Page 63 of Sunrise By the Sea

Polly came back – and oh, the bliss of changing out of wet clothes and into big fluffy dry socks, a clean T-shirt, a red hoody and, in fact, a pair of dungarees which were the first thing Polly could find to hand that was clean.

‘Oh, you look rather cute, that’s annoying,’ said Polly when Marisa had changed. ‘You should keep that red hoody, it suits black hair. It looks mad with red hair, I don’t know why I bought it.’

She also looked a bit mischievous.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I dug this out as well. If we’re going to be up all night baking . . .’

Marisa nodded.

‘Well. I think we need some help.’

And she pulled from behind her back a very old dusty bottle of Prosecco that had been brought for a party and forgotten all about.

The kitchen being so far from the children’s bedrooms, they could happily whack on the radio, which they did, avoiding anything that gave frightening weather updates and sticking to a nineties station that offered up a comforting menu of Britney and the Backstreet Boys, much to their delight, even though Marisa was really too young for them, and Polly had to stop while the dough was proving and put the videos on so she could choose a favourite.

They danced as they moulded pies and muffins, flour liberally sprinkled all over the kitchen, including on Polly’s nose, and Polly started laughing at Marisa’s horrified reaction to noticing bird prints in the flour.

‘We’re going to kill the entire village,’ Marisa had gasped.

‘Well, bit too late now if that’s what’s going to happen.’

Neil himself had vanished up onto the curtain pole, almost as if he was well aware that goodies took time to bake, and taking a small snooze accordingly. Marisa looked at him, looked at the prints, shook her head and burst out laughing again. Polly didn’t think it was quitethatfunny.

That was because she had absolutely no idea how long it had been since Marisa had laughed aloud in somebody else’s kitchen; had no idea how much Marisa had feared she would never do so again.

The Aga divided up neatly and they did pies, vegetable and cheese muffins, and kneaded up loaves for the day ahead.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to use the bakery?’ said Marisa. Polly shook her head very quickly.

‘I’ll worry about that tomorrow.’ She frowned. ‘Let’s just keep busy.’

And they drank Prosecco and kneaded bread and made muffins and scones – which got a little wonkier as time went on – and Marisa stayed in the kitchen while Polly ran out with tea as often as she could, and at four a.m. the tide, having hit its heights and done its worst, finally turned and started back down again. And as the storm finally began to die away there was nothing to do after that but to wait for the sun to rise as it always did, and survey what they had left.

On Polly’s instructions, all the helpers trooped back, utterly exhausted and muddy but delighted that their unstinting efforts had saved the causeway from being destroyed completely. She would need repairs – but she still stood.

They kicked off their boots – steam rose all around the kitchen till it looked like a laundry – and dried out in front of the fire, being stuffed full of coffee and fresh bread until they felt like bursting.

There was much jolly bravado – after all, nobody had been lost, although one Mini was currently floating off in the direction of France, and nobody had had to be rescued by a coastguard that already had enough on its hands last night to cope with a village that hadn’t helped itself. As well as that, half the RNLI volunteers were from the village anyway, and were already pretty busy, but they had managed to protect their population.

‘Did you really save the causeway?’ said Marisa, so amazed she found her voice to ask the friendly, tired-looking Archie.

‘Well, most of it,’ he said, eating a scone so fast Marisa wasn’t sure it had touched his throat. ‘We’ve got the stones. They’ll need to be put back.’

‘Did you not want to wait for the fire brigade? To make it safe?’

‘But this is us,’ said Archie, his lined face kind. ‘We are Mount Polbearne. We can’t lose a single brick. If a brick in the causeway is lost, it’s a piece of the chain. Every brick matters. Every brick is connected to every other brick. It’s a part of us. We all have to join up. That’s what community means.’

His voice was kind, but there was a reproof in it too, and Marisa realised that however much she felt she was hidden away, here in a tiny community like Polbearne she had been noticed – as, presumably, had her bussed-in groceries and distant deliveries. She had not played her part, even though these men and women had risked everything to save the causeway: for her and for everyone else here.

She nodded, then proffered up the plate again.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Did Polly make these?’

‘I did, actually.’

His pale blue eyes met hers then for the first time.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘They’re very good.’

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