Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  “You go back. Tail between your legs. And you smile and be really, really nice to the puffling. Baby. I mean baby.”

  He paused.

  “And that minxy girlfriend of yours . . . I’d close that deal, if it’s making you this crazy.”

  “Hmmm,” said Huckle. “That’s one point of view. Or maybe . . . maybe she just doesn’t want to marry me. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I should cut my losses now.”

  Bernard shrugged as if he didn’t care either way, which he didn’t.

  “Anyway, how are you?” said Huckle, changing the subject, because it was making him so sad.

  “Not bad,” said Bernard. “I own a failing puffin sanctuary and I’m in love with a beautiful jewelry designer who doesn’t know I’m alive.”

  They chinked beers again, Huckle deep in thought.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “And to you.”

  Chapter Thirty

  By the time Polly and Kerensa got back inside, everyone had left. There were still some people dismantling the stage, but otherwise it was as if the hundreds of beautiful people had appeared and dematerialized in a dream; everything had been swept up and put away and returned to how it was, and the magic of the house had gone.

  Kerensa stood staring out of the window like a bird in a cage desperate to be free.

  The promised snow had not come down after all. It was bleak outside; not clear and cold but gray and solid, as if the clouds were blanketing the world, making everything heavy and sad.

  Polly stood at her shoulder and gazed out too. There was little to see, just the occasional glimpse of a lighthouse. There was a ship a long way out to sea, a tanker, on its way to Plymouth perhaps, from who knew where—Sri Lanka? China? Italy? What was it carrying? The men who crewed her would be missing their families tonight. Missing their loved ones. She raised her rapidly chilling cup of tea to them as the great blinking lights passed by.

  The shadows under Kerensa’s eyes were more pronounced than ever.

  “What happened to Huckle?”

  Polly shook her head.

  “Never mind. Difference of opinion.”

  “Tell me,” said Kerensa. “Tell me what’s happened. Is it to do with me? Please tell me.”

  “It’s fine,” said Polly, more harshly than she’d meant to. “We’re fine. He thinks I’m working too much.”

  “Well, tomorrow’s going to be fun,” said Kerensa. “When you’re working again.”

  “You can’t have Christmas without a gigantic fight,” said Polly. “Isn’t that the law?”

  “Oh God, and my lot are coming too,” said Kerensa. “You know what my mum’s going to be like with Rhonda.”

  “They’re very similar personalities,” said Polly without thinking. “I mean . . . I don’t mean that. I really don’t.”

  “And what about your mum?”

  Polly sighed. “Oh God. I texted her to say I’d come over after lunch.”

  “And?”

  “She didn’t say yes. And she didn’t say no either. It’s been quite the silent treatment. She’s relentless.”

  “She’s all right,” said Kerensa.

  “Well, I wish she’d tell me. I’m going over anyway, though I don’t think she really wants me to come. And I’ll be driving, so no booze. Yeah. And possibly no Huckle. Will be brilliant. I’m looking forward to sitting in total silence and watching EastEnders.”

  Kerensa nodded.

  “That sounds better than here.”

  Polly thought self-pityingly of the plan she and Huckle had had originally—lying in bed in the lighthouse, drinking champagne. Why couldn’t she have just done that? Why had everything gotten so mad and out of control? Why had she ended up saying yes to everything except the one thing she really wanted to do? Yes to everybody else, and no to them.

  “Oh God,” she said. “Next Christmas will be better, won’t it? Won’t it?”

  Kerensa didn’t say anything for a while.

  “But Polly, what if . . . what if . . .”

  Polly didn’t say anything. She simply moved toward Kerensa and gave her a huge hug. She couldn’t quite get her arms around her, but they stood there together, two friends in the dark.

  Polly suddenly became conscious that she was standing in something. Had she spilled some of the leftover milk as she was taking it to the fridge? What had happened to the cup of tea she’d been continuously remaking and forgetting to drink for the last seven hours? She cast around, then glanced at the floor.

  “Oh,” she said. Kerensa hadn’t realized.

  “Um,” Polly said. Kerensa still had her eyes closed and was leaning in, enjoying the hug.

  “Kez,” she said. “I don’t want to alarm you. But I think . . . I think your waters might have broken.”

  Kerensa’s eyes snapped open.

  “What?” she said, and looked down. “Oh Lord,” she said. “Oh Lord. But it’s WEEKS away.”

  Polly sat Kerensa down on an expensive leather armchair. She thought briefly about the consequences of this, but put them out of her mind. Kerensa’s eyes were wide open and she was breathing heavily. Polly found a cloth.

  “OMG, what happens now?” she said.

  “I don’t know!” said Kerensa. She looked up at Polly. “I didn’t go to any of the antenatal classes.”

  “What do you mean?” said Polly. “That’s where you were all those times you were out of the house! That and shopping for the baby.”

  Kerensa shook her head.

  “I couldn’t,” she said. “I went to one and it was all so vomitous, all those carey-sharey husbands, everyone showing off and pretending they were more in love than anyone else and that their birth was going to be the best. I couldn’t do it. Reuben wouldn’t come anyway, and I couldn’t handle everyone else with their perfect lives. Couldn’t handle it at all.”

  “So what were you doing?” said Polly, grabbing the phone handset.

  For a moment, Kerensa half smiled.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Not now, anyway.”

  Polly shot her a suspicious look, but this wasn’t the time.

  “So, who do I phone?”

  “Actually,” said Kerensa, “I feel okay. I don’t . . . Polly, it’s weeks to my due date. It must just be a mistake.”

  “I don’t think burst waters are a mistake. So that’s all fine,” said Polly, trying to stay calm. “You get to skip the boring hanging-about bit.”

  There was a pause. Then Kerensa gasped as she thought of something.

  “It means the baby’s got too big,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “It’s a gigantic big Brazilian stripper baby.”

  “Stop it,” said Polly. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. Nothing. The baby is coming. Will I get Reuben?”

  Kerensa blinked. Then suddenly her breathing hitched, and she bent over quickly.

  “Ohhhhh!” she said, and her entire body tensed for what felt like a very long time to both of them. She was silent for a moment, then straightened up a little. She looked at Polly. “I think . . . I think that might have been one,” she said.

  “I agree,” said Polly. “I’d better get Reuben.”

  “As soon as he arrives, everything’s going to go bananas,” said Kerensa, her breathing slowing gradually.

  In the quiet unlit kitchen, surrounded by the scent of Polly’s bread that she’d put in so it would be fresh for breakfast, it was oddly peaceful and timeless. Both of them briefly wished they could just stay there for a little while longer. The Christmas tree glimmered and glistened in the hallway. The world stopped; breathed, waiting for Christmas morning. Waiting, Polly supposed, for a baby . . .

  Kerensa reached out her hand and Polly squeezed it.

  “You know,” said Polly, “everything is going to be all right.”

  “Is it?” said Kerensa. Her face was full of fear.

  “Yes,” said Polly. “I’m here. It will be fine. Things end up fine.”

  “Do they?�
�� said Kerensa.

  “Yes,” said Polly. “That’s the promise of Christmas. Believe it.”

  They squeezed hands again. Then Kerensa lurched over once more.

  “Okay,” said Polly. “You’re going to have to time your contractions.”

  “How come you know this stuff?” grumbled Kerensa.

  “I watch Call the Midwife,” said Polly. “Your husband is going to come back from t’pit and not want to see it.”

  “Yes, well, I wish,” said Kerensa.

  Polly made sure she was sitting comfortably.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m going. I’m going to get him, okay?”

  They shared a look.

  “Everything changes now,” said Kerensa.

  “Everything always does,” said Polly.

  She kissed Kerensa lightly on the head, then turned and left the silent, fragrant kitchen as the great boat out on the horizon finally disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Privately Polly couldn’t believe it was in the least bit good for a new baby to be surrounded by so much fuss and fluster. Reuben had to be instantly persuaded out of calling for a helicopter, on the grounds that the baby was still probably a day or so away and that it would be the single most dangerous part of the entire birth.

  Rhonda was running around—after emerging with a suspiciously full face of makeup for the time of day—trying to make everything about her and announcing what it had been like when Reuben was born (a feat of extraordinary pain and endurance that nearly killed her; she had lost eleven pints of blood, not something that anyone felt was particularly useful to say at the time). Reuben had of course instantly ignored/forgotten the fact that he’d been annoyed with Kerensa at the party. Normally this was the most infuriating thing about him. But that night Kerensa was profoundly grateful for it as he stood in the middle of the kitchen barking orders and waking up his incredibly expensive gynaecologist, who tried to explain that he probably wouldn’t be needed for quite a while, seeing as Kerensa’s contractions were still a good fifteen minutes apart and, so far, not terribly debilitating, so perhaps they should call him in the . . .

  Reuben gave this extremely short shrift and sent the helicopter for him instead.

  In an instant, a fleet of black cars had arrived at the door. Kerensa had at least packed a bag, but Reuben had packed two suitcases, and the entire boot of the car was soon filled.

  “Come,” said Kerensa to Polly.

  “Are you sure?” said Polly. Kerensa looked around at the others. “Yes,” she said. “Will you get my mum first?”

  It was agreed that Polly would pick up Kerensa’s mum and meet them at the hospital.

  “Wait!” shouted Reuben as she left. “Don’t take that deathtrap van, you’ll kill everyone.”

  And he hurled her the keys to Kerensa’s Range Rover.

  Polly drove like the wind down completely deserted roads, revelling in the smooth automatic car that didn’t let in drafts. She had to phone Huckle. It was her first instinct in everything: phone him, tell him.

  But she hadn’t told him everything, had she? And if she told him about this, well, it would hurl them straight back into that incredibly knotty problem.

  Reuben would call him. Of course he would. Reuben would call him and then . . . well. Then they’d see.

  Kerensa’s mum, Jackie, was standing on the kerb, her own suitcase completely packed, the joy and nerves and excitement plain to see on her face, all mixed in together.

  “Baby Express?” said Polly cheerfully, leaning out of the window.

  “This is totally the best Christmas present ever,” said Jackie, and Polly was suddenly so pleased and relieved to be with someone who was a hundred percent straightforwardly delighted about everything that was going on that she too relaxed and enjoyed the drive to the hospital, through little towns with jolly pubs where revelers had celebrated Christmas Eve; where old school friends, long scattered, came back together just for the night; students came home; everyone was at home to be with their families for Christmas, just as it should be, even though tomorrow there would be disappointments: batteries that didn’t work, unsuitable gifts, arguments about politics, dry turkey, and too much drink taken, who’s looking after Granny, ancient unearthed sibling rivalries replayed around the table and overexcited children vomiting and crying.

  But all of those were for tomorrow. Tonight there was a lovely sense of anticipation, almost nicer, as lights on in houses and cottages showed children bouncing up and down on beds and mothers trying to get them settled; people pulling mysterious shapes out of garages, marching with holly and wrapping paper; fairy lights flickering; the cars they passed piled high with bundles.

  Polly remembered the old story about how at midnight on Christmas Eve all the animals fell silent in memory of the waiting baby and the creatures in the stall at Bethlehem and the sheep on the hillsides. When she’d been little, she’d always wanted to stay up till midnight to see if next door’s Pomeranian would stop its usual yapping.

  Had her mother told her that story? she wondered. Was that where it had come from?

  They sped on through the night toward Plymouth. Polly glanced at Jackie.

  “Are you all right?” she asked gently.

  Jackie half smiled.

  “It’s so strange,” she said. “It only feels like yesterday that Kez was a baby. My baby. having a baby. Well. Her dad wasn’t half so calm as you, driving me to the hospital. Mind you, she wasn’t for hanging about, that one. Always in a rush. Nearly had her in the parking lot.”

  Jackie smiled.

  “She was . . . she was the sunniest child, Polly. The light of our lives, truly, even when the boys came along. There’s something special about your first child, there really is. Always.”

  Polly just nodded.

  “And recently . . . I don’t know. I’ve been worried about her. It’s like the spark has gone out of her. Have you noticed? Do you feel that?”

  Polly shrugged. “I think . . . I think maybe she’s had a tough pregnancy.”

  “Maybe,” frowned Jackie. “She’s certainly looked enormous.”

  “I wouldn’t say that to her.”

  “Ha! No!”

  Jackie glanced at her phone.

  “Nothing. She knows we’re on the way, doesn’t she?”

  “She does,” said Polly. “Also she’ll be surrounded by everybody fussing. They probably won’t let her do much. There’s probably a special way of having babies rich people do, where it doesn’t hurt and there isn’t any mess or anything.”

  “Hmm,” said Jackie.

  Polly thought of a poem: all the way to the hospital, the lights were green as peppermints, the roads finally emptying out. It was time now; everyone, it seemed, was where they had to be, home for Christmas, whatever home meant for them, whether it was with friends, or loved ones, or working in a shelter. It was time. It was ready. The bright stars of the world were holding their breath.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  On the private wing, there was bustle and fuss and soft flattering lighting and a rather bored-looking consultant still wearing his tweed jacket and clearly waiting for something to happen.

  Rhonda was yelling into her phone at Reuben’s siblings back in the U.S., while Merv was strolling up and down the corridors with his hands behind his back. Reuben was shouting about how awesome Kerensa was and how she was going to have this baby entirely naturally without any drugs, and there was some muted response from Kerensa that seemed to disagree with this theory entirely, and all in all it felt like there were a lot more people in the room than was entirely necessary, including lots of staff, and then of course Jackie burst in too, so then there were tears and hugs and Rhonda stepped back somewhat coolly, it had to be said, and Polly stood by the sidelines.

  She caught Kerensa’s eye, but Kerensa seemed to be somewhere else altogether; off in another land, where pain and something very strange and new were happening, and Polly didn’t think it was entirely ri
ght that they should all be there for something so very special, and certainly not her, so she squeezed Kerensa’s hand, whispered, “You’ll do it, my darling,” then kissed her on her damp forehead and quietly retreated, stealing down the hospital corridors.

  They were deserted, just a man in the corner cleaning with one of those big double-wheeled mops. Polly had no doubt he wanted to get home to his family for Christmas too.

  She took out her phone and looked at the screen. Nothing. What was wrong with Huckle? Where was he? This was Christmas. What did it mean? Were they finished? Was it over? Surely not. She called, but there was no answer. Of course in Cornwall this didn’t always mean very much. She sighed, and sent him a text.

  Happy Christmas. Please can we . . .

  She deleted the last bit. Maybe let everything go calm for a little while. Just a while.

  Then she dialled another number.

  “Hello, Mum. Yes, I know it’s late but the causeway’s closed and . . .”

  They sat up with cups of tea, her mother having made it quite clear that there would never be any more booze with the two of them in the room. She’d also looked very sadly at the Range Rover and murmured that she’d always hoped Polly would have had a nice car of her own, but Polly had chosen to ignore that.

  “I remember the night you were born,” Doreen said quietly, as they sat, the omnipresent television on, playing carols from Trafalgar Square. There was a small plastic tree, with fake presents underneath it, that made Polly sadder than she could bear to think. She brought in all her gifts she’d been thankfully too lazy to remove from the car, even though she knew that a Marks and Sparks dressing gown, a new scarf and a nail voucher her mother would never use were hardly the stuff dreams were made of. Likewise the basket she could see with her name on it. When she was a teenager she’d loved the Body Shop, and Doreen had helpfully never deviated from it since.

  “Tell me,” said Polly, staring into the gas fire and wishing Neil were there.

  “Well. Your grandad . . . of course it was too much for him. I mean, they’d been very supportive and everything, even though I’d lost my job, couldn’t be on the shop floor, not really, not with that bump sticking out and all the men coming in to buy hats for their wives . . . It sounds a thousand years ago, but it wasn’t really.”