Harper
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First published in Great Britain by Harper 2016
Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover illustration by Alice Stevenson
Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780008164263
Version 2016-03-03
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
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About the Author
Also by Cressida McLaughlin
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Summer Freeman was woken by the less than dulcet tones of Mumford & Sons blasting through the slightly open window of her cabin. Latte, her Bichon Frise puppy, started yelping, her front paws pushing down on Summer’s sternum. It was an effort for Summer to open her eyes, but when she did she saw that sun was streaming in through the window, which she’d left not only open, but un-curtained. For a moment she thought she was still in Willowbeck, and that the music was the remnants of a dream. She wondered if it was too early to go and see Adam in the butcher’s for a supply of bacon, and whether Mason was aboard his boat, The Sandpiper, and would be coming on to The Canal Boat Café that morning with Archie, his Border terrier, trotting happily at his feet. Summer found that she was smiling, and then Latte put one front paw on her cheek and started whimpering, and Summer remembered.
She wasn’t in Willowbeck, and hadn’t been for a week. She sat up, and with Latte snuffling and wagging her tail beside her, looked out of the window. Instead of the hanging willow trees and the glimpse of fields beyond, Summer could see, across the wide river, a row of small cottages, each a different colour – white, then beige, blue and pale yellow – the front gardens tiny squares of grass or, in the case of the beige house, a riot of spring flowers. The towpath was already in use, a young man with a baseball cap walking an Irish wolfhound, and a woman cycling past, her coat flying out behind her like a cape.
A little further up the towpath was the entrance to an alleyway lined with tall brick walls, and at the end of that was the market square of Foxburn. It had a fountain in the middle, a small but impressive town hall with a columned entrance, and an independent deli that had slices of homemade pizza in the windows.
Already, in her temporary mooring, Summer could hear the other boat owners waking around her, a couple shouting to each other, the low growl of an engine as one of the boats set off cruising for the day. Summer had counted twelve moorings, all full as spring started to bloom, a mixture of traders and visitors in short-term moorings, and residential boats. She’d been exchanging pleasantries with a white-haired couple called Una and Colin, who lived in a traditional green and red boat moored next to hers. It was called A Seeker’s Fortune, and sported flowerpots bursting with daffodils along the roof.
Two days before, a gaggle of trading boats had moored up in Foxburn, including a narrowboat selling antiques, a sandwich boat which looked fairly up-market, with exotic fillings listed on the blackboard next to the hatch, and a navy cruiser with subtle silver accents and the name The Wanderer’s Rest inscribed in silver on the side. Summer had no idea what happened aboard that boat, and as she’d walked past, she’d noticed that all the windows were covered with heavy, dark blinds. This group also included Water Music, the boat responsible for waking her with Mumford. It was moored three berths down from Summer, which she was quickly realizing was a little too close.
She had been waiting for her roving trader licence – something she’d never needed in Willowbeck, which was smaller, with room for only a few moorings. In the meantime, she had opened the hatch when she was on board, leaving a teapot and some bite-sized brownies next to a sign that said ‘Help yourself – The Canal Boat Café will be opening soon.’ She hoped that it would build some anticipation, and ensure at least a few people came back when she was trading properly.
Her licence application had been approved yesterday, so after a week of exploring the area on foot, giving her boat a spruce-up, changing filters and clearing moss out of the window vents – and spending far too much time mulling over what had happened in Willowbeck – she could start running the café again.
The Canal Boat Café had room for six two-seater tables inside, a counter behind which she made and served drinks from the professional coffee machine, and a blackboard announcing daily specials alongside quotes and words of wisdom. The décor was blue with red accents, matching the boat’s paintwork, and she added extra colour with fresh flowers and bunting on the windows. Summer also had four tables and accompanying chairs stored on the boat, so that once the days started to warm up, she could set up an al fresco area on the towpath and serve more customers.
Her café was small and perfectly formed, but there was no fresh bacon from Adam at the butcher’s, she was further away from her best friend Harry, who had been supplying her with top-quality cakes, and she had lost the regular customer base she was starting to build up in Willowbeck. Still, she had started there with uncertainty; she would just have to do the same here. Summer swallowed and pulled the duvet off, pleased that she’d worked out how to clean out the diesel boiler and get the heating system working efficiently. It was the beginning of April, and despite the brightness of the sun, it was still cold outside.
‘Right, Latte,’ she said, ‘breakfast?’ The dog jumped to the floor and followed Summer into the kitchen, her nose pressed against Summer’s ankle, so it was hard to walk without tripping up. She wasn’t the only one who was feeling unsure in this new place. Latte had jumped on her bed every morning for the last week, yapping, whimpering and pawing. Summer could see the little dog was unsettled, but she didn’t know if that was because Latte was genuinely unhappy with the unfamiliar surroundings, sounds and smells, or because she sensed Summer’s uncertainty.
But today was a new day, and she could start running the café again. She fed Latte, switched the oven on and, still in her pyjamas, started making a batch of brownie mix. She chuckled as a Bryan Adams song started playing outside, and a flurry of ducks flapped upriver, their legs skimming the surface of the water.
The owner of Water Music played an eclectic mix of tunes at all hours of the day, to advertise the second-hand vinyl, CDs and tapes that they sold. Summer wondered how oft
en that particular boat was asked to move on, and decided that, when she had a batch of fresh cakes, she would offer the owner some and try and find out a little bit more about their roving market. After all, much of her confidence in Willowbeck had come from the friends she had around her – Valerie, Mason and even Norman. She was determined that, if she was going to make things work somewhere new, then she should get to know her fellow boatsmen and -women.
Whisking the brownie mix, she let her mind drift back to her last days in Willowbeck. Had she been too rash to untie her boat from the mooring and leave without telling anyone? Her relationship with Jenny, the owner of The Black Swan pub, had gone from bad to worse since Summer had been back there, and her friendship with Valerie, who had been looking after The Canal Boat Café after Summer had abandoned it, and who had encouraged her to come back in the first place, had become unexpectedly strained. So after only a day of mulling it over, Summer had made the decision to leave Willowbeck, to see what else the winding, sparkling river had to offer her. She had a fixed mooring that she could return to at any time, but she had her roving trader’s licence now, and with it the opportunity to prove that she could do this alone, in a place where nobody knew her, The Canal Boat Café, or her mum’s history.
And yet, there were things she already missed about Willowbeck. She’d been a permanent fixture there for little over a month, but had come to rely on Valerie’s encouragement and the cuddles with her silver tabby Harvey, Norman’s gruff greetings, and Adam’s cheery face whenever she went to stock up on sandwich fillings.
And she missed Mason. She didn’t know him that well yet – he spent most of his days at the local nature reserve, taking notes and photos of the wildlife for his articles – but already she felt his absence, as if no day was ever quite fulfilled, as if there was something she was always waiting for, just over the horizon.
Summer poured the folded brownie mixture, smelling so sweet already, into the deep tray, and slid it into the oven. She turned on the coffee machine, hoping that today she’d be making lattes and cappuccinos and hot chocolates, instead of just filling the teapot. In the cabin, she pulled on leggings, a soft green jumper and her Ugg boots, then sat on the bed and opened Mason’s text again.
She’d got it the day she left Willowbeck, the sender unknown until she’d read the message: Summer, it’s Mason. Valerie gave me your number. Where are you? We’re both worried. It had heartened her to know that, despite her anger, Valerie was still concerned about her, even though at that point she’d been gone for less than a day, and could have made the decision simply to go cruising. She’d replied, telling Mason she needed a few days’ space and would be in touch.
Mason had accepted the explanation, but had reminded her that she’d agreed to go to the reserve with him, and told her that he was going to hold her to it. Since then they’d kept up a stream of messages, the subject matter light. Mason: Archie just tried to catch a duck. He’s a good swimmer, but now I have to clean out my cabin because it smells like mildew. Summer: There’s a boat moored two berths down from me that has been playing music non-stop since nine a.m. I was fine with Adele and London Grammar, but they’ve moved on to S Club 7. How am I meant to cope? To that one, Mason had replied that there was no teen pop playing in Willowbeck, but Summer had sent him a smiley face and left it at that.
This morning, her phone screen was blank, and Summer realized she couldn’t spend her time mooning over Mason when it had been her decision to leave Willowbeck. She checked on the brownies and started a batch of scones, then turned on all the lights in the café and took the A-frame and her coloured chalks out into the sunshine.
To celebrate my first day, head aboard The Canal Boat Café, she wrote. A free cup of coffee with a slice of my brownie – whatever you fancy, come and see me! Back inside, she swept and mopped the café floor, then polished the counter and the tabletops until they gleamed. She rearranged her crocheted cakes and her wooden carvings, and then realized, with a pang of sadness, that unless the person who had been leaving her the trinkets had followed her to Foxburn, which in itself would be disconcerting, she wouldn’t be getting any more. The small wooden carvings had been left on the deck of her boat when she was in Willowbeck, with no note or explanation. She had five now: a heart, a frog, a daffodil, a rabbit and a jester’s hat. She didn’t want the mystery to end, and wondered if, now she wasn’t there any more, they would be left on Valerie or Mason’s boat. She would have to ask him next time she got in touch.
Latte started barking and Summer turned just in time to see a woman push open the door and stride into the café.
‘Hi,’ Summer said. ‘Can I help?’
‘I can have whatever I fancy?’ the woman asked, and Summer detected a hint of a Welsh accent. She looked a bit older than Summer, in her mid-thirties, with a rosy, round face and a short bob of black hair that was too vibrant not to be dyed. She wore a red silk shirt over jeans, and American flag Converse shoes.
‘Sure,’ Summer said, ‘what can I get you? Latte, cappuccino?’
‘I’d love some pistachio and rose-flavoured macarons please, and a chai-spiced latte.’
‘Uhm, right. Well, I can do the spiced latte, but … how about a slice of brownie, warm out of the oven?’
The woman looked to the ceiling, as if she was thinking hard. ‘All right. That’ll have to do for now. Do the brownies have cherries in?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Good, because I hate cherries.’ She gave a triumphant smile, and Summer felt a surge of relief that she’d met a modicum of the woman’s approval. She slipped behind the counter and got a clean mug, while her new customer approached the counter and crouched to pet Latte.
‘Oh, and can I have your dog? She’s a real cutie.’
Summer frowned. ‘No, I—’
‘I’m kidding, kidding. But your sign is a bit misleading.’ She was stroking Latte vigorously, the little dog squeaking in ecstasy at the attention. ‘It says you can have whatever you fancy. Maybe you should add a “within reason” at the end, or something.’
Summer laughed. ‘I’d love to be able to offer pistachio and rose – what was it? Macarons?’
‘Oh God, they’re divine. Seriously, if you start selling those then you’ll have a friend for life.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ Summer admitted.
‘But you’re a baker, right? So get a book. Brownies are lush, I’m not about to turn one down, but a bit of variety never hurt anyone. That’s what I tell my customers.’
‘Do you run a café too?’ Summer stiffened, wondering if this was an ambush, and she was destined to have to spend her life cruising up the river, away from other bakers who didn’t like the competition.
The woman stood and held out her hand. ‘Not cakes, but I sell music – CDs, vinyl, a few tapes for the truly retro. I’m Claire, I own Water Music just down the way there. We arrived a couple of days ago, but I’ve not seen you on this part of the river before – there’s not much I miss – and I’ve been waiting for you to open your doors so I could come and have a nosy.’
Summer shook her hand. ‘So you’re responsible for the Mumford & Sons alarm call.’
‘And I’m not about to apologize for it. Variety is the spice of life. What’s your name?’
‘Summer. Don’t you get complaints?’
‘The odd one, but most people don’t mind a mood-lifting tune here and there. And those that do complain are the ones who could do with it the most, but don’t realize it. You’re not about to start, are you?’ Claire accepted a cup from Summer, blew on the drink and sipped it immediately. ‘That’s good.’
‘I’m not going to complain,’ Summer said. ‘I’m as much of a rover as you, I could move on if it bothered me that much, but it doesn’t.’ She remembered her text to Mason, and felt sheepish.
‘What are you doing here? The café’s been around a while, hasn’t it, but not with you at the helm?’
‘You recognize it?’ Summer aske
d, using the opportunity of getting the brownies from the kitchen and cutting them into chunks on the counter as an excuse to hide her surprise.
‘Sure I do. As I said, I’ve not seen you along this stretch of the river before, but it’s a small world. It used to be run by an older woman, Margie was it? Missy, maybe?’
‘Maddy,’ Summer said, hearing the gravel in her voice. ‘My mum, Madeleine.’
‘Oh right.’ Claire studied her. ‘Yeah, you do look like her, the dark blonde hair, big eyes. A bit more guarded though, but that’s fair enough if you’ve not been doing it long. Did she hand it over to you?’
Summer sighed, trying to think of a less blunt way of putting it, and realized there wasn’t one. ‘She died.’
Claire gave Summer a kind smile. ‘Sorry to hear that. Tough times.’
‘Yes,’ Summer said. ‘It has been.’
They fell silent, Summer joining Claire in a hot drink and a slice of brownie, eating and drinking in a quiet that was already companionable.
‘So, you’re roving now? Not steady at that place down the river?’
‘Willowbeck.’
‘That’s it. Beautiful, I always thought. Good access, but quite quiet, big green expanse near the pub, it’s crying out for something.’
‘What do you mean?’ Summer asked, intrigued.
‘I dunno,’ Claire shrugged. ‘It just seems so inviting, but a bit lacking in something.’
‘Like Water Music?’ Summer laughed. ‘A blast of Bruce Springsteen at eight thirty in the morning?’
‘Hey, nobody could argue about The Boss. But yeah, a bit of music wouldn’t hurt the place. A bit of verve and vigour.’ She nodded. ‘Especially if you’ve gone, now. Pub still there?’
‘Still there,’ Summer said, grimly.
Claire narrowed her eyes. They were dark, almond-shaped, and gave Summer the impression that she was constantly being appraised, mulled over. ‘You were competition,’ Claire confirmed.
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