Page 2 of Barging In

Inheriting the house from Great-Aunt Maud had presented Clem’s father with the perfect opportunity to call time on his and his wife’s successful business as it entered its twentieth year.

With a full diary of bookings lined up to the end of August, though, they couldn’t move straight in.

It was just as well; at present, the house wasn’t fit for purpose.

Towards the end, Aunt Maud had become a bit of a hoarder, and with the house being so large, it had taken Clem’s parents the whole winter to empty it out.

Now that it was clear, it was the builders’ time to shine.

Realising the line had gone quiet, Clem tried to make out inaudible whisperings between her parents as she gave a friendly wave to a passing narrowboat. Suddenly her mum spoke, making Clem jump.

“Your dad’s reminded me: Watch out for that woman next door. She had the gall to have a go at us for obstructing the lane when we were clearing the last bits of furniture out a few weeks ago. It’s not our problem that she has such a fancy car; she should learn to drive it properly.”

A grunt of agreement sounded from her dad in the background.

“Then she asked us what we were doing. I told her to keep her sticky beak out of other people’s business, didn’t I, love?”

“Too right you did!” he shouted back.

“There’s nothing quite like falling out with the neighbours before you’ve even moved in,” Clem muttered quietly.

Her mum blithely ignored her comment and moved on. “When do you start work?”

“Tomorrow,” Clem confirmed .

“Well, I wish you every success with it, darling, but you know how I feel.”

Clem internalised a groan, wishing her mum had stopped halfway through her sentence. She braced herself as she continued.

“You had so much potential, such a bright future ahead with that promotion you were offered. ‘Head of Social Media and Marketing’ has such a nice ring to it. You worked hard over the years to get to that point, only to throw it away.”

“I hated it, Mum.”

That wasn’t completely true. She loved elements of the job, just not the industry she was working in.

She wanted to use her creativity for good, not to actively harm people by persuading them to buy overpriced fast food without an ounce of nutrition in it.

Cakes weren’t exactly nutritious either, but at least they could be made from real, wholesome ingredients, and were intended as an occasional treat.

Her motto was simple: If it wasn’t in a kitchen cupboard, it wasn’t real food.

Not that she ever said that out loud at the office.

“Most people hate their jobs,” her mum said with a sharp tut. “Sometimes you need to knuckle down and get on with it to put a roof over your head.”

Clem inhaled sharply, anger rising inside her, but she let it out slowly before saying, “And yet I have a roof over my head. I even own the roof.”

“But you could have set yourself up with a nice deposit on a house with your inheritance.”

“And be a slave to a mortgage the rest of my days? Sounds wonderful,” she replied, sarcasm lacing her tone.

“I just want the best for you, and I hope this works out,” her mum urged. A little pull in Clem’s chest tugged at her until she added, ”It’s not like you’ve left yourself with any other option.”

Clem rolled her eyes.

“We’ll see you Saturday, love. I’ll cook a lasagna and leave you the leftovers.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

Weekends were bound to be the busiest for her, so not having to cook dinner would be a bonus.

“Call me tomorrow to let me know how it all went, and send photographs of what the builders have done.”

“I will,” Clem assured her, wondering how much monitoring of the builders’ progress her mum was expecting. “I’d best go. I’ve got a lot to do before then. Cakes won’t bake themselves.”

“Bye, love. Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

With a deep breath, she hung up and pushed herself into motion. Slipping her phone into her back pocket, she headed around the side of the house to the front door. The call hadn’t exactly given her the boost she was after, and now a sense of dread threaded its way through her veins.

Her mum was right. She didn’t have any other option than to make her café work, but hearing it said so starkly made the burden feel heavier. Would anyone come by tomorrow? If they did, would they like her coffee and cakes?

Birds chattered in the large hedge separating Gram’s property from the neighbouring one.

The sound would usually have had a calming effect on Clem, but the knot in her stomach only tightened as she realised how much she needed to do.

She had hoped to scope out the mooring she would be trading from, but with her grocery delivery behind schedule, her baking schedule was, too .

She slid the key into the lock and opened the front door, a ripple of trepidation washing over her as she entered the red-tiled hallway.

A once-dominating staircase ran up one side of the home.

It looked less impressive now, with its missing spindles and wallpaper lying across it.

It must have come away from the walls since her parents’ last visit.

Clem hadn’t set foot inside the house since her parents had cleared the last of the furniture.

On her last visit to Gram in the autumn, the place had felt cluttered and musty.

Now stripped bare, it felt like an empty shell, the air somehow colder without her frail-framed, resolute great-aunt to greet her.

As she wandered through the dank, empty rooms, she realised she’d never appreciated the historical features before. Now it was hard to miss the wood panelling, parquet flooring, elaborate cornicing, and moulded ceilings, all of which had seen better days.

Her parents’ plans for the house were courageous, especially given the timescale in play.

Their architect had won them over with a proposal for a sympathetic restoration, including a large, Victorian-style conservatory extension at the rear, complete with a roof lantern.

They just had to hope the builders would remain on schedule — and budget — and finish by the end of the summer.

Considering the house needed complete rewiring and a new central heating system installed, they were cutting it fine.

With the new owners of The Kingfisher’s Rest taking ownership at the end of August, her parents could end up homeless if things didn’t go to plan.

The sound of gravel crunching pulled her to the window. A grocery van was reversing onto the driveway. Finally, she could crack on with her baking and put the narrowboat’s kitchen to proper use.

After dragging six grocery bags down the garden to Florence — two of which split on the way, breaking three eggs — she decided she would need to invest in a trolley to get her produce to the jetty in future.

Once she’d cleared her rubbish bags from Florence to the dustbin on the drive and topped up the water tank from the garden hose, she carried two boxes of books and a suitcase of clothes to the garage to store. Now, it was time to strap on her apron and get to work.