the towpath, his breath clouding into the air like smoke.
By the time Mason emerged, Summer had unlocked the hatch and written her menu of Christmas specials on the blackboard.
‘You should have woken me,’ he said, putting his arms around her. His hair was damp from the shower and water droplets landed on her shoulder.
‘You needed the sleep. Now, what do you think – bacon roll and a coffee or tea, three pounds. That’s still a bargain in London, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a steal,’ Mason said. ‘What can I do?’
‘Cut open and butter the rolls. You could put the bacon on too, if you like.’
Mason gave her a cheeky smile. ‘Have you had any breakfast? Shall we sample them first?’
Summer narrowed her eyes. ‘There must be a monumental health risk to having bacon every day.’
‘I don’t have it every day,’ Mason protested. Summer stared at him, and his cheeks coloured. ‘I’ll get started.’ He rubbed his hands and disappeared into the kitchen.
She could hear him singing softly to himself as he prepared the rolls, something by Frank Turner, and she felt a stab of guilt that she had been worrying about Tania. She had to remember that, while the circumstances hadn’t been ideal, talking to Tania and getting her forgiveness would have lifted a weight off his shoulders. There was nothing, now, stopping them focusing on their future. Summer’s heart skipped as she thought of New Year’s Eve, the ideas that were swirling around in her head, even more excited now that Claire was on board and was helping her firm them up.
Mason’s voice was drowned out as the first chords of ‘Don’t You Worry’ by Lucy Rose drifted out of Claire’s speakers, the lights of Water Music flicking on. Mason’s singing immediately changed to match it, and he popped his head around the kitchen door.
‘Your favourite song,’ he said. ‘It’s almost as if Claire’s done it specially for you.’
‘It’s just coincidence. I don’t think she knows this is my favourite.’
‘But I do,’ Mason said. ‘I’ve heard it so often, I could probably recite the lyrics backwards. Don’t you worry, I’m staying here,’ he whispered, and Summer realized how apt the words were right at that moment. She started singing along to crush the lump in her throat, and Mason joined back in, although Lucy Rose’s voice was much too high for him, and they quickly descended into laughter. She stopped when she noticed two men in their forties, dressed in smart coats and suit trousers despite it being Sunday, walking towards them on the towpath.
‘Coffee and a bacon roll three pounds this morning, if you’re interested?’ she called. They were, and Summer waved them towards the hatch.
Sunday in Little Venice was as busy as the Saturday afternoon had been, 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,
