All Aboard

by Cressida McLaughlin

  Summer leafed through her tiny wardrobe looking for something to wear, but found she was trying to present so many different fronts with her outfit that it was going to be impossible. She wanted to be assertive but not aggressive in front of Jenny, and she wanted to look good, but like she hadn’t made an effort in front of Mason. And what kind of outfit was anti-aggressive, anyway? Pale pink wool? What, honestly, was she trying to do?

  She chose a long, claret-coloured dress over tights and flat, knee-high boots, and put on some subtle make-up in the mirror over the sink. The bathroom looked cheery and lived-in, even if her mum’s rubber duck was no longer there. She would have to find something else to adorn the basin with.

  She gave Latte some dinner and then watched her go straight to her bed and curl up on the checked pillows. Latte knew she wouldn’t be told off, because Summer felt guilty about leaving her for the evening. Summer stroked her, wondering how she was allowing herself to be worked-over so completely by such a small dog, and thought maybe it was time to stop teasing Mason about Archie.

  He was waiting for her on the towpath. As she switched off the café lights he – and everything else – was consumed by darkness, and then she was lit by the pale yellow glow of a torch.

  ‘It’s not a long way,’ Mason said, ‘but I’ve tried to get back on my boat in the pitch dark, and even before a few drinks it doesn’t always go well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Summer said. ‘I didn’t think to bring mine.’

  They walked in silence up the path that cut through the grass in front of the pub, and to the large wooden doors. Summer’s insides were fizzing with excitement and dread, which wasn’t an easy combination to stomach. Mason pushed the door open and held it for her, and Summer was engulfed by warmth and the smell of chips.

  She remembered the interior well. It was beautifully done, with dark wood tables against cream walls, navy cushion covers and booths against the windows. Willowbeck was quite isolated, but there was a gentle thrum in the pub, locals and passers-by getting in a few drinks to soften the blow of the new working week. Mason walked up to the bar, steering Summer with him with the lightest touch on her arm.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘A glass of red, please.’

  ‘I’ll have a red wine and a pale ale please, Dennis.’

  Summer looked at Dennis for the first time in over eight months, and a rush of memories overwhelmed her. Dennis, it seemed, was experiencing something similar, because he was standing behind the bar, staring at her as if she was as unlikely an apparition as Valerie’s ghost on the bridge. He was tall and stocky, with short, muddy brown hair and warm green eyes that were usually crinkled in kindness, but were currently fixed on Summer like laser beams.

  Mason glanced between them, a puzzled smile appearing. ‘Uh, Dennis?’

  ‘Yeah – yes, sorry. Sorry, Mason.’ He shook his head and turned towards him, his smile too wide.

  Mason repeated the order, and Dennis poured the drinks. Mason carried them over to a table, and Summer was about to follow him when she heard her name.

  She turned back.

  ‘Hi,’ she said softly.

  Dennis shook his head. ‘Jenny mentioned … but I never thought that – how are you?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she said. ‘You?’

  He gave her a rueful smile and a tiny shrug of his shoulders. ‘Things are good, really. Better, anyway. It’s great to see you. You’re back in Willowbeck?’

  ‘On Mum’s boat,’ Summer said. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble, but—’

  Dennis waved his hand. ‘Not your problem to deal with.’

  ‘Jenny left a red velvet cake on my deck.’

  ‘Probably just a knee-jerk reaction to the shock of seeing you. I doubt she’ll do it again.’

  ‘She seemed pretty angry.’

  Dennis held up his hand to a young couple who had arrived at the bar. ‘She’s overreacting. She’s really got into baking the last few months, and your return has made her feel insecure. I’ll have a word, Summer. Try not to worry.’

  ‘Thanks, Dennis.’

  ‘Glad to have you back.’

  Summer turned and scanned the pub. She saw Mason sitting at one of the booths, watching her, his eyebrows rising as she approached.

  ‘Cake strategy meeting?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you working out a plan to divide and conquer the people of Willowbeck with your respective cakes?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Or not.’ Mason shifted sideways in the seat so he was facing her, his knee brushing against Summer’s leg.

  ‘Why not?’ Summer asked, trying to drag her thoughts back to the present.

  ‘Because there was more going on there, between you and Dennis.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a while, that’s all.’

  ‘So he’s not against you starting up the café again, like Jenny is?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Thanks for the wine.’ She took a sip. ‘Mmm, lovely. Tell me about your work, about the reserve. What are you studying at the moment?’

  Mason gave her quick smile, ‘Oh, all sorts,’ he said. ‘I’m quite good at observing behaviour – it comes with the territory. Dennis is fond of you, isn’t he?’

  ‘We got on, before,’ Summer said, shifting uncomfortably, the wool of her dress scratching the back of her neck.

  ‘What happened?’ Mason asked softly.

  ‘Water under the bridge,’ Summer replied, meeting his eyes for a second then looking away. ‘And it’s not my story to tell, anyway. Not now.’

  ‘Sure,’ Mason said. He nodded once, and something seemed to break, some bubble around them. Mason took a sip of his beer and raised his eyebrows. ‘Want to hear about my current love affair with the redshanks?’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’ Summer knew she had been let off the hook. But as she listened to Mason, watching how animated he became as he told her about his work, about the hours of sitting and waiting, the magical moment when he saw what he was searching for and frustration if his pictures didn’t come out as he’d hoped, Summer felt flat. Part of her had wanted Mason to keep probing, to force her into telling him what had happened the previous summer. Harry had reminded her that she needed to move forward, and it still weighed her down like an anchor.

  For the rest of the evening, Mason steered clear of talk about Dennis and Jenny. Summer learnt a lot about Mason’s job, and she, in turn, told him about her work as a sign-writer, how she had, at one time, been intent on narrowboat art. At the end of the night he accompanied her back to the boat, the torch guiding the way, and waited until she was safely inside with the lights on, before returning to The Sandpiper.

  The following day, the first of March, a wooden carving of a daffodil was waiting for her on the deck. Summer picked it up and put it on the counter next to the heart and the frog. She wasn’t sure what her collection meant, or who was leaving them for her, but she was becoming more intrigued, knowing that the first thing she would do every morning was step outside on to the bow deck to see if she had a new gift.

  Summer spent the next month throwing herself into life on the boat. She baked scones and muffins, cupcakes and brownies. She made bacon and sausage sandwiches with fresh meat from the butcher. She kept the tables furnished with fresh flowers, and she began working on her own bunting, to complement the beautiful string Harry had made for her.

  She didn’t go a day without seeing Valerie, and the customers kept her busy. Adam from the butcher’s repaid her custom by coming in regularly for coffee and cake, and even Carole, who ran the gift shop, popped on board occasionally, elegant and impractical in tight pencil skirts. Summer started writing quotes and mottos on the blackboard above the counter and the A-frame outside, hoping it would add a friendly touch to the daily specials.

  March was typically cold and damp, but Summer felt snug on her boat, and, most importantly, she was running the café. It was a small café, but it had a stea
dy stream of customers. They ate her cake and drank her coffee, and quite often came back. Harry came to see her at least once a week, and she always brought something more exotic than Summer had the imagination or the skill to make – tiramisu cake, cherry and almond flapjack, salted caramel tiffin. Her cakes would fly off the counter, and Summer would feel as bereft as the customers when the last jewel of culinary pleasure was gone, and she was back to offering fruit scones with cream and jam.

  When Valerie remarked, one morning over bacon sandwiches, that Maddy was watching closely over Summer, she almost felt inclined to agree. Things were going well, Summer hadn’t messed it up yet, she hadn’t sunk the boat or bankrupted herself or accidentally put cyanide in the Bakewell tarts instead of almond essence. And she hadn’t seen Jenny or Dennis again.

  She hadn’t returned to the pub with Mason, or anyone else, and wondered if, after her encounter with Dennis, Mason had decided to leave that stickiness well alone. She had been reluctant to open up to him, so she couldn’t blame him for not trying again. She also wondered if Ross’s behaviour in front of Mason had given him the wrong idea. She still saw him regularly – when he wasn’t working on the reserve, he came in for bacon sandwiches or a slice of coffee cake – but he hadn’t invited her further afield again. Their relationship had become strictly café-based, and Summer didn’t feel entirely happy about that.

  Easter was in late March and, without an offer or the inclination to go and see her dad in Cambridge, Summer found herself working as hard as ever. The long weekend meant Willowbeck, and the river, was extra busy – people tempted outside by family celebrations and the suggestion of warmer weather. Summer called in Valerie’s help when things got too busy and the café looked like it had been decimated, with empty plates and crumbs everywhere, the dishwasher working overtime and the coffee machine making worrying noises.

  It calmed down after Easter Monday and Summer felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. But inside, there was the niggling feeling that it would be busy throughout the summer, and she would have nobody to help her full-time. Before, she had been the help, spending most of her summers with her mum. She could remember the tables being full, inside and out, and a queue at the hatch, but Maddy was always so in control, so unflappable, that it had never felt unmanageable.

  She was doing a sweep-down at the end of the day when there was a knock on the door. She’d already cleaned out the coffee machine, but she sighed and went to answer it. ‘I’m really sorry, but we’re – oh.’

  ‘Hi.’ Ross held up a hand in a greeting. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Summer said, stepping back.

  ‘Sorry to drop in announced, I had a spare evening and thought I’d see how you were doing on my way home.’

  ‘No, it’s … it’s lovely to see you. What can I get you?’

  Ross shrugged off his navy jacket. ‘Tea would be great.’

  Summer dipped into the kitchen and put the kettle on, running her hands down her black trousers. She hadn’t heard from Ross over the last month, and while part of her had missed his friendship, she’d also been relieved that he had decided to make the clean break that Summer hadn’t had the courage to instigate. Now, though, he was back, and so was the ache in her shoulders.

  ‘Here you go.’ She put two cups of tea on one of the tables.

  Ross frowned and pointed behind her. ‘We’re not going back there? To your living … house bit, whatever you call it.’

  Summer glanced behind her and laughed. ‘It’s really messy – I had no idea you were coming. We should stay out here.’

  ‘OK,’ Ross said slowly, ‘but it feels the same as if we were having tea in my shop. This is your business.’

  ‘The boat is my home,’ Summer said. ‘All of it. And this is a café, a place for drinking tea.’ She sat back when Latte appeared, hovering at her feet and asking to be let up. The Bichon Frise jumped on to her lap and turned in circles like a cat.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ Ross asked.

  ‘It’s good, great. Busy.’

  ‘You look well. Rosy-cheeked.’

  ‘It’s hot work.’

  ‘It suits you,’ Ross said, his hand edging closer to hers.

  Summer tried not to look at it. ‘How’s the best art supplies shop in Cambridge?’

  ‘Same as ever,’ Ross said, ‘except I miss my favourite customer. She’s not been in for a while.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You, you dingbat. I miss you.’

  Summer looked at him, wondering how to pitch her next words. She didn’t have a chance.

  ‘I’ve just seen Valerie, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She caught me on my way to you, offered me a reading.’ He grinned, his eyebrows raised comically.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He shrugged. ‘I said yeah.’

  Summer sat back in her seat. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in any of that.’

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not to her,’ Summer said. ‘She takes it very seriously. When are you having it?’

  ‘I had it just now. She took me into her boudoir,’ he said, leaning forward, his hands round his tea mug. ‘Purple velour and satin and this thick, heavy smell of incense. I think it’s designed to distract you.’

  ‘Valerie’s not a schemer.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, of course not. She believes in what she does, I’m sure of it. What did you think of the reading?’

  Ross smirked. ‘I dunno. She said some things that were on the mark, said I’d be seeing someone really important to me soon, someone who’d have something crucial to say to me.’

  ‘Ross …’

  ‘It was entertaining, but I don’t know how much store I’d hold in it. What do you think? You’ve known her for years.’

  ‘She was Mum’s best friend.’

  ‘But?’ Ross finished his tea and, in a quick move that she didn’t see coming, put his hand over hers.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Summer said, trying to slide her hand out. ‘I don’t know about the readings, but when she talks to people who’ve passed over?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think people hang around after they’re dead just to chat with the living. It makes no sense – how does she find the right people, are they all waiting in little compartments for their relatives to show up? And how does she get the information? Can she see and hear them talking to her, or do the words just appear in her head, and how does she know it’s real? Why wouldn’t a dead person be as untruthful as a live person? There are just too many inconsistencies.’

  Ross was nodding, his face serious. ‘Sure, sure. I totally get that. And Valerie’s not upset that you feel that way?’

  Summer stroked Latte’s bouncy fur, smiling as the dog licked her hand. ‘Valerie doesn’t care what other people think. If she did, she wouldn’t be in business. But she knows I’m uneasy with her mentioning Mum so often. Mum’s dead, and it’s been hard enough for me to accept that without Valerie muddying the waters.’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds tough. Ghostbusters is entertaining, but when someone’s talking about a relative or friend, it must—’

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Summer jumped at the loud voice coming through the hatch. She’d forgotten she’d left it open, the spring day warmer than she’d expected. ‘Sorry, I …’ she faltered when she saw who it was. ‘Jenny.’

  ‘With the joys of running a business comes the responsibility of making sure your clientele behave themselves.’ Jenny was wearing a tight red jumper, her dark hair pulled back to reveal sparkly gold earrings that dangled to her jawline.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘These,’ she said, slamming cardboard coffee cups, one after the other, on the shelf inside the hatch, ‘are all over the grass outside The Black Swan. You need to do something about it. It’s littering.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘And rubbish on the deck too.’ She slamm
ed something else down, something altogether more solid. It was a wooden carving of a rabbit, its ears straight up, a rough wooden cottontail at its back. Summer smiled, despite herself.

  ‘You think this is funny? Someone could have tripped and broken their ankle.’

  Summer looked into Jenny’s eyes, saw a flare of anger, and realized she wasn’t going to be able to appease her. ‘I’m really sorry, Jenny. I’ll be much more vigilant in future, and I’ll do something about the coffee cups.’

  ‘You’d better.’ Jenny turned and stalked back towards the pub. Summer heard her mutter something about ‘trouble’ loudly enough for her to hear.

  She collected the coffee cups and took the rabbit back to the table. ‘Not my biggest supporter,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ross wrapped his fingers round her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘That side of things must be hard. You know I’m here for you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Summer said. ‘I really do.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘Heart, frog, daffodil, rabbit.’ Mason lined them up on the counter, moving a plate of rather lacklustre ginger cookies out of the way. ‘What’s the connection?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Summer said, ‘and I don’t know who I can ask.’ Archie looked up at them quizzically, his ears alert. ‘Do you know, Archie?’ The Border terrier gave a loud bark, his tail wagging.

  ‘They’re all to do with nature, except the heart. Well, it sort of is, but not as directly as the others.’ Mason chewed the side of his thumb, his concentration intense, and Summer found herself scrutinizing him. He had glasses on today, black-framed, which somehow emphasized the intensity of his eyes. His jumper was dark grey, close-knit and snug over dark jeans. His ‘grab a quick coffee if the machine’s still on’ had lasted for over half an hour, and it seemed he was as intrigued by Summer’s unusual gifts as she was. ‘Suspects?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a clue. Except it’s not likely to be Jenny.’ She had told him about her run-in yesterday, and Mason had nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Not Jenny,’ Mason said. ‘And we are on the river. It could be anyone who passes on another boat, or on the towpath, leaving them on the deck – even throwing them – unnoticed. But why?’