Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery (29 page)

‘Hmm,’ said Huckle. ‘Well, you should have smiled.’

‘Really?’

‘I like it when you’re smiling.’

‘That’s been quite tricky,’ said Polly.

‘But it’s a good piece.’

‘Is it?’

There was a slightly awkward silence between them. This was new.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Huckle. ‘Because you know, I’m… I mean, everything is going well here. I’m turning the farm around. Definitely.’

Another pause.

‘Well,’ said Polly. ‘That’s great.’

‘And, you know, I’m sure this is the start of something for you…’

‘I hope so,’ said Polly. They both did.

In fact, they didn’t have to wait long. By Monday, there were a few more cars.

By Tuesday, there was a line.

‘Oh my God,’ Polly had said that first morning. The people who came weren’t like any she’d served before.

They were very intense, and peppered her with lots and lots of questions about process and ingredients and provenance and methodology. They were, as Selina said when she came over later, and stayed to help, foodies, people who only liked the rarest and newest of things. She was, it seemed, a discovery. Many of them tried some of the seeded loaf she put out for testing as if it were wine: holding it in their mouths, rolling it round and round, or pinching it between their fingers and making humming noises. All the men had beards.

She texted Kate to say an ecstatic thank you, and Kate had texted back to say not at all, she deserved it, and she had looked like she needed it. Which was true.

The other odd thing was that many of the cars didn’t then go on to Mount Polbearne, even though it was a clear day with low tides. Many just drove into the car park, bought some bread – for boasting rights, Selina informed her – and drove off again. There was also a healthy proportion of surfers who Polly semi-recognised as being friends of Reuben, all of whom bought warm loaves and little pots of butter to take to the beach with them but then started tearing it off as soon as they got the bag in their hands. Most people did that: it tasted better fresh from the oven, crammed greedily into your mouth, the little seeds getting caught in your teeth, the nutty, salty crunch of the crust spluttering into life, the soft insides squelching with delicious warmth and runny butter.

‘This is AMAZEBALLS,’ said one of the surfers loudly, which was very gratifying.

The oddest thing, though, was that every car that drove past or came into the car park slowed down, opened its windows and had a look at what was going on, as if the very fact of a queue was enough to make people stop, and as soon as they smelled the scent of the fresh bread billowing across the car park, they found they did want some after all, and their children certainly did, and the crumbs scattered in the billowing wind and Polly experienced something she hadn’t felt for a long time: the sure and deep happiness of feeding people something home-made and natural and good; seeing their faces crinkle with happiness as they inhaled the smell of it, or cracked the crust and squeezed the soft innards together. Just for an instant, she saw in each of them the hungry child they once might have been, rushing home from school on a cold day, desperate for toast; or the older ones recalling a trip to Italy, before they were married and weighted heavily with responsibilities, and how for the first time they’d eaten bread like that in the sunlight, and how wondrous it had been.

Handing out the buns, wrapping with a flick of a wrist the big loaves in her paper bags, she was sold out by 11.30, and found herself, unexpectedly, shutting up the van. There was a big sigh from the people left behind in the queue who hadn’t been lucky. Selina said this was clearly a good sign, as they started to dissipate.

Malcolm drove into the car park just as they were about to leave. He smiled approvingly as he saw the shut-up van.

‘That’s right,’ he hollered out of the window. ‘Know when you’re beaten.’

Selina went to answer him, but Polly held her back.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to make things worse.’

‘But he’s an arsehole,’ explained Selina.

‘I know that,’ said Polly. ‘But an arsehole who thinks I’m not a threat is much better for me, do you see?’

‘Hmm,’ said Selina. ‘If you say so.’

She looked around sadly.

‘It’s nice to see something go well,’ she said.

‘Well I can thank you for that,’ said Polly. ‘Us making up really helped me over my funk.’

‘Is that true?’ said Selina.

‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Also, have you got Lucas de-clawed yet?’

 

 

Over the next few days, exactly the same thing happened – people lining up, including, Polly was wildly gratified to see, some of the beards coming back as repeat custom. She upped her quantities every day and still emptied out before lunchtime. The weather was getting better too, which meant a fuller car park, and somehow word was getting round that you could basically pick up your picnic from there rather than lug it all the way, so she was doing a pretty good trade to families too. After a week when she barely slept at all and found herself constantly high on adrenalin, she finally called Huckle to tell him the amazing news: that they were starting to be successful at last.

She was sitting with the old-fashioned phone on a chair facing the sea. Some seagulls were circling, having a fight about something. She couldn’t admit to herself how much she missed Neil; how jealous she was of those bloody seagulls. Nor how many nights she had sat bolt upright in bed, convinced he was going to come knocking at her window, that he would be back; nor how she would always look at Selina’s flat as she passed, just in case he’d forgotten and gone there instead.

But there was no sign of him, and this was breeding season, and well, the weeks had passed, and… Polly swallowed hard. He would come back. He must. He was her puffin and that was that. Although if he remembered being sent away twice… maybe he had just got the hint that they didn’t want him any more.

No. She couldn’t think like this, not when she had made such big strides. But it was almost as if the pressure easing slightly on Nan the Van had made the loss of Neil suddenly much more acute. She tried not to think how lovely it would be for him to be able to hop up and down on top of the van, and snarf up the crumbs in the car park, and say hello to everyone…

She told herself sternly that a car park was absolutely no place for a small bird who was not as speedy as he ought to be, and tried to put a smile on her face before she called Huckle. She would have liked to have left it later – it was the middle of the afternoon for him – but she really couldn’t: she was exhausted, and she needed to be up at four to start on the loaves. She really missed Jayden for the scrubbing and the mopping parts; having to do all that herself was tiring her out, but she had absolutely no choice: the kitchen and the van had to be totally spotless at all times. She wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open another second, and she really wanted to call him now.

‘Huck?’

Huckle was just heading in to the dairy. He absolutely knew it wasn’t Polly’s fault that their time zones weren’t compatible, but it sure did tend to come up at the most inconvenient moments.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Okay, are you ready for our accounts?’

He perked up a little to hear her voice sounding brighter, not in the dull register he’d got so used to over the last few weeks.

‘Hey, Jackson,’ he shouted through the open door. ‘I’ll be two minutes, okay?’

‘Sure thing,’ said his colleague equably. Over the weeks they’d been working together, he’d come to assume that Huckle’s girlfriend must be the most crazily high-maintenance woman out there, given the horrendously inconvenient times she called him. But the animals seemed to like him, and that was all that mattered.

‘Go on,’ said Huckle.

Polly named a sum that wouldn’t even cover his tractor fuel.

‘Mmm,’ said Huckle.

‘But!’ said Polly. ‘You’re missing something.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes!’

She hadn’t spoken to anyone else apart from, briefly and hurriedly, customers all day. She was loving talking to Huckle, even if it sounded like he had to get away.

‘Go on, then,’ said Huckle. She told him the lame takings most days, even though it made them both sad. She’d actually stopped doing that this week; he’d just assumed it was because they were too depressing even for her.

Polly paused dramatically.

‘That’s… NET!’

‘What do you mean? A fishing net?’

‘Okay, well done, great big important farmer.’

Huckle smiled.

‘Well I’m not sure you know what net means.’

‘Shut up and don’t be insulting! Those are net figures after materials, fuel and… Are you ready?’

‘I’m ready,’ said Huckle.

‘Paying you back for the van.’

There was a pause.

‘What, all of it?’

‘No, not all of it,’ said Polly, slightly deflated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. No, I mean, pro rata. For the week.’

Huckle quickly did some sums in his head.

‘But that’s… that’s incredibly good!’

‘I know!’ said Polly.

‘Is that just from the article?’

‘Well, let’s say the article and also me being awesome,’ said Polly.

Huckle smiled with genuine pleasure.

‘This is really starting to move. Are you upping volumes?’

‘I am,’ said Polly. ‘And the weather forecast for the week is blue, blue skies ahead.’

‘Warm?’

‘Well, what do you call warm?’

‘Let’s not get into that,’ said Huckle. It was 106 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

‘Warm enough for buckets and spades and jumpers,’ said Polly. ‘And the first schools will be starting to break up soon – those posh private ones where they’re all fancy and think holidaying in some decaying old British resort is really groovy.’

Huckle shook his head.

‘That is amazing,’ he said. ‘That’s great. I can’t believe you’re turning it around.’

‘Can’t you?’

‘YES. Yes, of course I can!’

Now it was Polly’s turn to smile.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think someone could probably use that other half of their ticket soon.’

Huckle blinked.

‘It’s early days,’ he said. ‘I mean, this might just be a blip.’

‘Life is a blip,’ said Polly. ‘You’ve kind of just got to get on with it anyway, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but, you know. To be sure.’

There was a long pause.

‘Don’t you want to come home?’ said Polly, finally.

‘What? No, of course I do. That’s not fair. But I can’t leave Clemmie.’

‘Look,’ said Polly. ‘You have to realise Dubose isn’t coming back. He thinks he’s a student on a gap year. He’s bouncing about. Tell Clemmie it’s over. She needs to just go back to… Well, I don’t know where she’s from. But she can’t run a farm by herself, and she’s taking too much of you.’

‘Yes,’ said Huckle. ‘But there’s another thing.’

And he told her.

Polly swore vociferously.

‘Tell him,’ she said. ‘Just email him and tell him.’

‘I promised I wouldn’t. She wants to tell him herself.’

‘But then you’ll be there for ever.’

‘I won’t.’

‘It’s not fair,’ said Polly. ‘It’s just not fair.’

She heard the petulant note in her voice and hated herself for sounding so selfish and horrible. Ugh. She knew it wasn’t Huckle’s fault; he was doing the right thing. She just missed him so much.

‘It’s a great farm,’ said Huckle. ‘It could work really well for them. Much better than Clemmie going back to her mom’s in the city, raising a baby alone.’

‘Well that’s what’s going to happen.’

There was a long pause.

‘Polly,’ said Huckle. ‘That’s my niece or nephew we’re talking about.’

Polly bit her tongue in frustration and disappointment. She wanted to be better than this, not to let her anger come through.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. But you should just tell him.’

‘It’s not my place to do that.’

Polly heaved a great sigh.

‘And,’ said Huckle, ‘you know, the money… I mean, I can make money here. Good money. So that will help…’

‘
I’m
making money!’

‘As of three days ago.’

‘WHAT?’

‘Mr Huckle?’ Jackson’s voice came through the barn door.

‘Look, I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Huckle. ‘I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I really have to go.’

Polly felt a lump in her throat. She wanted to beg him to come home, to go to the airport and come home, for crying out loud. But of course she couldn’t. She wanted to be nice, she really did. But she was so very tired.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Don’t call me in the morning, though. I’m too busy.’

Huckle blinked.

‘I want to.’