Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery Read Online Free PDF Page A

just gets a bit panicky. Tarnie wasn’t panicky.’
    ‘He wasn’t,’ said Polly, and they were silent for a second.
    ‘He was a bit shouty, though,’ said Kendall. ‘Archie isn’t shouty.’
    ‘Well there you go,’ said Polly. ‘When he gets back, tell him you knew he was working, otherwise he’ll never take ten seconds off ever again.’
    ‘He has to,’ said Sten, speaking for the first time. His accent was slow and deliberate. ‘It is dangerous to run a boat on not enough sleep,
ja
? He needs to make himself relax.’
    Polly smiled. ‘I’ve never understood how anyone’s meant to make themselves do that,’ she said. ‘But yes, I agree.’
    She went back and zipped through the rest of the lunchtime rush with Jayden, people cheerfully queuing halfway up the quay. This made her happy every time she saw it. The fact that people were there, day after day, handing over money for something she’d made with her own hands! Sometimes it didn’t quite seem real; she wanted to rush up to someone eating a bun and say, ‘I made that, you know!’
    She managed to avoid the temptation.
    Once they’d cleaned up after lunch, if everything had gone – and it usually had – they’d close. Very early starts to get everything ready on time meant that by 2 p.m. Polly had normally already been on her feet for nine hours, and there was still cashing-up to do. Huckle tried to schedule his appointments so that he could sometimes nip back for an hour or two and, for the only time all day, they could relax, laze in bed for an hour, chat and laugh. Then he would be out again and Polly would cash up, start setting the dough for the next day, make supper and begin all over again in the morning.
    Today, as she walked back into the empty lighthouse – it felt even emptier when Neil wasn’t there – she could hear the home phone ringing. She furrowed her brow. She did use the home phone from time to time – the mobile signal could be a little erratic – but not that often, and certainly not in the daytime. She’d spoken to her mum yesterday and everything was fine there. It must be Huckle; he must have been held up somewhere.
    Polly mounted the stairs two at a time, wondering how long the phone would ring for. There was no point in rushing, she thought as she rounded the first landing. Getting up took as long as getting up took, and if she tried to rush, she wouldn’t have enough puff to speak when she did make it up there.
    The phone stopped, then instantly started again moments later. Polly swallowed and carried on. This wasn’t a good sign. Unless it was a particularly committed salesperson.
    She swung round the balustrade into the very top room, below the lamp itself. The phone had been there when they’d moved in and they hadn’t changed it. Polly rather liked it. It was obviously old coastguard issue, in a bureaucratic grey colour with stubby white buttons, many of which had mysterious functions she didn’t understand. It also had a stern
brring brring
that reminded her of black-and-white war films.
    She picked it up.
    ‘Hello?’
    The voice on the other end was quavering but strong.
    ‘Is that Miss Waterford?’ it demanded formally.
    ‘Uh, yes.’
    ‘This is Janet Lange. Gillian Manse’s sister.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Polly, steadying herself against the sofa, a chill entering her heart. ‘Is everything okay?’
    ‘Only,’ the voice went on, as if it hadn’t heard her, ‘only we’ve had a bit of trouble, you see.’
    ‘What’s happened?’
    Polly looked out of the window at the seagulls circling peacefully, at the tiny crests on some of the waves. Everything was as tranquil and peaceful as it always was.
    ‘Well, I’m afraid Gillian has… passed on,’ said her sister.
    There was a silence.
    Even though Mrs Manse had been old, and somewhat irascible, she’d still seemed a very strong figure to Polly. Certainly not somebody who could simply pass away or cease to be: she was solid, formidably