Page 11 of Barging In

S aturday passed for Clem without the drama of the previous day.

No one had fallen in the canal, the wharf’s A-board had vanished, and the angry boss lady was nowhere in sight.

This was suspicious. Clem didn’t know the woman, but first impressions counted for something, and Victoria Hargreaves didn’t strike her as the type to back down quietly or let things go without a fight.

Another meeting wasn’t far off the horizon.

Max had spotted the woman’s jumper floating past when he’d returned to his boat.

Clem retrieved it with her barge pole and now returning it felt unavoidable.

It looked expensive, so she left it soaking in the bathroom sink until her parents arrived; her mum would know how to revive it.

The day was wet and blustery, a sharp contrast to the sunshine of the day before.

The usual stream of cake-happy customers had vanished, replaced by a slow trickle of soggy dogs and their equally damp humans, huddled beneath umbrellas and desperate for something hot to drink.

Clem passed steaming cups through the hatch to grateful hands until the wet boots and muddy paws finally pattered away, leaving only the steady drumming of rain on Florence’s roof for company.

Using the quiet moments to her advantage, Clem tapped out upbeat and thoughtful replies to a handful of foodie reviewers, including two popular YouTubers who’d promised to swing by in the coming weeks.

Their visits could make all the difference to her business, especially now, with footfall unpredictable and word of mouth more powerful than ever.

She needed eyes on Florence, and more importantly, she needed people to care enough to either return or tell their friends.

With the afternoon dragging on, she decided to close a little earlier than usual.

After setting aside a slice of carrot cake for her mum and a square of rocky road for her dad, she took the opportunity to meet some of her fellow traders.

Armed with the last slices of cake, she handed them out to warm smiles, delighted groans, and generous praise.

She then returned to Florence, hopeful that a little goodwill might bring in some new custom from her neighbours.

After turning Florence around, she disposed of the day’s rubbish and refilled her water tank before heading home.

She still needed to get Florence clean and shipshape before her parents arrived.

A flurry of nerves caught her off guard.

It’s just a boat , she told herself, but another voice argued, Not just any boat — it’s Florence.

There was an underlying excitement beneath it all: Soon she would see her mum’s reaction.

She moored along the towpath on the opposite bank from her parents’ house, a little further down from the bridge. The jetty she left free for them to use, knowing they’d need easy access to the house over the weekend.

Once Florence was spick and span, Clem kicked off her shoes and lay back on her bed.

Opening her laptop, she checked her socials and then tracked the day’s engagement.

Measurable marketing was the best form of marketing, and the QR code on her cups was working well.

It took customers to a webpage with links to all her social media handles and words of encouragement to follow her.

There were fifty-nine hits on the page and seventy-six new Instagram followers that week, which meant seventeen of those new followers must have been organic.

Having responded to the handful of comments with thanks and gentle nudges to leave her a Google review, she opened a new tab and searched for information on Otterford Wharf.

A staff page proved Max to be correct. Lemon Drizzle’s real name was Victoria Hargreaves, director, and Coffee and Walnut was Jasper Sinclair, the museum’s curator — a name that suddenly felt familiar.

The catering manager was a rather stern-looking woman named Christine Baxter.

Her expression in the photo was like a collapsed soufflé, deflated and utterly joyless.

Clem sniggered, remembering Max’s comment about the terrible cakes.

A quick trip to Instagram confirmed why Jasper Sinclair felt familiar: He was one of her new followers. How would Lemon Drizzle feel about that? The thought made Clem smile until she realised he may have been asked to spy on her.

Her gaze drifted to Victoria’s image on the wharf’s website.

She looked sultry in that effortless way that made people turn their heads without knowing why.

There was a depth to her beauty, something you didn’t notice all at once.

Her mousy blonde hair fell in a soft wave over one eye, not quite styled yet somehow perfect.

Clem’s chest gave a traitorous flutter as she recalled yesterday’s soaked, see-through shirt.

Taking a deep breath, she forced the image away.

Getting gooey-eyed over Lemon Drizzle was not in any recipe for success, and anyway, she was far too sour for Clem’s taste.

A nose around the website showed the wharf was rich in potential but clearly underutilised.

Its social media pages confirmed it. Although they existed, they were severely neglected.

With the right marketing, there was so much that could be done to improve things.

The thought sent a thrill through Clem as ideas sparked in her brain like wildfire.

They would have to wait, though, as a text from her mum to say they’d moored up at Gram’s jetty had her heading up to the house to greet them.

“Where’s your boat?” her mum asked, immediately pulling her into a hug on the doorstep.

“On the other side of the bridge,” Clem replied.

Her dad appeared in the doorway, so she stepped back from her mum’s hug and embraced him.

“Let’s see it,” her mum said, practically pushing them both out the door and slamming it shut. “I can’t wait to see how you fitted everything in.”

Her dad shot an amused eye roll at Clem. She smiled as she linked her arm through his and they obediently followed her mum, who was already marching off down the lane.

“The builders seem to be cracking on,” Clem said to her dad. “I’ve checked in a few times, but they seem to know exactly what they are doing.”

“That’s because your mum doesn’t stop ringing them,” he whispered in her ear.

Clem laughed. “Poor Billy.”

“It suits me fine,” he chuckled. “If she’s nagging him, then she’s not nagging me to fix this or that.”

“I heard that, Tom,” her mum shot back .

Clem caught her dad’s eye, and they grinned. Getting a ticking-off from her mum had become a badge of honour.

As they approached the bridge, Clem quickened her pace to catch up with her mum. She reached her as she came to a halt and gazed down the canal.

“Florence?” Her mum read the livery, then turned to Clem. “You named her after my first boat?”

“No. Well… yes, but it’s not simply her name. She is Florence. Your Florence.”

“It can’t be my Florence!” her mum scoffed.

“Why not?

“She must have gone to the scrapyard years ago.”

“Lots of old boats get restored.”

“Well, this…” Her mum trailed off, then looked at Clem in confusion. “It can’t be?”

“It is.”

As her dad caught up to them, her mum turned to him. “Tom, Clem says it’s Florence. Our Florence.”

He nodded. “That she is.”

“You knew?” she demanded, hands resting on her hips.

“Of course. I sorted all her licences, didn’t I? There aren’t many 1974 Hancock & Lane cruisers about.”

“I managed to find flecks of paint under all the layers and repainted her in the same colour.” Clem beamed, remembering the thrill of her discovery. “At least I hope it’s right. I don’t think any other period in history would produce orange boats.”

“It looks spot on to me,” her dad remarked, “but it’s been about thirty-five years since we sold her.”

“She’s truly clementine,” her mum remarked.

“Clementine?” Clem questioned.

“Yes. It was the name of the original paint colour. Didn’t you realise you were named after Florence?”

Clem couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at her lips. “You let me think I was named after an orange when all along you named me after her.”

Her mum shrugged. “Well, now you know. Is she the same inside?” she added cautiously.

“Nowhere near, I’m afraid. I have installed a professional kitchen, remember. Come and look inside.”

Her mum remained silent until she stepped on board and turned to her daughter.

“Oh, Clem,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it’s her.”

“No? Then look at the tiller.”

Her mum traced the carved initials — CW, BW, and TW — on the wooden tiller, smiling as her fingers brushed over them.

“It really is her,” her mum sniffed as her dad squeezed her shoulders.

“She still has her original stove, too. She underwent restoration in the late nineties. They reversed her layout then, so you’ll find she’s a bit different inside. Go in.”

Clem slowly descended the steps behind her mum, giving her space to take it all in.

“Oh, this is a much better layout!” she enthused. “It never made sense to me why bedrooms were next to the stern. You’d have to traipse through to get to the galley or walk around the outside to make a cuppa.”

“It was useful, though, when you were little, Clem,” her dad added, looking around. “We’d shut the bedroom door, and you’d play safely in here whilst we watched from the tiller.” He hummed. “Takes me back. All the orange pine tongue-and-groove panelling has gone, though.”

“There’s still some left in the bedroom, but it’s painted thankfully,” Clem confirmed.

She glanced at her dad, but he seemed lost in thought .

“When you got too big, we had to sell her. It was for the best,” he said at last, meeting her eyes with a smile.

Her mum chimed in, her voice gentle. “You needed more space than Florence could give you, and we didn’t want her to feel like a prison.”