New beginnings at wildfl.., p.23
New Beginnings at Wildflower Lock, page 23
A new silence shrouded them. One that was full of pain. Daisy knew she and Theo would have needed time to figure out if they wanted to be more than friends. After all, he had a relationship to grieve. But even if it was what they both wanted, she knew she would never be able to see him while he lived so close to the September Rose. It would break her heart every day. She moved to tell him as much when a couple of dog walkers approached, chatting loudly.
‘I mean, it’s ridiculous,’ one said. ‘Don’t you think? It makes no sense.’
‘Oh, you don’t need to tell me. I say it every time I come here.’
‘Exactly, it’s common sense. A place this busy needs a coffee shop. And how hard would it be to set up, really? There are enough boats. They could just sell drinks from one of these.’
The women carried on chatting as they walked, but Daisy wasn’t listening any more. She had heard everything she needed to.
‘Did you hear that?’ Daisy said, as her eyes met Theo’s; the small smile which curled up on his lips was an exact reflection of hers.
‘I did.’
‘And?’ she pressed ‘What do you think?’ A swarm of butterflies took hold within her. ‘Would it be possible? Could it work?’
It was no longer a small smile toying on Theo’s lips, but a great grin, and Daisy could feel her cheeks desperately wanting to form the same expression.
‘If it’s what you want to do, I’m almost positive it will work. But you’ll probably have to live here.’
‘I know. And it will still be a risk.’ The excitement had spread past butterflies now. Instead, her entire body was alight with anticipation.
‘But a risk worth taking,’ Theo added.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The enormity of what she was about to say, about to do, felt too great to say aloud. But she needed to. She needed to hear herself say it.
‘I guess that’s settled, then,’ she said, her pulse hammering in her chest. ‘It’s time to set up the coffee shop on the canal.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was so much fun to write and I want to say a big thank you to Emily Yau and entire team at Boldwood Books for seeing the potential in my crazy idea. To all the people whose brains I picked for boating knowledge: Kate, Magdalen, Kelly. Thank you! Thank you also to the volunteers at Papermill and Heybridge Locks who were always willing to share their time and knowledge with me. To Kath, who has helped me so much, to Jake and his unwavering support and lastly, to all my readers, who have been with me on this crazy, book-loving journey. I wouldn’t be here without you.
MORE FROM HANNAH LYNN
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Chapter One
Given that Holly Berry had left London in such a hurry, she hadn’t really put much thought into the clothes she had packed. And ‘packed’ was using the term very loosely. After hurling several shoes at her now definitely ex-boyfriend, she had hauled the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and thrown in a half dozen armfuls of clothes. Meanwhile Dan (said ex) had been attempting to rescue some of his own things which were getting caught in the mix. A task that was hindered somewhat by the fact that he seemed unsure whether he should be trying to appease Holly, his girlfriend, who had just caught him butt-naked in a compromising positioning in their new Ikea bed – a bed she had paid half for – or comforting the sobbing woman who was still on said bed, also without a stitch on and desperately trying to cover herself.
‘Hols. Hols, just wait. Please, wait. Listen.’
‘I heard enough, thanks. Trust me, those noises are going to be hard to forget.’
Her hands were shaking as she grabbed another dress and ripped it off the hanger. Six years. Six years of her life had been all about him. Six years she had put her plans on hold for their plans. What a bloody fool.
‘Please let me explain.’ The moment his hand touched her shoulder, she span around and flung it away from her.
‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare touch me, or speak to me, or even look at me.’
‘But you don’t understand…’
‘No. No, I don’t. You’re completely right about that. I do not understand how the hell you could do this to me.’
‘I just… we just…’
‘We had a plan, Dan. You and I. We had everything planned out. We were looking at houses last weekend. Last weekend.’
‘I just… I just…’
‘Slipped?’ she questioned.
Her eyes moved involuntarily to where the woman was now wrapped up in the bed sheet. She had definitely paid for that. She remembered being particularly impressed with the 75 per cent discount she’d got during the sales. Her attention left the sheet and returned to the woman. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dan clearly had a type, that much was obvious. Apparently, he had gone for the oldest cliché in the book and traded her in for a younger model.
‘Please,’ he whined, trying to pull the pity card now, his eyes watery and pathetic.
Unable to take any more, she zipped up the case and marched out of the room, down the stairs and out of the front door.
While driving away from Dan and London, her mind was filled with questions. How could he have done it, after all they had been through? She had been there for him, through everything. And why? Why would he do it? And why hadn’t she seen it coming?
Despite having been at the same university for three years, the pair had never even laid eyes on each other until the day of their graduation. Ceremonies over, and celebration dinners concluded, she had headed out to a club with her old house mates.
It was on a brief respite away from the dance floor, when she had gone to the bar to grab them all drinks, that she saw him. His deep-brown eyes had caught her attention straight away. And the way he had struggled hopelessly to get the barman’s attention. After watching him get pushed in front of several times – clearly too polite to say anything about it – she had sidled up next to him and, on getting served first, had ordered drinks for both of them, which he had then gratefully paid for. She’d later learned that he had played the part of the helpless man in need of rescuing in the hope of attracting her attention. She had thought it was sweet. They’d laughed about it over dinner with friends. Now she saw the truth: he’d been manipulating her from day one.
It wasn’t until she’d turned off the M4, the sun long since set, that Holly actually thought about where she was driving to. She realised she was automatically heading towards her parents, but did she really want to face them? Of course, they would be supportive, but deep down she knew they’d never been that keen on Dan.
‘He just seems a bit beige,’ she recalled her mother saying once.
‘Beige?’
‘You know. Plain. Unexciting.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with someone who’s sensible, Mum.’
‘No, but do you have fun together?’
‘Of course we do.’
Her mother hadn’t look convinced. ‘What about that house you were talking about last month. I thought you were going to buy it?’
‘We were, but we’ve decided to wait. Save a little longer. Get a bigger deposit together.’
‘You were saving last year, weren’t you? And the year before. You’ve got a steady job. You don’t have to always be worrying about money, you know.’
She had gritted her teeth. ‘Yes, but houses are expensive, and the bigger the deposit we have, the less we’ll have to pay back in the long run.’
‘But you need to have some fun too, Holly darling. It can’t all be about saving money and working hard.’ Then her mum had tutted in a way that suggested her desire to be financially secure was the most irresponsible thing she’d ever heard of. How would she respond to this news? She’d be devastated that Holly was upset, that was for certain, but beyond that it was impossible to tell.
As she reached the turnoff for her parents’ home, she kept going. She would talk to them later. She still had a spare key and could sneak in when they were asleep, if she wanted. Or maybe she’d just splash out and get a room somewhere for the night. It wasn’t like she needed her savings for a house deposit now, was it?
She was travelling down a long, straight road. If you looked on your satnav, this particular road was now called the A429, but to anyone who lived locally, it was the Fosse Way. The full length of this Roman road extended for miles, going as far north as south Leicester. Holly never travelled that far, though. She continued on past Northleach, then the little Cotswold village of Cold Aston, until she reached the bottom of a low hill, where she flicked on her indicator and turned left. This took her right alongside the river and led straight to the heart of Bourton-on-the-Water.
Even the most cynical visitor to Bourton would struggle to argue with the claim that it was one of the most idyllic villages in Britain. With its shallow river flowing gently next to the High Street, complete with quaint little bridges, it is Instagram heaven, whatever the season. In the autumn, it’s time to don your woollen coat against the chilly air and enjoy watching the flurries of amber and gold leaves cascading from the trees at every hint of a breeze. And during the festive season, when thousands of twinkling white lights adorn the shop fronts, a fifteen-foot Christmas tree stands smack in the middle of the river. It really is a little slice of countryside paradise.
However, for residents, particularly a teenaged Holly, this was something of a double-edged sword. Any day with remotely pleasant weather resulted in traffic that backed up all the way from the High Street to the nearest A road, half a mile away. When said vehicles finally managed to get into the village, they would inevitably park in the first available spot they saw, regardless of whether it was an actual, designated space or who they blocked in. It was generally impossible to find a seat in any of the cafes – which were mostly overpriced – and the whole village was overrun with screaming children, irate parents and hikers, not to mention the busloads of tourists who visited just to pose for a photo, ice cream in hand, ankle deep in the river, before hopping back onto the bus for their next destination.
It hadn’t been all bad growing up there, though. Cycle rides on her rusty, old bike, up hills so steep her legs wanted to give up a third of the way there, were seared vividly into her memory. Hikes across the surrounding fields to one of the more hidden streams where, armed with jam jars and fishing nets, she and her friends would catch newts all afternoon. Traipsing up and down the riverside, searching for various flowers and herbs to take back and place in homemade, ceramic vases. A simpler time, before iPads and phones.
But there were other memories, too. Ones she didn’t recall quite so fondly. Like the bedroom window that didn’t close properly so that, in winter, her breath fogged the air when she was in bed. Or dry cereal days, when they had run out of milk and were saving the last few coins to feed the electric meter (Cold showers were one thing. Cold showers in a freezing house were altogether another). The day her father was made redundant. Then when it happened again… and yet again.
It was difficult to pinpoint her exact age when Holly realised her family was poor. She suspected it was around the start of secondary school. While other children would start each new term with their brand-new, designer shoes – Kickers, Doc Martens, Air Jordans, or whatever the fashion at the time dictated – her feet would be squeezed into whatever pair of black lace-ups her mother had sourced. Her uniform was always either too big or too small, the window of time when it would actually fit comfortably seeming narrower each year.
While other parents bought their children the latest fad toy or favourite doll for their birthday, Holly received cookery books, often dog-eared, with stained proof of their previous owner’s attempt at culinary skills. On her birthday morning, after tearing off the wrapping paper, she would choose a recipe to make, usually something sweet and, no matter what, her parents would somehow always manage to scrape together the ingredients she needed: vanilla pods, dark chocolate, double cream, whatever. It wasn’t until she was in her twenties that she realised the weeks that followed were always filled with more frugal meals, like lentil soup, or Welsh rarebits made with homemade bread and the thinnest slithers of cheese.
For the longest while, it hadn’t bothered her. She had counted her blessings for her loving family, and despite their lack of wealth they were happy. But, on her fourteenth birthday, that all changed.
She had made little attempt over the previous few months to hide what she really wanted. She’d had enough of the recipe books and the cooking. After all, she was fairly accomplished already, always preparing her own lunch box and often the family evening meal, too. It no longer felt like a treat and certainly not something worthy of a birthday present. What she’d really wanted was a pair of Levi 501s.
She had hoped that Christmas would yield the illusive garment but instead had received a tie-died T-shirt. But she didn’t lose faith; after all, there was still her birthday in March.
‘Now, I hope they fit okay,’ her mother said, stepping into the room and placing the parcel down on the bed next to her. ‘If they don’t, I’m sure Maureen at the pharmacy will take them up for you. She’s far better at hemming things with an overlocker than I am.’
When Holly ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal a neatly folded pile of denim, emblazoned with the Levi 501 badge, her heart leapt. She gazed at the jeans in her hands. Was it really possible that, after months and months of completely ignoring every request she’d made, her parents had finally listened to what she’d been saying? Her hands shook with excitement as she picked them up and flicked them outwards.
Her jaw had dropped.
‘Are they okay? I know they’re not the fancy make you keeping banging on about and they aren’t brand new, but they’ve got a lot of life left in them. The seams are strong, and there are only small holes under those patches.’
Patches. Much of the denim was lost beneath a hideous array of multi-coloured, multi-patterned fabric, stitched haphazardly all the way from the waist to the hems. Later, on reflection, she realised there couldn’t have been more than five or six squares, but to her teenage eyes it looked like there were thousands strewn across the jeans. It mightn’t have been so bad if they had all been one colour. But half of them looked like they’d been stolen from a children’s nursery and at least one had teddy bears on it.
‘Why don’t you try them on?’ her mother asked. ‘We need to make sure they fit.’
Holly continued to stare at the monstrosity. What could she do? The last thing she wanted was to hurt her mother’s feelings. Knowing her luck, she’d probably spent the last six months sourcing the materials for the patches. But she just couldn’t try them on. She couldn’t bear to even look at them without wanting to cry. Forcing herself to smile, she folded the jeans neatly back up and dropped them down behind her on the bed.
‘I’ll just have a shower first,’ she said.
As her mother’s face fell, guilt churned in the pit of Holly’s stomach, but she just couldn’t put them on. She couldn’t. If they fitted, then she would insist on her wearing them out in public and that was more than she could take. At least, this way, she could pretend they were far too small, and her mum would be none the wiser.
‘Oh, okay then.’
Silence filled the room as her mother rose to her feet, her lips strained upwards in a smile. Holly’s guilt intensified. Even at fourteen, she couldn’t fail to recognise the sadness in her eyes. But she’d forget about it soon enough, she reasoned. They were only jeans.
‘Well, you try them on when you’re ready then,’ she said, crossing to the door. ‘I’m going to put some porridge on for breakfast.’
‘Sounds good,’ she replied.
It was not until that evening, after a full day at school with friends questioning her about what presents she’d received, that Holly got a knock on her bedroom door for the second time that day. This time it was her father.
A man of few words, Arthur Berry was a six-foot two, gentle giant who’d had little luck when it came to employment. After the closure of the factory he’d worked in since his teenage years, when Holly was only two, it was one short-term position after another. Always last in, first out. He had now been working a steady position for a couple of months, but they never took anything for granted. After hearing the knock, she called that it was open. He waited until he’d walked across the room and taken a seat at her desk before speaking.
‘So your mother thinks you don’t like your present.’
It was said as a statement, not a question. Her dad had an annoying habit of doing that. Making statements and then leaving it to her to be the next to speak. He gave her a look at the same time, too, as if puzzled, brows down. It was an impressive skill that ensured she’d feel as guilty as possible in the shortest time. She held her tongue, determined not to fall into his trap. But the look just kept going, stretching the tension in the air.
‘She can’t seriously expect me to wear them.’ she said, unable to restrain herself for even half as long as she had hoped. ‘There are teddy bears on them, Dad. No one over five wears jeans with teddy bears on.’
