Chapter 20
20
The beach by Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Every day is a Saturday
Thursday
B y the time we reach the beach, Pumpkin’s speed picks up to a fast walk and he races over to the first couple we come to sitting in their matching folding canvas seats.
I take a breath and begin the pony part of my speech. ‘This is Pumpkin…’
The woman puts her hand out and tickles Pumpkin’s nose. ‘There’s no need for introductions, we’ve done this before. This is your favourite place for a rub, isn’t it, laddie?’
I’m kicking myself for not taking more notice. ‘Of course, didn’t we see you by the harbour a couple of weeks ago?’
The woman smiles at me. ‘We’re Carol and Martin, from The Crow’s Nest, next door but two to Plum’s gallery. We’ve often seen you since from a distance.’ She looks back at Pumpkin. ‘You’ve got pompoms on your head collar today! How smart is that?’
They’re the ones I bought last Friday, which I’d hung to brighten up Scarlett’s minimalist living room shelf, and grabbed today hoping they’d add some pizazz for the beach.
The woman leans towards me. ‘We heard you were out selling cakes on the beach last weekend. Is that right?’
Her husband joins in. ‘We were over in Truro. The Yellow Canary was buzzing with it when we got back.’
I’m taken aback. ‘I didn’t think people would recognise me when I wasn’t with Pumpkin.’
Carol smiles. ‘Everybody knows! You’re the one with the pink and orange skirts who twirls along the shoreline and writes notices in the sand.’ She smiles. ‘Our cottage looks straight out down the beach. We often watch you, as we have breakfast.’
Their cottage must be one of hundreds that look down on the bay. As I remember how many windows there are with a direct view of the sand, I feel queasy. All this time I’ve considered the beach as my own private space where I was entirely alone with my thoughts, and now it turns out a lot of the village has been there with me. It just shows how wrong you can be.
Her husband nods. ‘It’s been the highlight of our morning walks the last few weeks, looking out for the messages you’ve left.’
My tummy had tensed, but when the full realisation of what they’re saying hits me, it goes in full spasm.
Miles gives me a nudge. ‘Nice to know that Pumpkin isn’t the only local celebrity.’
The woman’s looking up at me. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are you writing them and who are they for?’
I’m opening my mouth to reply, but Miles gets in first.
‘Some of those thoughts in the sand have been very profound, so if you’re not comfortable answering that, Betsy, we’ll all understand.’
I turn to Miles. ‘You, too?’
If the thought of two random strangers seeing into my head was unnerving, this is ten thousand times worse. I didn’t even know he walked on the beach.
He shrugs. ‘Like they said, once I noticed, it became compulsive. I didn’t want to miss any.’
What can I say? It’s not as if we’re on a desert island. In fact, these beaches are often rammed, but the thought was they were rammed with strangers who I’d never coincide with again, not locals who would start quizzing me about every nuance. They weren’t ever private, so I might as well explain. ‘They were me writing whatever came into my head in the moment, first for myself, and then as an open message to the world.’ I’m pondering. ‘They were always going to be temporary, but I had a feeling that once they’d been washed away by the sea, that would somehow make them last forever.’
Carol nods. ‘That’s a lovely way of putting it. What was it you wrote yesterday– “Make spray while the sun shines!”’
I’m relieved that she hasn’t picked anything more personal. ‘It was my beach-y take on the old “make hay while the sun shines” saying. However sweaty, exhausting and prickly it used to be throwing bales about, I had a sudden pang for the haymaking I’ll be missing this summer.’
Miles chips in. ‘Betsy Bets comes from Somerset, that’s why she’s all about the maypoles and the fairy rings.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I also cover cow pats and pig driving.’
Carol laughs. ‘That quirky humour of yours might be why we enjoy them so much. They’re all refreshingly different, but they’re very uplifting too. Like the place where they’re written.’
Martin nods too. ‘It’s not only us! All our friends look out for them. They’re a favourite discussion point for everyone in the Yellow Canary. And the Hungry Shark.’
I consider shrivelling up on the spot, but if it’s gone this far, I might as well roll with it. ‘I suppose they’re my way of telling my story for the summer. I have photos of them all, they’re my project while I’m in St Aidan.’
Carol pats my hand. ‘Thanks for sharing that, Betsy.’ Then her smile fades. ‘You won’t stop because we’ve mentioned it? You are going to carry on?’
‘Of course.’ A tiny idea is growing in my head. ‘The cakes you mentioned just before are a new range of bakes which Miles is working on. Tell all your friends, we’ll be leaving messages on the beach about any new flavours that are coming out.’
Miles grins beside me. ‘Totally flawless. As a marketing strategy, that’s next level.’
However uncomfortable I was earlier, I’m happy at how this is turning itself around. ‘As for the boathouse buns, if you’d like to try them, Miles is carrying lots of free samples in his bag.’
Martin is on this. ‘I was told we could buy them?’
I beam at them as Miles dips into his carrier. ‘You probably heard already, the bakes are what croissants would be like if they were made in heaven. Today we have three banana-based variations.’ I pause to let them help themselves to the slices Miles is holding out on his platter. ‘If you like what you taste, we do have some for sale.’
Martin’s pushing flakes into his mouth. ‘We’ll take six.’
I laugh. ‘Finish tasting first, then you can decide which you’d like.’
Martin holds up his hand. ‘Six of each! If this is another limited edition, our friends at the Yellow Canary wouldn’t forgive us if we didn’t take some for them too.’ Martin is licking his flingers. ‘Once we get to the pub, they’ll disappear in seconds.’
I’m pushing the result here. ‘I take it you like them?’
Martin considers. ‘On a scale of one to ten…’ Then he slaps his knee with his hand. ‘No! These actually blow scales into oblivion. They’re extraordinary.’
‘He’s right.’ Carol’s sucking her finger. ‘Except I’d call them sensational. I’m just thinking– we’d hate to miss out on these a second time. Could you take our details, and let us know when you’re next coming out?’
Miles passes her a small brown paper bag and a pen. ‘Write your name and number on there, then Betsy can text you. If you’d like to be on our mailing list, add your email too.’ He beams. ‘You can unsubscribe at any time.’
I look at Miles again. ‘You bought bags?’
He gives a shrug. ‘I also have tissue paper squares for eat as you go, and boxes for the larger orders. Talking of which…’ He pulls out three rectangular cartons, and hands them to Carol. ‘Betsy Bets tells me fifteen pounds for six is our introductory deal, how about we call that forty for eighteen?’
Martin pulls some notes out of his pocket, and that’s a third of our stock gone already. Easy as that.
‘Thank you, enjoy, we’ll be in touch.’ I give a small pull on Pumpkin’s lead rein. ‘Come on, mister, time to meet some more customers.’ I grin over my shoulder. ‘They might not tickle you as well as Carol, but we’ll see her again soon.’
As we walk off, I’m tempted to do wide-armed spins of joy along the high tide mark, but one look at Miles’s office-on-a-Thursday-afternoon expression and I rein myself in.
Instead I look at the people scattered across the beach, with gaps of sand between them and think aloud to Miles. ‘You might want to make the most of the crowds over the weekend. If the sun shines, every inch of the beach will be covered, but it’ll thin out again on Monday.’
Miles nods at me. ‘Good thinking. We’ll look at flavour lists when we get back.’ He’s talking softly behind me as we walk. ‘If we carry on at this rate, we’ll be done before lunch.’
There’s no time to say more because Pumpkin has been met by the advance guard from the next family and his neck is already covered in small sticky hands.
And that is pretty much the pattern along the beach. Thanks to Pumpkin’s triple stack of cuteness, charm and love of attention, there’s more focus on ponies than baking. But the second we move on to the bun samples they’re snapped up faster than you can say chocolate croissant, and along the way they’re compared to everything from cannonballs to angel wings.
This is the wonderful thing about real, live people: give them the freedom to express themselves and the chances are they’ll be a hundred times more creative than any marketing team Miles has squirrelled away in some pretentious office, pouring over their laptops.
And in line with his very annoying tendency, Miles is right about the timing. The sun is still high in the sky when we sell the last of the buns and come back along the beach.
By the time I’ve turned Pumpkin out in the field, Miles is folding up his carrier bags and putting the left-over boxes and bags into the mud room cupboard.
He joins me in the kitchen and grins. ‘You were certainly on fire today. Limited editions, croissants made in heaven, and a mailing list!’
I shake my head and remember what he said. ‘“You can unsubscribe at any time!” How hilarious was that?’
His expression goes all serious again. ‘It wasn’t a joke. It’s an essential requirement that mailing list databases comply with all current regulations– one of which is offering the on-going opportunity to opt out.’
I need to get this straight. ‘So can I create a WhatsApp group of Pumpkin’s mates who get advance warning of pastry sales? Or do you have a data protection policy that forbids that?’
His frown lines deepen. ‘In the longer term I’ll need to run it past my legal team.’ He must sense I’m about to shriek, because he hurries on. ‘If you keep it to a small circle of close, personal friends, I’m sure that will be fine for now.’
It’s easy to tell he’s been blinding me with jargon, because I’ve completely missed that he’s heading towards the door.
He stops for a second and rests his shoulder on the frame. ‘Great work there, Betty Eliza, thanks for your help. The cash by the fruit bowl is yours.’
When I blink again, he’s gone, and a few moments later I hear the scrunch of his car tyres on the lane.
Why the hell would I be disappointed to have the rest of the day to myself? Me and Miles pouring over future plans for the bakes was literally said in the moment and meant slightly less than zero– which is exactly how I understood it at the time. My afternoon is going to be so rammed with work, I wouldn’t have fitted that in anyway.