The Canal Boat Café Christmas_Port Out

by Cressida McLaughlin

  ‘What does that mean?’ Summer asked, laughing nervously.

  ‘Just have a wonderful time.’

  ‘See you for Christmas,’ Summer said. ‘And keep Norman company.’

  ‘I’m going to teach him how to read tea leaves,’ Valerie said, and Summer was left with that disturbing but hilarious image as she made her way to the stern deck of Madeleine, untying the ropes as she went.

  ‘All set?’ Mason asked, giving a quick, wistful glance at his beloved boat.

  ‘All set,’ Summer agreed, patting the side of The Sandpiper before jumping up beside him. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

  Mason started the engine, the low thrum obscured as Led Zeppelin blared out from Water Music’s speakers, and Summer and Mason followed Claire, Ryder and the band of roving traders out of Willowbeck. Peering ahead, as Madeleine followed in the wakes of the other narrowboats, Summer noticed that Claire had a small banner hanging from the back door of her boat, visible when she changed position at the helm. It said Bruisin’ for a cruisin’.

  The weather was grey but still, the sun and wind both muted, the water flat, the going easy but cold. They made good progress, and slowed as they reached a small marina in a place called King’s Corner, just after a particularly tight lock. The marina was decorated beautifully, with blue, twinkling Christmas lights and a Christmas tree alongside the towpath covered in silver baubles and fake snow.

  ‘So this is our stop-over for the night?’ Mason asked. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever stayed here before.’

  ‘And I definitely haven’t.’ The festive sight made Summer feel giddy with excitement for their trip, glad that they were on their way, and that the moment of frostiness between her and Claire hadn’t lasted. She kissed Mason, distracting him from turning the boat into the mooring.

  He tried to see past her and huffed. ‘Summer, do you want a hole in the side of Madeleine?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, stepping back, trying to hide her smile.

  She waited until they were in place, and hopped onto the towpath to tie the ropes. ‘See,’ she said, once she was back on board and Mason was feeding Archie and Latte in the kitchen. ‘No damage done.’

  ‘Only because of my astute navigational skills in the face of women throwing themselves at me.’ Mason flashed her a grin.

  Summer shook her head, trying not to laugh, and then flung her arms around him, the scratchy wool of his coat – which he hadn’t yet taken off – tickling her cheek. ‘Let’s go and see what the plan for tonight is.’

  The plan turned out to be a slightly scruffy pub a hundred yards along the towpath, where they ordered fish and chips with a tangy, homemade tartar sauce and got reacquainted with each other. Mason had met everyone when they’d put on a music festival the previous year, and Claire’s band of roving traders had visited Willowbeck a couple of times since then, but he didn’t know them as well as Summer did. Ralph still had his sandwich shack, and delighted in telling them all about his Christmas offerings. They included bacon and Christmas pudding, and roast beef and brandy butter. Mason made a guttural moan when he said he was trying out turkey, cranberry jelly and a custard relish.

  ‘I’m calling it turkey trifle,’ Ralph said, grinning. ‘I might even add a bit of nutmeg stuffing.’

  ‘Was that a moan of pain, or longing?’ Summer asked Mason.

  ‘Don’t you think it sounds delicious?’

  ‘Custard, Mason. With turkey.’

  ‘I can’t see custard ever being a bad thing.’ He shrugged.

  ‘And I thought I knew you.’ Summer placed a hand against her chest dramatically, and Ralph laughed.

  ‘Seems like I’ve got a fan,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry Summer, there’s plain old turkey and cranberry, or beef and horseradish. I never forget about the people with unadventurous taste buds.’

  The group slipped into a familiar, easy chat. They caught up on the last few months’ gossip, the goings-on at Willowbeck, the different places Claire and the others had ventured to, the quirkiness of life as a roving trader. There was a woman who had spent two hours on Water Music in stifling heat, searching every shelf for Boyzone LPs and CDs, even though Claire had directed her to the right section to begin with. Doug told Summer and Mason about a couple who had bought a miniature portrait to his antique barge for valuation, and he had told them he didn’t have enough money to take it off their hands because he was sure it was an original John Smart, and they could pay off half their mortgage if they took it to an auction house.

  Summer was in the process of telling everyone about the Halloween-slash-engagement party when Ryder leaned languidly across the table, his blond hair flopping in front of his eyes, and spoke in a voice that was loud enough to bring all other conversation to a halt.

  ‘So Mason,’ he said, ‘I noticed you’ve been writing these pieces, about the nature reserves around here. How’s that going?’

  Mason seemed as taken aback by the question as Summer was, but then she glanced at Claire and thought that maybe her friend had been prepping Ryder, perhaps suggesting he needed to make an effort to seem interested in other people.

  ‘It’s a great job,’ Mason said, ‘having a regular column. I can build up a picture of the reserve slowly, look at the changes throughout the year, the seasonal highlights, and I don’t have to cram everything into a couple of thousand words. I’ve had good feedback from readers so far.’

  ‘Getting a fanbase already?’ Ryder leaned back, giving Summer a quick, smug glance.

  ‘It’s three letters,’ Mason laughed, ‘from bird watchers. They’re interested in the area, so—’

  ‘Not those Byronic curls? Sure one of your twitchers isn’t really a groupie in the making, masquerading as a sixty-year-old man?’

  Mason frowned. ‘Pretty sure. It’s not really the specialism for attracting adoring fans.’

  ‘You never know. Best stay on your toes.’ Ryder tapped his nose, and then turned to Doug, who was looking equally bemused by the younger man’s warning.

  ‘What was that about?’ Mason asked out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘It was Ryder being Ryder,’ Summer said.

  ‘He’s not happy unless he’s stirring the pot,’ Jas added.

  In his mid-twenties, with a neat black beard and thick hair that was often hidden under a baseball cap, Jas wrote a blog about living on the waterways, which had grown slowly before taking off, appealing to a younger audience than the subject matter suggested, gaining followers into the hundreds of thousands. Summer remembered his kindness, his quiet, unassuming nature, his online appeal more about the warmth of his posts – and his Irish wolfhound, Chester, who featured heavily – than anything flashy or show-off. He left all that to Ryder.

  ‘But,’ Jas continued, ‘you shouldn’t underestimate the power of your words, and the number of people who are passionate about the same things as you, even if it doesn’t seem, at first, like the kind of thing that would reach a wide audience.’

  ‘Speaking from experience,’ Mason said.

  ‘Nobody’s more surprised about how my blog’s grown than I am. Have you ever thought of doing one? It would sit well alongside your magazine work. They’d feed off each other.’

  ‘I hadn’t. If there was any interest, it would be a small, select few.’ Mason looked to Summer, who squeezed his leg under the table.

  ‘You’re being too modest,’ she said. ‘Jas is right, he knows what he’s talking about. You just need to be able to commit, to have the time to do it regularly.’

  Jas was nodding. ‘Absolutely. Build up your followers, make sure that it’s consistent, manage their expectations. Talk to them. And,’ he said, his dark eyes alive with amusement, ‘a good photo of you with those Byronic locks wouldn’t hurt either.’

  Mason ran a hand self-consciously through the hair in question. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s get together at some point – it’s not like we’ll be short of time – and I can show you around my blog,
give you a feel for what it would be like. Then any decision you make will be informed.’

  Mason chewed his lip, and Summer could almost see the battling factions in his head: the opportunity to reach out to more people, to spread his love of nature, against his love of being in it, of not being stuck behind a computer screen – except when he was sorting through his photos or writing about what he’d seen. She knew that spending hours replying to comments, endless tweeting, would have him running for the hills.

  ‘Have a think,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to decide now.’

  ‘No. Thanks, Jas, it’s a kind offer.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said amiably, ‘any time. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Later, curled up in Madeleine’s snug cabin, blanketed in quietness, Summer let the familiar and unfamiliar settle around her. She could hear the occasional snuffles and knocks from Archie and Latte next door, as they both tried to monopolize the sofa to sleep on. A nighttime cruiser sometimes drifted past, causing the rhythmic swaying of the boat, hollow clunks as Madeleine knocked gently against the side of the towpath. There was a tawny owl in a tree not far away, its hoot soothing and reassuring.

  She had enjoyed their first day cruising, had slipped back into it so easily, the relaxed evening in the pub, the banter and the teasing, Ryder getting under everyone’s skin. She hoped that Mason hadn’t been too put out by it, that he was enjoying it as much as she was. Because already, Summer knew that it had been the right decision. She had missed Claire and Jas, Ralph and Doug – even Ryder – more than she’d realized, and the thought of spending five weeks with them, of being in the centre of London in the run-up to Christmas, filled her with happiness. And this time, she thought, as she snuggled closer to Mason, his hair tickling her face even while he slept, it was even better, because she was with the man that she loved.

  Chapter Seven

  The following day they cruised out of King’s Corner after an early breakfast, and Summer held her head high, breathing in the cold, fresh air as she followed behind Doug’s Antique Barge, waving at helmsmen and -women and people on the towpath. Even though it was daylight, the lights on her boat sparkled, and Claire interspersed her usual soundtrack with Christmas carols, keeping the volume low in deference to the unknown territory and wildlife. Once they were moored up in Little Venice – and in their other stops along the way – Summer knew she would blast the songs out, the perfect advertisement for the boat that sold CDs and LPs, and sold them well despite the digital age.

  Now they were heading south-west, soon to join the Grand Union Canal and meander their way along it towards London. The views were new and fresh, the villages different, all with their own, unique character. The terrain changed too, becoming hillier, the stretches of fields replaced by sloping banks, the canal sitting in valleys, evergreen or skeleton forests sometimes hugging close to the water’s edge, obscuring the land beyond.

  Over the next few days, Summer did more than her lion’s share at the helm, enjoying the fresh air, the sights and sounds. Mason often joined her, and they took it in turns to make hot drinks, keeping the cold at bay.

  As the journey to London would take most of the two weeks, they had only fleeting opportunities to open their businesses: a couple of hours in the morning before they left a mooring, an afternoon when they arrived at their next destination. Whenever they did, Summer and Mason worked as a team in the café, Mason proving excellent at chatting to the punters, coaxing strollers on the towpath over to the hatch for a coffee and a pastry. He’d helped out during the summer when she was rushed off her feet, but had focused on clearing tables, loading and unloading the dishwasher, leaving the serving and interaction to her and Harry. Now, though, he was getting stuck in.

  ‘That’s an Egyptian goose,’ he said, leaning out of the hatch and pointing to a pale brown and grey goose with darkish red-brown patches around its eyes and on its tail feathers. A couple nearby, who were taking photos and holding out stale bread, looked up. ‘They’re not native,’ Mason continued, ‘they escaped into the wild after being brought to this country as an ornamental bird.’

  ‘Really?’ The man, in his late forties, Summer guessed, straightened. ‘I’ve not seen one before. Unusual markings.’

  ‘You only get them in this region,’ Mason added. ‘I’ve always thought that they’re particularly beautiful. And not as aggressive as the Canada geese.’

  ‘Oh, those blighters!’ The woman spoke now. ‘I’ve given up getting my bread out when they’re around, they’re like attack dogs.’

  ‘They’re becoming a bit of a nuisance in some places,’ Mason agreed. ‘Not their fault really, but they’re not the most tactful of beggars.’

  The man laughed, approached the hatch and carried on the conversation while ordering two gingerbread lattes and a bag of six mince pies. Summer watched from the table she was pretending to clear, feeling a flush of pride.

  ‘Who knew the Springwatch sales technique would prove so successful?’ she asked, once the customers had gone away happy.

  Mason smiled at her. ‘I love Egyptian geese.’

  ‘So you weren’t even trying to reel them in?’

  He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t, but I might do now. Though I expect it only works when you’re not trying too hard. I’m not a natural salesman.’

  ‘You could have fooled me! But you don’t have to be very often,’ Summer said. ‘The boat usually entices people in; the idea that they can have a cream tea on a narrowboat is tempting enough. Maybe there is something to this leaning out of the hatch business though.’ She pondered, looking at him, and ran her fingers through his unruly curls. ‘Maybe Ryder’s right about the hair. It is very good hair, and attached to such a lovely face, too.’

  Mason rolled his eyes. ‘Ryder’s a wide boy. I don’t believe anything that comes out of his mouth.’

  ‘You used to be a rover too,’ she said quietly, knowing this was uncertain ground, that he’d made the move after Lisa had died, and might not want to talk about it.

  ‘I did. I was younger, and in a bad place when I became a liveaboard. I might not have done everything the right way, but I wasn’t manipulative, and nowhere near as sure of myself as Ryder is, even if I tried to pretend I was. Confidence radiates off him like the sun, and it’s unnerving.’

  ‘I wish I’d known you then,’ Summer admitted. ‘I know that you were struggling, that it wasn’t easy at the beginning, but I’m intrigued about your wild side.’

  Mason leaned against the coffee machine, and briefly closed his eyes. ‘I was never wild, Summer. I was grieving, blundering through this new lifestyle with blinkers on, barely able to see past my own nose. If we’d met each other then, I don’t know if we’d be together now.’

  Summer nodded, her eyes directed to the floor. ‘Tania?’ she asked softly.

  Claire’s friend, the woman Mason had been with all those years ago, who he’d left without a proper explanation – not just in the emotional sense, but in the physical too, taking himself and his boat away from Tania without looking back. It was why Claire hadn’t had much to say in Mason’s favour when Summer first met her, and he’d turned up on her boat one evening when they were moored up in a market town called Foxburn. Claire hadn’t been happy that Summer knew Mason, already feeling protective of her despite their fledgling friendship. But once Mason had explained what had happened – that he should never have got together with Tania, that he had been too damaged by his grief, nowhere near healing – Claire had forgiven him, embraced him with open arms.

  ‘Tania,’ Mason repeated, the word coming out as a sigh. ‘It was a disaster. I treated her so badly. I’d like to think that, had I met you back then, things would have been different, because, believe me, Summer, the way I feel about you …’ his voice hitched, and he shook his head. ‘But I was barely making it through each day. I put on a front, pretended I was just a new liveaboard getting the hang of the lifestyle, and I thought being close to someone again would help to patch me up
. But it was selfish, and she paid the price. So … I wasn’t a wild, enigmatic rover like Ryder. I had a broken spirit, and no way of knowing how to fix it.’

  Summer swallowed. Mason suddenly looked so forlorn. She went round to the other side of the counter and took him in her arms, kissing his forehead, trying to kiss away the memories. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  ‘No, of course you should. I often wonder what it would have been like if I’d met you sooner, if you’d been on your mum’s boat helping out when I’d passed by – a couple of years later, once I was slowly getting back on track.’

  ‘See, that’s when I’m talking about. Not at the very beginning, but once you’d established yourself as a wildlife photographer. You, Archie and The Sandpiper cruising up and down the waterways, dazzling everything in your path with your beauty—’

  ‘I hope you’re talking about my boat, there.’

  ‘I bet you were a force to be reckoned with, Mason Causey.’ She smiled, and his eyes danced back, his face transformed by a sudden grin.

  ‘As opposed to the staid, boring old codger I am now, you mean?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant!’

  ‘And you’re highly romanticizing everything, by the way. It wasn’t like that. The only reason I sold any of my photos was because of the contacts I’d had before. You’re imagining this confident, dynamic guy—’

  ‘I’m not imagining him, Mason, I’m standing in front of him.’

  ‘Just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.’ He raised an eyebrow, but Summer’s breath stalled in her throat.

  ‘Now who’s romanticizing?’ she managed. His words were too close for comfort to the proposal she’d been imagining. ‘And when did you learn all the words to Notting Hill off by heart?’

  Mason looked shifty. ‘Sometimes when you’re busy in the café and my article refuses to write itself, I turn to the television for company.’