Chapter One
Poppy Halloway basked in the glow of the steadily humming ovens. They had been roaring since half past four and the heat they emitted, filled the bakery clinging to the walls like an embrace, and turning her cheeks pink. Flour dusted her hairline like the first snowfall of winter, and she danced to a choreography born of years in this space.
Knead,
Turn,
Tuck,
Slide,
Her manic cheerfulness, manufactured from three parts genuine enthusiasm and two parts caffeine found her spinning between oven and counter. She hummed a tune that might have been recognisable if she’d listened hard enough. The ovens rumbled their approval - a sound that had been Dunswell’s heartbeat for over two centuries, the same rumble that had greeted Gran’s mornings, and her grandmothers before that, stretching back through generations of Halloway women who’d understood that a village ran on more than just bread and pastries.
It ran on love, kneaded into every loaf.
And if Poppy had anything to say about it, would still for centuries more.
Outside, the village still slumbered in the blue-grey hush of pre-dawn. A gull screeched somewhere down by the quay, answered faintly by the hollow bumping of boats against wooden jetties. Dunswell always woke slowly, as if the sea itself set the pace - first the harbour stirring like a clockwork mechanism winding into motion, then the cottages blinking to life one window at a time.
The morning air carried a cocktail of scents that was Dunswell’s own unique blend, and a perfume Poppy had lived with her whole life. Yeast bloomed rich and earthy, wrestling for dominance with the sharp tang of sea salt that somehow managed to infiltrate every crack and crevice in the stone walls.
“Right then,” she announced with a determined air as she rolled up her sleeves not noticing the floury traces she left on the material. “Let’s show that shiny monstrosity down the road what real bread tastes like.”
The “shiny monstrosity” being Seabreeze Coffee & Co. A chain bakery that had sprouted like a particularly aggressive weed three streets over. All gleaming chrome and “artisanal” labels slapped on bread that probably hadn’t seen flour in its natural state. The sort of place that charged extra for the privilege of a choice of bastardised Italian classics.
What would you say about this, Gran? Poppy wondered, hands working the dough with practiced fury. She could almost hear the answer, that dry chuckle, the way Gran’s eyes would have crinkled with mischief. Gran would’ve cackled at the sheer audacity of trying to out-bake a Halloway. You show ’em, my girl. Show ’em what proper baking looks like.
Poppy kneaded with the ferocity of someone personally offended by mass production. Each fold and turn was a small rebellion, every perfectly shaped loaf a tiny victory against corporate blandness. The rhythm soothed something fierce and protective in her chest.
“They think they can waltz into our village with their three-quid lattes,” she muttered, flour flying as she worked. “Ha!”
Thirty-odd years of muscle memory guided her hands as they shaped dough and tested crusts, each motion as natural as breathing, yet she still bumped into the corner of the counter just as she had for years before. She could still see herself at seven years old, perched on an upturned milk crate, watching Gran’s flour-dusted fingers work magic from morning ingredients. The memory sat warm in her chest, especially on mornings like this when the flour seemed to shimmer with something more than just the oven’s glow.
Poppy pressed the heel of her hand into the pliant dough, smiling despite herself. She could almost feel her gran behind her, the memory of a soft laugh and gentle instructive voice. Back then she’d sneak down in pyjamas and tangled hair just to watch, wide-eyed at the magic of bread swelling in the oven.
By five-thirty, Dunswell was beginning its slow shuffle toward consciousness. Boots began drumming against wet stone as fishermen emerged from their cottages, breath puffing in white clouds that dissolved into the lingering mist. Their voices carried sharp and clear across the still air, gruff exchanges about weather patterns and net repairs, punctuated by the metallic clank of tackle boxes and the hollow thud of wellington boots against boat hulls.
The harbour coughed to life with the growl of fishing boat engines sounding like they were held together by hope, stubbornness, and probably some very creative swearing. Gulls circled the quay like feathered vultures, already planning their breakfast raids.
The bell above the door gave its first jangle of the day. Old Tom ducked inside, smelling of salt and diesel, his weathered face splitting into what passed for a smile when he spotted the tray of fresh pasties cooling on the rack.
“Morning, Tom,” Poppy called, not looking up from the batch of rolls she was shaping. “Usual?”
Tom grunted (his version of sparkling conversation) and left exact change on the counter. Two coins worn smooth by decades of the same transaction, the same ritual that had probably kept him sane through forty years of wrestling nets and weather.
But Poppy caught the way his weathered fingers lingered on the warm pastry bag, the tiny sigh of contentment as the smell hit him. These weren’t just customers, they were her people, and she was their morning salvation, one perfectly flaky pasty at a time.
“Take care of yourself out there,” she called after him, meaning it. The sea was temperamental this time of year, prone to moods that could turn a routine fishing trip into something considerably more adventurous.
The morning began to roll on with its familiar rhythm. Jimmy Treloar appeared next, followed by his nephew Kyle, both needing enough fuel to last them through a full day’s fishing. Each customer was greeted with the same warmth, their orders anticipated before they’d even opened their mouths properly.
“Morning, Jimmy. Three cheese scones and that thermos filled with tea strong enough to strip paint?”
“Make Kyle’s extra large, the lad’s growing like a weed and eating like a plague of locusts.”
Poppy smiled and shook her head, reaching for the goods. “How’s the boat holding up?”
“Like me - held together by prayer and duct tape, but still floating.” Jimmy’s grin was infectious, the sort that made you believe everything would work out fine, even when the evidence suggested otherwise.
The chatter filled the space like another ingredient until the whole bakery buzzed with life. This was what Poppy loved most - being the first stop in everyone’s day, the place that sent them out into the world with something warm in their bellies and a smile they hadn’t quite expected.
Through the salt-stained windows, she watched the harbour transform from a painting left unfinished to something alive and purposeful. Sea mist still clung to the water’s surface, but now it was pierced by the steady putt-putt of engines and the occasional curse word when someone dropped something important into the drink.
