Page 65 of Sunrise By the Sea

‘Does this happen often?’

‘It’s getting worse and worse,’ said Polly glumly.

They crossed over onto Beach Street. There was still water running down into the drainways but most of it was gone.

What was left, however, was grisly. A thick black layer of silt and rubbish; mud and bits and pieces of flotsam; a foamy scum covering everything. It looked solid and unshiftable. Big wads of paper were bunging up the drains. Men from the council were already out cleaning up. There was a big truck along the road, sucking up as much of the rubbish as it could manage. Polly briefly thought how much the twins would adore watching a big muck-sucking truck, but continued on her way.

The front door of the Little Beach Street Bakery, all glass, the bottom pane repaired so many years ago when puffling Neil had been thrown against it during another storm – was completely impassable, the door warped, and a thick sticky layer of mud gummed up the entrance completely.

Marisa followed Polly round to the back door to the kitchen, which thankfully was a little higher up off the main road, and was untouched by the water.

Going into the dark kitchen – Polly didn’t dare turn a light on in case the water and the electrics had become horribly tangled up somewhere – was a dispiriting experience. The thick mud and water had got into everything and the smell was horrible; damp and rubbish and worse, infiltrating every corner of the once immaculate kitchen.

Tears pricked Polly’s eyelids. Everything they had worked so very hard for. Everything lost. Everything ruined.

‘Oh wow,’ said Marisa suddenly, out of the blue. ‘Oh my goodness! Look at these ovens!’

The ovens were state of the art; Reuben had bought them as a gift when Polly had considered opening the shop, he wanted a baker so much.

‘Are they ruined?’ said Polly, her lip wobbling. ‘God. They were expensive too.’

‘I know!’ said Marisa. ‘That’s what I mean! They’re amazing! Polly, I don’t think they’re ruined at all. They’d withstand a nuclear attack, these things.’

Polly was looking around, blinking and not really listening.

‘I suppose I’d better start with the hose,’ she said. ‘Andy’s got a power hose I can borrow once he’s finished with it. If I hose it for . . . God knows. Two months?’

‘I can help,’ said Marisa, but she was still distracted. ‘But you know, these are the ovens they have in the very best places.’

‘Well, nice of you to say . . . Let’s hope the electrics aren’t completely shonked.’

‘They make . . . I mean, they go up to about five hundred degrees!’

‘Six-fifty, actually.’

‘You know they make the best pizza in the world?’ said Marisa.

Polly looked up at her suddenly, her senses pricking.

‘I thought that was wood-fired ovens?’

‘No, if you get it hot enough you’ll still get a blister on the bottom. Then the sides caramelise slightly if you’re quick, then it’ll come out dark and sticky and crunchy all at the same time.’

‘God, that sounds good,’ said Polly.

Marisa frowned. ‘Do you serve pizza?’

‘We’re a baker’s. Most people would consider that fancy foreign muck. We do bread, cakes, pasties and biscuits . . . but I was looking to diversify . . .’

Both of them felt an odd excitement bubble up and Marisa tried to rein herself in, to stop herself sounding too excited.

‘I mean . . . you could do it at night.’

‘Yes, that’s what I need,’ said Polly wryly, who was truly very tired. ‘A longer working day.’

But she was interested, and Marisa was genuinely enthused.

‘They are lovely,’ she said. ‘They remind me of Italy.’

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