It Started With A Kiss

CHAPTER FOUR

We are family

Next morning a thick fog shrouded the city centre as I wheeled my bicycle out of the train station. After all the emotion of the past few days I needed to clear my head. A long ride was just what the doctor ordered.

Even in the dim December light, the rolling fields and picturesque villages huddled alongside the road were impossibly gorgeous. I had taken the route to Kingsbury many times since Jack first persuaded me to join the unofficial Pinstripes’ pursuit of cycling. He, Charlie and Tom have been bike nuts since university, grabbing any opportunity to tackle increasingly demanding off-road terrain. Following much cajoling and pro-cycling propaganda from the Terrible Three, I had finally surrendered and subsequently spent a very amusing day shopping for bikes with Jack, who spent the whole time skipping like a child in and out of endless cycle shops. While I’ve still to fully appreciate the delights of mountain bike trails, I’ve fallen in love with road cycling – especially on days like this when I hadn’t a particular schedule to stick to. Plus, this particular route had one distinct advantage: it inevitably involved generous helpings of cake with two of my most favourite people in the world.

As I passed through the lovely village of Shustoke, a single thought played on my mind: the stranger from the Christmas Market. The thrill of his body so close to me, and the glorious memory of his lips on mine, had visited my dreams every night since Saturday and it was beginning to drive me mad. I needed to find him … but how? After all, we had met in the middle of a bustling Christmas Market on the busiest trading day of the year, surrounded by countless people I would never recognise again. Those kind of odds would make even John McCririck wince. Still, as my old maths teacher Mr Williams used to say, odds of any kind indicated a possibility, however remote.

I’ve always been the kind of person who believes things are possible before I embark upon them, so searching for my ‘Phantom Kisser’, as Wren had named him, didn’t seem like as big a step of faith as it probably would to other people. In this respect, I am very much like my Uncle Dudley. He’s the most positive person I know, always thrilled by the opportunities that life presents and never afraid of a challenge. I sometimes wonder if I should have been his daughter instead of my dad’s, whose idea of a risk is something backed up by pages of careful calculations – so not really a risk at all. Uncle Dudley’s philosophy of life is that everything turns out well in the end, eventually. His health isn’t brilliant, he and Auntie Mags have had to cope with quite a tough series of life problems (including discovering quite early on in their marriage that they were unable to have children – something that I know devastated them both) and they never seem to have quite enough money to be able to fully relax in their retirement, but they are, without a doubt, the happiest couple I know.

Nearing my destination, I crossed over a small humpback bridge spanning a canal. Once on the other side I left the road and turned on to the towpath towards the permanent moorings. The spicy tang of woodburner smoke tickled my nostrils as I dismounted and wheeled past narrowboats with names I knew by heart: Taliesin, The King, Barely-A-Wake, Adagio, Titch, Llamedos. Beside each narrowboat a thin plot of grass revealed a snapshot of the owners’ personalities, from a fully stocked vegetable plot to a brick-built barbecue with a greening old picnic table beside it, and what can only be described as a garden gnome shrine. At the end of the row of brightly coloured vessels, stood Our Pol – a magnificent 60ft green and red narrowboat crowned with traditionally painted enamel jugs, basins and planters stuffed with winter pansies.

A chirpy whistling from inside made me smile. I knocked three times on the cabin door. ‘Anyone aboard?’

The whistling stopped abruptly and the door flew open as Uncle Dudley emerged, blue cap perched at a rakish angle and face in full beam. ‘Hello, you!’ He ducked his head back inside briefly. ‘Mags my love! There’s a red-faced cyclist here in need of a cuppa!’

‘I’ll put the kettle on!’ Auntie Mags’ disembodied voice replied.

‘Hi, Uncle Dud,’ I smiled. ‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced?’

‘Of course not, bab! We’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Chuck your bike up above and come on in.’

Uncle Dudley has been in love with narrowboats for as long as anyone can remember. Dad says that his younger brother’s favourite toy as a child was a small wooden canal boat (a present from my great-great grandfather), which he insisted accompany him on every outing and family holiday. Uncle Dudley had his first taste of being aboard the real thing during his time as an engineer on the production lines at Leyland and Rover, when his long-time workmate Eddie bought the rusting hulk of an old coal boat and gradually restored it to full working order. From that moment on, Uncle Dudley’s sole ambition was to own a narrowboat, and when, at the age of fifty-two, he elected to take early retirement, he finally realised his dream and bought The Star from Eddie’s cousin, which he renamed Our Pol after Auntie Mags’ beloved aunt.

The other great love of his life, Auntie Mags, was consider ably less enamoured of the whole idea than her husband, but because it was his dream and because – despite her protestations to the contrary – she dearly loves Uncle Dudley, she went along with it. And continues to go along with it every weekend and holiday or whenever Dudley gets the itch to check on ‘the old girl’. Auntie Mags finds spending time on Our Pol much more frustrating than she would ever let on to her husband, but it comes out in subtle ways – most notably in her baking. As a simple guide, the level of stress she is experiencing is directly proportional to the amount of baking she produces from the small wood-fuelled oven in the narrowboat’s galley.

Judging by the cake tins balanced precariously on every flat surface in Our Pol’s interior, Auntie Mags was having a particularly bad day today.

‘Spot of baking, Auntie Mags?’ I grinned as I entered the warmth of the cabin.

Mags pulled a face. ‘Just a tad. Come here and give your poor old landlubber aunt a hug!’

I’ve always loved hugs from Auntie Mags. She has one of those strong yet soft embraces that makes everything seem better. Not like Mum. My mother’s idea of a hug is an air kiss with minimal bodily contact. Causes less creases in one’s clothes and removes the need for any embarrassing public displays of affection. Not that I’m a massively ‘huggy’ person, but hugs from my aunt class as delightful exceptions to the rule – generous treats to be savoured and enjoyed (much like her baking).

There was a whimper and the diminutive, shaking frame of Elvis, my aunt and uncle’s rescue poodle, appeared at our feet. Elvis is even less of a fan of being on the water than Auntie Mags and whenever he is spotted aboard Our Pol he is not much more than a shivering, terrified bundle of curly grey fur.

Breaking the hug, I reached down to pat his poor terrified body. ‘Hey Elvis, how’s it going?’ Elvis gave my hand a hesitant lick, then fled to the safety of his faded tartan dog bed by the cooker.

Auntie Mags grabbed my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. ‘Now, let’s have a look at you.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Mmmm. Oh dear. You’ve something serious going on in that mind of yours. There’s only one thing I can recommend.’

She wandered over to the pile of old Roses tins hap hazardly stacked on the benches and compact table in what Uncle Dudley refers to as ‘The Grand Dining Room’, and began to search through them, lifting lids and discarding tins until she located the one she was looking for.

‘Ah! Here we are.’ Brandishing the tin, she thrust it under my nose. ‘Coffee and walnut. That’s what you need.’

And, like countless times before, she was right.

Maybe it’s because she bakes so often – or maybe (as I secretly suspect) she actually has some mystical culinary-based second sight – but Auntie Mags’ ability to prescribe exactly the right sweet treat to meet your need is practically legendary. Broken heart? ‘Lemon drizzle, pure and simple.’ Anxious about something? ‘Bakewell tart. It’s the only thing that will work.’ Tired? ‘Triple-layer cappuccino cake – that’ll perk you up, chick!’

‘You’re a genius, Auntie M,’ I smiled, as Uncle Dudley poured the tea and Auntie Mags cut an enormous wedge of cake with an ancient, yellow bone-handled butter knife that could only have come from one of my uncle’s many car boot sale visits.

‘Nonsense. Everybody knows that coffee and walnut cake is vital for making important decisions. Isn’t it, Dudley?’

Uncle Dudley nodded sagely. ‘Absolutely.’

Dubious as their reasoning may have been, I found myself grinning like a loon. ‘And what important decisions do you think I have to make?’

‘Cake can’t tell you everything,’ my aunt replied, wagging the butter knife at me. ‘Enlighten us, darling niece.’

I feigned a protest, but inside I was delighted she had asked. The fact was, I needed their advice – and my aunt and uncle were quite possibly the only people I knew who had the ability (and inclination) to fully understand.

They listened intently as I relayed the events of the fateful day, stopping me every now and again to ask questions.

‘Why were you running through the Christmas Market?’

‘Because I’d just told Charlie I loved him.’

They exchanged raised-eyebrowed glances. ‘Oh.’

‘But that doesn’t matter because it was a mistake. The point is, the guy who kissed me changed everything.’

‘He kissed you?’

‘Yes. It was only for a moment, but …’ I stopped, suddenly unsure whether this was appropriate territory for a niece to approach with her aunt and uncle. But their mirrored expectant expressions – instantly reminding me of the two china Staffordshire dogs that guard each end of Mum’s mock-alabaster mantelpiece – urged me to continue. ‘It took my breath away.’

Uncle Dudley patted his wife’s hand excitedly. ‘Magic! It’s just like me and you, love!’

Rolling her eyes, Auntie Mags gave a loud tut. ‘Ignore him, Romily, he’s deluded. Carry on.’

‘That’s all, really. I know I should just chalk it up to experience – one of those heart-stopping, fleeting moments that will always give you a thrill. But I keep thinking …’

‘The attraction of possibility,’ Uncle Dudley chipped in. ‘No matter how unlikely, you can’t shake the feeling it might happen.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘That’s it exactly!’

‘And you want to find him again,’ Auntie Mags nodded. ‘But you don’t know where to start.’

‘I love you guys. So what do I do?’

Uncle Dudley rose to refill the kettle. ‘I reckon you should go for it. What’s the worst that could happen, eh?’

‘Humiliation, disappointment and an unwanted reputation as a desperate woman?’ I ate a forkful of cake and stared at my aunt, who was deep in thought.

‘Pah, that’s nothing,’ Uncle Dudley said. ‘I’ve had worse than that in my life and I’m still smiling, aren’t I?’

‘You were called a desperate woman?’

‘Eh? Oh, good one. Our Romily’s sharp as a needle, eh, Magsie?’

‘Quiet, Dudley, I’m thinking.’ She placed her elbows on the table, folded her hands and rested her chin on them.

My uncle clapped his hands in delight. ‘Ooh, I know that look, Romily. You’re in for a proper treat now if your auntie’s got that face on her.’

We waited in silence, the only sounds the lapping of the canal waters against the side of the boat and the distant chug of a slowly approaching narrowboat, until the shrill ascending whistle of the kettle broke through.

‘If you’re going to do this, you need to think about how best to let people know you’re looking,’ Auntie Mags said, finally. ‘The more people you can involve in your search, the greater your chances of finding him.’

Uncle Dudley clapped his hands. ‘Brilliant, our Mags!’