The Canal Boat Café Christmas: Starboard Home

‘Unfair,’ he said, but the word didn’t have any weight behind it. ‘Lunchtime’s coming up, do you want me to stay out here?’

She did, but the café was still quiet. ‘That article won’t write itself. I’ll call you if I need you.’

‘Now this,’ Summer said the following evening, staring up at the attractions, the lights and whooshes and screams invading her senses, ‘is what London at Christmas is all about!’

‘I feel twenty years too old,’ Mason shouted, as they stood in front of waltzers adorned with a light system that was more frantic than festive.

‘Me too,’ Summer said. ‘Let’s wind the years back.’

She waved to Claire and Jas; they’d arranged to meet up in the Belgian Bar in a couple of hours, and her friends were soon lost in the crowds.

She dragged Mason into one of the seats, waited until the security bar was brought down over them, and then snuggled into him, closing her eyes as the music ramped up, its rhythm getting faster and faster in time with the ride. It was years since she’d been to an amusement park, so long since she’d smelt the overwhelmingly sweet scent of candy floss and butter popcorn mingled together. She felt giddy, reckless, and leaned over to kiss Mason despite the pull of the ride stealing control of her body. She got his chin and he laughed, burying his head into her neck, his nose squashed against her as the direction changed again.

They went on the Ferris Wheel, drinking in the view, the city twinkling in the darkness, the gold and red of headlights and taillights marking the larger roads, the cold air numbing their lips. Mason bought her a white fluffy hat with pink-tinged ears from one of the market stalls, and they drank mulled wine and shared a bag of roasted chestnuts. When they approached the ice rink, it was Mason’s turn to pull her forward. Summer laughed, until she realized he was serious.

‘Come on, polar bear,’ he said, tugging the ears of her hat, ‘it’ll be fun.’

‘Can you skate?’ It had never crossed her mind to ask him before now.

‘A bit,’ he admitted, sheepishly. ‘We lived close to an ice rink when I was younger, and I went there with friends quite often, not just at Christmas.’

‘OK then,’ Summer said. She could put aside her fear of falling over and having her fingers sliced off for him. They finished their chestnuts as they stood in the queue, and then were given the heavy, solid boots with lethal-looking blades on the bottoms. They changed into them on benches that weren’t quite dry, the laces rough against her cold hands. She remembered going skating with Ben as a child, the way he had zoomed fearlessly around the rink while she had clung onto the edge for dear life, her brother completing about twenty laps to every one of hers.

They walked over the thick rubber matting together, and then Mason stepped onto the ice and turned, the movement quick and expert. Summer’s mouth fell open. ‘How often did you say you went?’

‘Come on,’ he said softly, holding out his hands. She ached to be able to cling onto the wall, to have at least half of her body pressed against it so if she did lose her footing she could simply slide down to the compact ice, away from the other skaters. But Mason wasn’t having any of it. She took his hands, squeezing them tightly, and stepped out onto the ice, feeling the immediate loss of grip, so that her foot slid forwards and Mason’s arms were around her in a flash, holding her firmly.

‘I can’t,’ she murmured into his shoulder.

‘Yes, you can.’ He put his hands on her waist this time, and skated slowly backwards, his movements small and controlled, allowing Summer to test out her legs on the ice. She was sure she looked like a baby giraffe taking its first steps, but with Mason’s hands to steady her, the warmth in his eyes, she began to feel more confident. As they made their way slowly around the rink, she held onto his elbows, and then his hands, so he was no longer supporting her waist, so she was further from him, more independent. He was still skating backwards, and she shook her head, smiling.

‘You’re a pro.’

‘Far from it. But it’s like riding a bike, it all comes back to you.’

‘I wish it didn’t for me,’ Summer said. ‘I remember clutching onto the sides and flinching whenever someone whooshed past me.’

‘And look at you now. But we can stop any time you want.’

‘No, I want to do this.’ And she did.

She wanted to be here, the air thick with a cold, clean freshness that wasn’t due just to the ice; the dark of the winter’s night high above, the rides flashing, whizzing and blaring around them, trapping them in a festive cocoon. There was a giant Christmas tree at one end of the rink, its lights white against decorations in gold, pink, blue and silver. It was glitzy but tasteful, and being there, on the ice, made Summer feel like she was in a Christmas film. Elf, or Serendipity. Oh, how she loved the ending of Serendipity, the deserted ice rink, the snow, the glove floating down to land on John Cusack. She closed her eyes and the air whipped around her as someone sailed past, clipping the heel of her boot and catching her off balance. She squealed as the momentum twisted her away from Mason.

‘Whoa!’ He grabbed her waist and pulled her into him before she landed on the ice, as someone yelled ‘Sorry’ in their direction, already halfway round the rink. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. They were pressed together, his nose millimetres from hers, his eyes wide with concern.

‘I’m OK,’ she said, thinking that this was much better than Serendipity, because how could she have coped with meeting Mason, spending a day falling for him, and then having to pass all those years apart, never knowing where he was?

‘Do you want to get off the ice?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m starting to enjoy myself. But there’s something that would help me enjoy it even more.’

‘Anything,’ he said, solemnly, and then watched in horror as she took her fluffy-eared hat off and, while Mason was holding tightly onto her, used both hands to pull it down over his wayward hair, his curls sticking out beneath it.

‘You have to skate with this on,’ she said, only just managing to say it before laughter took over. He looked ridiculous and cross and utterly gorgeous.

‘Oh I do, do I?’ He spun them both round, making her squeal again, and then they began their slow, steady progress over the ice, Mason skating backwards, holding onto her, never letting go, never breaking eye contact, wearing the fluffy hat in a way that only he could. As they skated, London sparkled and sang around them, and Summer lost herself in it, deciding that in this moment, everything was as it should be. Even if she did look like a baby giraffe skating with a curly-haired polar bear.

Chapter Three

When Summer woke on Thursday morning, their penultimate day in Little Venice, Mason wasn’t beside her. And then, as she began to emerge from the fug of slumber, she heard banging. Her stomach knotted with a familiar tension, one that came from nearly two years of being a liveaboard, her senses – and worry – tuned to all the things that could go wrong on the boat, especially in the cold.

She thought of Norman and Valerie in Willowbeck, and hoped that Jenny and Dennis were on hand to help them should they need it. Sliding out of bed and pulling a hoody over her pyjamas, she followed the bangs and thumps, past the tiny bathroom to where the engine was housed, in front of the stern deck. She found her boyfriend, clad in only his boxer shorts, peering at parts of the engine Summer didn’t entirely understand.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, and Mason jumped, cracking his head against the engine casing.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered, rubbing his temple.

Summer winced and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Is everything OK?’

He turned, his smile a half-grimace. ‘It’s making a funny noise. Stating the obvious, I know, but I’m worried that one of the pipes is blocked somewhere. Have you seen the weather this morning?’

Summer shook her head, anxiety prickling down her spine. ‘Frozen?’

‘Not the river, but – it’s getting colder, and I think we need to be prepared.’ There was an uncharacteristic wariness in his voice, and Summer knew that he was worried. ‘The last thing we want is for the pipes to freeze and then crack, or for the heating to break down. Mick’s given me a few tips, so I’m checking it over. Go back to bed for a bit.’

‘Why don’t you have any clothes on? Never mind the river being frozen, your extremities will fall off!’

Mason laughed. ‘I’m safe, don’t worry. To give her credit, Madeleine’s heating is efficient, and the fact that she’s still cosy this morning means the worst hasn’t happened – yet. But I’m not happy with this banging.’

‘Maybe it’s a ghost,’ Summer said, widening her eyes dramatically.

‘That,’ Mason said, turning to the toolbox on the floor, ‘would be a harder problem to solve. I’ll be a while, get back under the duvet.’ He put a screwdriver between his teeth and turned back to the engine.

Summer ignored his suggestion and went to make tea. She returned with a steaming mug, one of his tattier jumpers – not that she ever minded staring at his body, but she didn’t want to add any more drama to their trip by failing to prevent him from catching hypothermia – and two very curious dogs, who would no doubt hinder rather than help him.

Realizing that hovering behind him would be about as helpful as Archie and Latte’s contributions, she left him to it, checking the kitchen appliances and the café, ensuring everything was working, and also that the doors and windows hadn’t frozen solid. She’d been getting more liveaboard-savvy since she’d been in her café, but that didn’t mean she could diagnose every unusual sound her houseboat made, and she was grateful that Mason was prepared to take on that role, however un-feminist that sentiment was.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the extent of the frost was revealed, its sharpness diluting the colours of Little Venice as everything was given a white, shimmering coat. The hot drinks machine would be working hard today, and she was glad she had extra bacon.

Once Mason appeared, declaring everything seemed to be without issue, rubbing his forehead either because of the perplexing sounds that he hadn’t diagnosed, or because he was still smarting from knocking his head, she showered and started her fifth full day in the café. She winced at the cold air that sliced at her when she opened the hatch, and knew she would have to balance being welcoming at the takeaway counter with keeping the café’s interior snug enough for people to want to sit inside.

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