Page 1 of Barging In
CHAPTER 1
Clem Wentworth drank in the sun-dappled, silty waters of the canal ahead. The first warm, sunny day of the year had brought families out to stroll the towpath after their Sunday lunches. Children wobbled on scooters, dogs strained against their leads, and everyone smiled and waved at her as she passed them at a snail’s pace.
Wild garlic carpeted the woods on either side; its invigorating aroma was so strong it drifted over the canal. Clem inhaled, eyes half closed, letting the punchy scent fill her lungs. An avenue of willow trees lined the banks ahead of her. Their drooping branches and long leaves rose and fell with the breeze sweeping along the cut. The whispering and rustling accompanied the rhythmic drumming of Florence’s 1.5-litre diesel engine.
A happy engine was always a welcome sound. Its low drone reminded Clem of the air-conditioning unit that had hummed through the open-plan office where she had spent her career. Like all background noise, it soon faded, sinking into the fabric of the day until she barely noticed it.
She still couldn’t believe she’d walked away from it all. Corporate life was behind her now, and if everything went to plan, she wouldn’t be going back. Ahead stretched a new kind of future: just her, Florence — her bright orange narrowboat — top-notch coffee, homemade cakes, and the steady rhythm of the waterways.
Tucking a loose strand of long, brown hair behind her ear, Clem tried to steady the excited voice that had brought her this far, knowing it would be no small task. If anything, the road ahead was going to be tougher. It was the end of being crammed onto packed commuter trains, wasting eight hours a day behind a computer and then handing over half her salary for the rent on a poky studio flat. But now, her survival — and Florence’s — was dependent on her selling enough coffee and cake to keep them both afloat.
The cost of buying and refurbishing Florence had been steeper than she’d planned, leaving Clem with only a modest amount of her inheritance to live off and launch the business, far less than she would have liked. Catering kitchens and top-of-the-line espresso machines, even second-hand, didn’t come cheap, and Florence had been in a miserable state when she found her.
Getting her head down and working hard was the only way forward now. She had to make it work; there was no safety net left. Hard work didn’t scare her; it was the idea of spending the rest of her life trapped in the gears of some corporate machine that she couldn’t stomach. What had begun as a temporary job straight from university had quietly solidified into something permanent that she had built her life around. It wasn’t until the prospect of a promotion was dangled in front of her that she finally saw the truth: She was sliding straight into the world of corporate management. The thought made her shudder.
Admittedly, when Clem left university, she hadn’t known exactly what she wanted from life. By her fortieth birthday last autumn, staring out at a supermarket car park from her office, surrounded by bumbling suits and the relentless click of high heels, she knew one thing for sure — she hadn’t found it.
The only real joy that day came from watching her colleagues devour her beloved blueberry muffins and fight over slices of her luscious lemon drizzle. Her baking had become a highlight of office life, earning endless praise and comments that the world was missing out.
A call from her mum later that evening to say her dear great-aunt Maud had passed away felt like the final straw on what had been a crappy birthday. Yet in the following days, she learned that Maud — or Gram, as Clem affectionately called her — had left her a small inheritance. It wasn’t a life-changing amount but enough to create an opportunity for herself. Following the funeral, she and her parents went through Gram’s old photographs together, and that’s when the idea formed. It was a way to blend her love of baking with the change she craved.
Two weeks had passed since she’d left her job and collected Florence from the outfitters. All fifty-seven feet of the narrowboat had been crane-lifted into the canal, ready to start their new adventure together. Rather than having her delivered, Clem had chosen to wend her way through the English countryside, where she and Florence could learn each other’s quirks and those of the meandering waterways.
As their new mooring came into view, Clem slowed the engine and steered Florence towards it. The water lapped gently against the grassy bank as she manoeuvred the tiller and lowered the throttle lever towards neutral. She reversed in gentle bursts, and Florence slowed to a stop,her hull settling alongside the wooden jetty as the engine fell into silence.
She looked up at the house that had once been the heart of the family, where her mum had grown up after losing both parents at the age of ten. Grief-stricken by the loss of her younger sister, Gram had taken her niece in without hesitation. With no children themselves, Maud and her husband, Frank, had raised Clem’s mum as their own. Although Maud was technically not her grandmother, Clem had always seen her that way, and Gram had always felt like the perfect name to bridge both roles. The memory of her drew a bittersweet smile to Clem’s lips.
Disembarking with the centre line in hand, she tied it off with a cleat hitch to the bollard. It felt good to finally fasten Florence down. Anchoring a boat might be a simple task, but at the moment, small certainties mattered a great deal to Clem. She wasn’t mooring Florence just anywhere; she was bringing her home, back to where she belonged.
Florence had been an eighteenth birthday present from Gram and Gruncle to her mum: a way to give her independence, a home of her own, with the comfort of knowing she could always return and tie up at the end of the garden whenever she wanted. Clem couldn’t wait to see her mum’s face when she saw Florence again.
Having a private mooring for the foreseeable future was certainly one less stress. Adhering to the continuous cruiser rules and moving along the waterway every two weeks would have proved challenging, especially with the steady stream of supplies she would need for her café. She couldn’t imagine hauling pints of milk, dozens of eggs, and heavy bags of sugar and flour from distant supermarkets along the towpath.
Unlatching the gate, she wandered up the garden path.Most of the three-storey late Victorian house would soon be hidden behind a maze of scaffolding. The builders were due to start work the next morning, beginning the process of making it habitable for her parents to move into by the end of summer.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and called her mum, who answered almost immediately.
“Clementine! Tom, it’s Clementine on the phone!” her mum shouted, completely forgetting to cover the mouthpiece and making Clem wince.
“Mum,” Clem huffed. “It’sClem. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I don’t understand why you insist on shortening such a beautiful name,” she huffed.
“You named me after an orange, Mum. An orange! What happened? Did you give birth and then stare at a fruit bowl for inspiration?”
She tutted dismissively. “Just be grateful I didn’t call you Tangerine. Now, how’s the new boat? Is it behaving? Did you manage the locks all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. And yes, I can handle a lock.” Clem groaned, tired of her mum’s habit of assuming she was helpless.
“I know you can, darling. It’s just... they’re harder on your own, that’s all.”
Clem had lost count of how many locks she’d piloted on her way south. They were manageable enough, especially now that some were electric, but they still interrupted the smooth rhythm of cruising.
“So the boat is running fine, is it?” her mum pressed, apparently not finished with her rapid-fire questioning.
“Yes, all fine,” Clem confirmed again, her tone resolute.
“What boat did you say it was?” her mum added, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.
