
But he could see that the water was already lapping up the side of the causeway. He took a worried look at the baby.
‘How long are you going to keep doing this?’ he asked.
‘I know, we’re nearly done,’ she said, and just as she spoke, a bullhorn went off.
‘CLEAR THE CAUSEWAY! CLEAR THE CAUSEWAY! MOUNT POLBEARNE FOR EVER!’ called a voice Huckle recognised as Samantha’s.
There was a surge of people coming off his end, and he had to struggle his way through.
‘Nope, we’re done now,’ said Jayden, looking officious in a reflective jacket. ‘Come on, sir… Oh, it’s YOU.’
‘Yes,’ said Huckle.
‘Well, we all have to be off the causeway by five. Come on, it’s the law.’
‘I just want to see Polly.’
‘She’s on the other side – you can see her in the morning.’
The water had started washing across the causeway now, and everyone was hurrying off with damp feet.
‘I’ll just go quickly.’
‘You won’t make it,’ said Jayden. ‘And I’m on this side, I can’t take the boat out.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘It’s freezing,’ said Jayden. ‘You won’t. Don’t be an idiot.’
Huckle grinned. ‘My being an idiot days are over,’ he said. ‘Apart from today.’
And he broke past Jayden’s arms and started pushing his way against the tide of people. He shouted her name – ‘Polly! Polly!’ – but he couldn’t see her.
Polly was one of the last people to come off on the Mount Polbearne side: there had been a rush, and she had hung back to let the others go, especially the little ones. Polbearnites were superstitious about being on the causeway when the water came in, and rightly so, she knew.
Anyway, she was only wearing flip-flops; she didn’t really mind the cold water stealing across the tops of her toes. It was going to be the most spectacular sunset. She glanced up at the buildings, which looked as though they were on fire, listening to the chatter and laughter of people going past her, happy with their day – the turnout had been amazing, the causeway full. Patrick had been interviewed for a newspaper again, so everyone was happy.
She didn’t hear it for a long time, but something caught her, something on the wind, and even though the water was now uncomfortably high, she stopped, turned, looked around at the distant figure. Someone was still out there. Her heart stopped. Then she recognised him.
Everyone else had gone; the causeway was closed. But he was here. He was here, that was all, and Polly started to run.
He was running towards her just as quickly, with the same determined look on his face as she had, staring straight at her. The water was splashing round her ankles now, the sun a great glowing ball in the pink-streaked sky as they collided in the middle of the causeway. Without a moment’s hesitation or a single word being spoken, Huckle lifted her up as if she was made of thistledown and spun her in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, and she returned it hungrily, as if there had been no separation between them, as if it were the same kiss they had started at the wake: the same power, the same force. Huckle felt like a man dying of thirst in the desert who’d been given a glass of water. Polly didn’t think at all.
It was only when the water was lapping up to his thighs that Huckle reluctantly drew away.
‘I think we may have to get out of here,’ he said, gently putting her down. Polly laughed at the splash of the cold water.
People were shouting at them from both sides as they waded, helpless with laughter, back to the Mount Polbearne side, hand in hand. The waves came in with incredible speed, the freezing water up to their chests as they were hauled out by friendly hands. Archie gave them a scolding, but they looked at each other and giggled again. It was just so astonishing to Polly that Huckle was here, in front of her again, grinning his big farm boy grin. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick cornstalk hair.
‘Can I make some kind of totally terrible joke about wet clothes and getting out of them?’ he asked.
‘You,’ said Polly, ‘can do whatever you like.’
She took him up to the big room she loved so much, that had haunted his dreams, with the sea view, the view of clear, pure blue, darkening now. The boats were all out. Good. Polly shut Neil in the bathroom and came back, a little nervous all over again.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Not sure,’ said Huckle. ‘Yes.’
And she fetched the fresh bread, and the new honey.
Later, happy, sated, Polly snuggled under the blanket with Huckle, breathing in the wonderful warm scent of him, stroking the light golden curls that covered his chest – he was so extraordinarily beautiful to her – and fell into a deep sleep.
Coda
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously!’
The funny thing was, in the end, it was the picture of the two of them embracing, the su
n setting behind them, up to their waists in water, that had done it.
FOR THE LOVE OF MOUNT POLBEARNE, the caption had said, whereupon the council had voted against the new bridge five to three, and that was that. And Lance had sighed heavily, and slashed the price of the old lighthouse.
They were standing at the top of it, a room that had windows on all sides, and gave the dizzying sensation that you were right out at sea, or flying like a bird above it. It had the same wobbly wooden flooring that Polly was leaving behind in the flat (there were plans to possibly turn that into a little café), and the paint was peeling on the walls. Neil was flying around it happily.
‘Where will we even get the circular furniture?’ said Huckle, but Polly could see he was just as taken with it as she was. It was damaged, messy and scruffy – but then, as Polly had pointed out, so were they, and that seemed to be working out just fine. And Huckle could not have denied her a thing.
‘But I want a fireman’s pole,’ he said.
‘Anything,’ said Polly. ‘I can dance round it if you like.’
‘I would like.’
He smiled at her. ‘Won’t you miss the light?’
She looked at him, then looked out again at the beautiful, dancing golden sea.
‘You’re my light,’ she said quietly, and he pulled her to him, burying his face in her mass of hair.
And Polly looked over his shoulder through the huge ceiling-to-floor windows and saw the little fishing fleet heading out for their evening’s work. As usual, a flock of seagulls followed behind them, chattering angrily, as the clouds blazed with gold. She could see something – a fish, or possibly a seal – jumping and splashing at The Tarn’s bow. They often did this, like they were playing. But tonight, somehow, it felt different; it felt like the spirit of someone watching over the boat; the spirit of Tarnie, perhaps, still with them somehow. Even though she knew it was daft, she still couldn’t shake it, as she stood there in the lighthouse, safe in the ring of her loved one’s arms.
