The Canal Boat Café Christmas: Starboard Home. Cressida McLaughlin

but Summer thought that everything was moving at a slightly slower pace. The trees that overhung the canal, almost as if they were eavesdropping on the conversations of the liveaboards, were skeletons, the thinnest branches shivering in a light breeze. But the winter scene could never look anything other than festive, because of the brightly coloured narrowboats. Even first thing, there was a couple wrapped in blankets having a loud conversation on their deck, their laughter drifting down the canal. A woman dressed in dark jeans, knee-high burgundy boots and a taupe, woollen coat that looked impossibly soft, walked two miniature schnauzers and a pug down the towpath, her strides long and purposeful, her pets scurrying to keep up.

      Behind the trees were large, cream houses, so big that Summer thought many must have been converted into flats, and then beyond them, in the distance, was the shining glass of towering office blocks, the skyline of a more familiar London. Summer could never imagine this towpath being deserted, like it often was in Willowbeck, but today there were strollers rather than rushers, and more laughter, despite the cold that made people stamp their feet in the queue for the hatch, and rub their hands in relief as they opened the bow doors and stepped into the café. Summer always made sure it was either heated or ventilated, depending on the weather.

      ‘Jeez, it’s freezing out there,’ said a man in a leather jacket with slicked-back hair, looking like he was straight out of a production of Grease. He was followed into the café by a woman wearing white jeans and a purple puffa jacket, and two small girls wrapped up like Christmas presents, their scarves and hats bright red against royal blue coats and wellington boots. ‘Can we sit at one of these, love?’ he asked, pointing at the tables.

      ‘Of course. Have a seat and I’ll be over in a moment to take your order.’ She watched the family choose a table on the canal side of the boat and dismantle their outdoor apparel, the girls mesmerized by the water and what they could see in it. ‘Duck,’ ‘leaf,’ ‘boat,’ they shouted, pointing things out in turn.

      ‘Now girls, what have I said about sound levels?’ the mum asked.

      ‘Ssshhhhh,’ said the younger girl, pressing her finger to her lips.

      ‘Exactly. When we’re out with other people, they don’t always want to hear our conversations.’

      ‘But what if they’re fun?’ asked the older girl.

      ‘They might be having their own fun conversations. Let’s have a look at the menu, see what cakes they do.’

      This seemed to placate them and Summer popped her head into the kitchen, where Mason was lining up more rolls, buttering them and laying them on a tray, his movements methodical. The crackle and smell of bacon was overwhelming, and Summer put her hand on her stomach.

      Mason looked up. ‘I told you to have one. Did you get any breakfast?’

      She shook her head. ‘We’ve got a family in the café now.’

      ‘You see to them, and I’ll prepare you a deluxe bacon sandwich. A Mason Causey speciality.’

      ‘What makes it so special?’

      He looked at her aghast, as if the answer was obvious. ‘I’m making it!’

      Laughing, she left him to it.

      The busyness continued, the café filled and emptied, filled and emptied, and by the end of the day the floor was a mass of muddy footprints, exacerbated by a short, sharp rain shower that had darkened the skies around three o’clock and acted as a precursor for nightfall. The crowds dispersed noticeably earlier than they had the day before, and Summer made the decision to close at four o’clock, allowing her time to replenish her stock before whatever evening activity Claire had organized for them all.

      She got a text confirming that plans were to go back to the Riverside Inn, and Summer was good to her word, getting the first round in. There was no sign of Tania, and for that she was thankful. The conversation was much more relaxed, and she sat between Mason and Jas on a long bench upholstered in maroon fabric, her back to the wall.

      There were no wooded copses with fairy lights – an unlikely find in London and far too cold at this time of year anyway – and Summer was comforted by how straightforward it felt. But then, halfway through the evening, the door burst open and all conversation was drowned out by a rendition of ‘We Three Kings’ as a group of men and women, dressed as elves in red and green costumes, and hats with bells on the end, bustled into the pub. They stood in the middle of the space, forcing the drinking customers to move back around the edges, and continued to sing their carol with gusto.

      ‘Oh good Lord,’ Ralph said, leaning in closer so Summer could hear him. ‘What a way to ruin a quiet Sunday drink.’

      Summer laughed. ‘It’s Christmas! And I think they’re quite good, don’t you?’

      ‘Collecting for some charity no doubt,’ Doug added.

      Summer rolled her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with that? It’s the season of giving and goodwill, and that doesn’t just mean buying your friends and family expensive presents that they don’t really want. This,’ she said, gesturing towards the group, ‘is what Christmas is – or should be – all about.’

      She gave a triumphant smile which faded when she realized one of the elves had noticed her pointing, and was waggling her finger, beckoning her forwards, her cheeks rosy in the warmth of the pub and her fur-lined jacket.

      Summer shook her head and sipped her drink, but as the carol singers came to the end of their current song, the beckoning elf approached her. ‘Come and join us for a few,’ she said. ‘The more the merrier.’

      ‘Oh nooooo,’ Summer said, laughing nervously. ‘I can’t sing. You don’t want me.’

      ‘No discrimination here, not even for the vocally challenged. Come on, everyone knows the words to “Jingle Bells.”’

      The other elves were moving through the pub, trying to encourage other reluctant punters into the impromptu singsong. She saw the tall, bearded man behind the bar shrug his shoulders genially and lift the hatch.

      ‘Yeah, go on, Summer,’ Ryder said, giving her a wicked grin. ‘Join in.’

      ‘I’m not—’

      ‘What was that you were saying about it being the season of giving and goodwill?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You can’t be a spoilsport now.’

      ‘I can,’ she said, then realized how petulant that sounded. ‘Mason, tell them. Nobody wants to hear me sing.’

      Mason gave her a soft, quick kiss. ‘You’ll be wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

      ‘Mason!’ she squeaked, watching as he tried not to descend into laughter. ‘You traitor.’

      ‘I’ve heard you singing in the shower,’ he said. ‘Have confidence in yourself.’

      Summer thought about folding her arms and refusing to budge, but the female elf was still standing next to their table, watching her expectantly, and she didn’t want to be the bah humbug member of the party. She sighed and hauled herself to her feet.

      ‘I’m Milly,’ the elf said.

      ‘I’m Summer. It’s … lovely to meet you. Do you do this kind of thing often?’

      Milly chuckled. ‘We’re actually part of the cast of the pantomime that’s playing in the Canal Café Theatre. The run starts tomorrow night – we’ve just had our final dress rehearsal and thought we’d come out and do a bit of publicity.’

      ‘Which pantomime are you doing?’ Summer glanced at the other elves, still encouraging members of the pub crowd to join them. She counted them – there were seven. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So you’re not actually elves, you’re dwarves. Which one are you?’

      ‘I’m Happy, and tonight, at least, we’re a bit of a hybrid. These outfits are Christmas elves – the director would have a fit if we brought our