All Aboard: A perfect feel good romance. Cressida McLaughlin

      

      

       Copyright

       Harper

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      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