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  Copyright

  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 © February 2016 ISBN: 9780008164256

  Version: 2016-01-12

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  If you enjoyed ALL ABOARD

  Keep Reading – PRIMROSE TERRACE

  About the Author

  Also by Cressida McLaughlin

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  As Summer Freeman turned into the square of concrete that proudly advertised itself as Willowbeck’s car park, her hands gripped the steering wheel, her fingers red from the cold.

  It looked the same.

  It had the same faded lines marking the spaces, the same notice above the pay and display machine reminding her that parking was free between November and March, the same wooden signpost with arrows pointing to ‘The Black Swan’, ‘The River Great Ouse’, ‘The Towpath’. A thin sliver of frost topped the arrows, giving them a Christmassy flourish even though it was mid-February.

  There was no arrow pointing to ‘The Canal Boat Café’, something Madeleine, Summer’s mother, had always grumbled about. Why should the pub get a sign, when we’re as much a public eating establishment as they are? It had been the same argument, over and over, her mum only half-joking. Madeleine had thrived on the competition between her and the pub’s owners, Dennis and Jenny Greenway, at least until their relationship had changed irreversibly.

  Summer parked in the farthest corner, next to the butcher’s van, as if she wanted to hide her presence from anyone who might be passing. She had thought about Willowbeck a lot in the last eight months, its beauty and buzz coming to her in pictures as vivid as photographs, but she had never got as far as the question of returning. It was a forty-minute drive from Cambridge, where she lived, and in the opposite direction to the studio where she worked as a sign-writer. But the journey north that morning, past the imposing outline of Ely Cathedral, was one that she could do in her sleep, even though it had been so long since she’d last taken the route. Her mum had owned the café, and now it was hers, but she had abandoned it like a broken toy, the memories, the thought of taking her mum’s place, too painful to consider.

  She stepped out of the car, her breath misting, and wrapped her red wool coat tightly around her, folding her arms across her chest. She locked the old Polo and walked slowly across the car park, her steps echoing in the February morning quiet. She wished that she’d brought Latte with her. The young Bichon Frise always lifted Summer’s spirits, but she didn’t know exactly what she was going to face, and she hadn’t wanted to risk her little dog being in the way, or not knowing what to do with her.

  Summer stood on the road, facing the river.

  To her right was the small row of shops. She could see only the backs of them now but she knew they were the butcher’s, owned by Adam and his son Charlie, the newsagent’s that sold more Willowbeck postcards than it did newspapers, and a gift shop. Summer loved the soft pastels, the cosiness of the shelves of candles, cushions, and door-signs with slogans about dogs and life on the river. She had a sign on the wall of her tiny Cambridge flat that her mum had bought her. It read: I’d rather be on my boat. Over the last eight months, Summer hadn’t agreed with the sentiment, but now her hand had been forced.

  To her left stood The Black Swan. It was a big cream building, the paintwork around the doors and windows black and glossy, the gentle slope of grass that led towards the river dotted with picnic tables. In front of her was Willowbeck’s moorings, big enough for six narrowboats moored bow to stern along the towpath. Four of the moorings were residential, and one of those was her mother’s.

  Summer took a deep breath and walked forward, her view of the river widening as she got closer to the water. Today it was dark and smooth as glass, the trees that shaded the opposite towpath bare of their usual leaves. She smiled as a couple strolled past her, an eager Jack Russell terrier sniffing at the ground. All the permanent moorings were taken. Valerie’s purple narrowboat Moonshine was furthest left, in front of the pub, and next to hers was The Canal Boat Café. The lights were ablaze, but the serving hatch was closed, no blackboard outside offering fresh coffee and cakes. Summer swallowed, knowing that the chill she was feeling wasn’t just to do with the weather, and delayed stepping aboard for a few more moments.

  On the right was Norman Friend’s boat, Celeste. The old man was nowhere to be seen, hibernating from the cold below board. The mooring between Celeste and The Canal Boat Café, which had been waiting for a new occupant the last time Summer had been to Willowbeck, was now taken up with a beautiful narrowboat coloured red, gold and black, The Sandpiper written in a flourishing font on the side. Summer could appreciate the quality of the artistry, and had often dreamed – in happier times – that one day her designs would decorate the boats that slid serenely up and down the river. But recently, all thoughts of the river, and of the boats, had been tainted by her grief, and she’d shut herself up in her studio, taking on any commission that would keep her mind away from the creeping thoughts of the day her mum had died.

  ‘Summer? Summer, is that you?’ The voice was high and breathy, and snapped Summer out of her daydream. Valerie Brogan popped her head out of the doors at the bow of The Canal Boat Café, then stepped on to the deck. Her red hair was like a blazing fire licking over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed, her long purple dress the colour of her own boat. ‘Summer, thank God you’re here.’ She held her arms wide, and Summer walked forward, hovering just out of reach. ‘Come aboard, come aboard. You can’t rescue me from there.’

  Summer gave Valerie what she hoped was a warm smile, and walked across the plank that connected the towpath to the boat. Valerie wrapped her arms around her, smothering her in the scent of coffee, and an underlying sweetness of jasmine incense. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. How long has it been? Eight months?’

  Summer tried to nod, her head pressed against Valerie’s shoulder. Seven months and twenty-six days, thought Summer. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘about that.’

  ‘Come inside then. Come and …’ Valerie looked directly at Summer, sighed, and then gestured behind her. ‘It’s not the best it’s ever looked. I’ll say that now.’

  Summer
followed Valerie through the doors, and gasped. The café took up the front half of the boat, and was big enough for six two-seater tables. At the back was the counter that served as the throne of Madeleine’s mini-empire. She had sold cakes and scones and coffee, either to those inside, or from the hatch that looked out on to the towpath, treating every customer like a dear friend, the blackboard behind her advertising daily specials. The chairs and tables were painted royal blue with red accents, matching the exterior paintwork of the boat, and even the outdoor furniture, stored on the boat in winter, fitted the colour scheme.

  At least, that was the image that Summer had held on to: everything running smoothly, Madeleine so proud of her beautiful café. But now, as Summer stood in the doorway, icy air whispering around the tops of her boots, that shred of reassurance was torn away.

  The café was empty of customers, which was a good thing considering the state of it. The tables were in disarray, chairs askew as if people had left in a hurry, and some of the blue paintwork had been scratched, revealing the wood underneath. A bag’s worth of coffee beans was scattered across the floor, collecting in the corners with dust and, Summer noticed, a couple of sizeable spiders. The windows were smeared on the inside as well as out, and some of the bunting had been pulled down. The counter looked like it was dealing with the aftermath of a squirrel-raid, crumbs and plates and mess everywhere, and the smell of burnt coffee caught in her throat.

  Valerie shrugged her shoulders, her expression contrite, but Summer knew this was her own fault.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ she said tentatively, running her finger along the top of one table. It caught on a splinter.

  ‘It’s worse,’ Valerie said. ‘I’ve been trying, Summer, I really have. But even during the winter, customers are always … popping in. It’s not always full, but there’s a steady stream and there’s never a minute to recover, and then by the end of the day I’m so shattered.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Summer whispered. ‘What’s happened here?’ She approached the stricken coffee machine.

  ‘It’s stopped working. It just belches steam and spray and makes whirring noises, and then, when I was trying to fix it this morning, I knocked the beans over. And what with Jenny,’ she looked away, ‘really pushing the cakes in The Black Swan, I’m not sure that this place, Maddy’s place …’ Her words drifted off and she glanced at the counter, where a few Jammie Dodgers sat under a glass dome with a sign saying ‘Ten pence each’. ‘Maddy’s not happy with me, I know it.’

  Summer turned to Valerie, her hands clenching into fists. ‘What?’

  ‘Her presence is strong. She can see me failing.’ Valerie crouched and picked up some coffee beans, shoving them into the pocket of her dress. ‘She forgives me of course, but even so.’

  ‘Valerie,’ Summer said, trying to keep her voice even, ‘please let’s focus on getting things back on track. I’m sure it won’t take long.’ She pushed a chair flush against a table, hoping it would make things look instantly brighter. It didn’t.

  ‘Summer,’ Valerie said, giving her a warm smile, ‘it is so good to see you. I don’t know why I didn’t call you sooner.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ Summer said weakly. They both knew that Valerie had phoned Summer before this, but Summer had chosen to ignore her calls, unable to see herself back in the place where her mother – and she – had been so happy. ‘And I’m sorry,’ she added. ‘I’m so sorry Valerie. You shouldn’t have had to look after this place, you’ve got your own life to lead.’

  ‘But I was Maddy’s best friend. I’m next door. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I hadn’t at least tried to keep the café going. And I’ve fitted my readings in around it. But I do fear my efforts have made things worse than if it hadn’t been open at all. And the coffee machine was the last straw. If we can’t sell steaming cups of coffee on a February morning, then we’ve got no hope.’

  ‘So that’s what I’ll look at first.’ Summer shrugged off her coat and hung it over a chair, rolled up the sleeves of her grey jumper and pulled her wavy, strawberry-blonde hair into a messy ponytail with the hairband that lived constantly on her wrist. The stainless steel was hot to the touch, the coffee grinder at the side empty, and when she opened up the bowels of the machine, steam hit her in the face. She turned away, grasping for a cloth, and found a tea towel that looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. She wiped her face on her jumper.

  Valerie hovered beyond the counter, her long silver earrings dangling. ‘So how’ve you been, Summer? I’ve missed you. Willowbeck’s missed you.’

  Summer busied herself with the coffee machine, scooping out chunks of sodden coffee grounds that had been left to pile up, causing the machine to jam. ‘Not too bad, thanks. Work’s busy, we’ve had a few more people join the co-operative, so the studio’s always got a good atmosphere. Christmas was … a bit hard,’ she added, her voice dropping.

  ‘Oh my love,’ Valerie said, ‘How could it not be, without Maddy there? Are your father and brother keeping well?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ Summer said. ‘Ben’s still up in Edinburgh, but he came to Dad’s for Christmas. It was strange, though.’ She hadn’t had a full family Christmas since her parents had divorced, nearly eight years before, but the traditional occasions at her dad’s had always been balanced by the time spent with her mum. More often than not they’d celebrated in The Black Swan, but sometimes they’d taken the boat further up the river and discovered other pubs, her mother quickly becoming the centre of attention, happy to talk to everyone, always smiling, and Summer getting swept up in it, finding her own confidence in Madeleine’s presence. Without that, Christmas had felt hollow, her mother’s absence overwhelming.

  ‘It felt strange here, too,’ Valerie said. ‘Willowbeck seemed much quieter.’

  Summer closed her eyes. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course it was.’

  She leant against the counter, dumping handfuls of coffee sludge into the dirty tea towel, and looked at Valerie. Her mum’s best friend had always matched Madeleine for vibrancy, both of them appearing much younger than early fifties, Valerie’s boat Moonshine hosting psychic readings, fortune-telling, astrology charts. A treasure-trove of magic and mysticism that Summer could never quite get her head around.

  Somehow, she’d allowed herself to forget that Valerie was as close to her mother as she was. Valerie had lived alongside her for years, had lost her too, and instead of running away like Summer had, she’d tried to carry on where Madeleine no longer could.

  It was no wonder that the café had gone downhill, but how much worse would it have been if Valerie had left Summer to deal with it? It would be completely closed, never mind a few scratches and an unappealing selection of cakes.

  Summer heard footsteps along the towpath, a couple chatting as they passed the moorings. She sighed and moved the coffee grains around with her fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Valerie,’ she said again.

  ‘Oh hush,’ Valerie said. ‘You’re here now.’

  Summer winced, knowing her apology was inadequate and Valerie was being too forgiving. ‘I think I’ve fixed the coffee machine.’

  ‘You have?’ Valerie’s eyes widened.

  ‘It was blocked up. I’ll give it a good clean, and then we can look at some of the other bits.’

  ‘I’ll get the dustpan and brush.’

  ‘Have we got any cakes?’ Alongside the Jammie Dodgers was a tray of what looked like flapjack, but was thin enough to be peanut brittle.

  Valerie caught Summer’s eye. ‘I’m not much of a baker.’

  ‘No,’ Summer said. ‘Neither am I. That was always Mum’s thing. So.’ She glanced around her, waiting for a flash of inspiration. She could get some ingredients, fill the café with the smell of baking and entice people in. But what could they do immediately? Even if the seating area needed more work, they had the hatch, which at the moment was closed to the world. Ely and the nearest supermarket was a ten-minute drive away, she’d b
e back in no time. ‘Is the butcher’s still open at weekends?’

  ‘Saturday and Sunday mornings,’ Valerie said. ‘Another few hours before they close.’

  ‘Great. Give me five minutes.’ She washed her hands in the sink, put the sodden tea towel and coffee grounds in a carrier bag and tied it up, and then put her coat on and stepped outside.

  The air was biting, sharp and cold compared to the belching coffee machine she’d had her head inside, and the water looked bottomless. She shuddered and stepped on to the towpath, glancing inside The Sandpiper as she passed it, but was met only with darkness. Next was Celeste. It cheered her to think of Norman still in there, even if he was the least sociable person in Willowbeck. He spent most of his time on his deck, fishing, and grumbling when other boats disturbed the calm of the water. For someone who lived on the river, he was particularly intolerant of other boat owners.

  She couldn’t believe how quickly everything slipped back into place in her mind: Valerie and her readings, Norman, the butcher’s. The beautiful river, where she’d watched the orange and blue flash of kingfishers, the robin who perched on the tiller or the roof, the cacophony of ducks and geese and swans. It was quiet this morning, the colour of the narrowboats bright against the muted silvery-grey of frosty Willowbeck, but somehow that made it more of a blank canvas for all Summer’s memories.

  Except that they all included her mum, laughing or winking at someone, her blonde hair pulled scruffily back, gingham apron on; taking a batch of cherry scones out of the oven; leaning out of the hatch to talk to a passing family, then turning to Summer and telling her a story about when she and Blaze were only knee-high. However many times Summer’s older brother had reminded Mum that he’d legally changed his name to Ben, Madeleine had insisted on referring to him as Blaze, his given name. Summer knew she had got off lightly, but she loved being named after her mum’s favourite season.

  Summer found she’d stopped on the towpath, and was tracing the lettering on Norman’s boat with her finger, following the curved lines of Celeste. There was a loud banging from inside, and Summer jumped back as the doors on to the bow deck opened and Norman, looking exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him, navy flat cap, torn green cable-knit jumper and patchy grey beard, appeared and pointed at her.

 
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