Page 10 of And Then There Was You

Six Zach

The first light of the day floods into Kieran’s studio, a strip of golden light traversing the white-tiled floor to the chair where I’ve been sitting since five a.m.

I couldn’t sleep: the adrenaline of the day refusing to leave my body, my limbs and mind restless as the night hours dragged past. I found an old Daphne Du Maurier compendium underneath the bed, the kind of thing postal book clubs used to produce, so loved by my gran.

It’s a chunk of a book, but in the too-quiet, still-unfamiliar surroundings of my latest temporary digs, I found its presence comforting.

Fact is, I’m waiting for things to go wrong.

Twelve months ago, I would have laughed at myself for this.

I was always the one with audacious hope, with unwise belief that anything and everything I encountered would work out in my favour.

And maybe that ridiculous confidence made the good stuff appear.

Because for years I danced around situations that would have made most sane people baulk.

The crap I avoided, the near-misses I chalked up – it led my fellow surf buddies to believe I was charmed.

I should have known it would all catch up with me.

I fold the page of Jamaica Inn to mark my place and drop the book on the small coffee table beside a potted palm I’m still not certain is real. My eyes ache from lack of sleep. Rubbing them only serves to confirm the fact.

I hit the screen of my phone beside the book, still charging from last night: 7.10 a.m. No point going back to bed now.

Before he left last night, Kieran informed me he has a project to work on this morning and will be in at eight.

I should make myself scarce as soon as I can.

I know Aggie’s twisted his arm to make my staying here possible, but I’m very aware how shaky that particular ground is.

Last night, over a takeaway from the wood-fired oven pizza van on the harbour-front, I was aware of Kieran’s eyes on me.

Aggie might think she’s convinced him of my trustworthiness, but I can tell he’s far from sold.

When I go to fetch my shoes from the doormat, I find a twenty-pound note folded up inside one of them, a handwritten note around it.

Make sure you eat, Z.

And go and ask at Downalong Bakery for Matt.

Tell him I sent you.

He should have some work to chuck your way.

A x

Aggie Keats, my unexpected guardian angel.

That’s my first destination of the morning sorted, then, allowing me to kill two birds with one stone. I can grab some breakfast and ask about work. Feeling more positive than I was expecting to, I collect my phone, wallet and keys and leave the studio.

It’s a gorgeous morning. Calm, dew-damp and the slightest chill in the air, the already glowing pale-blue sky offering the promise of heat to come.

Not many tourists are up yet, so it’s one of the rare summer moments when the town feels like it’s ours again.

Delivery vans are parked on the narrow streets, their orange hazard lights blinking, while the clatter of post trolley wheels and sharp slam of doors echo around the buildings, as the distant cries of gulls rise above it all.

I could close my eyes now and know exactly where I was, the unique shape of the town’s roads and buildings crafting the air in a way that only they can.

Downalong Bakery is one of the places that’s become iconic in town.

I don’t know the guy who owns it, but I know what a draw the single large display window is to anyone who passes.

It’s filled with shelf upon shelf of baked delights, from sourdough loaves and pillowy focaccias to traybakes, scones, pasties, trendy twisted cronuts and the largest strawberry meringues I’ve ever seen.

My sister Elowen always says you can put on ten pounds just by gazing in the window.

It’s one of the three places she heads straight for when she comes back here on holiday – ice cream from Moomaid of Zennor on Street-an-Pol, books from tiny St Ives Bookseller and pretty much whatever she can get her hands on from Downalong Bakery. The Holy Holiday Trinity, she calls it.

I miss her, even though we weren’t very close when we were growing up.

She’s ten years my senior, now running a successful B the focaccia wide and deep and so moist with olive oil and honey that it will easily last for a couple of days.

She packs them up for me in brown paper bags, the bakery’s logo already dotting with grease spots as soon as it comes into contact with the delicious contents. As I’m handing over money and waiting for my change, I seize the moment to ask.

‘Is Matt in? Aggie Keats sent me.’

A knowing smile banishes the weariness from her expression. ‘Hang on a mo, I’ll call him.’

She thrusts the change into my hand and walks to a door at the back of the shop. ‘Matt! Aggie’s mate’s here!’

I offer another silent thank you to the force of nature I’m lucky to call my friend. Has she sorted this for me already before I’ve even talked to the bakery’s owner?

The young server lifts a hatch in the counter. ‘Pop through here and wait. He’s on his way.’

I smile despite my nerves. My sister is going to lose her mind when I tell her I’ve stood behind the counter in this hallowed place.

A minute later a huge bear of a bloke strides in.

He has an impressive full beard and one arm covered with high-colour tattoos, with muscles that could only have come from kneading as much bread as he does daily.

He wears a white T-shirt beneath a flour-dusted dark blue denim apron, with faded grey jeans and a pair of painted Doc Marten boots.

‘You must be Zach.’ He beams, his handshake almost crushing my hand. ‘Come on through.’

I follow him through a low door into the bakery kitchen. Industrial steel preparation tables and baking racks filled with loaves and cakes cram into the small space, the rickety beams overhead revealing the age of the building and somehow making it appear even more magical.

He pulls out a stool at one of the prep tables and invites me to sit. ‘Take a load off. Fancy a coffee?’

‘Love one, please,’ I reply, perching as confidently as I can on the narrow stool.

‘’Ansum.’ He grins and moves to a coffee machine on the far side of the kitchen. Rich, dark coffee is waiting in a percolator jug underneath, which Matt pours into two branded mugs. He hands one to me, then fetches another stool to join me at the table.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I offer, the scent of the coffee and newly baked bread impossibly delicious around me.

‘When Aggie’s involved, you don’t get much choice.’

I grin back. ‘Well, cheers for not wanting to upset her.’

‘More than my life’s worth, upsetting Ms Keats.’ He laughs and pulls a notebook and pen from the pocket of his apron. ‘Right. Do you have a driving licence?’

Straight in, then.

‘Yes.’

‘Clean?’

‘It is.’

‘Ever driven a van?’

‘A few, over the years.’

‘I need a delivery driver, three days a week. Five a.m. start, working through till midday, maybe an hour the other side if we’re busy in the shop. Hourly rate is this . . .’ He scribbles a figure on a blank notebook page and swings it round to face me.

It’s better than I’d get in any of the bars or shops I visited yesterday.

‘That works for me,’ I reply, hoping I don’t sound too shaky, despite the whole of my body reverberating now.

‘Great. Ag says you were a pro surfer?’

‘I was. Busted my knee.’

‘Harsh, mate.’ Matt gives a solemn nod. ‘Did it myself for eighteen months. Knackered my ankle, so I feel your pain – literally.’

‘Is that what got you into baking?’

‘Only other thing I could do.’ He takes a swig of coffee – and his mouth must be asbestos-lined because I’ve already burned my tongue on the morning brew.

‘Surfing and sourdough: those were my only two skills. I joined a branch of Kernow Bakery, did a bakery apprenticeship, despite being beardy and about fifteen years older than anyone else on the course. Then I started in my own kitchen, expanded when I took on this place and here we are.’

‘Impressive. I really appreciate this.’

‘My pleasure. I get the struggle. Besides, if Aggie Keats is vouching for you, I know you’ve got to be good.’

It’s the break I needed. And while three days a week won’t be enough by itself, I am so much further down the road to surviving here than I was yesterday.

With a job in hand, it might even be easier to find extra shifts to fill the gaps.

Employers trust you more when someone else has already taken you on.

Any way I look at it, this is a step up.

‘When do I start?’ I ask.

‘Tomorrow morning, five a.m. sharp. Oh and we’ve misfires in that basket over there. Goods that aren’t quite perfect. They’re free for anyone to take, so grab some before you go.’

And the blessings keep coming.

I shake Matt’s hand and take the large brown bag he offers me to collect some tasty treats from the not-so-perfect basket. They all look perfect to me, but then I’m hungry and not in charge of a bakery. I think I’m going to like it here.

I leave the bakery and wander slowly through the town, keeping to the narrower streets to deter any beady-eyed seagulls from swooping down on my breakfast. In the small memorial garden beside St Ia’s Church near the harbour, I find a bench shielded from passing gulls by the low overhanging branches of a yew tree, and enjoy a celebratory meal, saying hello to Flakey, the legendary white cat who likes to hang out here.

This is perfect. I can take my time now and keep out of Kieran’s way while he works in the studio.

I still have money and the day is looking like a beautiful one.

Maybe I’ll head to the beach for a few hours, or visit the surf school to catch up with some mates there.

Today is mine now, the need to find work already addressed.

It’s going to be a good day.