Sunrise By the Sea by Jenny Colgan

Chapter Seven

Getting to Cornwall had been difficult. Very difficult.

‘Don’t worry,’ Caius had said blithely. ‘It’s much nicer than here, it’s cheaper than here and there’ll be no parties.’

Marisa let her GP surgery know she was moving. Still no sign of a therapist.

‘Do you want some help with your stuff?’ said Caius cheerily, and Marisa, feeling helpless and swept along in the tide of things, shrugged numbly.

The day before Marisa was due to move out, a massive muscle-bound chap called Phillip and an incredibly buxom woman called Binky showed up and started, politely but firmly, packing her belongings into boxes.

Phillip did nothing but complain about how bending and lifting things would spoil his regimen for muscles and stopped every twenty minutes to eat four raw eggs, which Marisa thought indicated he wouldn’t necessarily be a better flatmate than she was, but Binky, round and cheery in large dungarees, seemed all right. Marisa couldn’t for the life of her relate to someone voluntarily deciding to take on two men, but Binky seemed happy enough, chattering away merrily, which helpfully meant Marisa didn’t have to say anything at all, but learned an eye-popping amount about polyamorous relationships. Mostly, she was impressed by their time management.

‘So who do you go in for – boys or girls?’ said Binky cheerily, like she was asking about the weather.

‘Uh, boys mostly,’ said Marisa, feeling very colourless and staring at her shoes.

‘So, what do you like?’

She shrugged. It had really depended on who came along.

‘The world’s your oyster!’ said Binky cheerily. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a Cornishman.’

‘Statistically, you have,’ said Phillip, unconcerned.

‘Well, yes, statistically,’ mused Binky as Marisa put her head down and scuttled out with another box.

Caius presented her with a large bottle of champagne.

‘Here!’ he said. ‘Good luck! I’ll be down for Uncle Reuben’s parties – he throws the best parties – so I’ll definitely see you there! Hope you loosen up! And please, please, if you ever start cooking again, look me up, yeah?’

He gave her his most winning smile, the one where his hair fell just so over his eyes, and Marisa almost let him give her a hug, except she didn’t really hug any more, so instead she leaned a little bit, then ducked into her tiny car, where she felt safe, even though she’d barely driven it in a year.

Driving wasn’t so bad: you didn’t need to confront people when you drove as timidly as Marisa did, and she felt protected inside. That was the easy bit.

By the time she reached the famous craggy outline of Mount Polbearne, the tide was low, so the old road, just wide enough to take a van, was completely uncovered.

It was a grey morning, but a tiny shaft of light from behind the clouds just illuminated the very top of the hill; the old church, half ruined, had sat at the very top for hundreds and hundreds of years, set above a winding, motley collection of slightly drunkenly leaning cottages, made of the grey slate native to the area, home for a long time to monks and fishermen.

The monks were long gone; the fishermen remained, but were outnumbered now by second homes, tourist spots, hotels and B&Bs. Even this early in the season, children were crabbing off the dock with their little nets; people strolled up and down the promenade eating ice cream and taking photographs. There were a lot of people, Marisa noted, with slight nervousness. Oh God, she’d have to pass them all to get up to the chalet. She’d been told to pick up the key from the bakery, and what if she couldn’t find it? And she’d have to talk to someone. And oh God, her life was going too far ahead of her and she really didn’t like it. Deep breaths, she thought. Deep breaths. I made it, Nonno, she said in her head. I made it this far. I don’t like it but I made it.

Polly bit back her first instinct, which was to ask the girl if she was all right – it was beyond rude – and managed to say instead, ‘Hello, what would you like?’

This was the third new person Marisa had had to speak to today. You’d think she’d be getting better at it. Instead she found she was pressing her back against the wall. Even though this woman, with her strawberry-blonde hair, freckles and open friendly face, looked as unthreatening as a person could.

Suddenly the enormity of the situation broke over her. She was in a brand-new place where she knew nobody, she’d been evicted from her flat and dumped somewhere else, she was definitely possibly going to lose her job and she was just never going to get better. She hadn’t even told her mother she was moving, that was how bad things had got between them; she knew her mother would only beg her to come home, or snap out of it, or ask her yet again if she was sure she didn’t need some antidepressants, or something.

And now she was being asked a very simple question, in what should be a perfectly straightforward transaction, and, for the first time, Marisa realised just how bad she’d let things get. Because she was about to have a panic attack.

There was no help for it. She was going to burst, she was going to stop breathing if she didn’t get out of the warm scented bakery right now. She couldn’t help it; she couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t going to catch her breath and she was going to suffocate and die and her heart was beating so fast it was going to explode and she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe! – she dived towards the door, and fumbled for the handle, her eyes wide. Polly looked at her, concerned.

‘Are you okay?’

As Marisa pulled at the door, bright red in her embarrassment, completely incapable of explaining what was actually the matter with her, there was a sudden commotion and what looked like an incredibly unaerodynamic football came swooping in.

Marisa was so startled she forgot for a second she was having a panic attack, and found herself yelping and then her body gulping, instinctively taking a deep breath as the fresh breeze from the sea outside streamed in through the open door, and then another.

‘Goodness,’ said the woman, running to her. ‘Sit down here.’

She indicated a ledge in the window.

‘Breathe slowly. I’m so sorry! God, I’m not surprised you got a fright.’

She turned round.

‘What have I told you?’ Suddenly the red-haired woman was telling off . . . what the hell was that? A bird, yes. It was a puffin, Marisa realised, light-headed. She’d never seen one in real life before. She had no idea they came in to land, she’d thought they all lived up in Scotland or something. To her utter amazement the bird fluttered round the shop then gently came to rest on Polly’s shoulder. Marisa realised her mouth was open, and she drew in more breaths of the fresh salty air until she could almost feel herself calming down.

‘Sorry,’ said Polly again. ‘He knows he’s not meant to be in here. Health and Safety doesn’t specifically mention puffins, but we reckon it’s probably implicit. You are a Bad Bird.’

But she was rubbing the bird’s claw as she said it. The bird made a gentle eeping noise.

‘Come on. Away with you. Sorry, what were you after . . . ?’

Finally Marisa found her voice.

‘Um, I’m here for the—’

The door banged and in hurtled two small children who, as was evident by the girl’s red hair and the way they ran to her, were clearly the woman’s children.

‘You let Neil go ahead!’ said Polly.

‘We spoke to him about it and he promised not to come in here,’ said Daisy solemnly. ‘He lied.’

‘NEIL!’ shouted Avery. ‘COME HERE!’

Neil did absolutely nothing of the kind and eyed them with beady disdain.

Behind them, an extremely large man entered the shop. He took up most of the remaining space in the small bakery, and stared straight ahead, smiling.

‘You are pirate?’ he asked. He had a thick accent, a mop of dark hair and a full beard.

Polly looked up at him, then realised he was referring to the bird on her shoulder.

‘No, I’m just the baker,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Neil. Shoo.’

She opened the door and the small bird flew out. A thought occurred to her.

‘Are you Environmental Health?’ she asked the man nervously.

Daisy and Avery, meanwhile, were regarding the very large, shaggy stranger cheerfully.

‘This is Mr Bat-BAY-ar!’ said Daisy, pronouncing carefully. ‘He’s our music teacher!’

‘Also, I think perhaps he is a bear,’ whispered Avery. It was not a very quiet whisper.

‘Hello, Miss Miller, hello, Master Miller,’ said the man gravely, shaking each of their hands. ‘I am here for key?’

‘Of course, you’re Reuben’s new tenant!’ said Polly. ‘He told me you were coming. You teach at the school?’

‘I like having a bear as a teacher,’ said Avery, again in a loud whisper.

‘He’s NOT A BEAR,’ whispered back Daisy, equally loudly. ‘That’s RACIST.’

Avery frowned. ‘But we likes bears.’

Mr Batbayar was examining the baking with some attention. There were pasties, of course, scones, pies, beautiful sourdough loaves and gorgeously tempting cakes in rows, including strawberry tarts. He had narrow brown eyes, and they gleamed.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Polly.

She felt in her apron pocket and found a jangling set of keys.

‘Is Avery being racist, Mummy?’ Daisy wanted to know.

Polly grimaced and hissed, ‘No. Just a bit rude.’

‘BUT! WE! LIKES! BEARS!’

Polly handed over the key, and a file full of instructions. ‘Okay, it’s all the way up to the top of the hill, past the school.’

‘Excuse me, Mr Bat-BAY-er, do you KNOW any bears?’ asked Avery.

The man looked at the boy, seemingly puzzled. He clearly hadn’t been listening before.

‘I . . . You think I am bear like GRRRRR?’

He made a growling noise and lifted his huge hands and made them into a claw shape, and both the children squealed, half-delighted, half-terrified.

‘Children!’ said Polly, anguish. ‘Stop it!’

‘Oh! Yes. I know many dangerous bears. They are playing piano very bad, but they pay honey so I am not sad.’

‘Our dad makes honey!’

‘Is he bear?’ said Mr Batbayar.

This hadn’t occurred to either of them and their eyes grew even wider. Polly felt this was getting slightly out of hand.

‘So if you follow Sandy Lane all the way up to the end, where the road runs out – they haven’t finished the road, I’m afraid, one of the reasons Reuben is letting them go cheap.’

The man nodded.

‘You’re the second on the right.’

‘Thank you.’

He turned his furry face on the children once more.

‘And do your practice or I will be EATINK YOU UP!’

The children squealed in horror and ran behind the counter to hide in their mother’s skirts.

‘Mr Batbayar is only joking,’ said Polly.

‘I am not Only Jokink,’ said the man. ‘Nyam nyam. I am hungry bear. Please may I have four of thinks with . . . red, if there are no children to eat at this time.’

Polly lifted up four strawberry tarts and took his money.

‘Good day.’

And he left the shop, the door dinging behind him.